Paradise

by Jill S. Alexander

  I forgot all about Mother and steadied myself for a party in the pasture.

  7

  PASTURE PARTY BREAKDOWN

  The burning end of cigarettes pulsed like the orange flash of fireflies among the cars lined along the fence row. In the low part of the pasture, jacked-up mud trucks circled a raging bonfire—flames firing at least twenty feet into the black night. And one tip end of Moon Lake glowed in the distance. Kids from all over the tri-county area showed up. From the blessed to the broke. Paradise stopped at the cattle guard and handed one of Levi’s brothers ten bucks. Between the band and the kegs, the Tucker boys turned a profit.

  Paradise followed the dirt road up the hill and around the barn, parking on the back side. I opened the door to the Bronco. The minute I put one boot down on Tucker soil, lightning struck, splitting the night sky in two with its jagged white bolt.

  Paradise jumped. His hat slipped off, and the wind sent it bouncing like tumbleweed between the parked cars and trucks. I chased it down and handed the dusty Stetson back to him.

  I loved the crash of lightning, the cannonball rolling of thunder—even the brushing of a soft rain or a crackling hailstorm. I stood, lost in the rumble, gazing at the white Texas moon slowly disappearing behind the churning gray-black storm clouds.

  “God’s a drummer.” I smiled at Paradise.

  He ran his fingers through his black hair and pushed his hat firmly down on his head. “Maybe so.” He swung his murse over his shoulder. “But the angels play accordion.”

  I had to laugh but I didn’t want him to see it. He’d certainly be hard to handle if he thought he could get to me. I shook my head and looked down at my boots, the ground, anywhere but his face. But he caught my grin anyway and took my face in his hand. The tips of his fingers rested on my cheek. “You should laugh more, Paisley.” He slowly stroked his thumb along my bottom lip. “This crooked little smile of yours is…”

  I grabbed his wrist and felt his braided leather bracelet and the racing of his pulse. “Keep your hands on your accordion.” As the spring storm blew in around us, I stood in the prickling rain certain of nothing but the need to draw a line in the sand where he was concerned. Like Colonel William B. Travis at the Alamo. Make a clear boundary that Paradise was not to cross. I let loose of his wrist and started toward the front of the barn. “We’ve got a show to put on.”

  Whatever just happened confused me. The more I thought about it, the faster I walked. But he managed to keep the same pace, ambling beside me with his long-legged stride. He wasn’t going anywhere. I tried to train my thoughts on our performance and Texapalooza. One step at a time; keep my eyes on the prize. But Paradise wasn’t going anywhere. And Colonel Travis lost.

  Guys and girls huddled in groups all across the pasture, most in the shadows of the bonfire. We slipped between two trucks. The doors were open; the tailgates were down. A large galvanized bucket sat on one truck’s tailgate with a tower of Dixie cups next to it.

  One of Lacey’s classmates stood by the truck. “Hey, Tillery!” The older boys always called me by my last name. He dipped a cup in the bucket and handed it to me as I walked by. “Take this to your sister.”

  I kept walking until I was out of his sight and nearly to the front of the barn. I had no clue where Lacey was, and even if I did, I wouldn’t be loading her up with bucket booze.

  Paradise started laughing. “Purple Jesus,” he said. “That stuff’ll make you think you can walk on water.”

  I sniffed it. “Smells like grape Kool-Aid.”

  “Plus a whole lot more. It’s trash-can punch, Paisley. A bunch of different alcohols mixed together with grape Kool-Aid. And if you’re not going to drink it, I will.”

  Thunder rolled over the pasture like a crashing boulder. I turned the cup upside down and poured it out.

  “Nice,” Paradise said. He stomped toward the barn.

  I followed behind him. “Not everyone comes out here to get drunk.”

  He threw his head back and laughed.

  “Wait a minute.” I grabbed his arm. His skin was moist from the wet night air. “That’s not why we’re here.”

  The rain began to come down harder.

