He hunkers down beside me and starts to untangle Hank Junior’s leash. Hank would usually do me the service of a bark if a stranger approached me, but not this time. He wags his tail in gratitude as the big guy unhooks the snap from his collar, tugs it free from under my leg and then re-hooks it.
Realizing my skirt is still snagged around my waist, my pink bikini underwear in full view, I sit up and yank it down, nothing remotely resembling dignity in my urgency.
“What’s going on, man?”
I glance over my shoulder and see another guy walking toward us, this one not nearly so big, but sounding grouchy and looking sleep-deprived. He’s also wearing cowboy boots and a Georgia Bulldogs cap, the bill pulled low over dark sunglasses. His brown hair is on the long side, curling out from under the hat.
He glances at the burning car, as if he’s just now getting around to noticing it and utters, “Whoa.”
Mountain Guy has me by the arm now and hauls me to my feet. “You okay?”
I swipe a hand across my skirt, dust poofing out. “I think so. Yes. Thank you.”
Hank Junior looks at the second guy and mutters a low growl. I’ve never once doubted his judgment so I back up a step.
“Aw, he’s all right,” Mountain Guy says to Hank Junior, patting him on the head. “He always wakes up looking mean like that.”
Grouchy Guy throws him a look. “What are we doing?”
“What does it look like we’re doing?” Mountain Guy says. “Helping a damsel in distress.”
“I’m not a damsel,” I say, my feathers ruffling even as I realize I could hardly be in much more distress than I am currently in.
Gertrude is now fully engulfed in flames, from her pointed front end to her rounded trunk. Cars are keeping to the far left lane. Surprisingly, no one else has bothered to stop, although I can see people grabbing their cell phones as they pass, a couple to take pictures, others more likely dialing 911.
“So what exactly happened?” Mountain Guy asks me.
“I just heard this loud noise and then smoke started coming out of the hood.”
“Good thing you got her pulled over fast,” he says.
“I didn’t know they let vehicles that old on the road,” Grouchy Guy says.
“She belonged to my Granny,” I fire back in instant outrage, as if everything that has just happened is all his fault.
Grouchy Guy starts to say something, presses his lips together, maybe thinking better of it.
“Don’t pay him no mind,” Mountain Guy advises. “You live near here?”
I laugh then, the sound popping up out of me under the sudden realization that with the exception of my dog, my guitar and my lyrics notebook, I now have no other earthly possessions to call my own. Even my purse has been incinerated inside Gertrude’s melted interior.
The shrill whine of a fire engine echoes from down the Interstate, and a couple of seconds later it comes roaring into sight, lights flashing. It rolls to a heavy stop just behind Gertrude, brakes squealing. Men dressed in heavy tan uniforms grab hoses and run at the burning car.
The water gushes out with impressive force. The blazing fire is a joke against the onslaught, and in less than a minute, the flames slink into nothingness. The only thing left is the charred framework of Gertrude’s once sleek exterior.
As soon as the water hoses cut off, I start to cry, as if some sort of transference has turned on the flow inside of me. I cry because I’ve ruined Granny’s car, her most prized possession. I cry because I now have no money, no means of getting any closer to my dream than my own two feet will carry me. And I cry because everybody back home was exactly right. I was born with dreams way too big for somebody like me to ever make come true.
“Hey, now.” Mountain Guy pats me on the shoulder the same way he had patted Hank Junior on the head a few minutes before. “Everything’s gonna be all right.”
One of the firemen walks up to us. “This y’all’s car?”
Grouchy Guy points at me. “It was hers.”
“Sorry for your loss, ma’am,” the fireman says. “Guess you’ll be needing to call a tow truck.”
Even Mountain Guy can’t help laughing at this, and maybe if you were removed from the situation, it would be pretty funny. Me? I’m anything but removed, and I’m suddenly thankful for Mama’s faithful Triple A membership and the insurance she’s paid up for me through the end of the year.
“You can tell them the car is just short of Mile Marker 320.”
“Thank you,” I say. “And thank you for putting out the–”
“No problem, ma’am,” he says quickly, as if realizing I can’t bring myself to finish.
