Nashville Dreams

by Rachel Hauck

  Jacked up on a thermos of coffee, I’ve had two highway hours to mull this over. I’m good and mad.

  With Mr. Chastain’s picture in one hand, my guitar in the other, I stride toward the porch, muttering, “Lord, Momma, better tell me the truth.”

  The kitchen screen slams behind me as I enter. Momma whirls around, hand over her heart. “Oh, Robin Rae, you scared me. Land sakes, girl, what are you doing here?” She takes a step toward me, her forehead wrinkled.

  Daddy rises from the table where he’s nursing a cup of coffee. “Everything all right?”

  My boot heels thud against the hardwood. I drop my guitar case on the kitchen table and snap open the buckles.

  “Play.” I thrust my old Taylor at Momma, trembling so bad the guitar shimmies.

  “For crying out loud, Robin. Get that out of my face. What on earth?”

  Daddy sips his coffee, watching.

  I grit my teeth. “Play it, Momma.”

  Momma stares me down with one hand on her waist and the other resting on the edge of the sink. Suds drip from her wrist onto the floor. “I don’t know what kind of foolishness you’re up to, Robin, but I know this—” She turns to the sink and starts washing the skillet.

  “Momma!” I screech from the core of my being. “Play it.” I stomp my heel against the floor.

  “Dean, are you going to let her talk to me this way?”

  Daddy looks between us. “Robin, watch your tone. Your momma deserves respect. I don’t care if you are grown—mind yourself.”

  “Yes, Daddy.” A sudden drop in my adrenaline leaves me weak and wobbly.

  “Bit, I reckon you’d better do as she asks. If she asks you nicely.”

  “Dean!” Momma whips around, splattering water all over. The old skillet clatters to the floor.

  Daddy tips up his coffee cup for the last drop. “This don’t concern me, Bit.” He puts his cup in the suds, then stoops to pick up the skillet.

  “It does so concern you, Dean.” Momma’s eyes narrow and her lips pale.

  I back away, feeling like I’ve jerked a tiger by the tail and am about to lose my arm.

  “Bit,” Daddy says softly, “she asked you to play a little guitar. That ain’t so bad, is it?”

  “Momma.” I walk closer. “Please play.”

  The tip of her nose and the high angles of her cheeks redden. She wipes her hands on a faded dishtowel and takes the guitar.

  Without a word of excuse or explanation, she balances the instrument on her knee, and with ease and beauty, she plays the most haunting melody I’ve ever heard.

  My mind is stirred with an image of young lovers torn apart. Her fingers move up and down the fret as if she’d played every day of her life.

  When she finishes, she hands me the guitar. “You happy?”

  “No, I’m not. Why didn’t you tell me you could play? That was beautiful.”

  “You knew your granddaddy taught me. For pity sake, he taught you. And you knew about the Lukeman Sisters.”

  “But, I didn’t know, Momma. What’s the big secret? How come you never played for us kids? How come we never had music in the house?”

  “Bit, go on. Tell her.”

  Momma nails Daddy to the wall with a hard look. “Dean, please . . .”

  “Tell her,” he urges with his gentle voice, smoothing his big hands along her slight shoulders.

  “Will this help to get things started?” I hand Momma the photo from Mr. Chastain’s wall.

  With a fleeting glance, she rolls her head back and lifts her hands. “Oh, heaven help us, Robin, where did you get this? Did Birdie give this to you? I knew it, I knew it.”

  “No, in fact, she didn’t. I saw it when I was cleaning Mr. Chastain’s office. Nashville Noise is one of Marc’s customers.”

  “Of all things . . . Dean?” Momma’s eyes seem to plead with him to get her out of this situation.

  “Go on, Bit.”

  “I found this too.” I bring out the torn photo from the attic. “It was sticking out of the side of your old trunk. I’m sorry, it tore.”

  She pinches the edges between her finger and thumb, and a very slight smile plays across her lips. “I was looking in the trunk before you left. I always liked this picture. Remember Burt Michaels, Dean?”

  “I do.”

  I pull up a chair. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

  Momma pieces the torn photo together. “I dropped out of high school at seventeen and ran off to Nashville with my head full of dreams. Your granddaddy was madder than a hornet and demanded I come home, but I refused. Lynette and Carol were angry because I left them. We were about to sign a gospel deal with a producer over in Muscle Shoals.”

