Long Way Gone (18 page)

D
aley rang the last note off the balcony to roaring, raucous applause. She'd turned them. Done what no one thought she could. She'd won them. Every one. When we walked off the stage, she was mobbed. I was met by a single person. A man. Her manager.

He smiled at me, and I immediately did not like him. Nor did I trust the look in his eyes. I gathered he was the one responsible for the attempted adulteration of my song. He extended his hand. “Sam Casey.”

“Cooper O'Connor. Folks call me Peg.”

“So I've heard.” He nodded toward the stage and said, “How'd you like to sell that song?”

Daley wrapped her arm inside mine and pressed her chest against me. She was floating. Cloud nine.

I looked at her. Back at him. “It's not mine to sell you.”

He looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“I can't sell you what I already gave away.”

He clearly wasn't expecting that. “Some would call that naïve.”

“Others would call it selfless. Kind, even.”

“Twenty years in this business, and
kind
is not something I've experienced.”

The last few years flashed before my eyes. He had a point. “Five years in, and I tend to agree with you.”

“You have others?”

“I do.”

“Are they as good?”

“Some are better.”

He lowered his voice. “Could I hear them?”

I glanced at Daley, then back at him. “You have any openings in the band? I can play guitar and piano. And thanks to an evil, beady-eyed woman back home, I'm probably better at the latter. My vocals aren't too bad.”

He laughed. “Funny you should mention that. We just happen to have an opening in all three of those areas. You're hired.”

Okay, maybe he wasn't so bad. He put his hand on my shoulder. “Why don't you two come around for dinner this weekend. We have a lot to talk about.” He turned to walk away, then paused. “Oh, and if you have any plans for the next year, you may want to cancel them. You might be traveling. Do you have a passport?”

“No.”

“Get one. Expedited.”

With a crowd buzzing around us and effusive congratulations coming with every hug and handshake, Daley pulled me aside, pressed my hand to her heart, and kissed me on the cheek, then again on the corner of my mouth. And it was there, backstage at the Ryman, that her trembling, tear-soaked, salty, warm lips answered my question of which Daley was the real one.

My boss told me I could have the rest of the night off. Actually, she said I could have the rest of my life off. She hugged me and said, “Come see us sometime.” It was a much-needed acknowledgment and, coming from someone who'd seen the best in the business, I took it to heart.

It was only after Daley and I had walked out onto Broadway in search of dinner that the thought occurred to me. Everything had happened so fast, and given that I'd been up most of last night and this morning, my days and nights were all backward.

I turned to Daley. “What night is this?”

“Thursday.”

I whispered, “Ryman Radio.”

“What?”

“He was right.”

“Who was right?”

The rush came in a flood. When Daley asked me why I was crying, I couldn't tell her. I hit my knees on Broadway, and couldn't talk at all.

The morning headline read “Cross My Heart,” and the picture of the two of us covered the front page. It had been taken near the end of the song when Daley hit the highest note she could, popping a vein out on the side of her neck. The picture did a great job of depicting the power and strength of her voice. The story described in detail the electrical explosion that left her unamplified, without a band, “vocally naked” before an imposing audience. The writer quoted many of the stars who said they couldn't believe she'd gathered her composure and pulled it off. Others said they'd have walked off the stage. All praised her courage and resilience. The story talked about her “incomparable voice” and said the song had perfectly showcased her “unparalleled range” and labeled her “the next great one.”

One local media outlet had managed to film our performance. Given that the Ryman AV feed had been blown, the grainy video was offered to multiple news outlets around town, and was then picked up by the national outlets. The poorly shot nature of the video only added to the mystique. By late afternoon, the story and the song were everywhere.

When I came into work the next morning, Riggs was reading the paper, wearing a smile wider than his ears. He looked at me over his reading glasses. “What're you doing here?”

I was tying on my apron. “Working.”

He shook his head, laughing. “No. No, you're not. Sam Casey's courting you. Get out of here. I can't afford you anymore.”

“You're firing me?”

He took the apron out of my hands and hung it up. “Absolutely.”

“Why?”

He was still laughing. “ 'Cause you been lying to me.” He tapped me in the chest. “Also to yourself. And to everyone else.”

“What!”

