“We’re not that easily deceived,” I tell him.
Carmine downs his glass of wine in one gulp and utters something. I can’t make it out but it sounds something like, “He’s the devil,” and shivers run up my spine. Yes, again. I tend to absorb weird energy coming off people.
“There’s a real nip in the air,” Mona tells me as she sits down. “Isn’t it lovely?”
I smile and nod. “Lovely indeed.”
The rest of the evening revolves around Mona explaining how in 1959 Rick Hall created a recording studio with a white backup band called The Swampers and brought in artists, black and white, to produce some of the greatest rock hits the world has ever known. It was called the “Muscle Shoals Sound” and when The Swampers began their own studio at 3614 Jackson Highway, more hits followed. We’re talking Rolling Stones, Aretha Franklin, Bob Seger, Etta James and the Osmonds cutting hit albums here, not to mention Lynyrd Skynyrd, who included mentioning The Swampers on their hit song, Sweet Home Alabama. We’re going to visit these places tomorrow, Mona promises, plus a special spot on the way out of town.
After viewing the Tennessee River twice and enjoying a wonderful meal, it’s time to call it a night. Tours begin early in the morning, Mona tells us, with a trip across the river for an “Alabama-style breakfast.”
“Fried elephant,” I tease, but no one gets it so I add, “You know, Roll Tide?”
Guess it’s not funny for Mona starts talking about W.C. Handy’s birthplace as we head to the elevators. The pause gives me time to say hello to the rest of the gang who were busy talking to other CVB people at the other end of the table. There’s my favorite couple, Stephanie and Joe Pennington, two hard-working newsletter publishers from Wisconsin, and a young girl named Pepper Snipe (not making this up) who just graduated Knoxville and is working as an intern for America’s Highways magazine, a trade publication for motorcycle enthusiasts. She’s dressed all in black with multiple piercings beneath a head of dirty blond dreadlocks.
“She’s a first,” Winnie whispers to me.
Kelly Talbot, editor of Southern Gardens and not one of my favorite people because she’s drop dead gorgeous and a snob, is on the trip as well. We didn’t leave on good terms on a press trip to Eureka Springs but that’s another story. I’m not in the least bit surprised to find that she and Dwayne are now ogling each other. This could be good. I’ll make amends with the woman and pick her brain for no doubt those two aren’t going to the lobby bar now.
The rest of us are, however. The CVB people bid goodnight and head off to their cars while Shelby arranges a tab at The Swampers Bar so we can enjoy free drinks. The only people drinking, however, are the Penningtons, Carmine, — who should go to bed considering how much wine he’s had with dinner — Winnie, and me and, because our trio is not alone, we small talk with Stephanie and Joe until Winnie loses patience and blurts out, “What do y’all know about that Dwayne guy?”
Carmine bristles, I hide my smile inside my bourbon, and the Penningtons shake their heads.
“No idea,” Stephanie says. “I’ve been in the business a while and I’ve never heard of him.”
“He’s a sweet talker,” Joe adds. “He was reeling in that gardens editor after hello.”
Now, it’s my turn to bristle. Miss Georgia (Kelly hails from outside Atlanta) nailed a cop I knew from New Orleans. I was married when the guy and I worked together in New Orleans but he was so hot it made me want to slap my mamma, as we say in Louisiana. He was my sexual fantasy and I ran into him at the Eureka Springs press trip and Miss No Hair Outta Place reeled him in. Not like I was going to sleep with the man but it chaffed my butt. Plus, she’s a stuck-up prima donna.
“Dwayne’s from Dallas,” Carmine says solemnly and we all glance his way. “But I don’t know where he lives anymore.”
“Dallas.” This gives me pause. “Shelby said he had flown in today from Dallas.”
Carmine and I share a knowing glance. The man was in New Orleans this morning.
Winnie senses something between us. “What?”
Carmine and I say nothing.
Joe rises. “It’s a big day tomorrow. Think I’m going to head up.”
“Me too,” Stephanie says and follows and we wait until they are in the lobby elevators before we begin.
