The Revelations of Preston Black (Murder Ballads and Whiskey Book 3) (5 page)

And I could see what Katy had meant,
because then somebody asked about the devil and the song and if we’d play it. I
remembered what the little old lady said about “The Sad Ballad of Preston
Black” the morning I met Jamie. “
That song hain’t of no account
and you can honor my hospitality by not asking no more about it.
”

Ignoring the request, we played them
our version of Arcade Fire’s “Suburban War” and finished the night with an
abbreviated version of our set list. Harmonizing with Katy on an a cappella “If
I Fell” as an encore became my personal highlight. We always practiced it in the
car—Katy doing the Paul part and me doing the John part—but never sang it in
public. The song had become our little secret, our way of telling each other
that everything would be fine. And after tonight, we all needed a little
assurance.

Nobody wanted to leave. After so much
chaos we all felt safe in our little nest. But we’d played right up to the
curfew and couldn’t afford a fine. So we signed posters and took a few pictures
as a way of thanking everybody and saying our goodbyes. One of the tapers recorded
the whole thing, from beginning to end, and mentioned the possibility of making
the recording available commercially. He asked if I wanted him to sit on it for
a while and I told him to put it out there.

Saying goodbye to Pauly hurt the most.
The last few weeks really changed things between us. Like, I felt like I really
had a brother again. And over the last few days our relationship had been
reinvented altogether. He’d become the friend I’d always wanted him to be. We
dropped him off at his hotel, helped him with his bags, and left Nashville on a
bit of a high. Like we’d squeaked by with a win after all was said and done.

But on the drive to Muscle Shoals a
sense of defeat finally settled in. The first blow came when I saw a billboard
that said IMAGINE NO RELIGION? SO DID HE.

“Look at that,” I said, thinking it
meant everything would be okay.

“That’s Stalin,” Katy replied. The
tone of her voice confused me. She should’ve been more excited. “The man on the
billboard is Joseph Stalin.”

The name rang a bell, but I only knew
that he was a historical figure.

“Depending on who’s counting, he
killed somewhere between five and fifty-five million people. It’s not what you
think, Preston.” She shook her head. “I always wanted to believe. Now I’m tired
of trying.”

“I’m sorry.” I cracked my window and
let fresh air in. “I thought our trip to Alabama would be a little more like
Smokey
and the Bandit
.
So far it’s been more like
Children of the Corn
.”

With a deep breath, she forced a
change of demeanor. She cheered herself right up and went to work on cheering
me up too. “And after the Atlanta show when we’re on our way home you won’t be
able to stop talking about it.” She grabbed my hand and placed it on her lap.

I didn’t want her to sleep and kept
talking as a way to keep her awake, but eventually she stopped responding. The
interstate felt lonely enough, so far from lights and anybody I knew. She
happened to be my only friend at the moment.

When I saw a billboard that said
WHOREMONGERS AND ALL LIARS SHALL HAVE THEIR PART IN THE LAKE OF FIRE.
REVELATION: 2:18 I knew we’d never beat these people. Not when they had God on
their side.

I could handle the billboards and the
protestors. They were real because other people had seen them too. Reality
never kept me up at night.

But everything changed at a little gas
station just over the Alabama line. My head had grown heavier and I needed
Mountain Dew so I didn’t run us into a ditch before we got to the hotel. I
filled the tank. The bright fluorescent lights only called attention to the
fact that nobody else was around. Jerry Reed’s “When You’re Hot, You’re Hot”
trickled out of the tinny speakers above the gas pumps. Moths and gnats circled
endlessly and Katy never once stirred, so I locked up the car and walked
through the lonely parking lot.

I started peeing at the same time
Little Feat’s “Oh, Atlanta” ended. I washed my face, went out to stare at the
beef jerky and Zapp’s potato chips before deciding I didn’t need the heartburn
and bought my Mountain Dew. While paying, I watched Katy. And on the way back
to the car I heard something that stopped me dead in my tracks. I really,
really had to listen to make sure I heard what I thought I heard.

My tongue stuck to the roof of my
mouth.

Young Johnny Cash
.

My hands shook. “Katy!”

Not Rick Rubin’s version of Johnny
Cash.

I heard Sam Phillips’s Johnny Cash.

“Katy!” I yelled. I needed her to hear
it too.

I spun, trying to get a fix on a
speaker.

