Sweet Talk Me

by Kieran Kramer

  She backed away from him. “I’m grateful for that. Really. But I don’t want to spend the rest of my life thanking you for the privilege of being your Achilles’ heel. I have better things to do with my time.”

  She grabbed her purse. “I’m an artist. I’m a farmer. I’m also a fantastic girlfriend and sister. I would have made you an amazing wife, but I’m no longer interested. The wedding’s off.”

  “An artist? What’re you talking about?” He stood in front of her at the door. “Rethink this, please, True. Just take a couple hours to calm down, all right?”

  “Dubose?”

  “What?”

  “If I were any calmer right now, I’d be dead.” She pushed by him and didn’t look back.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Harrison got a call from True’s number at ten PM. He didn’t want to answer it. But what if something was wrong? He blew out a breath and clicked the ON button on his cell phone. “Hello?”

  “Harrison?” She sounded awful.

  “Yes?” He imagined Weezie missing. The barn burned down. Something wrong with Gage.

  “I was stupid,” she said. “I made a huge mistake telling you to go. Please come back and talk to me about how we can work things out.”

  “You’re getting married.”

  “No. No, I’m not. I told Dubose tonight we’re over.”

  “You’re just having cold feet.”

  “No, I’m not.” Her voice cracked.

  “Sure, you are. I’ve seen you in action, True, and I told you I was done.” His pride could take no more beatings. “You were right. We’ll hold each other back. Now go marry your rich boyfriend. I wish you both well.”

  He hung up the phone.

  It didn’t ring again.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Busted.

  Harrison looked up from the floor and saw Dan standing over him, a disturbing leer on his face.

  “What’d I tell you I’d do if you get drunk again?” Dan asked him.

  Harrison closed his eyes. “Kick my ass.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’ve been waiting for you to do that for ten years.” His mouth tasted like a garbage dump somewhere in the Sahara Desert. “It ain’t never gonna happen.”

  “Watch the double negatives.”

  Harrison rolled over onto a bottle and put an arm over his eyes. “I can talk any way I want. I’m a country music superstar.”

  “That may be, but I’m your manager. And if you don’t get up in ten seconds, I’m pouring this glass of water on your face.” Dan held up a cup.

  “Not a Big Gulp.”

  “Yes. It’s the king of cups.” Dan laughed a miserable little laugh. “Ten, nine, eight, seven—”

  Harrison lifted up on his elbows, and it was like his brain slammed into a giant wall.

  “Six, five, four—”

  He grabbed Dan’s ankle and pulled. But he didn’t budge. Maybe because Harrison felt weak. The last thing he remembered eating was a couple of Moon Pies in the car on the way back from Biscuit Creek. But that seemed like weeks ago.

  “Three, two, one, and—”

  Hell, he needed a shower anyway. He closed his eyes and tried to enjoy the cold water bath.

  “You dumbass,” Dan whined because he was already feeling guilty. “It’s getting on your Rolex.”

  “Your Rolex. I was gonna re-gift it to you for Christmas.”

  Hah.

  When the shower ended, Harrison took a deep breath, rubbed his hand down his face, and grabbed Dan’s leg again.

  Success.

  Dan went down, his butt landing in the pool of water that sure didn’t belong in the middle of Harrison’s living room floor. But neither did all the video games and beer bottles.

  Why a bicycle was there, Harrison had no idea. And then had a vague recollection of riding it down the grassy hill outside his house and screaming “Whoopee!” like he was a kid.

  But it didn’t work. It was no fun. No fun at all. He needed another person there to have fun. Person, for him, also included dogs.

  “My job sucks,” he said. “I got a trillion dollars, but I can’t have a dog. Will you hurry up and marry a sweet girl who likes dogs so when I have to travel, she’ll watch it for me? No way is my dog going to a doggy hotel. I hear the service is awful. No TV. Dogs love football.”

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  “He already has a name. Sam.”