“I knew you could play. I didn't know you could
play.
And sing? Where did you get pipes like that?”

“You're really firing me?”

Riggs put his hand on my shoulder. “Son, I'm trying to tell you what everyone else knows and you'll figure out soon enough. Your life is about to change. Go live it. Bring me your guitars when you need some work done on 'em.”

I pointed upstairs. “And that?”

“Stay as long as you like. When you're on the road, I'm going to sell tickets to all the tourists. ‘Peg Lives Here.' With a voice like yours, the girls will eat that stuff up. I can retire off ticket sales.”

Riggs was a good man. He'd helped me when no one else would.

“Well,” I said, “could I collect my last paycheck? I'm gonna need it to get from here to there.”

Daley and I became inseparable. She showed me the high-rent world of Franklin, where Sam had put her up in a four-thousand-square-foot condo complete with gate, twenty-four-hour security, gym membership, and leased Mercedes. The world on a silver platter.

When she wanted to see my paper-plate world, I hesitated. Looking back was painful, and I didn't want her to know. She hooked her thumb in my belt loop and pulled me to her. Wrapping her arms tight around my waist, she said, “Tell me.”

So I started at the beginning. Colorado. Mom, Dad, Big-Big, the tents, the storm, Miss Hagle, and my growing discontentment with my father. I told her about my high school band and about the fight with Dad. Stealing the money, the truck, and Jimmy. She was driving, so I
directed her to the motel where I'd stayed my first night in town and where I'd hid the money. Then to the parking lot along the river where I'd slept in the cab of the truck. The Laundromats. I bought her a dog at the Sudsy Schnitzel. We parked under the overpass and I showed her where I'd slept. The woods. The soggy mattress. The dog park where I bathed. The street corner where Jimmy was stolen. Printer's Alley. Riggs. And finally, the Ryman.

When I finished, Daley was holding a handful of tissues. She couldn't stop the tears. The further we went down my story, the more they flowed. It was tough watching those beautiful eyes cry. Outside the Ryman, she just shook her head. She whispered, “How'd you do it?”

One of the things I came to love about Daley was the degree to which she empathized with others. Something in the hardwiring of her heart felt with acute sharpness what others felt. If you cried, tears dripped down her face. If you laughed, the ends of her mouth turned upward. It was both her greatest strength and deepest weakness.

I pulled out my wallet and unfolded the map Dad had wrapped around the money I'd stolen. It was frayed and white in the creases. “Hope is a tough thing to kill.”

“Hope for what?” she said.

“That I can find a way home.”

Saturday night found us winding down the drive of Sam Casey's fifty-acre Brentwood estate, bordered by the Harpeth River, and knocking on his massive door at his ginormous house. Bernadette, his siliconized, tucked and lifted, made-to-order bride, answered the door holding what was obviously not her first glass of red wine. She ushered us in and quickly disappeared with a little white yap dog into the kitchen where she was barking at the chef and the server.

The house was a showpiece. Where most homes have pictures or artwork, Sam had decorated his house with records. Gold and platinum
records. Awards and recognitions were stacked on every shelf. His house was a museum to himself. What he'd conquered. What he owned.

I said, “These all yours?”

He feigned indifference. “Gifts from my artists.”

I tested him. “Strange that they didn't keep them.”

He made eye contact. “They love me. And who can blame them?” He pointed to one record after another. “When I found her, she was waiting tables in Tuscaloosa. This one was a rodeo clown. Car salesman.” He sipped some brown-colored liquid from a crystal glass. “You two stay in this business long enough and you'll find that it's a jealous mistress. You turn your head for a second and she's gone.” He made a fist. “Keep a tight grip. Tight all the time. Otherwise, somebody will come like a thief in the night and steal your trophies.”

Dinner consisted of our choice of steak, lobster, or fish. I ate all three. After-dinner consisted of expensive brandy and a dessert that his chef prepared in front of us—which included setting it on fire. I had three helpings.

Finally he took us out back. We walked beneath the portico and into a second building some distance from the house. His recording studio. He patted the heart pine that glowed amber red in the recessed lighting. “Found this in Virginia. Two hundred years old. Used to be a stop on the Underground Railroad. Hid slaves in a cellar. Had it taken apart board by board, numbered, and reassembled here around one of the best recording studios in Nashville.” He pointed to the soundboard. “Aren't very many of those.”

