Twang (36 page)

Tonilynn pressed her hand to her mouth. From behind it came a piercing wail like someone had stabbed her. I stopped breathing, felt like I was spinning away in weightless space. I ran out the back door and down the steps, not caring about the sloppy mud sucking at my feet or the bushes slapping my arms.

Sinking onto the floor inside the ancient barn, rainwater ran off my face, trickled down my body. I patted myself stem to stern. My heart was still going, air still moving in and out of my lungs, blood coursing through veins, flesh and bone connected.

But my soul was crushed. I could not stir a single hopeful thought. Everything I’d had, thought I’d had, was changed. I tried to picture my Cumberland, but all I could see were the muddy, raging torrents from the television screen. Massive, sweeping devastation.

It wasn’t cold, but it was damp and I wrapped my arms around my knees and let the tears flow down my face and neck. I cried so hard and long it just sucked the starch right out of me. I fell over and lay like a dry husk, barely breathing.

After a spell, lying there in my weakened state, snippets of Tonilynn’s sermons began.
Jennifer, where do you run in times of trouble? In your hour of need, who or what is your refuge? Jesus Christ is the fountain of living waters
, and
I’m telling you, for us believers, Jesus is the hope that anchors our souls. What’s amazing
is we can cling to him through whatever trials we’re facing. As long as there’s a God like him, no situation’s hopeless. He understands our hurts, and he’ll bring us through them, make us stronger. Before I was born again, I used to
—

I made a fist and beat the floor. Lifting my face to the rafters, I shouted “You think you’re so great, and look, you can’t even keep one measly river between its banks! Some Holy Force you are! And while we’re at it, you let my father steal my innocence! He trampled my tender little heart, so shame on you! Now you’ve ruined my whole entire life, and I hope you’re happy!”

I collapsed again and lay there in the damp—for hours it seemed, until I heard someone approaching. I opened my eyes to see Bobby Lee inside the barn. “You okay, Jennifer?” he asked, squinting. He was wearing Aunt Gomer’s straw gardening hat. At first I thought he’d done it to make me laugh, but then I heard the grief in his voice, and I knew how hard all this was for him.

I sat up. “I’m okay.”

“Do you need anything?”

“No. How’d you know where I was?”

“Mama said she thought you’d be out here. She said to ask you to come back inside to dry off and get some food.”

I shook my head.

He peered into my swollen face with his beautiful eyes, and gently asked, “Want to talk?”

“No.” Though I’d thought it impossible for my body to produce any more tears, I began to cry.

“Hey, hey. What’s all this?” Bobby Lee reached for my hands.

“I . . . I never thought something like . . . like a flood could happen in Nashville! Feels like there are no safe places anymore.” A tear fell off my chin onto his forearm. He kissed it away and tingles ran up and down my spine. It was odd to feel grief mixed with such tender longing.

“I know. They’re calling it ‘the single largest disaster to hit Tennessee since the Civil War.’ This is one of those times I really miss my legs.”

“Oh.”

“Downtown’s so bad President Obama declared it a disaster area. Aid organizations are rushing in, and all these different local groups are stepping up too. Nashvillians are joining work crews all over Davidson County, using boats and jet skis to pluck stranded residents from their flooded homes. There’s still a bunch needs to be done—mucking out rooms, tearing down ruined drywall, cleaning up debris. What’s worrying me is a lot of folks are ignorant about electrical lines. They’ll go sloshing through murky water without a thought.”

While I was nursing my own hurts, this man was thinking about how he could help other people! I promised myself that when I got home I’d do something big for flood relief. It had to be better than focusing on myself. I was growing so tired of myself. Tired of listening to my own thoughts, of eating and drinking and walking through this world with just myself. “You’re an inspiration,” I told Bobby Lee.

“Talk about an inspiration.” He pulled my hands to his mouth, kissed each fingertip. “I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you.” I looked into Bobby Lee’s soulful eyes, eyes he got from his mother, and I felt the strength of his love like a soft blanket draped over me. My heart started galloping a mile a minute and I so wanted to wrap my arms around him. But something inside me wouldn’t let me. I was unable to find any words either.