Luther Perkins’s Tele picked out a
twangy run while Johnny sang, “…
got them hellhounds on his trail.
Preston Black got them hellhounds on his trail…
”

“Katy!” I threw my pop at the car. It
hit the window with a thud and bounced onto the concrete. She didn’t move.

As I stepped on the trashcan next to
the closest pump, I heard, “
If you want to shake them hounds off your
tail, the first stop’s the crossroads, the second stop’s hell. Preston Black
got them hellhounds on his trail.
”

I went to the car and banged the hood.
“Hey, get up.”

I pulled my keys out, opened the
driver’s side door and gave Katy a shake. “You have to hear this. Get up.”

When I heard Johnny’s voice again I
yelled one last time. “Katy!”

“What?” She stretched, but didn’t open
her eyes.

“Listen.” I climbed onto the hood,
balancing myself on my tiptoes to get my ears closer to the speakers, yet
somehow I still couldn’t hear. I stepped over the windshield and onto the roof.

“Preston! Get down.”

“Quiet.”

I craned my ear as high as I could in
time to catch Johnny sing the last verse. “
Preston Black, you got
to be born again. Preston Black you got to be born again. Let the water wash
your sins away, before you let the devil have his say, Preston Black, it’s time
to be born again.
”

The passenger side door opened. Katy
stood and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. She looked up at me, squinted
at the bright lights, and said, “What is wrong with you, boy?”

CHAPTER THREE

Breathing
just to breathe, when you’re with me,

Swimming
in your smile, while I watch you read,

Laughing
for a while as we sip our tea,

You
know it ain’t my style just to let you sleep.

“Summer
Sleep” Music and Lyrics by Katy Stefanic and Preston Black

Waking
up in Alabama didn’t come as easy as waking up in Tennessee had. I always
preferred the noise of living in the city to wide open spaces. To my ears, the
cars going by sounded like waves at the beach. The only other thing I heard
last night was a train that took an hour to pass.

With Katy curled up next to me though,
I could sleep anywhere. And I loved waking her up. She ripped blankets away
from me, stole pillows in the middle of the night, kicked me, talked in her
sleep and got up to pee every forty minutes.

But she made the nightmares stop.

She gave me a reason to count
blessings when I closed my eyes.

And she gave off heat like a sleeping
housecat.

I pushed her hair off her shoulder and
leaned over her, watching the soft curve of her cheek catch the little bit of
sunlight that streamed through the heavy drapes. Her sleeping eyes were like
little quarter moons. I kissed her neck and ran my fingertips across the warm,
soft skin between her hip and her belly. I loved waking her up.

She rolled toward me and nuzzled her
head into the nook beneath my chin. I listened for her breathing to change, or
some other sign that she might be awake. When I didn’t hear anything I fell onto
my back and figured I had no choice but to go back to sleep myself. But her
hand, which had moved slowly from my thigh, to my waist, to my pajama bottoms’
drawstring stirred, at least. She said, “You’re mean, you know that?”

“I know,” I said, as I kissed her neck
and shoulder, just above the spot where she’d been shot last summer.

She kicked blankets away as I rolled
onto her and slid a vintage Dead Letter Office T-shirt up over her belly and
breasts, over her uplifted arms. The way she looked at me like I could never
let her down or hurt her scared me to no end. Every single time. That look
stripped me of my confidence, broke through the shell I wore to protect myself
from the stones and arrows. Almost like I had to be a little self-conscious,
like I had to remember my sad past, my quiet self, before she could kiss my
lips.

She slid my bottoms over my thighs,
past my knees and over my ankles while she kissed my collarbone and neck. The
way her warm, soft skin felt against mine reminded me that the bright sunlight
on the other side of the window could be taken as a sign things didn’t have to
always get worse before they got better. The way the soft skin on the inside of
her thigh felt against my hips reminded me that I’d never have to be cold
again.

In that moment everything changed,
just like it always did, every single time. When we came together, I returned
to a home I never knew, to a family I didn’t grow up with. She turned her head
and smiled, an invitation to kiss the soft skin behind her ear where tiny
little hairs tickled my cheek. For one fleeting moment I caught a glimpse of
who I’d been before we’d met and it reminded me that I am the man I am today
because I don’t ever want her eyes to see me as the broken person I used to be.
I died and came back from the dead for her. Her touch, the way she whispered my
name and laughed at my jokes, the way she held my hand and finished my
sentences. The way she arched her back like she couldn’t get close enough to
me. The way she pulled me into her…

Her touch reminded me that the next
time I died, would be forever.