  “Good name.”

  “Get me a dog collar with that name on it, please.”

  “Not until you sober up. This is ridiculous.” Dan stood up and held out his hand. “Come on.”

  “I got it.” No way was he gonna let his manager lift him off the floor. He groaned and pretended he was Rocky. After a good twenty seconds of extreme effort, he was standing upright, wincing so bad he could hardly see.

  “Advil,” he rasped, and started walking like Frankenstein toward his bedroom.

  “I got it right here.” Dan caught up with him and gave him the pills.

  Harrison swallowed them down with no water.

  “That’s bad for you.” Dan filled only the bottom of the Big Gulp with water and handed it to him.

  Harrison drank. And drank. “That thing’s like a bottomless pit.” He finally finished and handed it back.

  “I’ll give you one hour to pull it together,” Dan said. “And then I need your answer about LA. If you say yes, you have to fly out tomorrow for a photo shoot.”

  “What’s today?”

  “Sunday.”

  Shit. It was done. True was married. Last night was her honeymoon. Harrison wished he could cry like a baby, but he was a manly man. He didn’t cry. He wrote hit songs instead.

  He felt a huge one coming on. “Gimme my guitar.” He paused a beat. “Please,” he added politely.

  No sense making Dan really hate him. Pretend hate was okay. Even fun. But Harrison sensed that maybe, just maybe, he’d been pushing his manager too far. He looked down.

  “I’m begging you, man.” Dan was on his knees, holding on to Harrison’s legs. “Write something great. And I’ll come back in an hour and ask you about LA.”

  Harrison shook him off gently. “I can tell you right now. I’ll do it, so go home and relax. And don’t worry about the hit song. This one’s gonna go straight to number one.”

  He already had a little bit happening right now, and it was hick hop all the way:

  So I’m shooting up the charts, and you’re breaking lots of hearts.

  Wh-wh-whoopee for me, wh-wh-whoopee for you.

  My Grammy shelf is growing, and your confidence is showing.

  Wh-wh-whoopee for me, wh-wh-whoopee for you.

  My boots are by Lucchese and your Bordelle bras are racy.

  Wh-wh-whoopee for me, wh-wh-whoopee for you.

  You might not know it, and I’m probably gonna blow it,

  But I gotta have the answer from my favorite moonlight dancer,

  Would you join me in the attic for some kinky acrobatics,

  I want nothing more to do … than to make whoopee with you!

  So True might guess he was talking about her, but he doubted she had Bordelle bras. That would throw her off. They used to run him around a thousand bucks a pop anytime he’d buy them for one of his exes.

  Should he change attic to kitchen? They’d never done it in the kitchen. Then she could sing it when she heard it on the radio and not be embarrassed.

  Would you join me in the kitchen for some lovin’ and bewitchin’ …

  He wished he could ask someone. Someone who was good with words.

  Gage.

  He called him up. “I got this song,” he said, “and I was hoping you could tell me which line is better.”

  Gage listened, then said, “I prefer, Would you join me in the store, we can do it on the floor.”

  “Wait. That’s you and Carmela! You dog.”

  “You never heard it from me.”

  There was an awkwa
rd silence. But Harrison was too hung over to fill it. He looked at the hands on his wet watch.

  “Hey, you missed a great event,” Gage jumped in a long twenty seconds later.

  Yes! Harrison pumped his fist in the air. His brother was getting more socially comfortable by the day. Sure, most people would have said You missed a great time. Or, You missed a great party. But it was a good start.

  “I hate events,” Harrison said, remembering he was in a very bad mood.

  “True had an art show. One hundred thirty-six people came. She put out the word at the Starfish Grill. Your friend Cornelius and his buddies played for a while, and then Booty Call took over. Man, Carmela can dance.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “True even sold a few collages and got enough to pay the bands.”

  “Wait a second. She got Booty Call for the wedding. When was this so-called event?”

  “It was last night. She didn’t have a wedding.”