Bobby Lee felt my fear because he pulled me up onto his lap, cradling me in those strong arms until the world faded away. It was the most natural thing in this world, and I had no reflex to pull away when he whispered, “It’s okay. You don’t
have to answer. But it breaks my heart to see you crying like this, and I’m gonna hold you long as you need me to.”

The minutes passed, and I had this thought about how I wouldn’t mind staying right there forever. Then, just when I was realizing the strange sensation of aching lips, Bobby Lee bent forward and kissed me so hard on them that every single thing inside of me melted.

Two days later Tonilynn drove me home to Brentwood; we watched the sun shining down on the slick roadsides of Williamson County the way you watch a dog that’s bitten you in the past. Luckily, Harmony Hill was untouched by the flood, but it felt emptier than ever, like there was something critical missing, the way it feels when you wake from a dream and only pieces of it are still floating in your mind.

A long day passed and at dusk I wandered outside like a stunned sleepwalker through the sticky heat. I thought about Bobby Lee as I strolled by the fountain, as I sat on the bench at the fishpond, and as I dragged myself back into the house close to midnight. In my mind’s eye he was a firm island, safety in the midst of choppy seas. I liked how he was so calm, so sure of who he was.

His whispered words of love were my soundtrack, my background music of hope for a future filled with fishing trips, long talks in the moonlight, nights of peace and security strung together over the years like pearls on a necklace. I craved those tingles that the gentle-firm feel of Bobby Lee’s lips on mine sent through me. I’d never felt anything like that before, had
once thought it was just a figure-of-speech when people said kisses sent electrical currents through them.

Didn’t Bobby Lee make me come alive? Yet I still hadn’t uttered words of love to him in return. I still wasn’t quite sure how to have the intimacy I was pining for—this thing that made my soul ache I wanted it so!

Sleep would not come, and I turned on the bedside lamp to play around with some song ideas, but nothing would flow the way it used to, needed to. No melodies, no lyrics begged for expression. It seemed my gift had totally dried up. But, I didn’t feel unhappy. I kept telling myself it was better this way, and that I would pour my whole self into learning how to be a regular person.

Right in the midst of this realization, a beautiful, evil hope charged through me: perhaps the CMA Festival wouldn’t happen! From news coverage I’d seen of Riverfront Park and LP Field, the two main venues for shows during the festival, there was no way in this world they would be operational in time for June tenth. The park was a wasteland and the stadium looked like a swimming pool.

If anything good could come out of this flood, would it not be the cancellation of the CMA Festival? If I could contemplate anything redeeming at all, it was to be released from my final commitment to perform! I could feel this vision of the new me burning its way into my soul, crowding out the wounded diva wearing her heart on her sleeve, and it seemed the flood was like this natural delineation, this liquid line cutting between what was and what would be.

The new Jennifer Clodfelter would not have to dredge up torment and sadness for songwriting. She would never bolt awake at night, alone and shaking at the arrival of a memory.

I’d missed a couple of Sundays at Panera, and two days later when Mike called to say, “How about Panera at ten?” I smiled and said that sounded downright heavenly because not only was I feeling withdrawal pangs from my cinnamon crunch bagels I was also ready to get out of that cavernous, too-quiet house.

The next thing I knew, we were in the Great Room, sunk down in chairs across from each other beneath the lofty ceiling, enshrouded with the familiar scent of coffee brewing and fresh bread baking. A little chitchat and half a cup of coffee later, Mike leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers across his belly, and said, “Guess what? The CMA is saying they’re going to donate
all
the proceeds from this year’s festival to charity. Half to music education in the Metro public schools, and the other half to help victims of the flood. I mean, we’re talking 100 percent here! This is even
more
of a lure, can’t fail in getting folks to come out to the festival and help our great city rebuild.”

