by Fran Baker
Cassie weaved her vocal frills through a background of up-tempo western swing, riding the striding bass lines with the confidence born of her natural musical instinct. This was her song, her personal attempt to exorcise the memory of Hoyt Temple.
“It's too high.” Scrappy waved his arms to stop the session and grabbed a guitar from the man sitting next to him. “Drop it down an octave and try it this way.” The Virginia-ham size of his hands didn't interfere as his supple fingers manipulated the steel strings. “Put some Chester picking in here,” he ordered.
Cassie swallowed the last of the soda that had fizzled flat an hour ago, crumpled the paper cup, and tossed it into the wastebasket.
“Nobody in this room believes one damned thing you've sung so far.” Scrappy shook his finger in front of her startled face. “You wrote these lyrics for a reason, and my music complements that feeling. Where's the magic? You sound like you're reciting a grocery list!”
Cassie was crushed. Normally, Scrappy was as patient as Job. But his personal stake in the success of this arrangement had put him on edge. The sidemen fidgeted in their hard metal chairs.
“You've got one chance to grab the listener,” Scrappy chided. “Now get out of your Sunday throat and belt out some blues.”
Cassie took a few deep breaths, then began to sing:
"Those sparkin’ eyes, those strong warm arms,
That lean brown body, just some of his charms.
* * * *
"He leads me on, then he scares me off
Don't know what to do, his way's so rough.
* * * *
"He's had lots of ladies, they all give in.
Always afraid to ask him where he's been.
* * * *
"Then I feel those eyes looking down at me,
And I feel again that I'll never be free
* * * *
"Of those sparkin’ eyes, those strong warm arms,
That lean brown body, and the other charms."
“It's in the can!” Bo punched a button and the tape whirred in reverse, whining like a power saw. The musicians threw their instruments into the black cases and hustled out of the studio. Drained from all the emotion that she'd poured into the song, Cassie fell into a padded chair in the pentagonal-shaped control booth.
“You did an excellent job, Cassie. We'll over-dub it tomorrow.” Bo pulled a dozen track plugs out of the console.
“Way to go, babe. I'm sorry I had to lean so hard, but someone had to build a fire under you.” Scrappy tugged her to her feet and Cassie leaned against his oak-tree frame. “Let's go eat,” he suggested.
“I don't know what I'd do without you,” she sighed as they left the dusty brick building and walked through the deserted parking lot toward Scrappy's third-hand van.
“We're in this together, you know.” He laid his instruments in the rear, then babied the old motor to life. “When that tape is mixed and distributed, it's gonna soar up the charts like a balloon full of helium.”
They sped out of Music Row, an eight-square-block area of publishing houses and recording studios, and drove past the low-slung gingerbread homes that lined Nashville's residential district.
“How'd you like some chicken-fried steak, gravy, and biscuits?” Scrappy and his hollow leg had homed in on every good restaurant in the city.
“I've got to fill in at the Hitchin’ Post tonight, but I don't start until nine, so we've got time.”
The red banks of the Cumberland River were dotted with patient anglers waiting for the fish to begin feeding near the placid surface.
“Did Bo get the tour arranged?” Scrappy didn't take his eyes off the road, but Cassie sensed his enthusiasm.
“We've got a three-night stand in Ohio. Let's see, then we head for Missouri to kick off another show.” Cassie ticked off what she remembered of their schedule. “I think after that it's Tulsa, then Alabama. But we're supposed to keep in touch with Bo by phone so he can fill us in on any other gigs he confirms.”
“Hot damn!” Scrappy slapped the steering wheel. “Just like we always planned!” He turned off the highway and followed a rutted dirt road until they bounced to a stop in front of a wooden shanty that leaned like a rebel toward the Mason-Dixon Line. Eight or ten cars were parked haphazardly around the building, and the delicious aromas wafting on the early spring breeze attested to mouth-watering home cooking.
