by Meg Benjamin
“Clem was there?”
He nodded. “She tried to help me out, tried to get me straight. Only nobody could do that but me. Which is what I did—after I’d blown everything I had.” He opened his eyes, his lips twisting slightly. “Sort of a boring story, not all that inspirational. They’ll never make a TV movie about my recovery.”
“But if the pressure is part of the job, doesn’t it still…bother you?”
He sighed. “It’s only part of the job if you let it be part of the job. I decided I wanted to be sober and show all the people who watched me burn out that I could come back, and that I knew what I was doing in the kitchen. Also, I like to think I’m smarter now than I used to be. Although I guess that could be open to question.” He gave her another dry smile.
She leaned down beside him, resting her head on his shoulder.
“Does this bother you?” he asked softly. “Knowing this about me?”
She shook her head. “No. The music business isn’t exactly known for sobriety either.” She looked up at him again. “I’m glad you told me.”
“I am too.” He slid his arm around her shoulders. “Want to get some sleep?”
She let her lips slide into a grin. “Sure. Eventually.”
He cupped her face in this hands, grinning. “Ah, woman. You always know just what buttons to push.”
She turned her head, running her tongue quickly across his thumb. “Glad to please, sir. Always glad to please.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
MG did a couple of hours of prep in the kitchen on Friday, and then she headed home. She was due to go on stage at the Faro at two, and she needed to have her guitar in her hands for at least an hour or so before that.
She sat out in her backyard, watching her remaining chickens snap at the grass. Hen Nine came out and joined them for a few minutes before heading back to her nest. She’d probably be a great mother, assuming the eggs in the nest weren’t duds.
MG ran through her limited repertoire, then went through the usual agony over choosing clothes. The Faro was closer to big time than anywhere she’d sung since she’d come back to Texas. But it was still a tavern. Finally, she grabbed the same lace-trimmed tank and denim shirt she’d worn the first night at Oltdorf. Maybe they’d bring her luck.
At one thirty she stood in the beer garden, guitar in hand. Chico Burnside glanced at her from his post beside the outside door, nodding before he returned his attention to the duo on stage. The singer sucked, but the accordion player was first rate.
I can do better than that. The thought floated through her mind, giving her the jolt of adrenaline she needed.
Adrenaline. She’d probably be pumped tonight. Fortunately, she knew a really good way to come down. Grinning, she headed across the space toward Burnside.
Nedda navigated Main Street in Konigsburg with difficulty on Friday afternoon. She didn’t mind the tourists as a rule. They stayed in her bed and breakfast places, after all, and paid well for the privilege. But she didn’t much like them in crowds that choked the streets, which was what was happening now. Normally, she’d have pushed her way through, nailing anybody unwise enough to complain with one of her best gimlet-eyed stares. But lately she’d been feeling tired, more tired than usual. And today she let herself be buffeted by the currents of purposeless fools strolling up Main.
She herself had had a purpose when she’d started her walk through town, although now she couldn’t exactly remember what it had been. Her brain seemed to be missing cogs somehow. She had a feeling that fact should have been troubling. But she couldn’t make herself care.
Ahead of her the crowd seemed to thin, and she saw a tall man with reddish brown hair, striding forward with the purpose Nedda herself was accustomed to feeling.
Something about him struck a chord. She knew that back, that stride. That man.
Harmon.
She swallowed. She might not be entirely herself at the moment, but she still knew the difference between reality and fantasy. And she knew her brother was dead. Whoever she was seeing either wasn’t real or wasn’t Harmon. At the moment, she’d vote for the latter.
The man-who-wasn’t-Harmon turned into a doorway ahead of her, and Nedda paused to see what the place was. The Faro. A tavern. Well, that settled it. Harmon Carmody had never set foot in a tavern, so far as Nedda knew. He was too proud of his own virtue to let himself slip like that.
But maybe things changed after you were dead. Maybe you went places you wouldn’t have gone before.