“What?” Winnie says as soon as the elevator doors close.
“He was in New Orleans today,” I explain. “At the SCANC convention.”
“He’s a SCANC?”
Carmine shakes his head but when he doesn’t say anything, I place my bourbon on the table and lean close so he must look me in the eye. “What the hell is going on?”
“He’s evil,” Carmine whispers and those shivers return.
“I kinda got that,” I answer, pulling my sweater about my chest, “but I could use more information.”
Carmine downs his drink and tries to stand but he’s unstable on his feet. “I’m going to bed.”
Winnie and I both grab an arm and keep him in his chair.
“Not until you tell us what’s going on,” Winnie says.
Carmine looks at each of us and realizes he’s trapped. He leans back in his chair and run fingers through his salt and pepper hair. “You won’t believe me.”
I laugh because Carmine’s the one who first explained to me why I was seeing dripping wet ghosts everywhere.
“Try us,” Winnie says.
Carmine leans forward and we huddle close. “Have an open mind.”
“We’re journalists,” I say with a smile. “Don’t we always?”
But Carmine’s not in the mood for jesting. He drains whatever drops of bourbon are left in his drink, then takes a deep breath.
“What do y’all know about angels?”
This takes us back.
“I was waiting to hear that handsome Dwayne Garrett is a vampire,” Winnie says, then looks at me and winks. “Or worse, an LSU graduate.”
I send her a scowl but Carmine doesn’t break a smile. He leans in closer and I can tell he’s drunk.
“Fallen angels.”
I’ve heard this story. Aunt Mimi married a Southern Baptist and they lived on a small farm in Alabama. I loved visiting but they made me attend their community church that preached a gospel a bit too scary for the child that I was. Damnation, hell and all that. My mom is a holiday Catholic so outside of Jesus suffering on the cross in front of us during Mass, I didn’t feel as intimidated. Now that I think about it, those depictions of Jesus were pretty frightening.
Did I tell you I’m ADHD? I shake my head to focus on what Carmine’s saying. Only he’s not saying anything.
“Angels are the messengers of God, is all I know,” I say. “That and they look over us, or so religions tell us.”
“Not all of them,” Carmine says. “Lucifer, for instance, didn’t share God’s love with humankind and refused to love them as God did. He was kicked out of heaven for it. So were others that agreed with him.”
“And sent to hell,” Winnie adds.
Carmine smiles sadly. “If that’s what you believe. Personally, I see heaven and hell as being right here on earth, in the choices we make.”
“Lucifer,” I add, remembering my Sunday School days, “only wanted to love God and not humans. I always thought that was strange that he became the devil in religion. More like a jealous lover.”
“So, what does this have to do with Blue Eyes?” Winnie asks, smiling. “Are you saying he’s Lucifer?”
Carmine rubs his hands across his face and looks at us both intently. “Remember, keep an open mind.”
We don’t say anything, wait for the big reveal. And even though Carmine’s swaying with the effect of the alcohol, he’s as serious as…well, you know who.
“If those stories are true,” he begins with a strange smile, “our lovely colleague is of the latter. Or more like a descendant from the days when angels and humans copulated and produced offspring.” He smiles weirdly again. “If you believe that stuff.�
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I’m dumbfounded, not sure how to respond. Winnie, on the other hand, is all curiosity.
“How do you know this?” she asks.
“Long story,” Carmine says sadly. “One for another night because I think I need to go to bed.”
Carmine rises and it’s then we realize just how drunk he is. We help him to his room, unlock the door (it took him several minutes to find the key) and Winnie, bless her heart, undresses him to his underwear and leads him to bed.
“Will you be alright for tomorrow?” I ask.
He waves me off. “Call me about twenty minutes before.”
I’m doubtful he’s going to make it but then he’s a press trip veteran and a cocktail aficionado; he writes for one of those suave male magazines. Winnie tucks Carmine in and we’re about to head out when Carmine grabs my hand.
“He’s the one who led the attack on me in high school. He’s the one who made me a SCANC.”
