by Terra Little
Miles had run into Minnie Peoples in the grocery store and shamelessly used Moira’s name to put the woman at ease about talking with him. All he’d had to do was pretend to be awed by the fact that Pam was in town, ask Minnie if she enjoyed Pam’s music, and open his ears. She was long-winded and leaning toward senility, but from her he’d learned that Pam was considered to be what Minnie had delicately referred to as a “loose girl.”
Minnie shared that she, like a lot of other town women, was shocked when Pam left and made something of herself, even if it was as a singer, because anybody could be a singer these days. But Pam seemed to be doing pretty well with it, so go figure. Maybe that’s how she was able to sing all those songs with the suggestive words, Minnie speculated as she squeezed tomatoes and ruined them for anybody else. Lord knows the girl had taken her turn and a few other people’s turns, where the boys were concerned. By the time he left Minnie, who didn’t seem to notice that he hadn’t filled a cart with groceries but only gone through the checkout with a bottled soda, Miles had names.
The names were circling around in his head a few days later, when he managed to finagle a seat across from Clive at the checkerboard table. While getting his ass kicked in checkers, he was subjected to Clive’s version of the third degree, which had mainly consisted of answering questions about where he was from, who he was related to, and why he was in town in the first place. He was a white man in a predominantly black town, which was cause for suspicion in itself, and Miles didn’t pretend to be unaware of that fact. Once again, he’d used Moira’s name and affiliation with the town to put Clive and the rest of the old men at ease.
After the game, he’d pretended to be in need of a stiff drink. He hadn’t lived forty-four years without having learned to observe people, and Clive was a classic case study. His shaking hands and the broken blood vessels in his eyes, coupled with the fact that the liquid in his soda bottle was a tad bit lighter than true Dr. Pepper, had alerted Miles to the fact that Clive was a heavy drinker. He was also a talker when his tank was full.
Miles had sipped on the same beer all evening, treated Clive to three refills of Jim Beam, and opened his ears. Clive told stories of Pam running around town half-dressed, purposely enticing men and laughing about it, said she’d never had too much tolerance for women, other than her twin sister, and that she was always traipsing around with boys. Miles had casually mentioned the names Minnie had given him, and Clive was off and running, sipping on his fourth glass.
Pam had mainly kept company with three boys back then. Nate Woodberry, James Humphries, and Scooter Wright. No one knew exactly what the four of them had done when they were together because they had always disappeared from sight the minute they congregated. Hours later, they’d come storming back into town, talking loud and looking worse for wear. No telling what Pam was up to with those boys, Clive said. A prevailing rumor, even today, was that Pam and Nate were lovers, starting as early as grade school.
Miles wanted to know if Pam had started singing early on, maybe in church as many other performers claimed. He ran the suggestion by Clive only to have the man throw his head back and burst out laughing.
“That gal ain’t never set foot in a church the whole time she was here,” Clive declared, his speech slightly slurred. “That’s like asking if the devil splashes on holy water for perfume.”
Miles had come away from the conversation determined to track down Pam’s childhood cohorts. He hired a private detective, and within days, his portable fax machine was humming with details.
James Humphries lived in Mesa, Arizona, where he supported a wife and four children on a postal worker’s salary. Twenty thousand dollars had loosened his lips enough, so that Miles now knew that Pam had liked to walk on the wild side. He confirmed that James was the one who’d taught her how to drive, as she’d mentioned once during lunch. What she failed to mention though, was the fact that she and James had regularly experimented with drugs. Mainly marijuana, James disclosed somewhat hesitantly, but a few times they’d tried small amounts of cocaine. Apparently, Pam hadn’t liked the numbing effects of the drug and she’d quickly vetoed it. The marijuana was obtained locally, while the cocaine had come by way of his older brother, who was in college at the time.
