Paradise (20 page)

“Well, don’t bother planning on that youth retreat.” Mother pulled a fresh batch of music-note cookies from the oven. “Lacey will be trying out for another choir on Saturday. This one from the Bible college over in Jessup County.”

“A Bible college?” I could still ride with the guys to Austin. But the very idea of Lacey attending a Bible college sounded like punishment. No way would she go. She was probably hiding in her room, plotting a very un-Christian maneuver.

Mother carefully slipped a spatula under each note and delicately placed the cookie on parchment paper. “She’s in for certain. I’ve agreed to do some catering jobs for the choir in exchange.” Mother gloated over her perfect cookie. “I’ll show those Prosper County choir snobs a thing or two.”

Mother was a little like Waylon, always trying to prove herself. Somehow, Lacey was wound up in her efforts. I pitched the idea out that maybe her plan was flawed. “I don’t think Lacey would be happy going somewhere you had to bribe to get her in.”

“Shows you what you know, honey pie.” Mother grabbed a wooden rolling pin and pounded flat another batch of cookie dough. “Connections. You scratch my back and I’ll scratch yours. Rich people do it all the time.” She leaned the force of her weight into the rolling pin. “It’s not what you know. It’s who you know.”

I thought about Waylon and how the Sliders’ bluegrass roots ran deep. They knew people who knew people. Waylon relied on none of those connections. Didn’t even want them. It was about the music for him. Making a name for himself. Letting his guitar make his introduction.

Dad poured himself a glass of milk. “What do you think about that, Paisley?”

He pushed me to make a stand. So I did. The picture I had of Lacey in Bible college trying to be something she wasn’t proved too much to let the charade continue.

“I think it’s how hard you work that gets you somewhere. And I think Lacey’s done with singing.”

“Done? Don’t you dare say that to her,” Mother gasped. “She needs us to believe in her. Singing is her life’s dream.” Mother pointed at me with her rolling pin. “You want to talk about hard work. Your father and I work day and night to support you girls. Lacey’s gifted. She’s going to ride that gift out of Prosper County and we have to believe in her. She’s worked year after year to try to make her dreams come true. Hard work.”

I watched Mother go off in a cloud of flour.

“From where I stand…” I paused and thought about the consequences of what was about to fly out of my mouth. “From where I stand, you’re the one doing all the hard work to make sure she gets to sing.”

Mother slammed the rolling pin onto the counter. “She doesn’t need you running her down with smart-aleck remarks. She needs you supporting her. She’s got to pursue her passion or else she’ll be stuck in the same old same old.” Then Mother added, “Maybe you should get up enough gumption to find your own dream instead of goofing off at L. V.’s every day of the week.”

Dad scrubbed his hands and forearms at the sink. He did nothing to come between me and Mother. He wanted me to tell her the truth. I could see it. If ever there was a moment to come clean, this was it. But I was within thirty-two hours of leaving for Austin. Mother would take more work than I had time for. Opportunities didn’t always present themselves at the right time. And if it was her who moved my sticks, she’d have said so by now.

If Lacey had to go sing, I still had a ride with the guys. But I feared what she might do and not because of the singing farce. Without knowing it, Mother was separating Lacey from me. She wouldn’t be able to catch my performance. More important for Lacey, Mother was cutting her off from Levi. That might just be her breaking point.

*   *   *

Lacey had agreed not to push the issue of going out on a date with Levi until after Texapalooza. She did it for Levi, and she did it for me. Lacey kept her passion for cosmetology to herself probably because it was easier for her to slowly fail at singing than to let our mother down. Lacey, it seemed, gave up a lot of herself for other people. She had a problem saying no. However, at some point, yes becomes an impossible response. Lacey had finally hit that wall.

“Bible college!” She sat in front of her salon mirror without a lick of makeup on. “What am I going to major in? Snake handling?” She took a sucker out of a drawer. “I need a smoke.”

“You don’t need to smoke.” I wanted to shake her. “You need to go tell Mother you’re done singing, that you’ve thought for a long time about beauty school.”

