Twang (30 page)

“One day, it was September, and I was picking apples and belting out ‘Delta Dawn’ with Tanya Tucker. I was totally lost in the song, and I about jumped out of my skin when Mac tapped me on the shoulder. I started to apologize, but he said, ‘You’ve got one heck of a voice, Jennifer Clodfelter,’ and then he said the same thing Mr. Anglin used to say, that I had a
responsibility to use it, and had I ever thought of heading to Nashville, and trying that scene.”

“Did you tell him about Mr. Anglin?” Tonilynn had her palms pressed against her cheeks.

“No. I told him I had a notebook with seventy-two original songs, though, and a demo with ten really polished ones, and he said he’d miss me at McNair Orchards, but in the grand scheme of things, he couldn’t live with himself if this gift of mine wasn’t shared with the world, and he was ready to make me an offer on the spot and wouldn’t take any answer but a yes. The memory of those words coming from that hairy hole between Mac’s mustache and beard made me smile.

Tonilynn clapped her hands. “Did he give you money?”

“He gave me an early paycheck, and he matched it so it came to almost a thousand dollars. Then he said his cousin could give me a lift to Nashville.”

All of a sudden Tonilynn’s eyes filled up. “Oh,” she said, her voice breaking as one tear slid down her cheek. “That is an awesome story. I love how the Lord put this Mac fellow into your life, and when the time was right, or ripe, I should say,” she teehee’d softly. “Then he practically forced you to go to Nashville. That’s the Lord for you, proof about what he can do in his time, his sovereign plan, hm?”

I tried to wrap my mind around the ridiculous spin Tonilynn was putting on my life. After a minute, after failing, I slowly exhaled the words, “Haven’t you been listening? Haven’t you heard what I keep saying about all the pain? Sometimes I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

Tonilynn’s voice was full of compassion. “I know. The past eats at you like an ulcer. Like a little taste of hell. But I’m telling you, hon, the Lord can give you peace. He’ll give you the strength to forgive. He’ll change the way the past has shaped you.”

I slammed the door of the Pontiac behind me.

“Bye, hon!” Tonilynn trilled her fingers out the window. The last thing I saw was the double strands of barbed-wire tattooed around her wrist.

Monday came, and Tonilynn didn’t show up to get me ready for my afternoon photo shoot. That wasn’t like her at all. She was generally fifteen minutes early to everything. Then it dawned on me I hadn’t seen her or talked to her for close to three days, which was very odd. I began to feel like a boat with no anchor, wandering from room to room inside Harmony Hill, finally stationing myself at the window overlooking the drive. I dialed her cell phone and the house phone up on Cagle Mountain half a dozen times with no answer.

At two o’clock I headed for the garage, planning to drive to Cagle Mountain. I’d backed out and was at the gate when I saw Tonilynn’s bicolored Pontiac. I felt a huge surge of relief as I let her through, backed into the grass to turn myself around and followed her to the house.

Tonilynn looked like death warmed over, smeared lipstick, her hair so flat and lifeless it put me in mind of a damp mop sitting on top of her head. Her eyes literally disappeared without their black liner and contouring shadows. She didn’t have her usual wheeled suitcase spilling over with beauty products and tools. I stood there, debating if I should say “Hi!” like nothing was out of the ordinary, or ask how she was doing. “Hi, Tonilynn,” I said finally, in the most level tone I could manage. “Sure is good to see you.”

“Hi, hon.” Her voice was weary. “Can we sit down somewhere?”

My heart was beating like mad as I led the way to the kitchen where we sat at the table, looking at each other for a long, oddly silent moment.

“Aunt Gomer had a stroke,” Tonilynn said finally.

“What?!” My skin tightened. “Is she okay?”

Tonilynn shook her head.

“Oh, no!” My eyes flooded with tears. “She’s gone?”

“No. She’s still kicking. Believe you me.”

I breathed out a sigh of relief. “What happened?”