Before I can absorb this shocking piece of news, Winnie grabs my sleeve and pulls me toward the door.
“Get some sleep, Carmine.”
I’m contemplating how this blue-eyed devil beat one of my best friends within inches of his life as we enter the hallway. Just before the door shuts behind us, I hear Carmine warn, “Stay away from him.”
Trace of a Ghost
Chapter Three
I’m from the Deep South and I’ve traveled extensively on its back roads so I can say with good certainty that nothing much shocks my sensibilities. The chocolate gravy — yes, chocolate — poured over my biscuit is a new one, however.
We’re at the River Road Café in the rural area outside of Muscle Shoals, the morning sun rising over the fields across the street and slapping me right in the eyes. I’m almost envious of Carmine and his sunglasses. Almost. Because I know what pain lingers behind them.
“Are you actually going to eat that?” Stephanie asks me while Joe moves every which way to photograph the dang thing in this blinding morning light.
“Might as well,” as I watch Joe in action. “I doubt we’ll get a good picture out of this.”
Joe, bless his heart, agreed to take some photos for me, since I’ve forgotten my camera back home. I pack my single lens Canon inside a thick camera bag and place that inside my suitcase but for some reason I arrived and it’s not there. It’s the one thing I always remember, too.
Joe looks at the gloppy mess in front of me. He shakes his head. “There’s no way to make that look good in a photo.”
Not one of us has the nerve to dig in.
“Oh, come on, y’all,” Mona says at the head of the table. “Try it.”
I fork a piece of my biscuit, dripping in chocolate gravy, and take a bite. To my surprise, it’s pretty good. I look around and notice everyone’s watching me do this so I give them a thumbs-up.
“See,” Mona proudly says. “Told you it was good.”
Winnie sends me a questioning look and I shrug.
We finish off breakfast and head to the van, ready for our magical musical tour. We start at FAME Studios, where almost fifty years ago Rick Hall started recording artists such as Wilson Pickett, the Osmonds and Dame Aretha. We’re met by a local music historian who not only drops names like a Mardi Gras float rider spitting beads but tells us inside stories, too. Like the time Pickett arrived in Muscle Shoals during segregation and was greeted by Hall, who’s white, at the airport, envisioning Hall the sheriff come to haul him off to jail. Or the time pre-pubescent Donny Osmond rode around town on his bicycle and Muscle Shoals girls chased after him.
The best story, though, is of the African American musicians meeting The Swampers back-up band for the first time, never imaging that these local boys were white. The fact that all these hits were made with an integrated sound in the 1960s makes it even better. That and Hall getting into a fight with Aretha’s husband or telling Duane Allman he couldn’t sing, to let his brother take the mic. Yeah, we heard those, too.
Pepper, who’s dressed completely in black with several piercings on one ear and a drop of obsidian hanging from her neck, looks bored.
“Do you know these people?” I ask because she’s likely under twenty-five.
She shrugs. “I’ve heard of Wilson Pickett. The Hypstrz did a cover of The Midnight Hour.”
We then head over to where The Swampers, originally known as the Muscle Shoals Rhythm Section, later formed their own studio at 3614 Jackson Highway, the exterior made famous on a Cher album. Two of The Swampers — Jimmy Johnson and David Hood — greet us at the door and show us around the studio that’s in the process of being renovated. On the walls are signatures of the legends of rock ’n’ roll, musicians such as Paul Simon, Bob Seger, Rod Stewart, and Joe Cocker. If these walls could talk, I think.
Johnson and Hood sit and take questions and we go to town. The studio produced about fifty albums a year, Hood says while he pulls out a massive list detailing all the hit records. The Stones wrote and recorded Wild Horses here, we’re told, although Johnson said they weren’t fans of the band until they played with them. R.B. Greaves recorded Take a Letter, Maria in one take. The stories fly at us fast and furious. Who knew this little northwestern town in Alabama had such a long, illustrious musical history.
“What is it about Muscle Shoals that inspired all this?” Joe asks.
Hood and Johnson laugh. “Might be the singing river,” Hood says.