  “Thus the silent feud.”

  Momma smoothes her hands down her hips. “The lure of fame makes people crazy.”

  “Did it make you crazy?”

  “In a manner of speaking. I’d met Birdie during a fair tour. We became instant friends. She was older, wiser—a star. I wanted to go where she was going. So, I left the Lukeman Sisters and moved to Nashville. Birdie had a nice place in Forrest Hills in those days.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

  “It was a long time ago . . .”

  “In a land far, far away?”

  “Don’t be fresh.” Momma pats her curls into place.

  “Is this why you were so against me moving to Nashville?”

  Momma doesn’t answer at first, then mutters, “I reckon so.”

  Daddy moves to the wall phone by the door. “Gary, it’s Dean. I’m gonna be a while . . . Not sure . . . Be along soon as I can . . . Thanks.”

  “Why would you get in my way? Because things didn’t work out for you?”

  Momma jerks a chair away from the table and plops down. “Good heavens, no. I want you to do what your heart tells you to do.”

  “Is it me? Or are we talking in circles? You want me to follow my heart, but you want me to stay home at the same time?”

  Daddy pours another cup of coffee. “Your momma did make it in Nashville, Robin. In fact, she sang backup on one of Grace Harding’s albums. She’s the beautiful echo on ‘Living Without You.’”

  My mouth drops. The song is a cover band classic. “You’re the famous echo?”

  Her lips twitch, and she folds her fingers together so tight the tips turn white. “Guilty.”

  I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.

  “Nashville Noise planned on releasing her solo album in 1981.” Daddy stirs in his sugar.

  Momma cradles her chin in her hand. “I thought I owned the world.”

  “So, where’s this album?”

  Momma glances away. “I didn’t finish recording it. My heart got broken, and I came home.” She smiles weakly. “Ain’t that a country classic?”

  “Who broke your heart, Momma? Did you and Birdie fight over someone?”

  “No, no. Birdie was a good friend. The best, but . . .” She gazes toward the door. “It was a long time ago and not important now.”

  “Not important?” I peek at Daddy, hoping he’ll spill more of the beans, but he doesn’t. “So a guy broke your heart? Why did you quit?”

  “You know there’s no accounting for actions of the broken hearted.”

  I sit back. This is amazing. My momma, a James Chastain protégé. How different my life as a songwriter would be if Momma’s broken heart hadn’t driven her home. “Why didn’t you go back? I’m sure Nashville Noise would’ve—”

  “I fell in love with your daddy,” Momma says. “We got married, had you, then Eliza and Steve. Next thing I know, you’re all grown, trotting off to chase your own dreams.”

  I edge around the table and kneel beside her. “Momma, thank you for telling me.”

  She kisses my forehead gently. “You’re welcome. Don’t let no sweet-talking man break your heart, hear me?”

  “I won’t. I promise.”

  Daddy sets his coffee cup in the sink. “I’
m going on to the plant.” He kisses Momma, then me.

  We watch him drive off, standing shoulder to shoulder on the back porch. Slate gray clouds weep a gentle rain. The grass is wet and green, the air fresh and sweet.

  “Did you have breakfast?” Momma asks in the next minute.

  “No, and I’m starved. Eggs sound good.”

  “Come on, then.”

  Momma retrieves the skillet from the dish drain and scrambles up some eggs while I perk another pot of coffee. At this rate, I won’t sleep for a week.

  “What happened between you and Birdie?” I sit at the table and reach for the Freedom Rings front page.

  “Oh, she went on with her life, me with mine. I don’t have to tell you people drift apart.”

  I look up from the headline: “Target Store To Break Ground.” “Drift? You act like you never knew each other. She saw that torn picture of you and never said a word.”

  “Leave it be, Robin.”

  I suppose we’ve done all the soul bearing we’re going to do for today. When Momma hands me my breakfast, I offer up the wisdom of twenty-five years. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

  She jerks open the silverware drawer for a fork. “Some mistakes hurt innocent people, and no matter how hard you pray, they can’t be undone.”

  While I eat, Momma washes the skillet and starts a load of laundry, giving me an update on the town, telling stories about her friends.