Lacey took a long pull at the sucker then popped it from her mouth with a smack. “You know she’ll be up Saturday morning early. Both of us can’t leave.” Lacey’s eyes reddened. She wanted to see Levi play and be there for me. Not going burned her up. “You can still ride with the guys, right?”

“Yes.” I leaned against her dresser.

“Covering for you is the best I can do.” Lacey growled, “Go for it, Paisley. Don’t let those boys upstage you.”

I picked up a fat blush brush and tapped the handle. “Are you going to the choir tryouts?”

“Hell, yeah.” Lacey began twisting her hair into a bun. “And I’m going full-on Pentecostal—denim skirt, tennis shoes, and no makeup. Lacey Tillery in her best Bible-thumping camo.”

“Lacey, Bible college really isn’t that backward.”

“I’m not dressing for the school. I’m dressing for Mother. She never once asked me if I wanted to go to sing in that choir. She just came home and told me what to do and where to do it. And she’s going to pay dearly for messing up my plans.”

“She’ll never let you out of the house like that.”

“Of course not. But by the time the fight is over, you’ll be halfway to Austin. She won’t even know you’re gone.”

29

SPIT-SHINED AND READY

Uncle L. V. pretended to rid
Miss Molly Moonlight
of any imperfections she might’ve picked up on her last air-show outing. He clutched a can of wax and dabbed at her aluminum sides with a cotton cloth.
Miss Molly
didn’t have a blemish on her. L. V. just conjured up a reason to witness the Waylon Slider Band’s final rehearsal before Texapalooza.

I put everything I had into the crash cymbal at the end of our set. That was the plan. We’d all end together on the high side: Waylon, Levi, and Cal bending the frets, Paradise with a wicked stretch of his accordion, me making the crash sing. We put everything we could rally, all we had on the top shelf. The high pitch rang throughout the hangar, all but lifting the roof off.

“Yeah, I like that.” L. V. stopped his fake waxing. He’d listened to the whole set, start to finish. “Like the dark blues start and the bright end. You write all that, Waylon?”

“Me and Cal.” Waylon ran his hand down the neck of his old Strat. “What about Paisley hand counting us in on the Latin drum?” He needed some outside assurance that opening with the
caja
would work.

“A bare hand on an animal-skin drum?” Uncle L. V. dropped the cotton cloth on the back of the chair and patted his chest twice. “That’s native, son. It’ll crawl up in you and hang on.”

Paradise glanced at me with a half smile, but he kept his thoughts to himself. We all did. Even Levi had his game face on. For him taking the stage would be just like taking the pitcher’s mound. And Cal. More so than anyone, Cal grasped the goal every time he grabbed his guitar. One and the same. The time for talking and analyzing and trying something new had passed. We’d planned the work, now we had to work the plan. We were ready. Waylon had us ready.

We watched Waylon cradle his Strat in the case as if he were laying a baby in a crib.

“Waylon”—L. V. picked up the waxing cloth and began folding it, edge to edge, until it was a small square—“your daddy showin’ up?”

“Already there.” Waylon closed the lid on the guitar and smoothed his hands across the top. “Been there all week with my uncle. Performing at different events. The producer, Lloyd Maines, has them in the studio playing on some artist’s new record.” Waylon flicked the handle on the case. “He can’t afford not to show up when his name is on the band list.”

My heart broke for Waylon. Split open. Even my mother had believed in Lacey despite her cratering at the rodeo. Mother blamed the bad performance on everything and everybody but Lacey. From what I’d seen at church, Waylon would never be good enough to get his father’s approval. It was clear Waylon didn’t think so either.

Levi and Cal were packed up and headed out. But Levi seemed to understand Waylon’s circumstance better than anyone. “It’s just you and the guitar, dude.” Levi clinched his left hand into a fist as if it held a baseball. “Block out the crowd. Block out the pressure. Can’t nobody do what you do, but you.” Levi turned around on his way out the door. He made sure L. V. heard him. “I’ll have the Tucker wine wagon gassed up, and I’ll be down there by the bridge at five in the morning. We’ll give you till five fifteen, Paisley.” Levi waited to see if Uncle L. V. would object.