“I've worked out a trade for the van,” Scrappy told her as he speared another piece of crispy-tender meat off the platter and ladled thick cream gravy over a second helping of biscuits. “We can get one of those converted school buses— bunks in the back and room for the equipment, plus our names painted on the sides— for five hundred and my van. What do you think?”
Cassie stirred the food around on her plate. Even though her job tonight was only a three-hour stand, she still couldn't eat. “Will Mike and Jess kick in on it?”
“No problem. Both of them can shake loose after this week, and they're good for one hundred fifty apiece.”
“I've been sending Hoyt two hundred a month to pay off the hospital bill and the money that he advanced me,” she calculated out loud. “After living expenses, I'm lucky if there's a dime left.” Cassie pushed her plate away. “If I take a gig every night and a couple of commercials on the side, I can come up with two hundred.”
“You'll be worn slick before we're even getting any air play.” Scrappy was as sober as a judge. “Temple is going to get his fifteen percent plus when this goes. Why don't you skip a payment and get some rest? You can't record all day and stay up half the night singing for peanuts. That's asking for burnout”
“The sooner he's paid off, the better.” The memory of his sarcastic comment to Bo about her debt still rang in her ears. “Besides, I've got to get my feet wet sometime. And there's nothing like an empty bank account to make the water look inviting.”
The subject of Hoyt Temple was uncomfortable territory for Cassie and Scrappy. Although she'd never discussed her feelings for the rugged cowboy who was backing her professionally, Scrappy seemed to sense that she carried a torch she couldn't extinguish. Hoyt had made it clear that he had no use for Scrappy, and the bad blood between the men she cared about most in the world distressed her.
“Do you want another beer, Scrappy?” A young waitress cleared the plates and bowls of the family-style meal off the table. She smiled shyly at the rough-hewn musician and her plain features glowed when he nodded.
Cassie watched another heart bite the dust as the thin girl blossomed under Scrappy's attention. Her own heart ached. Why couldn't she put Hoyt out of her mind and find someone who could make her love again? She'd turned down more opportunities in the three months she'd been in Nashville than she could shake a slick at. But the memory of piercing blue eyes and a hard body owned her soul, nullified the possibility of other entanglements.
“Thanks, Rose.” Scrappy took a swallow from a long-necked bottle. The waitress blushed when he winked. “I'm going to miss this good cooking something fierce while we're on the road.” He patted his stomach.
Rose blinked several times in rapid succession and her waif-like face crumpled at his news. “If you know when you're leaving, Mama will whip up all your favorites and we'll feed you a proper farewell.” Her offer was hesitant, as if she were afraid that Scrappy might refuse.
“I'd sure appreciate that, babe. We're going to get sick of grabbing that fast-food garbage before we're through touring.” He buried Rose's dishwater-red, but delicately boned, hand between his massive paws. “You know what I like, Rose. Just tell Mama that it's double portions next Friday night.”
* * * *
“Is Mrs. Miller going to hold your room while we're on the road?” Scrappy asked a half-hour later as he switched off the ignition while they sat talking next to the curb in front of the three-story boardinghouse where Cassie lived.
“Thanks to you, she is.”
The grandmotherly widow had opened her home to musicians and singers
after the death of her husband twenty-five years ago. She didn't cotton to women boarders, though, and Scrappy had pulled out all the stops to charm the feisty woman into making an exception for Cassie.
“I knew you two would hit it off once you got acquainted.” He grinned and tugged at his beard. “She's a nice old lady once you've figured out her bluff.”
“She fusses over me like a mother hen.” Cassie considered the tidy bedroom her home now. Mrs. Miller often waited up for her only female boarder, rocking patiently in the parlor with the television at full blast while she mended a shirt or darned a pair of socks for an artist who was riding out a financial dry spell.
“She won't even let me near the kitchen.” Cassie laughed. The older woman insisted on serving three meals a day. Late-night gigs or recording sessions weren't valid excuses for missing breakfast. Cassie couldn't even count the number of times the old lady had marched up the stairs and yanked off the covers while a protesting session man or singer screamed about sleeping in for a change.