  Everything in Harrison’s house went strangely red and out of focus, and he heard an odd buzzing noise. Then everything went back to normal except for his heartbeat, which was going crazy. “Oh, so they’re gonna elope next week or something? She told me Dubose and Penn might not go for the down-home wedding reception idea.”

  “No, that’s not it at all. She told Carmela that she told Dubose she didn’t want to marry him. She called off the wedding.”

  “Damn.” Harrison had to sit down. She’d really followed through. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “Why should I call you?”

  “I’m your brother. And you know damned well I’m in love with her.”

  Shit. He’d been trying so hard not to be.

  “Oh, that’s right. And you did nothing about it. Even when I told you Bad Rogue Wins. That was a sign. So why should I call you? You blew it. You don’t deserve her. You should have fought for her.”

  “I asked her to marry me once, and she said no. And it would be foolish to ask her again. I can’t hunker down in Biscuit Creek and hit the top of the country music charts all at the same time. And she can’t travel the world. She has an estate to tend, collages to make, and a sister to overprotect. I’ll be living a lot on the West Coast, especially this coming year. I’m going to be a judge on that singing competition show. I’m heading to LA tomorrow to get that ball rolling.”

  He kicked a beer bottle and watched it spin across the room. They really ought to come with an extra warning label, something like, CAUTION: DOES JACK SQUAT TO MEND A BROKEN HEART.

  “Your loss,” said Gage.

  “That’s it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That’s all the comfort I get?”

  “Oh. I wasn’t trying to comfort you. It was a literal observation. Today the girls are at the store getting it ready.”

  “Appreciate the random change of subject. Who are the girls?”

  “Carmela, Weezie, and True, of course. The store’s opening as The Damn Yankee tomorrow.”

  “Hey. I like that.”

  “Three firefighters from the Queens fire station where Carmela’s dad worked before 9/11 are coming down for the ribbon cutting.”

  Gage gave him a quick explanation.

  “I had no idea about her dad,” Harrison said.

  “She never talked about him. But now she does. And I can see a difference in her. She’s still affable and gregarious, but she’s also serene somehow.”

  “Wow,” Harrison said. “Is that your fancy way of saying she’s pretty much perfect?”

  “For me, she is.”

  “I’m glad. For both of you.” He paused. “I have to go. But it was great talking to you. Oh, and I hope the house building’s progressing well.”

  “It is. Quite well. Good luck in LA tomorrow.”

  “Thanks.”

  When he hung up, Harrison wrote down the lyrics and chords he had come up with for “Whoopee.” He picked up all the beer bottles and righted the bike, then wheeled it out onto his porch. A housekeeper would come tomorrow to get things spiffy again.

  It was time to pack for LA.

  If Sam the Dog were real and with him on the porch, Harrison would scratch his ears and say, I’m glad the bad rogue didn’t win, aren’t you?

  He was really, really glad.

  Good for True for dumping Dubose. And, man—she’d even held an art show.

  “’This girl is on fire,’” he managed to sing, even though his head still ached, all through his shower. As long as she was thriving, he could bear his own misery.

  When he looked civilized again, he pulled out his favorite leather bag from his closet to pack for LA and saw his dad’s guitar, which he hadn’t touched since he’d gotten back. His mouth crooked up, which surprised him. There was no guilt anymore. Just regret. And love.

  He ran his hand over the instrument’s smooth surface.

  Dad.

  He’d only been able to visit his father in jail once. Mama had scrounged the gas money together to get them to Columbia. Dad had told him through the window to learn how to play it.

  Now Harrison sat down on the edge of the bed and strummed a chord. It was hopelessly out of tune, but with new strings and a good cleaning it would be just fine. He’d use it, too, in honor of Dad, for an acoustic number at his next concert.

  Huh. He heard a noise inside the body and gently shook it. A piece of wood must have come loose from the inner frame, so he shook the guitar again, tilting it in the hope that the fragment would fall out.

