The Song

by Chris Fabry

  “Let me help you with that,” Denise Lawton said. She was taller than Rose by several inches, with long brown hair and eyes that twinkled when she smiled, and she always seemed to find a way to get her eyes to twinkle. Denise was a drama queen, literally, because she had been in every play and musical at school, seemingly from infancy.

  “Wait, you’re not getting rid of this, are you?” Denise said. “Rose, you can’t!”

  “It’s been sitting in the barn for years.”

  “But we played with this when we were kids. You should keep this for your daughter.”

  Denise tried to move back toward the barn, but Rose pulled harder. “Keep moving—we’re going to the truck.”

  “This is a mistake. You loved this dollhouse.”

  The thing was getting heavy and marking up her arms, so Rose set it down in the grass and ran a hand over the rooftop and the cupola. “I did love it, but I’ve outgrown it. And some little girl is going to be so happy.”

  “It’s an heirloom. You don’t outgrow an heirloom, you pass it down.”

  “I don’t want my life to be about collecting stuff. If I ever have kids, I can tell them stories about this, about what my dad and brothers did for me. But I don’t have to keep it in order to remember. I want to let go of it.”

  “I’m all for letting go of things you don’t need. Uncluttering is fine. But you have to choose wisely. This is a mistake. Trust me. You’re going to want this in a few years.”

  “Okay, stay right here,” Rose said, running off. Denise called after her like she was threatening to leave but she was still with the dollhouse when Rose returned with her camera.

  “Here, take a picture so I can show all these children you think I’m going to have.”

  “You are going to have a houseful. You’ll make a great mom. People who have great moms become them.”

  “That’s sweet. I think you just gave me a compliment.”

  “I was complimenting your mom.”

  Rose knelt by the house and smiled, holding up the kitchen table and one of the chairs to show the intricacy of the construction. Denise snapped a few photos.

  “There. Now let’s get this over to the truck.”

  “You’re going to hurt your dad by getting rid of this.”

  “My dad will be proud that we’re helping the family raising funds.”

  “Always the great philanthropist. Who is this family, anyway?”

  “They’re from the Nazarene church. Their son needs an operation. They’re having a rummage sale this weekend at the church picnic. Who knows what this might sell for.”

  They lifted it onto the back and slid it close to the exercise bicycle that had been tied down. There were several bags of clothes and books nearby and other things people from their church had already donated. Seeing the dollhouse there with the other stuff made her catch her breath. It was one thing to decide something like this and another to decide not to feel anything.

  Rose pulled herself up on the truck’s gate and sat. She looked out at the land, the vineyard that stretched out toward the rolling hills. She closed the bedroom door on the dollhouse and heard it click. Such detail.

  She smiled. “I remember the musicals we’d do with guys straddling the top of the dollhouse and singing, ‘Oooooklahoma!’”

  “And the Barbies would always sit in the kitchen and listen, dreamily. Waiting for Ken to walk through after a hard day’s work.”

  Rose closed her eyes and the memories came back sweetly. “You helped me laugh again.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “After Mom died, after all that happened in our house, the way my brothers coped or didn’t . . . They kept living as if they’d lost a Little League game. And how stoic Dad became. I was the only one who cried and I felt bad about it. You let me. You encouraged me to cry. And you were the one who helped me laugh again.”

  “I just wanted to see the old you come through.”

  “It was your mom who suggested having my birthday party the next year, wasn’t it?”

  Denise nodded. “We talked about how sad you were. When you came over, when your dad would let you, you just wanted to stay outside. Sit on the swing and stare at the yard.”

  “You were good at listening.”

  “My mom said your dad cried when she suggested the party.”

  “He did?”

  “She said he knew deep down she was right, that you needed things like that, but it was so hard for him to do. Your mom was the one who planned the parties and bought the presents.”

  “And baked the cake and decorated the house and put the balloons on the mailbox the day of the party.” Rose sighed heavily and swung her legs beneath her like a child. “I don’t think it was buying stuff or decorating that he didn’t want to do. I think it was really hard for him to let a little joy come back into the house. It felt like we were betraying her by laughing again. By celebrating life.”

  “But she would have wanted you to laugh. That’s the crazy thing. And she would have wanted you to keep this dollhouse for her grandchildren.”

  Rose rolled her eyes. “I’m not ready to think about grandchildren, Denise.”

  “You’re going to have fifteen kids. All of them boys.”

  Rose laughed. “So what do I need a dollhouse for? And can you imagine fifteen boys in one house?”

  “And you’ll drive around a school bus to the grocery store.”

  “I think for that to happen, I’d have to find them a dad first.”

  “Eddie Edwards has always had a thing for you. And he’s cute.”

  “Puppies are cute.”

  Denise rolled her eyes and shook her head. “You are hopeless. Guys are falling all over themselves to get to know you.”

  “I don’t see any.”

  “You won’t believe the number of guys who talk about you at church.”

