Songbird (29 page)

He knocks and a muffled “Yeah!” sounds from within the obviously hallowed chamber of the vice president.

“Carl? This is Charmaine Hopewell.”

“Charmaine! Come on in! Thankya, Jay.”

My lands, his accent is thicker than mine. I’m surprised he didn't say “Howdy-doo!”

Jay shuts the door and I wish he hadn't.

“Thanks for seeing me today, Mr. Bofa.”

“Don't be so formal, call me Carl. The music business is very informal.”

“Formally informal?”

He points to me. “I like your style, darlin’.”

Darlin’.

Now I am once again unsure. I mean “darlin's” can go both ways, too.

“Have a seat on the couch.”

Naturally he has a corner office and it is walled with smoky windows on two sides. The other two support more records, more posters, and, guess what, more art. And there are photographs he has taken as well. Now that I see his office I understand his art. Lots of extreme close-ups of segments of cowboy hats, spurs, and the like.

A conversation area sits in the far corner. Now I must say I am a bit surprised because this office is nothing like the lobby. It is comfortable and warm and even has a gas fireplace going in the corner.

“Did you have a hand in decorating this place?”

“Yep. I’m an old cowboy at heart.”

I can sure tell. Little sculptures of men on horses dot the room. The couches are brown, worn-looking leather and there's even a saddle on a stand in the corner near the bar, which looks more than stocked. This surprises me, too. Even though it is a Kinglee subsidiary, BrooksTone is still a Christian record company. I don't say a word, though. Not at this point. Probably not ever.

And does it really matter in the long run?

Now is not the time to answer that.

“So you love gospel music?” I ask as I sit down and cross my legs at the ankles like Mrs. Evans taught me years ago.

“I do.”

“Who're your favorites?”

“The Cathedrals.”

“I love them! Who else?”

“Vestal Goodman.”

“I love the Goodmans. Think I could get away with using a hankie?”

“Darlin’ with that hair, you've already got yourself a trademark. If you sign on with BrooksTone, the first thing you'll do is make it even redder!”

He makes me think of Gomer Pyle, but smart.

And why did they name that character Gomer? Gomer was a girl in the Bible!

Carl reaches out and runs his fingers through the left side of my hair. I am stunned. His fingers catch in the mess. “Ouch!”

“Sorry, sugar. You are a cute thing. The folks are going to love you!”

“They already do.” I steer him back to the business at hand. You'd be surprised how many strangers reach out and touch my hair. “You know I’ve sold twenty thousand tapes of my own at Gospelganza concerts, don't you?”

“I sure do.”

“So what are you going to do for me that I can't do for myself?”

“Well, that depends on how far you'll go to succeed.”

“You won't find a harder working singer. I’ll even come down and do background vocals for you. I’ll sing anytime, anyplace, and anywhere and you can take that right on down to the bank!”

Blabber, blabber, blabber.

“So you'll work hard. Do whatever it takes, eh?”

“Yes, sir. You won't find anyone more willing to go the extra mile than Charmaine Hopewell.”

“By the way, darlin’, what's your middle name?”

“Charmaine.”

“Your first?”

“A girl's gotta have her secrets.”

He winks and leans forward, opening a drawer in the coffee table. He removes a cigar that's laying on top of a
Penthouse
magazine.

Oh, great. A porno freak. This is just my luck! I pretend I don't notice it.

Get out! Get out! Get out!

Sometimes women have these moments where we see it all. We see the past as it is, the present as we think it is, and the future as what it could be if we keep our rear end right where it is.

I see myself black and blue in some emergency room and I don't know why. I see a young redheaded girl traveling south on a bus in the winter wilds.

Those images attack me.

And I push them away. This is my big break! I say to them. My big break. We can fix up the house so it's sweet and charming. I’ll buy Harlan a new car like a Buick or an Oldsmobile, something real nice and comfy because he's so tall. The cute outfits I could get for Hope swim their empty arms in my mind and I see
her
there, the angel baby. And Leo, well, I can put that little smart guy in a good private school like that Nansemond place in Suffolk, only it won't be in Suffolk because I’ll always keep my babies right here with me.