James revealed that he and Pam were never sexually involved, but that he thought maybe she and Scooter had messed around a few times, though he couldn’t say for sure. And Miles would never be able to say for sure either, because he learned that Scooter Wright had moved to Shiloh, Illinois, where he was shot and killed by his wife eleven years ago.
He moved on down the list to Nate Woodberry and paused. Of the three men, Nate was the most difficult to pinpoint. Even without the information he’d obtained, Miles was aware of Nate’s reputation as a daredevil investigative reporter. Rather than be affiliated with any one newspaper or television outlet, Nate contracted himself out on a freelance basis. He consistently assigned himself to the pieces many conventional reporters were afraid to touch; wartime coverage and the like. He hadn’t attended Paris Greene’s funeral because he was currently in Iraq, putting his life on the line as he acquired the photos and interviews that very few were willing to seek out, the ones that disturbed peaceful sleep and earned him six figures in the process. It was unlikely that Nate was even aware that Paris was dead.
The best Miles could do was to put in a call to Nate’s publicist and wait for a response. Apparently, Nate checked in with the man once a month and was due to make contact within the next few weeks. His message would be passed along then. As an afterthought, he remembered to relay the news of Paris’s death to be passed on, as well.
The waiting was starting to grate on Miles’s nerves. It had been three days since he’d left the message with Nate’s publicist, but it felt more like three weeks. He tried to stay busy, making nice with the locals and gathering peripheral information on Pam, but he was anxious to start tightening up his manuscript. He thought he had a decent composite of Pam’s childhood and he’d have no trouble writing about her professional career. But it was the hole—the black hole, he called it—that kept him from being able to make real progress.
The last few months of Pam’s senior year in high school remained a mystery. Something had happened to Pam at a time when she should’ve been looking forward to graduating and moving on with her life. Something important enough to stall her progress. Instead, her grades went to hell, she skipped more school than she attended, and she was seemingly unconcerned with the consequences of her actions. She hadn’t shown up for her own graduation, and she’d sneaked out of town on the fastest thing smoking at the first chance she got. Though her twin had gone with her, Paris had returned to Mercy to settle down. Meanwhile, Pam never came back, not even to visit.
Why, was what he wanted to know. And once he had the answer to that final question, he’d be ready to get down to the business of writing.
A car horn blared behind him and Miles glanced in the rearview mirror. He noticed Clive regarding him curiously and waved before pressing on the gas to speed up. He decided against stopping to play checkers and continued down Main Street.
He figured the gods were smiling down on him as he spotted Pam and her niece, along with a tall black man he vaguely recognized as Paris’s widower, crossing the street at the next corner. Pam was deep in conversation with the girl and didn’t notice him sitting at the stop sign, which was fine because he didn’t want to be noticed just yet. The trio disappeared inside the restaurant they were headed for, and Miles debated for the space of five seconds before pulling into a parking space on the lot next door.
He entered the restaurant, saw the trio being led to a corner booth, and carefully chose a seat at the bar. If Pam happened to see him sitting there, she would assume that he was simply enjoying a meal while he watched a baseball game on the big screen television across from the bar. He ordered a barbecue platter and a beer and stared.
Chad Greene was a good looking man, and Miles wondered if he�
��d ever looked at Pam and found himself thinking of his dead wife. He felt sure he would’ve, in Chad’s place, since the likeness was uncanny. He thought he remembered hearing that Chad and Nate were good friends and that he and Nate, plus Pam and Paris, had often been seen together. It made sense, he guessed, given that Pam and Nate were rumored to have been involved and Chad had gone on to marry Paris.
He watched Chad touch Pam’s hand softly and lean across the table to say something to her, and felt his eyebrows climb his forehead. Pam leaned in too and their heads were unusually close as they talked. Whatever it was Chad said made Pam throw her head back and laugh, and while she indulged herself, Chad’s eyes were glued to her face, with a perfectly blank expression on his own. The girl, Nikki, he thought her name was, was quickly drawn into the conversation and she, too, had a flair for laughing out loud and freely.
