Twang (10 page)

That meant Roy was at his post. Despite the butterflies still fluttering in my stomach, I hurriedly put on my blue jeans and a blouse, pulled my hair back into a messy ponytail and went downstairs in my bare feet. When I got to the front desk, I was glad to see Roy hadn’t ordered supper yet. His collection of menus was spread out on the counter, and he looked up from them and smiled big. He was wearing his tan seersucker suit, which didn’t bring out his eyes quite the way the blue one did, but he also wore a Panama hat atop his white swoop of hair, which made him seem somewhat like an old-time movie star. “Well, well,” he said, pulling my usual chair from the wall to face his stool, then bowing ever so slightly, “if it isn’t our own resident star. How you doin’ this lovely evening, Miss Jennifer? You hungry?”

“I’m starved,” I said, surprised to hear my own, normal voice.

“How you feel about Eye-talian tonight,” he said in such a twangy voice I had to smile.

“Good.”

“Alrighty. I don’t believe we’ve had supper from Sole Mio yet, have we?”

“No.”

“Sole Mio has handmade pasta and handmade sauces to
die
for. It’s where the locals go to find the finest Italian cuisine in Nashville. I believe I’ll order us two entrees of . . .” he squinted down at the menu in his hands, “Scaloppine di Vitello! That sound all right?”

“That sounds great,” I said, sinking down into my chair. “Thank you, Roy.”

“My pleasure. Now, I keep forgetting you’re old enough to drink, and Sole Mio’s got both Italian and Californian wines that complement their entrees like you wouldn’t believe. What’s your pleasure?” He raised his eyebrows.

I cleared my throat and said, “No thanks. I don’t drink,” bracing myself for the inevitable piercing question. But Roy just nodded, said with perfect sincerity, “Fine, because I do believe, now that I think about it, I’m more in the mood for some good old Southern sweet tea with lemon.”

His florid face looked so happy as he ordered our food I had to laugh, and as I did I noticed this certain lightening inside of me, a little bitty internal sunrise in the dark recesses of my troubled soul.

“Time to eat!” Roy said a good fifteen minutes later, leaning back to make room for Sole Mio’s deliveryman to place a tray on the counter—a Styrofoam basket of hot bread and butter in a small tub, two salads, also in Styrofoam, and two steaming platters of Scaloppine. When the lids were lifted, the scent of warm cheese mingled with rosemary, basil, garlic, and oregano.

“I hear ‘Honky-Tonk Tomcat’ is breaking all kinds of records,” Roy said in a bit, busy with knife and fork.

“Yeah. That’s what Mike says.”

He paused and looked up at me with a huge smile stretched across his face. I wondered what he’d say if he knew that not only did I not have a best friend named Lisa but also that
the story, besides the woman dying and the man repenting, was from my life. I wondered if Roy would understand that sometimes a person cannot tell the truth, even to her actual best friend, which he was now.

Roy blew on his scaloppine, then took a bite, closing his eyes in rapture. Eventually he paused from eating. “Well,” he said, “I thought it was brilliant how you used religion to tug on folks’ heartstrings. All that ‘she prays, she’s a believer in miracles and grace’ stuff. That’s what appeals to all those nuts out there who think God cares about them. Like I always say, ain’t no more perfect place for that kind of stuff than in a country song.”

I shrugged because I didn’t know what to say.

“I mean it!” Roy waved his fork. “Whenever I’m listening to your new hit song, which incidentally comes on WSIX every other song, to those lines about praying, about believing in miracles and grace, I got to smile. It sounds so heartfelt, and ’course,
I
know you don’t believe all that, but you ain’t gotta believe it to use it, and you did a fine job, Jennifer. You sure know how to write ’em and sing ’em.”

“Thanks.” I tried to look happy, but I felt a little deflated.

After we finished our meal and Roy had cleaned everything up, he pulled open the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet. “You like coconut Neapolitans?” He looked hopefully over at me, holding up a Brach’s bag bulging with pink, white, and brown striped candies.

“They’re my favorite sweet,” I said, thankful that this was the honest truth.

“Mine too! Guess that makes us birds of a feather. ’Cept, well, I’m also partial to Maple Nut Goodies and Orange Slices and Paydays and Moon Pies, the banana ones that is, and pecan pie, and Stuckey’s Pecan Logs, and fresh-out-of-the-fat
Krispy Kreme donuts, and can’t forget our own city’s specialty, Goo-Goo Clusters, and . . .” his voice trailed off and his face looked wistful.

“What’s the matter?” I touched his hand. “Roy, you all right?”

He frowned. “Well, last month I was having some chest pains, and . . . ” I looked closely at him, hoping he wouldn’t say what I knew he was going to. At last, he shook his head sadly. “Doctor Firth told me if I don’t quit eating the way I do, I won’t see my sixty-fourth birthday.”

I felt my heart sink. “That’s terrible. I hate that,” I said, and I honestly did. If anybody loved their food, it was Roy Durden.

“But . . . ” he said in a contemplative voice, “I don’t want to live if it’s going to be on oatmeal and steamed broccoli! What kind of existence would that be? I believe I’d be happy if I went out of here holding a piece of fried chicken in one hand and an eclair in the other.”

I looked down into my tea.

“Uh-uh!” Roy said sternly as he noisily unwrapped a Neapolitan. “No long faces! None of us is gonna make it out of here alive! Better to have something to live for than worryin’ about dyin’.”

“Yeah, I know,” I said, nodding as I felt the cloud above me scuttling away. I knew I’d die for my music the way Roy Durden would die for his food. He was right—we were all going to wind up dead sooner or later. So, no more feeling guilty about lying.