If Mr. Bofa gets dangerous, I’ll just run out and that will be that. But I don't want to jump the gun, do I?

“I like you, Charmaine.”

“Thank you.”

“So what else can you offer BrooksTone?”

“Well, you haven't answered my question,
Carl.
What can you offer me?”

“Would you like a tour?”

“Yes, I would.”

He escorts me out of his office and back up the hallway to Jay's. “Jay, give Charmaine a tour. Introduce her to folks.”

“Sure, Carl.”

Thank you, God! I’m getting out of this cowboy shrine.

I am amazed. The art department is beautiful. “We do most of our album art in-house,” says Jamie, the art director who's dressed more like an accountant on his day off.

The sales and marketing folks couldn't be nicer.

Everyone's so nice.

So why do I feel so itchy inside?

4

O
h my lands! What a nut! He reminds me of some Southern writer-type there in his light colored suit and black tie. His hair is white and longish and honest to goodness he's a cross between Colonel Sanders and Samuel Clemmens! Samuel Phlegmmens would be more like it. His cough rumbles more than a pack of Harley-Davidsons.

But he's black. And he's a Northerner. Two cigars peer over the front pocket of his suit.

His name is Dovey. Nathan Dovey. But, “Don't call me ‘Nathan,’ don't call me ‘Mr. Dovey,’ because I won't answer.”

And I say, “Fine by me, Dovey.”

I want so badly to call him ‘Lovey Dovey,’ but Grandma paid him to come down to talk to us and I sure don't want to waste her savings.

We lay out everything we've done, which is mostly government agency and records stuff, because obviously we haven't been able to go gallivanting around the country on a flat-out search.

He writes the details down left-handed, his bony knuckles reminding me of mushrooms with little brown caps. He writes quickly and with a beautiful, flowing hand over the pages of a small spiral notepad with a light blue cover.

Sometimes you just never know.

“Did your mother ever mention your grandmother?”

“Sometimes.”

“What did she say?”

I look over to Grandma then back at Dovey. “Well, I don't know if I want to say.”

He must understand because he speaks respectfully to Grandma Min, the ashy, potato-brown skin around his eyes creasing with sympathy. “This may be painful. But it may increase my chances at finding your daughter.” He pats her hand and right away I think to myself, I love this man!

I shrug, trying so hard to cage in Isla's attitude, to bar in her disrespect with my own softened words. “She just … well, there were times when she thought she did things differently than Grandma might have and she'd say, ‘Wouldn't your grandma Min have a fit?’”

Grandma reaches for her handbag, shakes her head once, twice, then returns the bag to the floor. She clears her throat and takes my hand. “Go on ahead and tell these things, sweetie. I know it's really not you saying them.”

I nod. Normally I’m not at a loss for words, but this is different. Isla's actions become more and more reprehensible with each drop of love for my grandmother that fills my heart.

“Did she ever mention your father?”

“No. And she wouldn't let me ask about him.”

He turns to Grandma. “I noticed you didn't mention this in your letter. Do you have any idea who Charmaine's father is?”

“Judging by Charmaine's birthday, Isla was already pregnant with Charmaine when she left Suffolk.”

So she didn't go to Randolf Macon Women's College then? Oh, my lands. And why do we have to talk about my father, anyway? Obviously he was or is no better than my mother.

I feel just now as if my heart has grown a toenail on one of its curves and someone yanked it off down to the quick.

Grandma grabs my hand. “Isla had been seeing a young man who worked at the Planters factory. He met her at one of the restaurants in town where she waited tables. He was all right, I guess. He loved her a lot more than she loved him.”

“What was his name?”

She squeezes my hand. “David Potter.”

David Potter.

“David Potter.” Dovey writes that down. “Will I be able to contact him?”

That sure is the question. I picture a young, thin man. Shy. Working in a peanut plant, whatever people in peanut plants do. Sandy hair. Bright blue eyes rimmed with black lashes. Bright blue eyes made brighter by pretty Isla Whitehead.

She shakes her head. “David died just after Isla left Suffolk.”

Well, at least I didn't have to have my hopes raised for too long. But five minutes of wishful thinking might have been nice instead of five seconds!