Miles waited until they were eating dessert to settle his check and approach Pam’s table. He sidled across the restaurant casually, hands in his pockets and a reluctant smile on his lips. Despite it all, he genuinely liked Pam.
“Pam?” he asked, as if he wasn’t sure he had the right person. He came to a stop at the edge of the table and sent a friendly smile in Chad and Nikki’s direction before focusing on Pam’s face.
She looked up and smiled. “David, hi. How are you?”
For a moment, he wondered who David was and then he remembered. He was David. The three beers he’d drunk must’ve been going to his head. “Better now that my stomach’s full. I was over at the bar and I thought I’d come by and say hi before I left.” He looked expectantly at Chad and then Nikki.
“Oh,” Pam said, remembering her manners. “This is my brother-in-law, Chad Greene, and my niece, Nikki. Nikki and Chad, this is David Dixon.”
“Hi,” Nikki said, looking from Pam to Miles curiously.
Chad came to his feet and extended a hand. “You dropped Pam off at the house once, if I’m remembering correctly.”
“You are. She was sitting on the side of the road pouting and I picked her up. That’s how we met. I’m sorry for your loss, by the way.”
“I appreciate that.” Chad released Miles’s hand and resumed his seat.
“David is Moira’s stepson,” Pam said. “Chad, you know Moira Tobias. You should too, come to think of it, Nikki.”
“She makes the best chocolate chip cookies,” Nikki piped up.
Pam was surprised and Miles was too, though he hid it well. “Is Moira still feeding the kids cookies in exchange for helping her out around that big old house of hers?” Pam asked Nikki.
“I went there once with my friend Kelli. I think she was organizing the library or something, I can’t remember. But I do remember the cookies,” Nikki laughed. “She’s nice.”
“I remember when I would sit and talk with Moira for hours at a time. Your mom and I ended up on her porch a lot when we were kids.” Pam smiled fondly.
“She doesn’t get into town very often. Is she feeling okay?” Chad remembered that Paris had visited with Moira often, too.
“She’s old and cranky,” Miles said. “And she has arthritis, but other than that she’s fine. I know she’d love to see you, Pam.”
“I’ve been meaning to make some time to get out there. Tell her I said hello, will you, David?”
“You can tell her yourself. I mentioned to her that we’ve gone out to lunch a few times and she made me promise to tell you that she still keeps the cookie jar full.”
“I’ll definitely get out there before I leave. I’ve missed talking with her,” she said, realizing that she actually had.
“Sometime next week would be good. I don’t think I told you, but I’ll be out of town then. Would it be all right if we changed our lunch date to the following Tuesday, instead of this one coming up?”
Pam nodded and crunched ice noisily. “I can live with that.”
“Good. Then I’ll see you next Tuesday. It was nice meeting you,” Miles said, looking at Chad and Nikki. He gave them one last wave and left the restaurant. Minutes later he was in his car, feeling pleased with himself.
Inside the restaurant, Nikki aimed a speculative look at her aunt and cleared her throat. “You didn’t tell me you were dating someone, Aunt Pam.”
Pam was concentrating on scooping up the last of her apple crisp and she looked up, genuinely taken aback. “What?”
“That man said you two have been going out to lunch. Is that a sneaky way of saying you two are dating?”
“Me and him?” Pam looked over her shoulder in the direction Miles had disappeared. “Nikki, please. David is nice, but hardly my type. We’ve met for lunch a few times, but that’s it. I think he’s hoping he’ll get his picture in the paper or something.”
“What does he do?” Chad asked. He spotted their waitress and lifted a hand to signal for the check.
“I don’t know. I’ll have to remember to ask him sometime.”
“What exactly is your type, Aunt Pam?” Nikki wanted to know. “The National Tattler said you only date rich white men and Mr. Dixon is white.”
Pam sucked one last ice cube in her mouth and crunched into it viciously. She set her cup down with a sharp thump. “Don’t believe everything you read, Nikki. Over half of the men they paired me with were only business associates.”