My head jolts up. “Excuse me.”
“It’s a local legend,” Mona pipes in. “The Native Americans believed a woman lived in the Tennessee River and sang to them.”
The idea that the river sang to me on my arrival floats through my mind, no pun intended, and I might deem the whole thing crazy if I hadn’t met a mythological creature earlier this year in a small Louisiana town. As I’m contemplating this news, I find Dwayne studying me intently. Once again, I shiver, and the involuntary reaction my body keeps making is getting on my last nerve.
We do a drive-by of W.C. Handy’s house and a couple of new studios in town because we’re running out of time. For lunch, we stop at City Hardware, a sweet café in downtown Florence, none of us hungry but all of us eating. They feed you heartedly on these press trips but no matter how full we journalists may be, we never say no to a free meal.
After indulging in a cast iron skillet brownie, we embark on our trip to the Natchez Trace and say goodbye to Alabama and its vast musical past. I pause outside the van and take in Florence’s cute downtown but mostly I look toward the river, hoping to hear that sweet woman’s song that greeted me last night.
“Listening for something?”
I nearly jump at Dwayne’s sexy voice to my rear.
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he says.
I shrug. “Just taking in the town.”
For some reason, I suspect he doesn’t believe me. He gives me a curious stare, then that old charm emerges. “Sit next to me. We can discuss how to evolve your abilities.”
Carmine has insisted time and again that SCANCs will only see the departed of their specialty. The key word here is ghosts. Whereas my Aunt Mimi never repressed her medium talents — thanks to a mother who encouraged her gifts as opposed to mine who told me I was crazy — she can speak to anyone on the Other Side willing to communicate. I, on the other hand, only see those who have died by water who are remaining on this plane.
Which means my precious angel, who died so young of leukemia, is off limits. I’m desperate to reach my beloved Lillye, and Carmine’s insistence or not, I will do anything to fulfill that dream.
I decide to sit in the row in front of Dwayne. It gives me enough distance but I’ll remain close enough to hear what he has to say. Carmine and Winnie are two rows ahead and I feel Winnie turning to watch me but I don’t acknowledge her. Besides, I convince myself, my journalistic instincts are urging me to find out for myself.
Dwayne leans over the back of my seat. “Finally, I get you all to myself.”
His breath is hot on my ear and it
awakens parts of my body that shouldn’t be aroused. My defenses warn me to be careful and I look over and see Southern Belle giving me the evil eye. I can’t help myself; I return a coy smile.
“Tell me your theory,” I say.
“It’s not a theory. It works.”
The idea of seeing and talking to Lillye beats out sex, so I shift in my seat. I’m all ears.
“The more you practice your craft,” Dwayne tells me in a soft voice so no one can hear, “the more advanced you become.”
He sends a glance toward Carmine. “I don’t care what other people say. You don’t have to spend your life only seeing apparitions of your specialty.”
Hope fills my chest but his words remind me of something Carmine said the night before — or didn’t say. “What’s your specialty?”
Dwayne looks away and for a moment I suspect he’s hiding something. “Everything,” he finally says, that confident smile returning. “I’ve evolved.”
I turn further in my seat so we’re facing each other. “How?”
He leans across the back of my seat and I get a delicious whiff of that after-shave again. My head starts feeling light. He looks around to make sure no one is listening.
“The more you send people to the Other Side, the stronger you will become.”
“Like how many?”
“How many have you accomplished so far?”
I make a mental count inside my head. “About six, I think.”
“Try ten, or twelve. You’ll feel a difference.”
Too many to accomplish on this trip, I can’t help but think. If he’s blowing wind up my skirt, I won’t know for sure until we’ve said our goodbyes.
“You don’t believe me.”
In truth, I was hoping for some grand secret that would change my life instantly. “I’ve been told time and again that SCANCs can’t evolve. And I’ve known people who have had dozens of crossovers.”
Dwayne sends a glance toward Carmine again and it’s not a friendly one. “Maybe you’re talking to the wrong people.”
Trace of a Ghost Page 4