“Well, it was Friday, not long after I got back home and we were sitting on the porch. I went in to get a drink, and I asked Aunt Gomer did she want me to bring her more tea, and she didn’t answer. Then I saw she’d fallen over and her eyes looked weird and her mouth was hanging open and she couldn’t speak.

“I yelled for Bobby Lee to call 9-1-1, and they sent an ambulance to carry her to the hospital and me and Bobby Lee followed. The doctor said she’d had a stroke. They admitted her to see how bad it was and could they do anything.”

I could barely swallow. “Is she still there?”

Tonilynn shook her head with a weary sigh. “It was a minor stroke. They sent her home, told her to take it easy, and she does not like that one bit. I haven’t had a wink of sleep in days.” She rubbed her temples.

“I’m sorry.” I reached over and patted Tonilynn’s wrist.

“You should have seen us at the hospital. Aunt Gomer hollering, ‘Tell it to me straight, Tonilynn! Am I in an old folks’ home?’ and ‘Jesus, come fetch me and carry me on to Glory right now, ’cause ain’t nothing worse than being in an old folks’ home!’

“I kept saying, ‘Calm down, Aunt Gomer, you’re in the hospital.’ Well, she kept trying to climb out of her bed, telling
me she had to tend to her garden. It took two nurses, big women, to get her back into bed.

“Yesterday the doctor said she could leave, so we carried her home and put her in the front room on that recliner to where she could see out the window, and we could keep an eye on her. She’s been going on and on about needing to get to the grocery so she can buy some corn meal to make muffins. We had a fight because I told her she couldn’t drive anymore. I told her she needed a little R&R after a stroke, and she ought to let me and Bobby Lee serve
her
for a change. She is fit to be tied!”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. She’s wearing me out. And it breaks my heart when she gets confused. She’ll put her shoes on the opposite feet, and she keeps saying she needs to go out back and feed Ebenezer.”

“Ebenezer?”

“Her donkey that died thirty years ago.”

That next Sunday when Mike called for a “quick little meeting” to discuss details regarding the 2010 CMA Festival, I felt like a two-by-four had smacked me upside the head. The festival was six weeks away, and all I wanted was to put it completely out of my mind—from my fan club party on Thursday, to my performances at Riverfront Park and LP Field on Saturday. I swore under my breath at him for his excited tone.

It was late, a little after seven p.m., and I was still in my playclothes: shapeless khaki shorts, a ratty old blouse, and flip-flops worn so thin they were like paper beneath my soles. I’d already had my Sunday morning ritual at Panera Bread, but Mike wanted me to meet him there at eight.

I went upstairs, washed my face, brushed my hair, and changed only my footwear, sliding my feet into an ancient pair of Nikes. I applied face powder to my shiny nose and a smidgen of Vaseline to my lips.

The sky I could see out the windshield seemed darker than usual, and I wondered if maybe a storm was moving in. It was beautifully quiet inside the Lexus. I needed to think and was very thankful for radio dials you could turn on and off at your
pleasure. I wished I could turn Tonilynn’s voice in my head off. It was like a scratched record album, stuck on one song.

Even more than usual, she’d been picking and prodding at the foundational bricks of my shaky adult self.

In fact, she’d called Saturday morning, as I was on my way to the river, with something she referred to as “A distinct word from the Lord I got for you, Jennifer.” I could hear her lilting voice saying, “Listen up, here’s what he said: ‘Be brave, my child. You’ve repressed those memories because you’re afraid. But you don’t have to be afraid. Put your hand in my Son Jesus’ hand, and we’ll bring them to the light together. It will be cathartic.’ ” Tonilynn paused, and I could hear pages rustling. “I had to look up that word
cathartic
in the dictionary and here’s what Webster’s says, ‘A purifying release of the emotions or of tension, especially through art’ and also, ‘A technique used to relieve tension and anxiety by bringing repressed material to consciousness.’ See? You gotta look stuff in the eye to be healed.”

When I didn’t respond, she continued. “I ask you, Jennifer, how could Freud, and Webster, and
the Lord
be wrong? Please ask Jesus to help you dig everything up. Then, commit it to him, and he’ll help you write it into one of your brilliant songs to help other folks. Be healing for you and for them! I’ve known since I heard you the very first time that you have a message and a mission with your music!”