  “And, Robin, I like to have died when Henna talked prim and proper Sissy into riding a horse for the Founder’s Day parade.” Momma laughs with her hand on her middle. “She sat atop the horse wearing white gloves, her back as stiff as Custer’s at the last stand.”

  Momma is light hearted, almost floating. I do believe the Nashville Noise confession cut a weight from her soul.

  “But the horse trotted off the parade route, and Sissy couldn’t get him back in line. The whole time, she’s bouncing and listing to one side, hollering, ‘Henna, you crazy woman, putting me on this crazy horse.’” Momma wipes her eyes. “Oh, my.”

  I laugh with her. “Only in Freedom.”

  By now the rain has stopped, and Momma hurries out to tend her garden before the next rain cloud bursts. I wash my dishes, watching out the window as a thick water droplet stretches down from the porch eaves. Now that the dust has settled, I’m wore out.

  In my old room, I crash face-first into a pile of pillows. Birdie must have anticipated an emotional meltdown or something. Otherwise, why pack my overnight bag? She underestimated the stamina of the McAfee-Lukeman women. I’ll go home after dinner and, if I’m not fired, go to work in the morning.

  Dialing Marc, I leave a voice message apologizing for my abrupt exit, promising to explain later—and return the picture. Pressing End, I toss my cell onto the nightstand and flop over on my back, staring at the ceiling. My room is layered with memories. The walls are privy to my dreams and tears, laughter and songs.

  Momma. An original Nashville Noise artist. Who’d have thought? Mercy almighty. What else you got in your bag of tricks, Momma?

  Words form in my head, so I reach for my notebook, the idea of a song sparking energy.

  She left her daddy’s world, barely seventeen, With dreams in her heart, to a place she’d never been . . .

  Grabbing my guitar, I decide to work out the song on the front porch. An hour later, I’m frustrated, and my notebook is filling up with scratched out lyrics.

  Momma comes out with the prettiest Gibson I’ve ever seen and trades me for my old Taylor.

  “Your tempo feels a little too fast for the lyrics. It’s bumping going to the chorus from the verse.” She settles in the rocker next to me with my guitar on her knee.

  “Momma, where did you get this?” I run my fingertips along the smooth, polished red grain of the Gibson.

  “Gibson gave them to all the Nashville Noise artists our first year.”

  “You hid this away for twenty-six years?”

  She flashes a sly grin. “I parted with Nashville Noise, but not that guitar.” Her smile is like the one in the torn picture. Carefree. “Once in awhile, I’d get it out and sing to your daddy.”

  I start strumming. “Liza used to tell me she heard music at night. I told her ghosts lived in the attic.”

  Momma pops my knee with her fingers and laughs a hearty, feel-good laugh. Hello, who are you, and what have you done with my mother? “Do you know how many nights she came crawling into bed with Daddy and me, scared half to death?”

  “Oops, sorry.” I point at my song notebook. “So, what’s wrong with my melody?”

  As white clouds float across the blue afternoon, Momma and I write a song about a girl who followed her dream and found life didn’t turn out as she’d planned. But God was still in control. The song is part her and part me.

  Momma’s got some pipes. A little bit of diva going on. We sing so loud, and with so much soul, Mo and Curly point their noses north and howl. I about fall out of the rocker, guffawing, as Mo shifts his brown eyes at me as if to ask, “Is this right?”

  Momma slaps her palm on the arm of the rocker. “Put to shame by a hound. Don’t that beat all?” She stands and swaps my Taylor back for her Gibson. Guess if she didn’t part with it twenty-six years ago, she isn’t parting with it now. “I’ll take the howling as my cue to quit and get to fixing supper.”

  “I’m heading out afterward.”

  “I figured as much.” She pauses at the screen door. “I hope you can forgive me, Robin.”

  “For hiding a broke heart? Of course. I only wish I’d known sooner.”

  “Well—” She hesitates, gazing at me, her lips quivering. “Better get to supper.” The screen door claps shut behind her.

  22

  Skyler, Blaire, and I finally have movie night at my place around mid-August. The goal? Introduce Blaire to hick chick movies like Jeremiah Johnson and Outlaw Josey Wales. She wanted to rent In Her Shoes, to which I said, “Over my dead body.”