I loved waking her up.

I
finally figured out something was wrong at breakfast. Katy couldn’t enjoy her
pancakes, even with the butter pecan syrup, making me feel guilty for enjoying
mine as much as I did. The way the butter coated my tongue as I rolled it
against the roof of my mouth and the feeling of warmth and fullness they gave
me, and how she—for the first time ever—didn’t feel the same, worried me a
little.

I’d finished reading all the little
hand-painted signs that said stuff like, “
Do unto others, and
share a slice of pie!
”
and “
Fresh
Joe all day long!
”
Above the shelves of water glasses and coffee cups the walls had faded where
the early morning sunlight hit day after day.

This morning she wore blue jeans and a
little blue button-down shirt covered with tiny white birds beneath a fake
leather jacket. I loved that she was beautiful, no matter what she wore, and
that she used to smile whenever I looked at her. I’d spent the rest of the morning
trying to get her to smile again.

After I’d finished eating she finally
broke her silence with a sigh. She said, “I didn’t go to school with anybody
who interested me even a little bit. I had friends who never read books and
never wanted to talk about anything meaningful. Except I couldn’t ever grumble
because I still wanted them all to like me. Always too smart for my own good.”
She took her little silver barrette out of her hair, set it on the counter, and
said, “Do you know what that’s like? Being smart enough to know something is
wrong with you socially and not having the courage to fix it?”

Before I could come up with the answer
she’d hoped to hear, she asked, “How did they know, Pres?” and I didn’t have to
wonder anymore. “Their posters were pretty specific, right? I never did a thing
to any of them and they hate me.”

I said, “I don’t know,” to buy a
little time to think. When the guy at the counter next to me tore into his
biscuits and cheesy grits my belly rumbled with hunger. “It’s the song. It’s a
stupid thing to base a career on. And all the cops before the show didn’t help,
did they?”

I watched the pie spin in the carousel
as I talked. Banana creams and key limes, topped with meringues and maraschino
cherries. They looked so perfect in that glass case I figured they could only
be plastic. But we were being cautious with our per diem so I tried to forget
about dessert. I said, “I don’t like cops on horseback anyway. It’s like the
horse is judging you too.”

“No, Preston. It’s not your song or
the cops. The term ‘witch’ is pretty specific.” She ripped open two more
packets of sugar and shook them into her coffee. “Those memories are like
knives. Pap said Curtis Lewis spent so much of his time on the witness stand
blabbing about magic and witches that the judge almost bought the insanity plea
his lawyer had pushed for.”

“Well, the signs were nonspecific even
though it may have seemed like they were directed at you. Like ‘heathen’ or
‘heretic.’ Just nonspecific terms they use to describe anybody who doesn’t
believe exactly what they do. John Lennon got death threats down here when he
said The Beatles were bigger than God even though he spoke metaphorically, more
or less.” I gave her knee a squeeze. “It’s the devil stuff, I’m telling you.
Tipper Gore and the PMRC. This is ground zero for all that shit. Playing
records backward and blaming Ozzy for your kid killing himself and doing
drugs.”

The old cook flipped sausage patties
and hummed gospel tunes. His white shirt and apron and pants looked like they’d
never seen a spot of grease.

“It’s going to pass. Look at last
night. Some of those people are going to talk about last night forever. And
that’s how we grow an audience. I know because I did it once back in
Morgantown.” I connected the dots in the flecks of mica in the countertop while
I talked. “A small audience, but we did it the way we’re doing it now. It’s a
skill and we can apply it where and whenever we like. Last night felt totally
magical. You can’t plan for stuff like that.”

“Well, Morgantown’s one of the few
places I know where high BAC is more respectable than a high GPA. So from now
on, don’t start any more stories by telling me what the kids in Morgantown do.”

I put my arm over her shoulder and
pulled her over to me and kissed her on the forehead. “Okay, then. Pearl Jam at
Penn State in 2003. Eddie decided that night they’d play the longest show they
ever played. In the third encore Eddie said he was drinking the best bottle of
wine he’d had all year and wasn’t leaving until he’d polished it off. Magic.
The people had no way of knowing that when they bought their tickets. And think
of all the people who could’ve gotten tickets, or had tickets and didn’t go.
They talk.”