She paused, and when I didn’t respond, she plowed on.

“You can let him pour out his love on hurting, vulnerable folks through your music. Isn’t that awesome, hon?”

Still, not a word would come out of my mouth.

“Jennifer, I promise you, it’s your calling. You already transform folks with your music. I see ’em with tears in their eyes when they listen to you.”

I held the phone away from my ear, wondering if anybody could ever be so totally unselfish as it seemed Tonilynn thought I could be. There were two very important components missing from her fantasy. Number one, my willingness to go back and sacrifice myself. I’d made it too much of my mission to stay one step ahead of my past to ever consider it as some way to minister. Second, I still saw Tonilynn as kind of out of her mind. Not totally connecting with reality. For a moment I latched onto that phrase the sound technician had used: “One of those wack-job born-agains who acts like Jesus is her best friend.” But I cast it out quickly because no matter how put out I was with Tonilynn, I loved my friend.

A bit later, while sitting on the bridge watching the Cumberland, I found myself intrigued in an odd kind of way by this fictitious Jenny Cloud that Tonilynn had come up with. I smiled, picturing myself sort of like Mother Teresa, humble and resigned, pouring my life out for the good of many. But right on the heels of that image came the terrible knowledge that before this could happen, I’d have to allow a certain time in my past to surface.

Sweat beads popped out on my forehead as I toyed with the thought of
that
memory coming to life. I forced my thoughts to return to the beautiful, peaceful Cumberland. Maybe I couldn’t change my past, but I sure could choose to keep certain stuff stamped down and speechless. I’d never give it, nor Tonilynn, the satisfaction!

I took a deep breath and tried to focus less on Tonilynn and more on what Mike might have in mind. It felt odd to be visiting Panera in the evening. I walked along the shopping center’s sidewalk beneath street lights blinking to life in the cloudy dusk, marveling at what a change it was from my usual. The Great Room felt strange too. Loud and bright, with smells of onions and hot cheeses mixed in with the coffee aromas.
There was a different crowd as well, which discombobulated me even more. I was standing there, staring at the menu board, when my thoughts were interrupted by my cell phone.

“Hi, Jenny girl!” Mike said. “Wanted to let you know I’m gonna be running a few minutes late. I’m talking with the management team, then going to run by and see Scott briefly. How ’bout ordering me a ham and swiss—extra pickles. Large ice tea. Be there shortly, and hey, I think I’ll be bringing you some real exciting news. That sound good?”

“Sure,” I said. I ordered Mike’s food and a regular coffee and carried it to the dining room. It was fairly crowded; a single businessman who took up a whole booth with his laptop and newspaper, an older couple sitting across from each other but working separate crossword puzzles, a young couple in running attire sipping smoothies and leaning toward each other intimately. I sat nursing my coffee, thinking how this had once been my safe retreat, and now I had to work to feel relaxed in here, to keep my thoughts and eyes away from the various stacks of tabloids. Not only did it hurt to see the carefree faces of Taylor and Carrie, but the incident with Holt had given me a lasting horror of those things.

Outside the window, I could see storm clouds gathering, and I wondered what would happen if it stormed during the CMA Festival since a good portion of it was held outdoors. There were shows for free during the day at Riverfront Park, but you had to buy a four-day ticket to get a seat in LP Field for the nightly shows where the big stars performed in front of seventy thousand fans. A lot of artists celebrated with their fans who purchased tickets to fan club parties, which often included a private performance, a meet and greet, and food. Mike took great delight in planning the menu for my fan club parties. Last year, it had been shrimp and grits, along with cheddar biscuits, fried Moon Pies, and icy RC colas in bottles.

I thought about how I used to urge the days to pass more quickly so I could climb into that four-day weekend, with music playing downtown from early in the morning until after midnight. Now I was dreading the festival with every fiber of my being. Getting up on stage at LP Field to sing “Honky-Tonk Tomcat” and “Daddy, Don’t Come Home” was unthinkable.