She stood on the sidewalk for a moment longer, letting the crowd eddy around her while she rubbed her fingers across her breastbone. Heartburn again. She took a deep breath, willing the pain away, and then she stepped inside.
The room was too dim to see at first. She had to stand near the doorway for a moment, until her eyes grew accustomed to the light. The place was packed. She’d had no idea it was that popular. It never had been when her worthless ex-husband had spent his evenings there.
Music was playing somewhere beyond the door at the side of the room, and she found herself moving in that direction. Harmon always liked music. Not that Harmon was there at all. But if he had been there, he’d have been listening.
More people jammed the yard outside, sitting at tables, propping themselves against the walls. Nedda stood in the crowd again, letting herself be jostled as she tried to figure out where the seats were. Finally she saw a space on a bench at the side next to a couple of rowdy boys young enough to be her great-grandsons. She paused for a moment, wondering if she actually had any great-grandsons. If Caroline had had any children after she’d left, they’d be grown by now. Maybe with kids of their own.
She shook her head to clear it. First Harmon, then Caroline. Her brain was definitely not operating with its usual clarity.
The crowd erupted in applause for whoever had been caterwauling on the stage. Nedda hadn’t paid much attention. She considered most music a waste of time, particularly since she usually couldn’t tell the difference between one singer and another. Just another way to get people to spend their money on nonsense.
Now she heard a man’s voice speaking over the noise of the crowd. “Next up, somebody new. Give her a welcome now. MG Carmody.”
Nedda froze. What the hell was her fool niece doing singing for this bunch of yahoos? She tensed herself to get up and leave, but suddenly her legs seemed to have lost their strength. The pain in her chest gave another twinge as the crowd clapped around her.
And then she saw him. Harmon. Standing close to the front, his gaze fastened to the stage as his granddaughter climbed up on a stool and pulled her guitar into her arms.
MG figured she didn’t have much chance of being heard over all the crowd noise, but she’d give it another shot. She was getting a share of the pot regardless, so she might as well give them their money’s worth.
The first show had gone well, or relatively well anyway. There hadn’t been as many people that early, but those who were there had applauded. She’d sung a couple of her own songs and they’d gotten applause too. Burnside hadn’t said anything one way or the other, but he’d stayed awake while she sang, which he hadn’t done for everybody.
Hell, give ’em some Hank. She swung into an up-tempo version of “Movin’ On,” the same song she’d sung at Dewey’s when she’d been so mad at Joe. Thinking of him helped her put a little extra growl into her delivery, and she heard somebody whoop in the back of the garden. Of course, with this crowd they might be whooping about something other than the music.
Burnside stood at the side of the room, his arms folded across his chest. As introductions went, his were pretty terse. On the other hand, nobody was acting up too much in the garden, maybe because his massive presence made doing that seem like a very bad idea.
She roared into the conclusion and got a respectable round of applause for it. Burnside’s expression didn’t waver.
Normally, she might have moved to a slower song next, maybe one of her own. But she figu
red with this crowd, dropping the volume would be instant death. Instead, she went for a slightly bluesy number, an old song Joy of Cooking used to play, about a woman who walked out on her two battling lovers rather than letting one or the other win her hand.
That got a good response from the women in the crowd at least. Might as well play to her strengths. She switched to “The Right Guy,” keeping the tempo a little faster than usual. It might have been her imagination, but she could swear the crowd was a little quieter now.
Don’t get over-confident. She wouldn’t. This was the biggest crowd she’d played to so far in Konigsburg, and if she could get even half of them to listen to her, she’d be coming out ahead.
She glanced around the room, tuning quickly before her next song, and stopped, staring. She could swear she’d just seen her Great-Aunt Nedda sitting at one of the tables. The second time she’d seen her at a gig—or thought she had, anyway. She tried to see around the milling crowds heading to and from the bar, but they blocked her view.