She nodded.

“And look at Stevie Nicks. Being a
witch hasn’t hurt her.”

She rolled her eyes.

“C’mon. We got this,
chicita
. The hardest
part was finding each other.” I grabbed her hand. “We need to have fun today.”

“One last thing though,” she took a
deep breath. “That was supposed to be a secret—my secret. And nobody outside of
my family was ever supposed to know.”

“Well, you can keep a secret for so
long. Then you’re the only one who remembers it. Then you find out it’s not a
secret at all. It’s something totally new. Like a resentment or regret.” I
stood and put my jacket on. “Look at it like this—what’s crazier—what your
family believes? Or what those people think your family believes? Nobody’s
taking these fanatics seriously. And you have your roots. Believe it or not,
your family, and what they believe, means something.”

“Roots are important, but they don’t
let you move on. Seeds are just as important, but nobody ever talks about
seeds.” She looped a thin blue scarf around her neck and gently knotted it.

“So, me and you are seeds?” I pulled
her chair out for her.

“Kind of. You’re a nut.” Her smile
told me everything was good for the moment.

We paid up and got back into our
rental car and drove. The bright sun forced us to find our sunglasses at the
bottom of our bags. And the warm air let us roll the windows down a bit.
Redbuds bloomed everywhere and the smell reminded me of home. The scent of
green grass instead of brown, of flowers blooming somewhere, made the air smell
sweet in a way I couldn’t fully grasp. I’d had a destination in mind when I
started driving. A surprise for Katy. The sweetness in the air was a bonus.

And even though I thought I knew the
way I still had to ask at a gas station after a few minutes of going in
circles. As soon as I got myself oriented I ran back to the car, turned it
around and went back the way we came. I scrolled through my iPod to look for a
specific album, because this moment needed a soundtrack. “East Avalon,” I said
at the turn I’d missed.

“This is what you wanted to show me?”
She didn’t try to hide her lack of excitement.

I set the iPod on the dashboard and
slowed down because I didn’t know what side of the road to look on. As soon as
I saw it I drifted onto the shoulder. “FAME Studios.”

Katy didn’t say anything. I knew she
wouldn’t be as excited as me, but I didn’t expect her to be downright disappointed.

“This is where Duane Allman camped in
the parking lot and taught Wilson Pickett ‘Hey Jude’ to break into the
business. Music history. He knew the world needed him like he needed the
world.” Nothing I said would change her mind so I toned down my excitement.
“I’m sorry. I really thought you’d be into this.”

She shrugged.

“I guess you don’t want to go to
Muscle Shoals Sound and see where The Stones recorded ‘Wild Horses’ and ‘Brown
Sugar?’” I imagined us taking pictures and listening to music while we hung
out, soaking up the magic before we hit the studio ourselves.

“It’s my day off, Pres.” She put her
hand on my knee and looked me right in the eye. “No music. No songs. I don’t
want to have to think about anything. Not today.”

“What do you want to do then?”

“Honestly, make a decision. Even a
mall or something. I don’t want to have to think about anything at all. I’ll
take over again tomorrow.” She handed her coffee to me and said, “Drink the
rest.”

Gulping it down gave me an excuse to
keep my mouth shut. I’d let her have this after all that had happened, but I
couldn’t help wondering if she’d feel this same way when we saw Abbey Road for
the first time. I scrolled down to an Allman Brothers bootleg.
The
Warehouse, New Orleans, Louisiana, March 20, 1971.
I hit the gas
and said, “Skydog’s guitar sounds just like a banshee tangled in barbed wire
screaming to be set free.”

The studio faded in my rearview
mirror.

I drove without consulting her.
Choosing random roads that spiraled out and away from the city, quietly trying
to find Jackson Highway so I could see Muscle Shoals Sound even though I knew I
couldn’t do so without her catching on to my plan. When I got to the main drag
I picked a direction and went, and once we weren’t stopping at stoplights every
thirty yards the world looked a lot different. The Alabama countryside put on
her first shades of green. Pink and white blooms on the trees were a far cry
from the grey we left in the northeast a week ago. Roadkill meant the critters
were starting to stumble out of their holes. They didn’t care that Punxsutawney
Phil said we had six more weeks of winter left.