L. V. would let it go and he’d let me go. This was my deal and he wouldn’t interfere. He and Waylon and Paradise stared at me.

“What?” I tried to play it off like showing up was nothing. “I’ll be there. You just be on time.”

“Lock her up, Paisley.” Uncle L. V. grabbed his wax can. “I’m leaving for a bit.”

Paradise slung his murse over his shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he told me. “I need to catch your uncle. Talk him into loaning me a hat.”

“Yeah, good luck with that.” I chuckled at the idea that Paradise thought he could schmooze one of L. V.’s Colombian hats from his collection. I handed him my
caja
. “I can’t hide this at home.” The animal skin was warm from being played. I didn’t want to let it go. “Make sure it makes the trip.”

Paradise took the drum. I trusted him. Maybe even with my own heart.

Then I saw Waylon. Hands still spread on top of his guitar case. Head bowed. I think he was praying.

Everyone cleared out. Waylon and I were alone.

Waylon gathered his guitar and tucked his band notebook under his arm. He waited while I slid the hangar doors shut. One. Last. Time. I walked with him outside.

“Don’t stand me up, Paisley.” He laid the guitar in the backseat of his car. “You lead us off. You set the pace. We’re all screwed without you.”

I knew that was hard for Waylon to admit. “No worries.” I was more confident in my ability to get there than I was in his ability to perform. “Nothing can keep me from Austin.”

The cool winds of March and April had died down. The early May evening was as still as dawn. The only movement was a buzzard circling high over the rolling pasture and a jarring racket from the front side of the hangar.

Tires sailing over gravel.

Skidding to a stop.

A familiar door squawking open and slamming shut.

The
click-shh-click-shh
of stilettos tottering across the gravel toward us.

Waylon gripped his steering wheel to pull himself into his old Camaro, oblivious to the sound of someone arriving.

“Don’t,” I said. Grabbed his arm.

The thought of Mother finding the drums, figuring out about the band iced me in the moment. She’d never approve. She’d blame the drums for any ill she could think of and forbid me to play. I could not lose the drums. I couldn’t.

In a split second, I made a choice. The only thing I knew would keep her from nosing around, finding the drums. Keep her from any hint of my going to Texapalooza.

As Mother rounded the corner of the hangar, I seized Waylon’s head in my hands. “Kiss me, Waylon.”

30

GIMME THREE STEPS

On a scale of one to ten, the kiss was a two. Too sudden. Too hard. Waylon stayed so tense all the time that his naturally thin lips cracked from dryness. It was like rubbing my lips across the scales of a fish. When I turned him loose, Waylon kept his mouth pinched tight and his nose turned up as if he’d gotten a whiff of a skunk. A sentiment I shared.

But the kiss worked.

Mother shrieked like a swamp witch,
“
EeeeeEEEEEEEEE!”

From the corner of my eye, I saw her: hands to her face, pink satin blouse shimmering in the sun, capri jeans squeezing her in like a sausage casing, pink platform stilettos.

I straightened Waylon’s skull cap. In the fury of the moment, my grip on his head had pulled the cap nearly over his eyes. “Go.” I shoved him inside his old Camaro. He caught a glimpse of my mother and fumbled for his keys. “Drive off now.”

Waylon cranked his car and charged into the pasture. Away from the drive between the house and the hangar. Away from my mother. His tires laid the tall grass flat, cutting a trail through the pasture.

I steadied my resolve for whatever drama she’d rain down on me. I could take it. She’d be swinging at a ghost. I’d be on my way to Austin. But when I turned to face my mother, she was gone. Disappeared.

I ran around the hangar in time to see Mother’s Suburban hightail it across the pasture. Making a beeline for the fence. Hammer down. She was cutting Waylon off before he could leave the farm.