  “Still no update on Lee Rivers?” Skyler tosses a bag of popcorn in my microwave.

  “You tell me. Any more ‘Brad About You’ blurbs?”

  Skyler shakes her head. “Nope, but I heard from a lawyer friend that Janie settled her dispute with her record label.”

  “Really?” I decide we need more pillows. “When?”

  “Two weeks ago, maybe?”

  I open the closet and pull out the pillows Momma sent with me in May. “Guess I won’t be having coffee with Lee after all.”

  “Sorry, cousin.”

  I shrug. “We had one date and a lot of chemistry. No big deal. Easy come, easy go.” But deep down, my heart accuses my lips of lying. I wanted more than one afternoon with Lee Rivers.

  “What’s up with you and Graham?” Blaire asks from her spot on the floor where she’s setting up to polish her nails.

  “Nothing. He’s been acting weird ever since we came back from Freedom.” I hand a pillow to Blaire and she stuffs it behind her back.

  “Maybe it’s because you laughed at his kiss,” Skyler suggests. “Which, by the way, was wise of you.”

  I plump a pillow on the sofa for myself. “No, it’s not the kiss. We’ve met a few times to work on songs, but we ended up arguing about lyrics and melodies. Honestly, if he’s working with Frank and Danny, why does he need me?”

  “Have you written any new songs?” Blaire pops open a Diet Pepsi.

  “As a matter of fact . . . Kim Flowers helped me fine-tune the one I wrote with Momma, She Was Seventeen. I think I’m ready to brave Susan West at ASCAP again.”

  Blaire scoops her dark hair back from her face. “‘She Was Seventeen’? How very Janis Ian of you.”

  “I think so.” I hold up the DVDs. “Which one first? Redford or Eastwood?”

  “Redford,” Blaire says, with Skyler agreeing.

  I pop in Jeremiah Johnson. “You’re gonna love this movie, Blaire.”

  “What if I don’t?”

  Ten minutes into the movie, Bla
ire admits the scenery is breathtaking, but she hates that Jeremiah is a trapper, “It’s so cruel.” Then she screams when he comes up on a frozen man.

  “If you can’t watch like a grown-up, I’m going to have to put you in the other room,” Skyler declares, arching a piece of popcorn over my head toward Blaire.

  “There is no other room,” Blaire says with a laugh, ducking the popcorn.

  “If I met a mountain man who looked like Robert Redford, I’d follow him to the highest peaks,” I decide, dumping a handful of popcorn in my mouth.

  “I’d so be a mountain woman,” Skyler agrees.

  Blaire strokes dark red polish on her toenails. “You’re crazy. He’d probably smell like horse manure on a hot day. His teeth would be rotten and his fingernails caked with dried blood and dirt.” She wrinkles her nose as if she actually smells the manure. “Look at the old bear-hunting man Jeremiah ran into. Trust me, it takes a skilled stylist to make Redford look so messy, yet astoundingly sexy.”

  Skyler points at Blaire. “She makes a good case.”

  Blaire taps my leg. “Robin, I found this great Bible verse the other day. ‘Perfect love casts out all fear.’ Isn’t that great?”

  I grin. “Very excellent verse, Blaire.”

  “Shhh, we missed the beginning of the wedding scene.” Skyler jerks the remote from my hand and rewinds.

  Blaire whispers, “Her last date with Trey didn’t go so well.”

  “Quiet, Redford is talking.” Skyler gestures with the remote.

  “Sorry about Trey,” I say in her ear.

  She shrugs. “No biggy. He likes quieter women.”

  I choke on my popcorn.

  When Jeremiah Johnson is over, Skyler stretches and suggests, “Let’s get ice cream, then watch Josey Wales.”

  I hop up. “You drive.”

  Blaire runs her hands over her face with a muffled moan. “I don’t know how much of this I can take. Jeremiah ends up alone. This is not even close to a chick movie. Not even a hick chick.”

  Skyler stands by the door. “Josey Wales is even better.”

  “I bet.” Blaire pushes off the sofa. “I’m getting my own carton of Ben & Jerry’s.”

  We thunder downstairs, carrying on like a bunch of high school girls at a slumber party night.