I didn’t know what to say. One hand began twisting a strand of hair at the base of my neck around and around the index finger, and the other reached up to pull my faded ball cap down past my eyebrows.

“Something to celebrate, huh?” Mike raised his cup in a toast. “Kind of bittersweet, I got to admit, but hey, it’s incredible to see the CMA’s outpouring of love and generosity. I’m not surprised, though, because I believe country music stars, and country music fans, have got the biggest hearts in this world.” He looked directly into my eyes for a long moment, and when I still didn’t respond, he prompted, “Isn’t that great, Jenny? The way we’re leading the efforts to help rebuild our beautiful city? That we’re helping hurting folks recover from this disaster?”

My thoughts were spinning so fast, all I could manage was to nod my head up and down.

“The Cumberland sure did a number on us, huh?” Mike said finally, his sandy Keith Urban hair moving as he shook his head.

Still I didn’t utter a word. From a Brentwood homeowner’s perspective, the flood had hardly affected me. There’d been some power outage, but no real water damage in my upscale suburb. I’d been lucky because the news for Nashville and Middle Tennessee was heartbreaking.

“Well?” he said.

“I . . . I don’t know what to say.”

“How about ‘That’s great, Mike. I sure want to do my part to help.’ ”

“I do! But to tell you the truth, I don’t see how the festival’s going to happen.”

“Oh, it’s going to happen. Believe me, because now it’s even more vitally important to the Nashville business community.” Mike put his mug on the table with a thud. “The festival’s estimated to bring in almost thirty million dollars in revenue, money this city desperately needs. I know you know that the flood was a major hit to the economy of downtown, and officials are talking about ‘budget shortfalls’ with every breath. Say they’re looking to the festival to help. So you better believe they’re gonna make sure the cleanup is far enough along by June tenth.”

I tried to keep breathing as Mike continued. “Know what’s really hurting? The Opryland Hotel got hit so hard it’s gonna be closed indefinitely, and it brings in a fifth of Nashville’s hotel tax revenue. The other downtown hotels are already booked to near capacity for the festival, and they’re gonna have to pick up as many of those tourists as possible. Could be some bad traffic jams downtown.”

“Hm.”

“Hurt the Grand Ole Opry too. They’d booked Charley Pride for two shows during the festival, and now they’re going to have to move him. I’m thinking they’ll move him to the Ryman since it wasn’t affected by the floods, thank God.”

“That’s good,” I mumbled.

“Yeah, s’pose that’s something to be grateful for. Speaking of major hits, the Convention Center and Opry Mills Mall are hurt pretty bad. And our friends at Soundcheck are reeling like you wouldn’t believe!”

“Really?” My heart went out to the good folks I knew at Soundcheck, those who helped with my tour preproduction on such a grand scale.

“Yep. Hey, speaking of money, heard from our friend Scott Borchetta that Taylor Swift has made a significant donation to relief efforts, and she’s asking others to do the same. Now that’s a smart career move.”

I thought about Taylor Swift and her honest, uncynical face. Sure, it couldn’t hurt her image. But she really was a caring soul. I looked directly into Mike’s eyes for a long accusatory moment. “Smart career move?”

“Well, it’s sweet, too. Really sweet.”

I smiled a little. He was trying hard now.

“Hey, I’ve got the perfect idea for you, Jenny Cloud!” Mike’s eyes got huge. “What we need to do is have you rip another page out of your life and put it to music. A brand-new song expressly for the festival, something that really tugs the heartstrings the way you’re so good at. Dedicate it and
every cent
of the proceeds from it to flood relief! Isn’t that brilliant?”

Given the choice, I’d rather be shot. I sat there and listened to my heartbeat booming in my ears like background music that accompanied the familiar, anxious-ridden twist in my gut. What I really wanted was to jump up from my seat, push through the doors of Panera, and run and run and run. Couldn’t
Mike see how hard that would be? How much it would hurt? But I didn’t want him thinking I was selfish. I tried to think of some explanation that might satisfy him.