He took a sip of his drink. “I've recorded more number one hits in there than I can count.” He shook his head. “If those walls could talk.” He looked at both of us. “Next week I'm going to record one more.”

W
hat Sam thought would take a week took less than a day. Evidence of the chemistry between Daley and me. She brought her guitar and her voice, I brought me, and Sam sat behind his motherboard and slid knobs up and down. Oz controlling all the levers. Smiling on the other side of the glass.

After the fourth time through, he pulled off his headphones and said, “I believe that'll do it.”

I didn't like Sam and I didn't trust him, but when it came to sound production he had a gift. Listening to the playback, it was obvious he'd captured the essence of Daley.

Her first single hit radio stations the following week where, thanks to the hype from the Ryman show, it immediately jumped to number one. And stayed there.

Unbeknownst to me, Daley had credited me as the songwriter. She told Sam that while I'd given her the song to sing, it was mine. With my first royalty check, I bought a D-28 from Riggs with a price tag of twenty-two thousand. He sold it to me for fourteen.

Along with the guitar I sent my dad a check for fifty thousand dollars. I wanted to tell him what had happened. I wanted to tell him about Jimmy. I wanted to tell him about Daley. I could not. Some things must be said face-to-face. I simply wrote,
Dad, I'm sorry
. I tracked the package and confirmed it was delivered two days later and Dad had signed for it. The thought of that brought some comfort.

Daley's “Cross My Heart” tour started the following month. We were gone a year. We opened for one big act after another. Pretty soon the fans were coming to see us. We performed in fortysomething states, in several countries, and on most every nighttime talk show. We even helped bring down the crystal ball in Times Square. Somewhere in there I turned twenty-four, but I can't remember where. Life was a blur.

Back in Nashville, Daley won Best New Entertainer, Female Vocalist of the Year, and, wonder of wonders, we won Song of the Year. It was tough to argue with a song that had gone five times platinum, giving Sam more glitter for his foyer. The emcee called us a match made in heaven. “If you want to hear what angels sound like when they sing, just listen to these two.” Later that night, to my surprise, I won Songwriter of the Year.

I stood on that stage, a trophy in each hand, looked out at all those beautiful people looking at me, and felt a deep and growing inner sadness. I was on my way. Daley and I both were. I had everything I could want.

Except what mattered most.

I stepped up to the microphone and remembered the Ryman, night after night, empty save my echo. “I'd like to dedicate this to my dad . . .” I swallowed.

Daley saw me wrestling with getting the words out. She knew the truth, so she walked onto the stage from the side and spoke for me. “He's not here tonight.”

I gathered my composure. “Dad, I did what you said. I . . .” A tear spilled down my cheek. “I let it out.”

That brought them to their feet.

After the show Daley went to dinner with the band while I disappeared down Broadway, let myself in the stage door of the Ryman after midnight, and played to an empty house. Halfway through the song, I cracked. Couldn't finish. I found myself facedown on the stage, sobbing at the top of my lungs.

I felt a hand on my back. Daley. No words. She just sat and held me and let me soak her shoulder. I'd been holding that inside a long time.

When I had gathered myself I said, “I need to go home, Dee. There's some things there . . . things left unsaid.” I looked at her. “I need to clean up a really big mess.”

She brushed the hair out of my face and kissed my nose. “Can I go too?”

That's when I knew.

The next day I walked into a jewelry store in Franklin that Riggs recommended and told them Riggs had sent me. When they found out what I was doing and who I was buying it for, they rolled out the red carpet, and the prices listed on the tags were immediately cut in half. As you can guess, I didn't know squat about diamonds, but I'd like to think that when I gave them my credit card and bought that $9,946 ring I got a good deal. The salesman told me all about quality and cut and brilliance, and by the time I left I could have written an essay on the reflective qualities of light through diamonds. But that wasn't why I bought it. I bought it because it looked like Daley.

Sam brought us in from the road and told us it was time to cut an album. Then he looked at me. “Now, about those songs.”