  The kids in the pasture made a sudden push for the barn. The roof’s overhang created two long porches on each side, wide and deep enough to park a travel trailer. Plenty of room for everyone to take shelter. I wanted to hurry and get there too. Not so much to get out of the rain, but more to get under the metal roof and let the rain drum over me. I was ready to play. I’d been thinking about it all day long, craving the way the pulse rolls out of me and bounces off the drums. I played because that rhythm, that sound, had to get out. A pounding ache pummeled inside me. Everything made more sense to me from behind the drums.

  “PAISLEY!”

  Waylon and Levi stood just under the porch. Levi had his overalls tucked in his rubber boots like he was hoping for a chance to get in the mud. Right above Levi’s head, a pistol-shaped wooden sign was nailed to a support post: WE DON’T CALL 911. Running the length of the barn’s side, a series of three double doors was flung wide-open. Inside the barn, a neon Shiner Bock sign highlighted the party crowd. All my life, I’d heard about generations of Tucker kids and their parties. Now I was here. I could smell the perfume mixed with cigarette smoke, feel the thumping bass from the band inside—an energy I could grasp. And the steady rain on the barn’s tin roof. Almost as intoxicating as the cowboy who drove me here.

  “Dang, Paisley!” Levi leaned against the post and laughed as Paradise and I walked together. Levi held up a Mason jar half full of a crystal-clear liquid like he was making a toast, his eyes darting from Paradise to me. “When you cut out from under your momma, you make a clean break.”

  “It’s not what you think.” I stepped away from Paradise.

  Waylon blurted, “Your sister got here an hour ago.”

  “Yeah, well.” I kept my eyes fixed on the pack of kids crowded inside the bar-like barn. “She left the rodeo in a hurry.” I was sure they had already heard about Lacey butchering the national anthem at the rodeo and would just move on off that topic. But no.

  “You gonna have to drive her home, Paisley.” Levi picked at a splinter in the wooden post. “She’s been doing Jell-O shots since she got here.”

  I knew then that I had to find her. I started past Levi and he stopped me.

  “Everybody understands. We’re watching her,” he assured me. “I ain’t takin’ my eyes off her other than to play this one set.”

  “Not really anything new with Lacey,” Waylon added as he fiddled with a brown skull cap that covered his wiry hair and made him look older. He kept taking it off and on like he wasn’t sure if it was what he really wanted to wear. Without a guitar strapped around him, Waylon had no self-confidence.

  “Just keep it on.” I made the decision for him.

  “When does the band break?” Paradise asked.

  “In about five minutes,” Waylon said.

  “That’s enough time to get loose.” Paradise smiled at Levi and reached out for the Mason jar.

  “Oh, heck no!” I couldn’t believe he was serious. The last thing we needed was a drunk, lead-singing accordion player.

  Waylon pointed his finger at Paradise. “If you want to drink, you can do it after we play.”

  Paradise ignored both of us and took a sip. Immediately, his face twisted like a soaked mop being wrung out. He grabbed Levi’s shoulder and kicked the heel of his boot against the concrete.

  “This ain’t vodka.” Levi took his jar back.

  The ping of a drummer’s rim shot rang out from inside the barn to the breezeway porch where we stood.

  “Nobody drinks before we play!” Waylon commanded.

  Paradise started laughing, lost his hat, and fell face-first into Levi’s chest.

  “How can you drink that stuff?” he mumbled as he straightened back up.

  “An acquired taste.” Levi sipped from the jar, showing his teeth as he swallo
wed.

  “Forget it.” Waylon threw his hands up. “We’re not playing.”

  With that, the reality of playing in my first gig, my chance at drumming at Texapalooza crashed. My opportunity to perform was as much in Waylon’s control as a kite is at the mercy of the wind.

  But I held on. I hadn’t showed up here and risked being homeschooled for nothing.

  “No, Waylon, wait.” I stared hard at Levi. He gave Paradise his hat back. “They’re done drinking.”

  I knew Waylon’s obsessive-compulsive tendencies and understood that too often they kept him from stepping out. If he thought for a minute the Waylon Slider Band would stink it up, Waylon would pull the plug. Waylon needed to believe that we’d throw down a solid show, and I had enough faith in that to carry all of us.

