Somebody Everybody Listens To (13 page)

“I had my first singing job tonight.”

“You did? That's great, Retta! Where?”

“It wasn't great. Nobody showed up. Not a single person, except for some jerk bartender who told me I was unoriginal.”

“Well, screw him. He probably wouldn't know talent if it punched him in the nose.”

“Yeah, probably.” I didn't believe this, however. Chat looked like the type who knew a lot of things.

“Wayne, stop it. I'll be inside in a minute.”

“What?”

“Oh, that was Wayne. He tried to sneak up behind me so he could peek at my cards.”

“Did not!” Wayne shouted in the background. “Hey, Retta!”

“Wayne says hi. Go on, Wayne, I'll be there in a second.” Brenda paused, and I heard the door close. “Listen, Retta, you're the best, you got that? And September will be here before you know it. And don't worry about Bobby. We'll keep him occupied till you get back. Besides, there's not another girl in Starling good enough for him. Except for me, of course, but I'm taken,” she teased. “Seriously, it'll all still be here waiting when you get back, so you hang in there. And tell that jerk bartender to go suck it.”

“I'll call you tomorrow when you get off work,” I promised.

“Okay. Bye, sweetie,” she said, and dropped the phone again. I could hear her cursing as she picked it up and hit the off button.

I curled up in the seat and closed my eyes, thought about a song Daddy used to sing when I was little and he'd tuck me in at night.
If teardrops were pennies and heartaches were gold, I'd have all the riches my pockets would hold.
Daddy didn't have a bad
have all the riches my pockets would hold.
Daddy didn't have a bad voice, except he never could remember all the lyrics, so he'd start making stuff up. We'd lie in my bed, stare up at the stick-on stars on my ceiling, and laugh until Mama came in and reminded us it was a school night.

Carl Butler wrote that song and Dolly Parton recorded it with Porter Wagoner. Kitty Wells and Carl Smith recorded it, too, not as a duet, though. But it was Patty Loveless's version I liked best because somehow I just knew she'd loved her daddy the exact same way I love mine. And she had to sit back and watch him do a job that would kill him in the end, all the while knowing there wasn't a thing she could do to stop it.

Instead of going to sleep with visions of psycho killers or Chat's mean words in my head, I went to sleep thinking about Daddy and Patty Loveless and Mr. Ramey, her daddy, and all the things that make people keep doing what they've got to do, no matter how much it might cost them in the end.

THURSDAY WAS MY LAST DAY AT RICKY DEAN'S AUTO DEN, and even though I'd only known him a few days, I hated to leave. I got the feeling Ricky hated seeing me go, too. The Auto Den looked way better than it did when I fi rst got here. The floors were swept clean, and the bathroom was scoured and smelled like Lysol now instead of mildew. The piles of clutter in Ricky's back office were pretty much gone, and I'd even bought plastic bins (with Ricky's money, of course) for all his supplies and old receipts and car magazines.

“So, Retta, I got you a little going-away present,” Ricky said right after lunch. He stood beside my (Shanay's) desk, and I could tell he had something behind his back. “Which hand?” he asked, and winked at me.

“That one,” I replied, pointing to his left.

He hesitated, teasing me, then extended his country-ham-size fist. “Two tickets to the Mockingbird,” he said, and grinned so wide I could see every gold tooth in his head. “One ticket for you and one for a friend. Or two tickets for you. Whichever you want.”

I stared at him. “
The
Mockingbird?”

“Well, there ain't but one Mockingbird, darlin', and anybody who wants to be a singer in this town has
got
to go. It's a rule, I reckon.”

“I know, but. . . Oh, Ricky, thank you,” I said, all embarrassed. He'd already bought me the Variety Big Box meal from KFC for what he called my going away luncheon.

“Them tickets ain't free, though.” He shoved his hands into his coverall pockets.

“You want me to sing something?” I asked, reading his mind. He nodded. “A special request?”

“Oh, surprise me,” he replied.

Ricky slid under a Pontiac, and I took out my guitar and adjusted the tuners. While I was making up my mind about which song to sing, I thought about Chat and his comments. In fact, Chat was pretty much
all
I'd thought about these last few days. Like an annoying commercial jingle, his words were stuck in my head:
You'll be sleeping in your car permanently unless you scrape together some originality
. I decided to go with one of my own songs instead of someone else's. I'd written it right out in Ricky's parking lot, although I wouldn't tell Ricky this, of course.