You’re waiting too long. Get going. She struck a chord, and then moved into an older Rosanne Cash song. But while she sang, she kept trying to see the far side of the garden again, even though her good sense told her she’d been mistaken.
Nedda sat at her table, trying to catch her breath. Harmon, or the-man-who-wasn’t-Harmon, stood at the front of the crowd, gazing up at the girl on her stool as she sang. Nedda hardly heard her.
The air in the room seemed to shimmer and break apart as she watched. Locations shifted so quickly she could hardly keep up. Suddenly, she was standing in the hardscrabble farm house where they’d grown up. Then all of a sudden she was in the yard outside, heading for the barn, holding tight to Harmon’s hand.
Watch your feet, Neddie. Don’t trip. You’ll get cow poop all over you.
Then they were both grown, standing in her living room at the old place, where she’d first lived after she married Mort. No food in the kitchen because he hadn’t brought home his paycheck. Harmon frowning down at her.
Here’s ten bucks for food. He’s bad stock, Neddie. I told you he was.
And he had told her. But that was one of the reasons she’d married him, wasn’t it? To show Harmon he couldn’t run her life any more even if he was her big brother. And to get free of the farm, to move to someplace where she wouldn’t have to break her back from dawn until dusk hoeing the garden, feeding the chickens, pulling the weeds. And break her heart caring.
I don’t care what you think, Harmon. I’m here, aren’t I? I’m moving up. And you’re still stuck out on that godawful forty acres.
If that’s what you think of it, Neddie, maybe it’s for the best you left.
Then they were back in the barnyard again, spring this time, leaves budding out. The two of them just babies or close to it, sent out of the house to give the folks a rest. And she was crying, like the big baby she’d been.
She tried to remember what that had been about. Something was dead. Or somebody. She closed her eyes, remembering. Grandpa Ellis, who’d given her a whistle he’d carved out of pecan wood.
It’s all right, Neddie. He’s in heaven. We’ll see him there when we go.
And she’d cried harder.
Why are you crying, Neddie?
Because I don’t want to go yet. Not yet.
It’s all right. We won’t go ’til we’re old. We’ll stay together on the farm ’til we’re old. I’ll stay with you. I’m your big brother, ain’t I?
Only then he hadn’t been so big yet. And she’d been small, so small.
The man-who-wasn’t-Harmon turned back from the stage to look at her. Bright green eyes. He’d always had bright green eyes. The girl had them too.
We’re old now, Nedda.
She stiffened, gathering her hand in a fist pressed against her breastbone. “You didn’t stay,” she muttered. “You didn’t stay with me.”
I didn’t. I couldn’t. I’m sorry.
“Is this it then? Is this all?” Her chest felt like a hot coal had settled into the center. She pressed her palm flat. “Harmon?”
I’m here, Neddie.
“I’m sorry too,” she whispered.
The man-who-wasn’t-Harmon… No, Harmon himself turned toward her, moving easily between the people. Nedda struggled to catch her breath.
On the stage, the girl was singing something else, something Nedda halfway remembered. “Five Hundred Miles.” Mama had sung that song some nights when she put them to bed.
I’m here, Neddie.
She looked up, trying to find him, but he wasn’t where he’d been a moment ago. And the pain in her chest had begun to spread outward, like moss inching up a tree, fiery tentacles invading her upper arms, her throat. “Harmon?”
I’m here, Neddie.
She closed her eyes, fighting the pain, then fighting the darkness too as it closed in around her.
MG was two-thirds of the way through the set when she saw Joe at the edge of the crowd. He grinned at her, raising his hands in a quick thumbs-up. He’d said he’d come as soon as he could get away from the kitchen and the contest prep.
She found her own grin spreading, happiness spiraling through her like a drug. Without thinking much about it, she slid into Bonnie Raitt’s “Fearless Love,” hitting the chords for all she was worth.
The audience quieted, leaning forward to listen. Joe’s grin was back to face-splitting.