I glance at Mountain Guy. “Do you have a cell I could borrow?”
“Sure thing.” He pulls an iPhone from his shirt pocket and hands it to me.
“You mind if I get the number for Triple A?”
“’Course not.”
Hank Junior’s leash wrapped around my wrist, I walk a few steps away and tap 411. A bored-sounding operator gives me the 800 number and then connects me free of charge. The woman who takes my “case” doesn’t sound the least bit surprised that my car has burned to smithereens or that I need a tow truck to come and get us both. I wonder if she gets calls like this every day.
In between her questions, I can hear Mountain Guy and Grouchy Guy in a low rumble of discussion that sounds like it has disagreement at its edges. I know they’re talking about me, and while I want to swing around and scream at them both that I don’t need their help, I know the last thing I can afford to do is look a gift horse in the mouth.
The lady from Triple A tells me that Ray’s Towing from Cookeville will be coming out to get the car. She asks if I will also need a ride. I tell her both my dog and I will.
I return the phone to Mountain Guy.
“Get it all squared away?” he asks.
“I think so,” I say, not even sure in this context what that could possibly mean.
“How long before they get here?”
“Hour.”
“Well, you can’t wait by yourself. It’ll be dark by then,” Mountain Guy says.
“I’ll be fine,” I say. “But thanks for stopping. And for letting me use your phone.”
“Not a problem,” he says, glancing over at Grouchy Guy who is still wearing his sunglasses and has his arms folded across his chest in a stance of non-compliance.
I pick up my guitar case and give Hank Junior a little tug before backing away from them. “Thanks again,” I say and head for my charred car.
I’m halfway there when Mountain Guy calls out, “You going to Nashville?”
“What gave it away?” Grouchy Guy throws out, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
I pin him with a look, then turn my gaze to his friend. “Yeah. I am.”
“Well, so are we,” Mountain Guy says. “No point in you staying here when we’re going to the same place, now is there?”
Relief, unwelcome though it is, floods through me. I am feeling kind of sick at the thought of waiting with the car while dark sets in. Maybe I’ve watched too many episodes of Disappeared. My imagination has already started heading off in directions I’d just as soon it didn’t.
But then, on the other hand, I don’t know squat about the two I’m getting ready to ride off with. They could be serial murderers thinking it was their lucky day that my car caught on fire, and they happened by.
Hank Junior seems to think they’re all right though. He’s no longer low-growling at Grouchy Guy. And besides, what choice do I really have? I have no money, no credit card, no clothes.
Panic starts to clutch at me, and all of a sudden, I hear my Granny’s voice telling me, as she had so many times when I was growing up, that we take this life one moment, one day at a time. I’m not going to look any farther ahead than that because if I do, I think I might just dissolve into a puddle of failure right here on the side of I-40.
“Let’s get this show on the road,” Mountain Guy sa
ys, taking my guitar case from me and placing it in the bed of the pickup.
Grouchy Guy looks at me. “He riding in the back?”
“You mean Hank Junior?” I ask.
“That his name?”
“It is.”
“Yeah, Hank Junior.”
“Not unless I am,” I answer.
Grouchy Guy looks at Mountain Guy. “That’s fine with me.”
Mountain Guy laughs. “Man, you got up on the wrong side of the truck.” Then to me, “He ain’t always this nasty. Y’all hop on in.”
Without looking at Grouchy Guy, I scoot Hank Junior up onto the floorboard, and climb in behind him, sliding to the middle. He hops onto my lap and curls up in a ball, as if he knows he needs to be as inconspicuous as possible.
It’s a full truck with the four of us. My shoulders are pressed up against both guys, and I try to make myself smaller by hunching over.
Mountain Guy throws the truck in gear, checks the side mirror and guns onto the highway. “Reckon we oughta know your name,” he says.
“CeCe,” I answer. “CeCe MacKenzie.”
“CeCe MacKenzie,” he sings back with a country twang. “Got a nice little rhyme to it.”
“What’s yours?” I ask, aware that I will now have to quit calling him Mountain Guy.
