Somebody Everybody Listens To (21 page)

“What'd you do?”

“I hit this stupid wall.”

“Hit a
wall
? What's the matter with you, Retta?”

“Daddy, it happened weeks ago, and it was this low wall, like, for decoration. It's not like I rammed into the side of a building,” I said, and rolled my eyes.

“Sounds to me like you ought to be driving one a them Barbie cars instead of the real thing.”

“Yeah, well, I asked for a Barbie car three Christmases in a row, but I never got one,” I reminded him. Daddy looked down into his mug, and I regretted my words.

“Anyway, are you gonna listen to my story about who was on the phone or not?” I asked, and nudged him.

“I'm listening,” he replied.

“So, anyway, I hit this decorative wall thing in this fancy neighborhood and busted the oil pan, and when the tow-truck driver showed up, he felt sorry for me, said I could work for him as payment. It was only a week.”

“A
week
? Just to fix a oil pan? Well, that's a rip-off. It probably didn't cost him nothing to fix that.”

“Daddy, he towed me and checked everything else on the car and fixed the oil pan for free. He could've charged me a fortune, taken every dime I had. He was being nice. Besides that, he bought me lunch and doughnuts and gave me two tickets to the Mockingbird and some cash when the week was over.”

“Sounds to me like he's some
pervert
.”

“Never mind,” I said, and stood to go back inside.

“Oh, sit back down, Ree Ree, and tell me your story. I won't say another word, I promise.”

I sighed a heavy sigh and sat down again. As much as I love him, my daddy can be exasperating at times. “Anyway, that was Ricky who called,” I said.

“What'd he want?”

“To offer me a job.” Daddy poured his coffee into the pot of impatiens and stared straight ahead. “He thinks I'm a good hard worker,” I went on, “and his business has picked up and his regular secretary has personal problems and can't work anymore. It's twelve dollars an hour.” Daddy looked at me then, raised an eyebrow. I tried not to feel guilty. Daddy made twelve dollars an hour at Movers and Shakers, plus tips, of course. “And Ricky Dean is not a pervert. He's a very nice man.” There was a stretch of noisy silence between us, Daddy and me thinking, and several frogs croaking like crazy now.

“You're takin' the job, I reckon?” Daddy said finally.

“No, I'm not taking the job,” I said, and leaned my head against his shoulder. “Remember when I was little and you used to say the frogs showed up every night just for me?”

“Yep, so they could sing you to sleep. One of the best sounds in the world, that and you singing.”

“You think I'm a good singer, Daddy?”

“I went and talked to Brother James after work today,” he said.

“Brother James? Why?” I sat up straight.

“There was some twelve-gauge two-inch buckshot in the top a my closet, and it had King Asshole's name on it.”

“What did Brother James say?”

“Aw, you know Brother James. He never really says nothin'. He just looks at you with that hangdog expression and tells you to listen for the Lord. I must need a hearing aid because I ain't heard Him yet. Maybe I'm blind, too. For months, your mama's been slipping off here and there, coming home with stuff I pretended not to see. Earrings and junk. You know what I thought?” asked Daddy. He was looking at me now.

“She was stealing?”

“I did. I actually thought your mama was givin' herself the old five-finger discount over at that Dollar King.”

“Me, too,” I confessed.

“One thing Brother James did say was that I should find it in my heart to forgive them. Can you imagine? He started quoting some verse from Mark, something about if you want the Lord to forgive you, then you got to forgive other people.” Daddy was waiting for me to respond, but I kept quiet. “What, Retta? You think I should forgive her after what she's done?”

“It's just I don't think this was all Mama's fault,” I said quietly.

“I cain't believe you! You think it was
my
fault?”

“Daddy, all I'm saying is I think this is more complicated than it looks. And she's my mother, so I can't stay mad at her forever.”

“Well, I'm pretty sure I can,” Daddy snapped. “Forgive her, my foot! And your mama won't never find another good man like me, and she sure as hell hasn't found one in King Asshole. She'll realize that before long.”

The frogs had stopped. It was weird how that happened. One minute they'd be croaking their heads off, the next completely silent. It was almost like they were eavesdropping on our conversation. I tried to think of something to say, something that might make Daddy feel better, but there was nothing. I picked up my guitar and journal, stood to go inside.