“Shine on all we’re fearful of…”
The crowd swayed back and forth. One couple began to dance around the corner of the garden in what little space they could find.
She vamped through the electric organ break in the original arrangement and then jumped into the chorus, hitting the chords again, thanking the session men in Nashville who’d at least taught her how to play slide.
At the end, she jumped off her stool, bowing quickly to the audience “Thank you, you’ve been great.”
But they weren’t ready to let her go. They stood, whistling and clapping, until she stepped back on the stage again. “Okay,” she said. “Just one more” and swung into “Bring It On Home To Me,” which simultaneously slowed things down and kept it hot.
Chico nodded at her as she walked off again, probably the closest thing to an “attagirl” she’d get from him. Joe waited for her at the side of the stage, wrapping his arms around her waist as soon as she stepped down, then swinging her around in a circle.
“Watch the guitar,” she laughed, then stepped back to look at him. “Well?”
“We’re ready to go. All we have to do is load the stuff up tomorrow and carry it into the contest. We’re going to kick ass, believe me.”
She whooped, pumping her fist in the air. “Go get ’em, Chef.”
A couple of people glanced their way, but the noise level in the garden had risen back to deafening levels—MG doubted most people could hear anything further than a couple of feet away.
“Are you done?” he asked. “Can you come inside with me? Clem said she’d fix us something to eat in the kitchen.”
“I’m done for now. Let me put the guitar in my case and then we can go.”
Once she’d grabbed the case, Joe grasped her hand, working his way through the crowd as he moved toward the side entrance. MG took the chance to check the tables again for the phantom Aunt Nedda who’d probably never been there in the first place. As if her great-aunt would be caught dead in the Faro.
It was only because they were held up for a moment as Joe tried to navigate around a group of boys who looked too young to be drinking that she saw her at all. Great-Aunt Nedda huddled on a bench, her eyes closed tight.
She dropped Joe’s hand and fell to her knees beside her, suddenly aware of just how very old she was. “Aunt Nedda,” she murmured. “Aunt Nedda, can you hear me? Aunt Nedda, it’s Mary Grace.”
She grasped her great-aunt’s hand, frightened by the chill on her skin. “Aunt Nedda,” she said more forcefully.
Joe’s hand fell on her shoulder. “What’s
happening?”
“I don’t know. I think she’s sick. We need to call an ambulance or something.”
Aunt Nedda’s eyelids fluttered suddenly, and then she was staring at MG. Her bony fingers fastened tight around her wrist. “Hurts,” she croaked.
MG squeezed her hand. “Hang on, Aunt Nedda. We’ll get people here to help you.”
“Don’t leave.” Her fingers tightened almost painfully. “Stay.”
“I won’t leave you,” she said, glancing back at Joe again. He turned and began pushing his way more urgently through the crowd.
Aunt Nedda stared at her blankly. “Harmon?”
MG bit her lip. “No, Aunt Nedda. It’s just me. Mary Grace.”
After a moment, she nodded. “Harmon.”
MG blinked at her. Delirious. She took her other hand, holding them both in front of her. “It’s okay,” she said softly. “It’ll all be okay now.”
After a moment, Nedda nodded again. “Yes.”
Joe figured it wasn’t all that surprising that the Konigsburg Municipal Hospital was packed during a festival weekend. He was surprised that MG wanted to stay. Once her great-aunt had been admitted and was on her way to treatment, he’d assumed that would be it. He’d apparently assumed wrong.
MG sat on a plastic chair in the waiting room, her face pale in the fluorescent lights. He put his hand on hers and started to say everything would be all right. But then he stopped himself.
It wouldn’t be all right, of course. Nedda Carmody was a very old woman who’d had a very serious heart attack. Why she’d been in the Faro Tavern was anybody’s guess, but at least they’d been able to get her some help there. If it had happened at her house she’d probably be dead already.