  “We can do this, Waylon.”

  He clasped his hands on top of his head, pushing his skull cap down like he was trying to keep whatever was going on in that perfectionist mind of his under control.

  “You know we’re good enough.”

  Levi patted Waylon on the back. “I spit ninety proof, brother. You know that. I ain’t ever been too drunk to play.”

  “You’re not the problem.” Then Waylon cut his eyes at Paradise.

  “I can become a lot bigger problem for you.” Paradise threw his shoulders back and the muscles in his neck hardened. He seemed to have a hot button when it came to Waylon’s laying out band rules. The last thing we needed was someone fighting Waylon for control of his own band.

  I stepped in between them. “They’re done drinking. That’s all that matters, right?”

  “Just be there when the first band finishes.” Waylon stomped off. “I’m going to find Cal.”

  Paradise gripped the strap of his murse as if he wasn’t sure what he wanted to do with that accordion. He looked ticked off like he wasn’t accustomed to having boundaries placed on his behavior. Keeping his ego in check wasn’t going to be easy. I might have to struggle with my mother when it came to drumming. But Paradise, it seemed, had a bigger problem: himself.

  I stood boot tip to boot tip with him and looked up. “I’m taking this opportunity to remind you one more time.” The brim of his hat shaded the light and I could feel his breath on my face. “This isn’t about you. It’s about the band. If you want to play, be an accordion king or whatever, then just be respectful of the rest of us.” I took a deep breath. “Please.”

  I waited for him to say something—some smart-aleck comeback, some flirty suggestion. But I got nothing. He just gazed out across the field at the sheets of pouring rain, then walked off.

  I followed him inside the barn, not sure what he was about to do. Hoping I hadn’t pushed him too far. It was dark and loud and crowded, and I squeezed my way between folks, trying not to lose Paradise. A dance-floor area had been outlined with hay bales, but he didn’t head that direction. Instead, I found him by a flatbed trailer that had been turned into a stage. I found him by the band.

  Paradise had his arms folded at his waist and his feet a little more than shoulder width apart. He studied the lead singer as the dude sweated and screamed his way through what I hoped was their final song.

  I walked up and tugged on his arm. “So, you thinking about quitting us and joining the shirtless band?” All the guys, except for their bassist, had their shirts off.

  Paradise gestured toward the drummer—a skinny dude with tribal tats inked across his shoulders. “You’re better than that.”

  I watched the drummer. “He’s all wrist.” I started to stretch out my arms. Volume comes from power. Power starts in the core. I thought about the great drummers I’d watched. The sticks are just an extension of the arms. Using only the wrist is like driving a Mustang in first gear. “He may be tatted up like Travis Barker, but he should spend more time watching him.”

  Paradise fixed his eyes back on the lead singer who, in an attempt to work the crowd, was stomping from one side of the trailer to the other.

  From what little I’d seen, Paradise had his own style—a sexy way of drawing up to a microphone. This lead singer seemed to be trying to imitate the front man from his favorite rock band. “You’re better than that,” I told Paradise.

  Paradise shrugged. “Maybe. But playing accordion and having people respect what I play is all I really care about.”

  The lead singer finished screaming and slumped to his knees as his drummer rolled to a stop.

  Levi and Waylon snuck up behind us. Cal was with them, holding his Gibson by the neck.

  “Is this your band?” the lead singer asked Levi as he hopped off the trailer.

  “Yeah, man,” Levi answered. “Actually we’re the Waylon Slider Band. This is Waylon.”

  If the dude was from this area and knew his music, he’d know the Slider name. Waylon wiped his hand on his jeans and stuck it out to shake with him.

  But it seemed Tucker was the only name he cared about. “Don’t screw up our stuff, Levi.”

  The drummer stepped off the trailer and held up his sticks. “Who gets the keys to the kingdom?”

  I raised my hand like a third grader.

  He handed me the sticks. “Don’t tighten any of the heads. Don’t adjust anything. You can lower the throne but that’s it.”