“Thomas Franklin.”
“You don’t look like a Thomas,” I say.
“I get that a lot.”
“I’m sorry,” I start to apologize.
“Hey, no problem. My folks wanted the world to take me seriously, so they never gave in on the Tom, Tommy thing.”
“Oh. Makes sense.”
“Attitude over there is Holden Ashford.”
“Hey,” Holden says without looking at me. He’s still wearing the dark glasses, and I wonder if his eyes are as unfriendly as his voice.
“Hey,” I reply, matching my tone to his.
“Where you from, CeCe?” Thomas asks, shooting a glance my way.
“Virginia.”
“Georgia,” he says, waving a hand at himself and then Holden.
“Let me guess,” Holden says. “You wanna be a singer?”
“I am a singer,” I shoot back.
I can’t be sure because of the glasses, but I’d swear he rolled his eyes. “What about the two of you? You headed to Nashville to be plumbers or something?”
Thomas laughs a deep laugh that fills up the truck. “Heck, no. I sing. He writes and plays guitar.”
“That’s why he takes himself so seriously.” The words are out before I can think to stop them.
“Matter of fact, it is,” Thomas says, another laugh rolling from his big chest.
“Up yours,” Holden says without looking at either of us. I’m not sure if he’s talking to Thomas or to me.
“What do you sing, CeCe?” Thomas asks.
“Country. What else is there?”
“Heck, yeah!” Thomas slaps the steering wheel. “Although with a dog named Hank Junior I reckon I could’ve assumed that.”
At the sound of his name, Hank Junior raises his head, blinks at Thomas and then continues his snooze.
“What about you?” I ask. “Who’re your favorites?”
“Chesney, Twitty, Haggard, Flatts. If it’s got country on it, I sing it. Holden there says I have a sound of my own. I figure it’s just what’s managed to stick together from all my years of tryin’ to sound as good as the greats.”
The sun has dropped on the horizon, fading fast. The sky has a pinkish glow to it, and cars have started to flip on their headlights. A sign on the right says Cookeville – 5 miles.
Holden pulls a phone out of his pocket, taps the screen and says, “Starbucks off exit 288. I could use a coffee.”
“I’ll second that,” Thomas agrees, and then looking at me, “We’ve got a gig tonight. Nine o’clock at the Bluebird.”
“Seriously?” I say, not even bothering to hide my astonishment. I’ve been reading about the Bluebird for years and the country music stars who played there before they made it big, Garth Brooks and Taylor Swift among them.
“Yeah,” Thomas says. “You oughta come. I mean unless you got other plans.”
Not unless you count finding a place to stay on credit. “I’d like that.”
“Cool.”
Holden makes a sound that clearly conveys his disapproval.
Irked, I say, “You ever take off those glasses? It’s getting dark outside.”
He looks directly at me then, without removing them. “They bothering you?”
“Honestly, yes. I like to judge a person by what I see in their eyes.”
“Some reason you need to be judging me?”
“I don’t know. Is there?”
He lowers the glasses and gives me a long cool look. His eyes are blue, ridiculously blue, and his lashes are thick. I lean away from him like I’ve been struck by a jolt of electricity.
“He’s just lovesick,” Thomas says. “He’s harmless. Well, mostly. Depending on who you ask.”
“Shut up,” Holden says.
Thomas chuckles. “Oh, the tangled webs we weave in our wake.”
“Good thing you’re not the writer,” Holden mutters.
“I had a little alliteration thing going on there,” Thomas sings back.
I have to admit his voice is wonderful. Smooth and rolling like I imagine a really nice wine might taste.
“That’s about all you had going,” Holden says.
We’re off the interstate now, turning left at a stoplight before swinging into the Starbucks on our right. Thomas pulls the truck into a parking spot. “Potty break, anyone?”
“Okay if Hank Junior waits here?” I ask.
“Sure, it is,” Thomas says and then to Hank Junior, “you ever tried their mini donuts? No? How about I bring you one? Plain? Plain, it is.”