When I finished, it was quiet under the Pontiac. Ricky didn't yell “Bravo!” the way he usually does when I sing, and he didn't roll out from under the car and give me a grease-smudged grin and a thumbs-up. All at once I feared he'd gone and had himself another heart attack, or maybe he agreed with Chat. “Are you all right?” I asked.

“Yeah, Retta,” Ricky replied hoarsely. “That-uz good. The best one yet.”

That afternoon when it was time to go, Ricky followed me out to Goggy's car. “You know I'd hire you permanent if I could,” he said. “It's just I feel like Shanay . . . well, I explained that already.”

“It's okay, Ricky.”

“I just ain't got the budget for two secretaries. Besides that, you won't never be no big star workin' for me. You'll stop by, though? Let me know how you are?”

“Definitely,” I replied. “Tell Shanay I said bye.”

“I will.” Ricky took out his wallet and removed a crisp hundred-dollar bill. As tempting as it was, I shook my head. Ricky dropped the money at my feet. “Retta, that money's gonna blow away if you don't take it. You're a good hard worker and you earned every penny and then some. Go on, pick it up,” he ordered.

“Thanks, Ricky. Thanks for everything,” I said, and stooped to grab the bill. Something inside my tight chest loosened up a little, made it easier to breathe.

“When you get to playing somewhere, you need to let ol' Ricky know, hear?”

I hesitated and wondered if I should mention Jackson's, but decided against it. If Ricky showed up one night and there was nobody there, we'd both be embarrassed. Instead, Ricky and I exchanged cell-phone numbers and shook hands.

It was too early to go to Jackson's, so I stopped off at Sam Hill's to wash my hair and put on some lipstick. I also needed to change my clothes. Instead of my usual jeans, which were too dirty to wear now, I put on my navy church skirt and a blouse that was so old I was pretty sure it counted as vintage. I wore Mama's earrings, too, of course. On the way out, I bought an ice-cold Sundrop and a bag of peanuts, which made me feel like I was sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner. Funny how having nothing makes you appreciate every little thing. And the cashier even smiled at me when I left.

Around 7:25, I pulled into Jackson's parking lot, and there on the enormous marquee was my name:

I stood in the lobby and glanced around for Mrs. Farley, the manager, or Riley, her son. I hadn't been paid for the last two nights, and I wanted to get this situation straightened out. Did she plan to pay me each night? On a weekly basis?

“Hi, Retta,” said Riley, popping up like a jack-in-the-box from behind the desk.

“Riley! You scared me half to death,” I scolded. He snickered and tugged at his oversize T-shirt, which said Pick Me! (in great big letters) and I'm a Booger (in tiny ones). “Is your mama here?” I asked, doing my best to ignore his “fashion don't,” as Brenda would call it. He shook his head. “Well, I really need to talk to her. When do you think she'll be back?” Riley shrugged.

Just then a van pulled up out front. There were big swirly letters on the side—GOLD WATCH RETIREMENT VILLAGE.

“They're coming to see you,” said Riley. “They tip,” he added.

“Oh, well, then I better go,” I said, and took off. “Tell your mama I need to talk to her,” I called over my shoulder.

Quickly, I climbed onstage and sat down. The best approach, I decided, was to launch into song the minute the old people got settled. Otherwise, they'd start talking and I'd have to play and sing over them. After seven nights in my car and three nights of nothing but Chat eye rolls for feedback, I was determined to have my ego stroked. These grandparent types seemed like the ones to do it.

While Chat took their drink orders, I studied their lined faces and counted backward. Country classics from the 1960s seemed about right. They would've been young then, and everybody loves the music of their youth. I started with “I Fall To Pieces” and watched their faces light up, then moved on to every other oldie I could think of. They tapped their feet, nodded their gray heads, and smiled up at me. When the first set was over, a man came up and kissed my hand, then slipped me a twenty. By the end of the night, I had a total of $48.37 in my guitar case, and a request to play from six to ten from now on because, as the Gold Watchers put it, “midnight was too damn late for a bunch of old farts.”