Songs were not the problem. I had more songs than I could count. Sam, on the other hand, was. I still didn't trust him as far as I could throw him, but I couldn't argue with his ability to produce, so I played my cards close to my chest. Admittedly, I was green, and five years repairing guitars and cleaning toilets at the Ryman didn't mean I knew much about the music business—but I was not completely stupid when it came to people. And Sam betrayed what he thought about us in his eyes.

To Sam, Daley and I were little more than train cars passing in the night. He'd ride us until we wore out or something better came along. His pasted-on, backslapper smile didn't fool me. Nor did the red carpet he continually rolled out for Daley. She had grown up with nothing, her father hadn't given her the time of day, and Sam used this void to his
advantage. He gave her nice things, played the affectionate uncle, and kept her in his back pocket. Daddy Warbucks.

I knew we needed him, and for the moment he needed us. But Sam wanted to take Daley where Sam wanted Daley to go, and I had a pretty strong gut feeling that when Daley got there she wouldn't like where he'd taken her. But he was pretty well entrenched in that soft spot in her heart, so trying to convince her otherwise was an uphill trudge. Given that, and knowing a tug-of-war was coming with Sam, I showed the songs to Daley first. I let her pick the sound she wanted. I knew we were in trouble when she was afraid to make a decision.

“We need to ask Sam.”

I will admit I had become protective. Maybe overly so. But in my defense, I was not trying to make Daley into who I wanted her to be. I was trying to encourage Daley to find the freedom to be Daley. Something no man had ever done. I stopped her.

“Dee, if you were going to sing with me alone at two a.m. in the Ryman, what would you sing?”

Without skipping a beat, she picked out eight songs in my notebook. She chose well. Each of those songs fit her voice, showcased her growing range and control, and allowed her to begin directing her own brand. Most importantly, because many of them were ballads, they allowed her to communicate the depth of emotive truth for which she was becoming famous.

Daley was playing before sold-out shows because she made people believe. And these songs would only add to that. We decided to walk into Sam's studio with these eight. I knew he wouldn't like that, but he couldn't argue with what I'd written.

Sam was no dummy. He knew I was holding back. He wanted more control. Further, his facial expression suggested that he didn't like the direction these songs were taking Daley. I knew there was an inherent tension between what he knew to be successful and Daley's desire to be her own person. That's healthy. What it becomes unhealthy is when you use your success as a continual argument for someone else's selling out. There's
got to be some give-and-take, and with Sam it was all take. Talking with Riggs, I discovered Sam had sold out long ago. But since everything he touched turned to gold, or platinum, nobody argued with him.

In the end we convinced him to cut a “deluxe” record with eight new originals and four live cuts from concerts we would play in the next few months. We even tossed around the idea of adding in a cover or two if we happened to really like one of the live versions. Daley seemed pleased, but something in the back of my head was bugging me. Sam had given in too easily. I could tell he knew something we didn't. I just didn't know what it was, and I didn't have enough experience to figure it out.

Our last request was something I was pretty sure Sam would never agree to. Prior to the digital age, music was a shared experience and recorded as one. Meaning bands or artists and musicians would gather in a single room, much the same way they do onstage, and play. They might play a song five or ten or fifteen times through, but they did it together. The recordings captured not only their sound but their chemistry. Their shared experience.

But that had all changed.

Daley and I knew from experience that what happened onstage would be difficult to reproduce in the studio, given how records were made. More often than not, artists would lay down tracks separately. That meant that when recording an album, musicians seldom played together. The drummer would lay down a beat, then maybe on another day the bass player would fill in with his lead, followed on another day by the guitarists, who might record rhythm first and then lead. The last things to be recorded were the vocals.

That made for a very dissected experience. Nothing like the stage. Further, it meant that if the record company was using studio musicians, the person singing might never meet the person playing drums or bass or guitar. The producer takes these disparate parts and then mixes them together. That means he decides how the music will be heard. He dictates the experience.

It's how 99 percent of music was made by then. And neither Daley
nor I liked it. Daley's real gift was communicating emotion, and that happened best when we played together. Sam hated her dependence on this, but he couldn't deny the power of the chemistry. To our surprise, he agreed to record it our way. That's when I knew something was amiss.

We scheduled the recording for the following week. And Daley and I scheduled a trip home to Colorado the week after.