  A football-shaped piece of paper dropped onto the bed instead.

  What the hell?

  And then he remembered. He and Gage, when they were little, used their father’s guitar like a secret post office. They left each other notes. But that had stopped when Gage was ten and he was seven and their dad had caught them and said he didn’t want them using his guitar as a toy.

  The paper was yellowed looseleaf, and as he unfolded it, he wondered what it could possibly say. Was it one he’d written? Or Gage?

  His astonishment grew when he smoothed it out and recognized a young girl’s scrawl. He’d seen it often enough at school. And the signature at the bottom confirmed it.

  This was a note from True Maybank, age twelve.

  Not Gage or Harrison. Why was it in the guitar?

  He put that question aside for later, and read the note, his eyes burning. And then he read it again.

  And again.

  She told him how her birthday was terrible and she couldn’t play at Sand Dollar Heaven anymore. She had responsibilities at home:

  I hope you’ll understand. My family needs me to grow up.

  But I love you, Harrison. I’ll love you forever, and when I move away from Mama and Daddy, I’ll look for you again. I won’t stop until I find you, either. Friends like you come around only once a lifetime. Your Sewee princess, True XOXO

  This was weirder than Bad Rogue Wins. He looked around the room, half expecting Rod Serling to appear.

  Dan called a few minutes later. “Any luck with the song?”

  “Yep.” Harrison was folding a few of his favorite T-shirts into three sections and then in half again and putting them in his bag. “I should be able to send the studio some samples this week.”

  “Fantastic. The producers in LA are going to be treating you like a king. They’re really excited. And here’s the best part. Hold on to your suspenders.”

  When Harrison heard how much money they were paying him, he sat on the edge of the bed again. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “They think you’re worth it.”

  “Thanks for pulling that off, Dan.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  Harrison scratched the top of his head. “There’s only one problem.”

  “Name it. They’ll fix it. That’s how much they want you.”

  “I’ve changed my mind,” he said gently. “I’m really sorry.”

  There was a long pause on the other end.


  “Why?” Dan croaked.

  “I have to stay on the East Coast.” It felt exactly right to say that. “I’ve got people over here. And I don’t want to leave ’em.”

  “Your brother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Anyone else? Maybe that blond? The one with the crappy car?”

  “Her, too,” Harrison said. “Especially her.”

  “Congratulations. It’s about time. I was about to buy you a stuffed dog and call him Sam. You’re getting a little insane on your own.”

  Harrison laughed, and it felt good. “I don’t know if she’ll have me. I don’t know how we can be together and still do what we each have to do.”

  “This is big,” said Dan.

  “Yeah, it is.”

  “Big and wonderful. My job is to help you do what you want to do in this business. So I’m here. I’ll go to bat for you, my friend. We can get as creative as you want. We can’t teleport people yet, but we have Skype and laptops, and pretty much every major city has great recording studios.”

  “Thanks, Dan. Hey, you’ve been such a sport, I’m going to let you hang up first from now on, okay?”

  “What a perk.”

  The dial tone sounded.

  Ah, Dan. He was a good guy.

  Harrison whistled to himself as he finished packing. He’d fly commercial to Charleston tonight and write songs in the Francis Marion Hotel, then in the morning he’d drive up to Biscuit Creek in time for the opening of The Damn Yankee.

  You know you’re going to True’s first.

  A huge rock lodged in his stomach. He was nervous. He remembered the last time he’d declared his intentions in front of a whole roomful of their peers. The silence, the scorn, the shame of being rejected, and the pain of seeing what he’d done to True—she’d sobbed into her hands, her delicate shoulders quaking …

  To this day, thinking about it made him a little sick. And it could happen all over again. It made sense that it would happen all over again! He wasn’t sure he should put her through it another time. Was he selfish? Was he naive? Did he need to stop playing games with people who led happy, normal lives and accept that he never could?