“I'll wait while you get ready and then drop you off at the Hitchin’ Post on my way home.”
“Thanks. It won't take me a minute.” Cassie hopped out of the van, slammed the door, and ran into the house.
She brushed her hair and applied her makeup during the ride across town. The clean denim skirt and silky blouse she wore were plenty dressy for the honky-tonk atmosphere she'd be working in.
Pinging pinball machines and loud conversation almost drowned out the song playing on the jukebox. Cassie introduced herself to the owner and he shoved a wooden stool and a microphone into the center of the small square dance floor.
“Shut up, you apes!” The stocky proprietor hollered over the noise. “We've got live entertainment tonight. And I'm warning you"— he glared at a rowdy bunch of men bellied up to the bar—"you'd better show the lady some respect.” He pulled the plug on the jukebox, leaving the Kendalls suspended in heavenly sin.
“Forty-five minutes on, a fifteen-minute break, all you can drink, and cash when you're done.” He reeled off the prearranged terms, stuck an unlit cigar between his teeth, and disappeared into the crowd.
Cassie nodded and slipped the leather guitar strap over her head. It didn't matter how often she played the Martin that Hoyt had given her; she always marveled at the way its beautiful acoustic tones complemented her voice.
She'd put in so many nights like this during her stay in Nashville that the routine was automatic. As she sang the opening medley, Cassie's gaze wandered over the Friday night crowd which packed the honky-tonk to the rafters. These people, and millions like them, would make or break her career.
Five middle-aged men, sporting long sideburns and wearing loud plaid jackets, were jammed into a booth. They chased their beer with shots of whiskey and mouthed along with the lyrics. Cassie flashed them an appreciative smile when they led the applause after her second number.
A young couple necked in a dim corner of the bar. Cassie silently dedicated a tender song to them, wishing them the luck in love that had apparently eluded her.
She locked eyes momentarily with an attractive man who toasted her with his glass. The sexy smile that creased his expectant face invited her to join him during her break. Instead, Cassie elbowed her way through the crowd and sipped ice water alone in a back room. It wasn't fear that froze her insides and caused her hands to tremble like this whenever another man paid attention to her. Until she'd erased Hoyt's image completely, until he no longer dominated her dreams, she simply couldn't respond to anyone else.
* * * *
“You've got a critical musical ear, Cassie. If you ever decide to leap over to the production side, there's a job waiting for you right here.” Bo Davis tapped his foot to the music and smiled.
“There. That's where the drums bleed into the vocal track.” She pinpointed the spot where the sound didn't blend quite properly and Bo adjusted the channels of the speakers.
“This is a fantastic mix, if I do have to say so myself.” He paid the ultimate compliment and flipped the switch that silenced the tape. “It's pure, and yet the whole thing sparkles.”
“Oh, Bo, do you really think so?” Cassie was a bundle of conflicting emotions, relieved that the sessions were finally over, anxious about the upcoming tour and the public's reaction to the song.
“I know so,” he said. “Dollar for dollar, this is the finest promotional effort I've ever been involved with. Hoyt is sending demos to every C and W station in the nation, and he's planted articles in over sixty major newspapers.” Bo rubbed his hands with glee. “I'd swear I'm living the ultimate producer's fantasy.”
Cassie wanted to feel his excitement but she was empty inside. Things were coming together and falling apart at the same time. Everything that was good for her professionally was destroying her emotionally. And Hoyt... well, he'd kept his distance.
“You know, Cassie, the music business isn't anything more than another form of gambling. In my opinion you've jumped in with a pair of loaded dice. If this song isn't a hit, I'll personally tear this old building down, brick by brick.”
Bo leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. “I think we'd better keep our umbrellas handy,” he murmured. “I've got a feeling that it's going to start raining money— real soon.”