  “Talking about me and talking to me are two wildly different things. Why don’t they do a little of that?”

  “You know why. They’re all scared of your dad. Don’t look at me that way. He’s intimidating, you have to admit.”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Saying your dad is a little intimidating is like saying Mount Everest is a bit of a hike.” Denise sighed. “He does love you, in that crazy, delusional, special-ops-wine-country-farmer-protective kind of way. But I think your guy is out there. Right now he’s waiting. Planning. It’s a covert operation.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “Let’s see. He’s six feet tall with a strong back that will be able to carry this dollhouse alone, anywhere you want. And he’ll have blue eyes or maybe green. And a kind face. He’ll wear crisp white T-shirts everywhere and jeans that look like they just came off the rack. A little beard down here like Tim McGraw.”

  “Tim who?”

  “The country singer. Come on, Rose, you really need to update your music. You can’t stay with the oldies forever.”

  “I like the oldies. My mom liked the oldies.”

  “Fine. Then this guy will like the oldies. He’ll have all the great hits and listen to the AM station that still plays them.”

  “You talk like you’ve seen him. Like you have his phone number.”

  “I wish. If I knew a guy like that, I’d go for him myself.”

  “You can have him. I’m done with guys.”

  “You can’t be done when you haven’t started. Unless you count Stanley from fifth grade.”

  “Stanley Hinckley?”

  They both broke out in spasms and Rose covered her mouth.

  “He brought you flowers, didn’t he?”

  “Oh, he was so sweet. He used to sharpen my pencil every morning before school started and bring it to me like he’d slayed a dragon. First boy I ever danced with. Only boy I ever danced with.”

  “Too bad he left you for another woman.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Little Debbie.”

  “I heard he lost weight, th
ough,” Rose said when she could talk through her laughter. “Got on the wrestling team after he moved to Lexington. I saw his picture the other day. Still has that smile.”

  “See, you’re not done with guys if you’re thinking about Stanley. Maybe he could move back and work on your dad’s farm?” Denise’s voice had a mix of concern in it. When Rose didn’t answer, she said, “What are you going to do? I mean, you can’t stay here forever, right?”

  “Somebody has to help my dad, and it’s not going to be my brothers.”

  “Your dad doesn’t want you to stay here and sacrifice your future.”

  “It’s no sacrifice to love someone who’s loved you all your life.”

  “What about what God wants?”

  “Honoring my dad is a good thing, isn’t it?”

  “Sure. I’m just saying . . .”

  “Just because I don’t go off to school like you and have this big vision for life doesn’t mean I’m not doing what God wants. You can still find passion in small places. Your hometown. Don’t try to make me fit in with your own dream, okay? I think it’s great you have big plans. Go for it. But don’t try to make me be like you.”

  Denise winced. “Looks like I touched a nerve.”

  “No, you put the toe of your boot on the nerve and smashed it.”

  “You’re right. You don’t have to leave the farm in order to do what God wants. And maybe someday the guy of your dreams will just waltz up here and plop himself down at your feet.”

  “If God has somebody for me, he’s going to make it happen.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. You have to get out there, Rose. You have to be proactive. You can’t just sit and let life come to you. You have to explore. You have to live.”

  “And you’re the person who’s saying I shouldn’t get rid of my dollhouse?”

  “Rose—”

  “Denise, I love this place. This is where my dreams are. Where I want my future to be. I’m not settling or hiding; I am living.”

  Denise stared at her for a long moment. “Okay.” She sighed. “So the dollhouse goes?”

  Rose smiled. “The dollhouse goes.”

  CHAPTER 4

  AS SOON AS AMERICAN IDOL hit the airwaves, people told Jed he should audition. They said it was a way to get noticed and get his name out there. But everything in him felt like that wasn’t the way to go, that it was somehow cheating his art. He wanted to do this the way his father had, just play his songs and let things shake out. Sing the songs with every ounce of energy inside and see what happened. And that’s what he did. He had the advantage of being in the lineage of a famous country artist, so there was interest and intrigue when he first began to play.

  One night in a little venue on the south side of Louisville, a man approached.

  Stan Russel was fighting hard not to look fifty, but he was losing the battle. His hair was thinning and his paunch broadening. If he wasn’t careful, he would wind up with a bowling ball to carry around his middle. He wore a nice suit and looked like the kind of man who could get things done.

  “I saw you last week at that little place on Frankfort Avenue. Heard you were playing here tonight.”

  “Well, thank you for taking the time to come hear me, Mr. Russel. I’m honored.”

  Stan smiled at Jed’s politeness. “You’ve got a unique talent. Solid technique. Your voice cuts through. Your lyrics seem to come from somewhere deep inside. That’s a winning combination, son.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Of course, you need some refining, but everybody your age needs that. Somebody to help them take the next step.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m not just saying this as observation. I have a reason to be here.”

  Jed stayed silent, asking only with his eyes.