  Paradise jumped onto the trailer and headed for an Oriental rug laid out in the center. Waylon, Levi, and Cal followed and made a beeline for their spots. I stepped behind the drums and looked out into the crowded barn. I’d played in front of crowds before at band concerts and football games. I’d even had solos on the snare. But this was my chance to see what I could do outside of a school-controlled performance and obligatory applause.

  I turned the knob on the stool and lowered it.

  This was my moment of truth. A real beginning. A line in the sand with my own dream.

  8

  BLINDED BY THE LIGHT

  From my seat behind the drums, the mass of kids in the dark barn reminded me of the time when the lights went out during a basketball game at the school gym: pitch-black except for the neon glow of exit signs and the faceless outlines of friends. Although a bit of porch light hovered around each of the side doors, very little drifted in.

  I scooted the stool forward, centering it on the snare, and repositioned the foot pedals. I ran my hands across each drumhead. The basic right-handed setup, so I was good to go—even if the trailer stage was darker than what I’d prefer.

  Plunk-plunks ricocheted as Waylon and Cal thumbed their guitar strings in tune.

  “Now, y’all don’t get going without me.” Levi rested the bass guitar on a stand, jumped off the trailer, muscled his way between the drunk and disorderly, and headed for the back of the barn.

  Paradise stood in front of the drums with his hands on his hips. He turned to me and pointed to the line of tractors and heavy equipment stored at the back of the barn. Levi had climbed into the cab of an International Harvester combine.

  Paradise pushed his hat low on his forehead. “Close your eyes, Paisley.”

  In that instant, the combine’s roof lights switched on—putting a spotlight right on the band, right on us.

  A loud moan broke through the barn as the tractor’s high beams shattered the comfortable darkness. I kept my head down until my eyes adjusted. When I finally looked back up, Levi had lowered the beams to dim. A softer light hung just above the heads of the crowd and broadened right as it reached us. It was the perfect spotlight, and Levi looked proud of himself.

  He hopped back onto the trailer, still wearing his rubber boots, with a smile as wide as a barn door. “Can’t nobody say Tuckers ain’t re-sourceful.”

  Now that I had some light, I realized the ride cymbal was too high for me to hit the center crown. I wouldn’t be able to get a full-enough sound for the choruses if I didn’t drop it. I checked each side of the stage. No sign of the previous band.

  Paradise was strapped into his accordion and standing a few steps in front of the drums.

  “Over
here.” I pointed just above the ride cymbal.

  He took a couple of back steps and blocked the light.

  I glanced around one more time for the other band members or drummer. Then I lowered the ride.

  Paradise started laughing. “Bad girl, Paisley. Isn’t there some kind of Jesus code or Jesus bracelet about honesty or doing the right thing?”

  “Shut up.” I sat back down on the stool and laid the sticks on the snare. “If you want to know what Jesus says, go to church. I don’t think bracelet reminders would help you much.”

  “Then why do you wear that ring?”

  God, I hated it when he brought up my ring! Suddenly, I felt like I was in the nude trying to have a conversation with him. Like I wanted to openly discuss abstinence with His Royal Hotness on a stage before our first gig. I tried to ignore him.

  Paradise took a sideways glance at Levi who hadn’t picked up the bass yet. Waylon and Cal were still tuning. “Seriously, Paisley,” he started picking at me again. “Aren’t you under some evangelical witness obligation to teach me about these things? I mean, I need some Jesus guidance.”

  “Oh my gosh.” I hopped to my feet, mostly out of frustration, but I wanted to make sure he heard me loud and clear. He was just a little too interested in my purity ring. I yelled at him, “I do not want to talk about having sex with you!”

  My voice rang out through the barn as I stood in the tractor spotlight. I heard myself in the echo—having sex with you, sex with you …

  I dropped the drumsticks.

  A few whistles and some clapping rose from the crowd onto the stage.

  “Hot microphone, sweetheart.” Paradise laughed.

  I caught sight of Waylon out of the corner of my eye—his mouth gaped open. Even Cal stared at me.

  “I didn’t mean that the way it came out.” I held my hand up to show Waylon, Levi, and Cal what I was talking about. “He asked about my ring. I was trying to explain that. Abstinence. Really!”