After Roy and I polished off the bag of Neapolitans, he cleared his throat and said, “Now, there’s something else I need to say.”

“Okay.” I wondered what else was fixing to come out of his mouth.

“I’m all for you getting to be a country music superstar and getting rich. Believe me, Jennifer. Because I believe it’s in the
cards for you, and I don’t think you’d be happy going down any other pathway. But I’m worried sick you’re gonna get so famous you won’t remember us little guys anymore. You’re gonna leave the Best Western and get one of those big fancy mansions in Brentwood, and start hanging out with the stars and the important people.”

I looked at Roy’s worried pink face, shook my head, and said, “I won’t! I could never forget you in a million years.”

“Well . . . okay,” he said. “Reckon I ain’t got no choice but to believe you.” He laughed to let me know he was kidding. “In between making albums, collecting Grammies, and signing autographs, Jennifer, I’d be honored if you’d stop by and see your old friend Roy and share a meal every now and then. Like old times.”

“I will,” I said, rising to go. “I promise. Thank you for the scaloppine and the Neapolitans. It was the best meal I’ve had in my whole entire life.”

As I rode the elevator back upstairs, I noticed that the butterflies in my stomach were gone. The value of a quiet conscience, even temporarily, cannot be underestimated.

One month later, Mike Flint called to say that “Honky-Tonk Tomcat” was on its way to being the fastest-breaking single ever. It was the talk of country music circles, still number one on Billboard Country at week nine, remaining there since its debut following a record five-and-a-half weeks, dancing close to a crossover hit. I even had the promise of an album.

I don’t know how to describe those early days, except to say that I was unaware of anything but my own delirious happiness. If I ever felt that old, familiar twist in the gut, one of those sharp thoughts that ambush a person, racing up their spine and culminating in a cold sweat, I just took a
deep breath and reminded myself that I was moving on, living in the moment, living free like Roy Durden, and soon it was forgotten. With my past buried and my conscience silenced, life seemed magical, my future stretching out indescribably beautiful before me. I was certain luck would continue to shine on me.

Every day I walked to the Cumberland to spend a meditative, worshipful time as I gazed at the water, feeling one with her broad fearless currents. My favorite place to enjoy my shrine had become the Shelby Street pedestrian bridge, which stretched across the river near the train depot. You could enter by elevator, stairs, or walk up the ramp, and it was a quiet place. It had scattered foot-traffic, bicyclists, pigeons, and the occasional speedboat down on the water. I preferred perching on a bench looking out over the downstream side, where I had a birdseye view of the city skyline on one side and the stadium on the other. Occasionally I strolled over to LP Field where I would walk on the grassy patches, occasionally slipping off my shoes and walking down a cement boat ramp, wading out ankle-deep into the water.

I loved my home at the Best Western, taking long, hot baths while writing lyrics and composing melodies in my head, enjoying frequent suppers with Roy. I loved to set out on foot to downtown Nashville, buying food and drink at the various cafés, enjoying the local color and the street musicians.

But there was one particularly sweltering day in June when I had so much on my mind that I kept bumping into lampposts and fire hydrants. The day before, Mike told me he’d found the perfect place for me to live. Just as Roy’d predicted, it was in Brentwood—a gigantic home on five acres, way down some paved driveway with a gate that locked.

“I don’t have the money to buy a house!” I’d said. I didn’t want to leave Roy.

Mike didn’t hesitate. “You will, Jenny. I have no doubt you’re gonna make it big, real big, which means
we’re
gonna make it big. So, I’ll front you the money. Realtor’s ready any second for me to make an offer.”

It sounded like a fantasy, just one more unbelievable piece of good luck in an unceasing string. Still, I wasn’t sure why a person living alone needed all that space, or a yard so big, and I mentioned this to Mike, but in his usual manner, he ignored my questions and steamrolled right along with his plan. “It’s fifteen minutes from downtown Nashville,” he’d said. “Convenient.”

“You haven’t even told me how much it costs.”

“Place is listed at eight hundred seventy-nine, and we’re going to offer eight forty-nine to see if he goes for it. I’m betting he’ll say yes. But we need to jump on it if it’s going to happen, Jenny girl. I can’t say who, but there are some other stars considering it, and I promised Arnie I’d get back to him right away, let him know if you were interested.” Mike’s words came in such a flurry, were so full of assurance, that I just sat staring straight ahead, trying to wrap my mind around that enormous sum of money.

“Think about your neighbors,” Mike added with a satisfied chuckle. “Trisha Yearwood, Kenny Chesney, Tim McGraw and Faith Hill, Dolly Parton, Little Jimmy Dickens, Alan Jackson, and Trace Adkins live in Brentwood, to name just a few.”

I actually laughed aloud, imagining myself opening the door to receive a warm plate of brownies from Dolly, and her saying, “Howdy, neighbor!” in that famous voice.

On my last night at the Best Western, Roy threw me a party. We were gathered around the counter, dining on chicken wings, celery sticks with bleu cheese dip, and Ritz crackers
with pimiento cheese slathered on top. The Ritz crackers were on a plastic tray, arranged in the shape of a smile, with CONGRATULATIONS! napkins fanned out beside it.

Roy didn’t look very perky. He had bags beneath his eyes, a five-o’clock stubble on his chin, and his face was pinker than ever. There was a buffalo sauce stain in the shape of the state of Georgia on the lapel of his seersucker suit. After we finished eating, he cleared his throat until I looked his way, then he blotted his glistening forehead with a napkin, leaned over to the file drawer he kept his assortment of sugary treats in, and with a melodramatic widening of his blue eyes, lifted a clumsily wrapped gift. “For you,” he said in this trembly voice.