“Are his parents still living?” Dovey asks.

“Well, his mother is. His father died about ten years ago, I’d guess.”

“Do they know anything about Charmaine?”

“I don't know. I don't know them all that well. And I didn't know about Charmaine until
she
found me.”

“Did you tell Mrs. Potter she had a granddaughter?”

Grandma Min drops my hand and whispers. “No.” She turns to me. “I’m sorry, Charmaine. I just couldn't. I didn't want to share you with them. And I figured, maybe there'd be so much pain for them. And we don't really know for sure, do we?”

I press her hand. “This will save for later, Grandma. It's okay.”

Dovey writes some more. “Still she might have heard from your daughter. I really should follow that lead.”

I ask, “Can you do it in a way that it won't give things away?” Right then, I want to preserve Grandma Min's heart and our way of life.

“Of course. ‘Discreet’ is my middle name.”

I smile. “I thought it was just Dovey.”

He laughs. “Good one. Anything else?”

“Well, she did have lots of boyfriends. I believe she was a loose woman.” I
really
didn't want Grandma to hear that, but she didn't look at all shocked.

“You remember any of their names?”

“Uh-huh.” And I list them off. “Except there was one more, the man she went off with when she left Lynchburg. All I know is that he was from Washington, D.C. I never knew his name. She just called him ‘that man,’ really tenderly, too.”

“Do you remember what kind of car he drove?”

I nod. “But they never came up with anything back all those years ago.”

“Don't worry about that. The police say that all the time because they don't have the time to follow every lead. You never know. It might be something they've missed.”

“Okay. It was an old Cadillac, black, with fins. In really good shape. D.C. plates.”

“You think if I found a picture of it you'd be able to identify it?”

“I’ll never forget that car as long as I live.”

Funny, I hadn't thought about that snazzy man's car in years, but there it sat in my mind, glistening and black and daring and yet rude and pushy. Almost pulsating with the hate I felt for it. I hated that man, too.

See, it's like this. I always thought of Mama and figured she must have had really terrible parents to have done what she did. But now that I know Grandma Min, I know better. Yes, she was mentally ill. I know that now. But she chose to go off her medication and that was, pure and simple, selfish of her.

She had a daughter!

Why couldn't she take the pills for me, at least?

That purple
Fantasia
dragon is waking up inside me and I can only hope that when it opens its mouth and spews fire in a circle all around, we all won't blacken, curl up, and disintegrate.

Dovey pockets his notebook. “All right, then. I’ll get started. I’ve got other clients so this may take a while. But if she's still out there, I’ll find her.”

“I haven't seen my daughter in over twenty-five years. If I have to wait a while longer, well, that's what I’ll do.”

He points to me. “What about you?”

“I don't have much of a choice, do I?”

“Why do you want to find her?”

“Just to know.”

I feel a hardness petrify my own gaze and Dovey knows. Dovey knows I hate Isla Whitehead. “It won't make the pain go away,” he says. “I’ve been in this business long enough to know that knowing doesn't always make things right.”

I smooth the table with my hand. “But it makes things what they are. And right now, I don't even know that.”

He nods and taps the tabletop with the fingertips of his left hand. “All right then. I’ll call you as soon as I know something. Try not to call me all the time for details. I call when I have some new information and not before. Continual updates are expensive and you two seem too sensible to need mollycoddling.”

Grandma and I look at each other and shrug. “That's fine, Dovey,” she says. “We'll just go on as usual and try not to think about things too much.”

“That's the best way to go about it, ladies.”

5

I
love October. I love the way the air breathes. I love the smell of people's fireplaces going. I love the metallic taste of apple cider and the fastidious blue of the sky.

I love spring even more.

But October is here and I’m loving my new life.

Nashville is a pretty old town. I’m riding down luxurious Belle Meade Boulevard in a limousine. “It's not the best way to get to the studio, but it's one of the prettiest,” the driver says.

The leaves are ignited as though made of the money people in these parts must burn on whims I’ve never even considered.

They're all here. Italian villas. Colonial mansions. Tudor fortresses. Gated Greek palaces. Stone, brick, wood, you name it. I love the tiled roofs.