“What about that producer?”
“God, you’re worse than the media. What about the producer?” She looked at Chad, whose face was blank, and rolled her eyes. “Are we ready?”
He nodded and she got to her feet briskly. But she couldn’t help sliding one last look at Nikki.
“And just for the record, the producer isn’t white, he’s Mexican.”
TEN
Pam reached across the bed and snatched her cell phone from the nightstand. Underneath two pillows, she put the phone to her ear. “Please tell me you have a good reason for calling me at three o’clock in the morning.”
“You’re never asleep at this hour,” Gillian chirped. She was wide-awake and in her home office tending to business. “What’s going on down there?”
“Things are different in this backward town. If you aren’t in bed by seven, they call the police on you. What’s up?” She pushed the pillows aside and sat up, sweeping her wild hair back from her face.
“Personal tragedy is making you a hot ticket, Pam. Sharon Templeton’s people called me today. She wants you on her show like yesterday.” Gillian was referring to the queen of daytime talk shows. “They’re willing to let you write the script, as long as you agree to talk about your loss.”
“You woke me up for that? Come on, Gil, you know I don’t do interviews and shit. Tell Templeton’s people thanks, but no thanks. Can I get back to sleep now?”
“Sure, but first tell me when you’re coming home. I need to know so I know what to book and what to toss in the trash. Dynasty Entertainment is putting together a nineteen-city tour, and they want you on the ticket.”
“What tour and what cities?” She hadn’t done a tour in quite some time and a diversion might be just what the doctor ordered after she left Mercy. She listened intently as Gillian gave her the preliminary details of the tour, providing the names of the artists who were already signed on. “Sistahs of Soul, huh? Sounds interesting.”
“If you decide to do it, you’ll need to be ready to go on the . . .” Gillian searched around on her desktop and found the paper she needed. “Twentieth of next month. That gives you a couple more weeks down there and then you need to haul your ass home so you can get ready. The tour kicks off in Houston, Texas.”
“I think I want to do it.” Pam could feel the thrill of anticipation flowing through her blood.
“It’ll be a great start for your latest CD. Sales are good now, but with a tour to help promote it, they’ll go through the roof. Your call, though. Think about it and let me know.”
Pam exhaled on a long breath and squeezed her eyes shut. “Do it,” she said several seconds later. “Sign me up, Gil.”
>
“You’re sure? Because with everything you’ve been through you . . .”
“I’m sure. Something like this is just what I need. I can’t stay here forever and I don’t want to. Nikki will have to let me go if she knows I have definite work lined up.”
“She’s still clinging, huh?”
“Not that I blame her and I’m enjoying spending time with her, but I think she has this fantasy that I’ll stay in Mercy, and I just can’t do that. It’s been almost a month as it is and I’m starting to go stir crazy. This place depresses me.”
“That bad?”
“Worse. Everywhere I go, the old biddies are whispering and clinging to their husbands like they think I’ll run off with them.”
“Women do that everywhere you go, Pam,” Gillian joked. “What about the other thing?”
Pam was quiet a long time. “Nothing that I know of. I try to steer clear of that area all together and so far I’ve been successful. I keep a paper bag handy though, just in case.”
“I was hoping you’d be able to get some closure.”
“I’d have to open that door again to get some closure and I’m not doing that. It’s over and done with, which is why I’m telling you to sign me up for the tour. I need to start planning my escape, so give me a reason, okay?”
“If you say so. I’ll do some follow-up and get back to you.”
“I’ll be waiting.” Pam folded the cell phone closed and dropped it on the nightstand.
Fully awake now, she climbed out of bed and headed to the bathroom. She emptied her bladder, washed her hands, and picked up her guitar case on her way back across the room. She sat on the side of the bed and flipped the case open, stroking the guitar lovingly. It was the same one she’d been making music with since the days of recording demo tapes to shop to major studios, and she couldn’t imagine having to replace it.