* * * *
“If I never see another hot dog again, it'll be too soon.” Cassie stuffed the stale bun wrapped around a bit of pale wiener into an already overflowing trash sack.
“We'll be in Tulsa in less than an hour.” Scrappy pointed to the red clay that streaked the landscape.
“Let's get a motel room this time.” Cassie stretched to relieve her cramped muscles. “Ow!” She bumped her head for the hundredth time on the steel guard that rose about her seat back. “I want to soak in a tub for an hour, then drain it and start all over again.”
“And eat steak until it runs out of my ears,” Scrappy added in a wistfully hungry tone.
“And dry my clothes in a machine, instead of hanging them out the back of the bus.” Cassie ran her fingers across the rough fabric of her chambray shirt.
“And wake up in a real bed, instead of that hard old bunk.” Scrappy leaned forward in the driver's seat and kneaded the small of his back. “I haven't had a decent night's sleep since we left Nashville.”
Mike and Jess nodded their agreement.
Scrappy glanced at the directions he'd scribbled onto a piece of paper, then followed the signs pointing toward the fairgrounds where they were scheduled to open that night. On the van's radio, the announcer introduced their song, tacking on the information that Cassie and the Twisters would be appearing for the weekend in Tulsa and urging the listeners to mosey on down and hear them in person.
“I know this sounds crazy, but I've really enjoyed this tour, despite the inconveniences and my griping about them,” Cassie admitted, tapping her foot and humming along with her recorded voice.
“Me, too.” Scrappy grinned. “Everybody we've met has been like home folks. And the talent— I can't believe we've actually been on the same stage with some of the hottest stars in country music— just like we really belonged there! I keep waiting for someone to come and pinch me and wake me up from a lifelong dream.”
“And now our song is number thirty on the charts, with a double bullet, no less!” Cassie slapped her forehead with the palm of her hand. “It's almost too much!”
“Serendipity, pure and simple. Makes some of those cold hot dogs worthwhile, anyway.” Scrappy waved to a uniformed guard posted at the entrance to the fairgrounds and he directed them to park behind the stage.
“Hey, Big Daddy!” Scrappy saluted a country rock star, and the strapping fiddler-singer grinned as he stepped out of his custom-designed bus.
The intoxicating thrill of singing her own hit song while standing on an open stage in front of several thousand enthusiastic people renewed Cassie's love affair with the business. The adrenaline flooded through her veins when the audience started cla
pping and singing along during her performance, and she soaked up the good vibrations to savor after the show.
“It's going to take a full week before I come down off this high,” Scrappy said, pouring beer into a glass of tomato juice.
“Drink a Red Dog for me, guys. I'm checking out.” Cassie stuffed her clothes into a soft bag. The Twisters had been invited to jam with another of the bands that had appeared that evening, and she knew it would be another all-nighter. “There's a bathtub in there that has my name written all over it.”
“Take the money with you and stash it somewhere.” Scrappy handed her a leather satchel. Payment in cash was the rule of the road because so many performers had been burned with bad checks from promoters. “That way, if we forget to lock the bus, we won't lose our only asset.”
“Why don't you just leave the keys in the ignition and pray that someone steals the damned thing,” she teased. “Then we'd be forced to fly back to Nashville.” She waved good night and crossed the parking lot to register at the motel.
The hot, soapy water was heaven after a month of quick showers in tiny stalls at those truckers’ convenience stations. Cassie soaked until her skin was as wrinkled as a prune. She'd deliberately defied Hoyt's effort to create a sophisticated crossover image for her and had let her hair grow long again. Midnight-colored waves spilled over her shoulders as she brushed it dry.
“The door's unlocked!” she called at the sound of an impatient knock, knotting the sash on the satin robe that she'd bought on impulse somewhere between Ohio and Oklahoma. “Just set the food on the table, please.” She counted out several bills to pay for the steak and eggs that she'd ordered from room service.