I watch this exchange with a stupid grin on my face and wonder if Thomas has any idea that the only thing anyone could ever do to make me like them instantly was be nice to my dog.
“I’ll be right back, Hanky,” I say, kissing the top of his head and sliding out of the truck on Thomas’s side. I don’t even dare look at Holden to get a read on his opinion of his friend’s generosity. I’m pretty sure I know what it would be. And that’s just gonna make me like him less.
Starbucks is crowded, tables and leather chairs occupied by every age range of person, their single common denominator the laptops propped up in front of them. The wonderful rich smell of coffee hits me in the nose, triggering a reminder that I haven’t eaten anything since my last PBJ at eleven-thirty this morning. Right behind that comes the awareness that I have no money.
I head for the ladies’ room, glad to find it empty. For once, the men’s room has a line, and I don’t relish the idea of standing in the hallway across from Grouchy Guy, exchanging glares.
A look in the bathroom mirror makes me wonder why those two bothered to give me a ride. My hair is a frizzy mess. What were wavy layers this morning have now conceded to chaotic turn screw curls that only need a BOIIING sound effect for maximum laugh value.
I pull an elastic band out of my skirt pocket and manage to tame the disaster into a ponytail. I splash water on my face, slurp some into my mouth and use my finger to pseudo brush my teeth. Looking up, I realize none of it has helped much but will just have to do for now.
I head to the front where Thomas and Holden are ordering. Line or not, they’re fast.
“What do you want?” Thomas throws out. “I’ll order yours.”
“Oh, I’m good,” I say, crossing my arms across my chest. “I’ll just go let Hank Junior out.”
Thomas points his remote at the parking lot and pushes a button. “That should unlock it. Sure you don’t want anything?”
“I’m sure.”
Outside, I open the truck door and hook up Hank Junior’s leash. He bounds off the seat onto the asphalt, already looking for the nearest bush. I let him lead the way, across a grassy area to the
spot of his choice. My stomach rumbles, and I tell myself this will be a good time to lose those five pounds I’ve been meaning to work on.
Hank Junior has just watered his third bush when I hear a shout, followed by the rev of an engine roaring off. Thomas and Holden are sprinting from Starbucks. At the truck door, Thomas looks around, spots me and waves frantically. “Come on!” he yells. “They just stole Holden’s guitar!”
“They” are two guys on a motorcycle, now peeling out of the parking lot and hauling butt down the road. The guy on back has the guitar case wedged between them.
Hank Junior jumps in. I scramble up behind him. Thomas and Holden slam the doors, and Thomas burns rubber through the parking lot.
“You left the door standing wide open?” Holden shouts at me. He’s not wearing his glasses now, and I have to say I wish I’d never asked him to take them off. His eyes are blazing with fury, and it’s all directed at me.
“I was just a few yards away,” I say. “I didn’t think–”
“Something you’re clearly not used to doing,” he accuses between clenched teeth.
“Hey, now!” Thomas intervenes. “Y’all shut up! I’m planning on catching the sons of bitches.”
And he’s not kidding. Thomas drives like he was raised on Nascar, gunning around and in front of car after car.
“What’s in the case?” I ask. “Diamonds?”
“Might as well be to Holden,” Thomas says. “His lyric notebook.”
My stomach drops another floor if that’s possible. “Your only copy?”
“For all intents and purposes,” he says.
By now, I’m feeling downright sick. I can feel Hank Junior’s worry in the rigid way he’s holding himself on my lap. I rub his head and say a prayer that we’ll live to laugh about this. Every nerve in my body is screaming for Thomas to slow down, but a glance at Holden’s face is all I need to keep my mouth shut.
“There they are!” I yell, spotting them up ahead just before they zip in front of a tractor-trailer loaded with logs.
“Crazy mothers,” Thomas shouts, whipping around a Volvo whose driver gives us the finger.
I never liked thrill rides. I was always the one on church youth group trips to sit out the roller coaster or any other such thing designed to bring screams ripping up from a person’s insides. I’m feeling like I might be sick at any moment, but I press my lips together and stay quiet.
Crossing Tinker's Knob Page 37