“Retta Lee?”

“Yeah.”

Daddy groaned to his feet. “If you want to take that job in Nashville, you should take it.”

“No,” I said, and shook my head, “I'm not taking that job.”

“Listen to me.” He grabbed my songwriting journal out of my hand. “The stuff in here is good.
You're
good. That song you were singing out here earlier, it could be a hit record. And if you have a job waitin', there's nothing holding you back. Except me. And I do
not
want to be blamed for one more woman's unhappiness, you hear?” Daddy swallowed hard. “Go back to Nashville, Retta. If you don't you'll regret it the rest of your life.”

The frogs started up again; just like that, they were back to their raucous choir. I followed Daddy inside, and thought how he was right. Mama never would find another good man like him. Come to think of it, maybe I wouldn't either.

LEAVING HOME WAS HARDER THIS TIME for lots of reasons. Number one, I was worried about Daddy, of course. And Mama, too. What if King Asshole, as Daddy liked to call him, was some sort of creep? Or, what if Mama realized her mistake and wanted Daddy back, but it was too late? And then there was the problem with Riley. When I was loading up my car, I found the card he'd given me the night of my Mockingbird performance, and what was in his note was almost as disturbing as what was on his gross T-shirts:

For obvious reasons, I didn't go back to the Jackson Hotel. It wasn't so much what Riley said. I could tell all along he had a crush, but the exclamation points made me want to run for cover, like I was being shot at with a BB gun or pelted by those Red Hots he was always eating. Instead, I went straight to Ricky's, all prepared to explain my housing situation, but I didn't even have to; Ricky had already anticipated (and solved) the problem. In exchange for new brakes, a friend of his installed a shower in the bathroom, and since he hardly ever used his office anyway, he'd cleared it out. There was nothing left except an old black and white TV with tinfoil on the antenna, a mini-fridge, and the sofa where Shanay had slept off all those drunken stupors. I was welcome to stay at the Auto Den for free as long as I wanted.

Since arriving, I've scrubbed every inch of the place: I washed the windows inside and out; swept the stale cement floors and mopped them; took everything off the shelves, dusted, put everything back; unscrewed the light fixtures, emptied the dead bugs out, washed the light fixtures, and screwed them in again. I even found the spare cans of paint and repaired the chipped letters on the front of the cinder-block building. Now instead of ICKY DEA AU DEN, it says RICKY DEAN'S AUTO DEN. Ricky just stood there, holding the ladder and wiping the sweat off his bald head while I finished the final touches.

“I hate to complain with you workin' so hard, Retta, but you got to slow down.”

“What're you talking about? I've hardly started,” I replied.

“Retta, alls you're supposed to do is answer the phone and make appointments. And what about the singing? You ain't sang nothin' since you got here.”

Ricky was right, my nerves had been so jittery I couldn't sit still. I'd think up all kinds of lyrics in my head, but I couldn't stop moving long enough to write them down, much less compose a tune. I finally had a good-paying job, a roof over my head, a car to drive, and no September 1 deadline, but I was still holding myself back somehow. “I'm scared, Ricky,” I confessed without looking at him.

“Scared a what? I got a alarm system on the shop that'd keep all the bullion in Fort Knox safe.”

“No, I don't mean for my safety.” (Ricky did have all kinds of alarms on the place to protect his cars and expensive equipment, especially in
this
seedy neighborhood.)

“Then what are you scared of?”

“Nashville doesn't need another girl singer. I'm just one more fish in the barrel, waiting to be shot at.” Chat came to mind when I said this.

“Well, Retta, I hate to tell you, but if you keep on cleaning like this, you're gonna give me another heart attack. Just watching you makes my blood pressure go up.”

I climbed down off the ladder, and Ricky and I went back inside where it was cool. The phones were quiet after lunch, so instead of scrubbing the mold off the ceiling, like I'd planned, I hung my Emmylou Harris poster above the sofa then worked on “Home” some more.

By the end of the day, I was ready to play it for Ricky. He sat in my desk chair, and I pulled up a stool, strummed a few chords to warm up.

“I wrote this one when I was home,” I explained. “It just came to me all of a sudden, but it took a while to get the music just right. I want you to be honest, tell me exactly what you think, okay?”

Ricky nodded and wiped his hands on the red grease rag.