  “I’d like to represent you, Jed. I think with your talent and the drive you have to succeed and your heritage—” he gave what Jed would affectionately come to call the Stan stare—“I could help take you places.”

  “And what places would those be?”

  “What places you want to go? Chicago? LA? I’m not in this to keep you a regional artist; I want to help you go big-time. Radio stations around the country will be playing your songs. You can count on that.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  “I’ve convinced a fairly big label to give you a shot. What I need is a signature tune. One that connects you and your daddy. You give me that and I’ll take care of the rest.”

  “Every agent who has approached me has told me to knock off the God stuff. Are you going to say the same thing?”

  “Quite the contrary. I don’t want you to take anything out of your songs that comes from here.” He pointed to Jed’s chest. “I don’t want to hear anything fake. I want to hear the real thing. I don’t care if you’re an atheist, a Christian, or you believe space aliens are watching us. I want you to sing what you’ve been made to sing, just like your dad did.”

  They shook hands that night. Didn’t sign anything or make any promises, but Stan handed him his card and Jed slipped it into the hole in his guitar. Then Jed stayed up all night working on something that had been rolling around in his head ever since his father died. It was the truth. And sometimes the truth had a bittersweet way of comforting those who had the ability to look it in the eye.

  So when he started writing, the little lick at the start, the muted guitar string jag, gave the perfect feel. He could hear the mandolin coming in behind him, but only that, and maybe a bass line that ran through it. He was writing about his father, but he felt he was writing about himself too. Or what he might be capable of doing if he didn’t follow the narrow path.

  You can say it was love,

  I don’t know what I think of that.

  Yeah, but somewhere the lines got crossed,

  somewhere the vows were tossed away.

  But the consequences stayed.

  The consequences stayed.

  Families torn apart all for the sake of your arrogance.

  And somewhere the lines got crossed.

  You took what wasn’t yours to take.

  But the consequences stayed.

  Still the consequences stayed.

  Yeah, I was born the son of a king

  but you don’t know what that means, do ya?

  You might say it’s living a dream

  but somehow dreams have a way of coming true

  like you don’t want them to.

  Some would probably see it as an angry song. Some would say Jed was accusing his father and dragging his name through the mud. Others would analyze it and say he had let his mother off the hook, that she’d been a willing participant in the breakup, the breakdown. Jed didn’t see it as anything but painting the truth with words. All the family struggles, the alimony, the financial ups and downs, the screaming fans and the ugly side of fame. And how, when you stripped all of that away, a man’s life boils down to just a handful of things.

  In the last turn he brought it all together, his earthly father and his heavenly one, until it made sense to him.

  And to the God in heaven,

  give me the wisdom to see this through.

  I didn’t choose the place I was born

  but I have to believe that it was you.

  So to the God in heaven,

  give me the wisdom to see this through.

  Love is a choice worth making,

  but even if it’s not what we choose,

  I’m still the son of a king.

  Some songs take a lifetime to live and an hour to write. That’s what “Son of a King” was like, and when he finished, he wept because he knew he had something special.

  Jed tipped his guitar over and the card fell out. He called Stan at four in the morning and played the song the whole way through on the man’s answering machine. Then he fell into a deep sleep that lasted until the phone woke him.

  “Can you make it to Nashville today? How long will it take? Bring your guitar a
nd that song.”

  CHAPTER 5

  THE HARVEST FESTIVAL had been her mother’s idea. It had started as a family thing, getting people together for games and food and music. When Rose was a little girl, she remembered the extended family coming and camping out on the lawn, sleeping anywhere they could find an empty spot. Late-night games of dominoes and Rook and the sound of her mother playing the piano while voices sang from an old red hymnal in four-part harmony.

  Through the years, the festival became more of a celebration and an extension of the vineyard—a way to share the bounty of the harvest with friends. People came for those three crisp days in October to unwind and eat good food and taste something new. There was storytelling and face-painting and they sold pumpkins for half of what you could buy them for at the store. Women from the church brought baked goods and there were hayrides and pony rides and the juiciest candy apples south of the Mason-Dixon, or north for that matter.

  The pinnacle of the event was the concert Saturday night. Each year Rose and her dad tried to make the concert bigger and better. Early on they had groups from church, quartets and bands that sang at no cost. One year they had a talent competition, everything from singing kids to a ventriloquist to a guy who spun pie plates, but they finally agreed to hire professionals. That led to several years of bad decisions by her father, who brought in some of the most eclectic performers Rose had ever seen. A man who played the harp and sang falsetto versions of Slim Whitman’s greatest hits. Three men who were billed as a quartet—and they’d never had a fourth member even to play piano. They wore impeccable clothing; it was just that the style had gone out in the seventies with shag carpet.

  “This year, it’s all yours,” her dad said this summer. “You pick the singer, the talent, whatever you want. I wash my hands of the whole thing.”

  “Really?” Rose was wide-eyed and smiling.