by Ronald Kidd
“Don’t forget home. That’s what Dorothy wanted.”
I thought of Ralph Peer, in his fancy suit and expensive car.
“If you saw the Wizard,” I said, “what would you ask for?”
“I guess I’m like Dorothy. I’d ask for home—not just a house, but a place where Mama, Daddy, and I could all be happy.”
“Aren’t they happy now?”
“They’re tired,” she said. “They’re worried, so they fight. Half the time they aren’t even home because they’re working.”
“Are you happy?”
“I’d like to be,” she said.
She blinked a couple of times, then looked up at me. “How about you? If you saw the Wizard, what would you ask for?”
I considered it for a minute. “I’d ask him to put me together.”
“Put you together?”
“See this street? One side is Tennessee, the other’s Virginia. Bristol’s split in two. Sometimes that’s the way I feel. Half of me is in that tent, listening to Daddy preach. The other half is off somewhere, doing all the things I’m not allowed to do.”
“Like what?” she asked.
“Music. Science. Daddy says they’re sins.”
Sue Dean gazed at me as if she was trying to see inside.
“You told Mr. Peer you might have a song,” she said. “What did you mean?”
I had never told anyone, but suddenly I wanted Sue Dean to know. “It’s Mama’s song. When she thinks nobody’s there, she hums it. Sometimes I catch a few words. I asked her about it once, and she got the most terrible look on her face. Like she was frightened and angry all at the same time.”
“Could I hear it?”
“I’m not much of a singer.”
“I don’t care.”
I closed my eyes and imagined Mama that night, singing in the kitchen. I hummed along, then sang the words. It was strange and a little bit frightening to release my secret into the world. I sang four lines, then stopped where Mama did.
“Have you heard that before?” I asked.
“No. But it’s lovely.”
“I think it’s important,” I said, “but I don’t know why.”
Sue Dean nodded gravely, then sat back down on the curb. I joined her. We worked on our sweet rolls for a while. I noticed she had icing on her chin, and I wiped it off. She blushed.
Sitting next to the Ford, we watched Crabtree and Holt make several trips there to get some things. It seemed like the car was a kind of traveling tool chest. On one of his trips, Crabtree spotted us and pointed.
“Stay back,” he said. “I’m watching you.”
I caught Sue Dean’s eye, and she smiled.
Around eight o’clock, a beat-up Model T came slowly down the street. The driver stuck his head out the window and looked around. When he saw the hat company building, he said something to the people in the car, then pulled in.
The door opened, and the driver got out. He was a thin man about Daddy’s age, wearing a white hat and a wrinkled suit.
“Is this the recording place?” he asked us.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “Mr. Peer is up on the second floor.”
“Who are you?”
“An assistant. Can I carry something for you?”
Just then the other car doors swung open. A woman got out on the passenger side, and two men unfolded themselves from the back seat. All of them looked like they were dressed up for Sunday school.
“Much obliged,” said the driver, “but we can handle it.”
“Are you a singer?” asked Sue Dean.
He grinned. “Yes, ma’am. Course, I also play a few instruments—guitar, autoharp, clawhammer banjo. Give it to me, I’ll play it.” The man stuck out his hand.
Sue Dean shook it, and so did I.
“Name’s Ernest Stoneman,” he said, “but they call me Pop. This is my wife Hattie, and those two men are Kahle Brewer and Ralph Mooney. We’re from Galax, Virginia.”
The two men nodded, then started pulling instruments out of the car. There were enough to supply a marching band. Hattie picked up one, the others each took an armful, and they headed into the building and up the stairs.
Sue Dean glanced at me. “So you’re an assistant?”
“First you say it, then you do it. That’s what Daddy tells me.”
“You’re saying it, I’ll give you that.”
I wanted to assist, but frankly there wasn’t much need of it. A little while later, one or two other singers came by carrying instrument cases and disappeared into the building. Meanwhile, Sue Dean and I sat on the curb.
She told me about her mom and dad, Harley and Carleen, who along with Sue Dean had recently moved to town from Lynchburg, Virginia, across the state border. Her dad needed work and had found it at Bristol Door and Lumber, the company where Gray’s father worked.
“Have you heard of Archibald Lane?” I asked.
She frowned. “Daddy says he’s an awful person. He’ll fire you if you look at him wrong. He’s cracking down on the union.”
The union was a big topic in town. Organizers had come through the lumber companies, trying to sign people up, claiming they could get them better hours and higher wages.
“Daddy’s pro-union, of course,” she went on. “He tells stories about goons roaming through the yard, watching for union members, carrying out midnight beatings.”
“If your father doesn’t like it, why doesn’t he leave?” I asked.
She stared at me like I’d come from the planet Mars. “Have you lived your whole life inside that church tent? It’s tough out here. People are losing jobs. If you have one, you hang on to it, even if you hate your boss.”
I pictured Mr. Lane in his neatly pressed suit, perfect car, and fancy house. I wondered if he knew about those goons and what they were doing. I thought of Gray and decided not to mention him to Sue Dean.
She looked off into the trees. “Daddy works all the time. We don’t see much of him. When he comes home, he just falls asleep. Mama takes in ironing. She gets lonely. Truth is, that’s why we went to church. She wasn’t looking to be saved. She just wanted to see some people.”
It must have been warm inside the building, because every once in a while somebody on the second floor would open a window and we’d hear a few snatches of music, as if the players were rehearsing. Then they’d close the window and we couldn’t hear a thing.
Later on, Sue Dean brought pimento cheese sandwiches from her house and we sat some more. Mr. Peer had said he was looking for singers and songs, and we wanted to provide them. But really, I’m not sure what we were waiting for. It just felt like something important could happen, and I wanted to be there. Most of all, I wanted to get inside.
Tuesday was the same but different. For one thing I was by myself, because Sue Dean had things to do at home. I asked Gray to come, but he wasn’t interested. Some musicians showed up and climbed the stairs, the same as Monday. This time, though, they were part of a gospel group, Ernest Phipps and His Holiness Singers. For the three hundred and fifteenth time, I tried to figure out why Daddy hated music and didn’t allow it in his church. If holiness could be sung, the way Ernest Phipps did, wouldn’t God listen? Wouldn’t God jump up and dance, if he ever did such things?
The next day, Wednesday, started out pretty much the same. I headed off to Mrs. Rickover’s house, then detoured downtown. Ernest Stoneman showed up again, and later there was a group called the Blue Ridge Corn Shuckers. Then something happened, and everything changed—for me, for Sue Dean, and for Bristol.
PART II
SUNSHINE IN THE SHADOWS
There is sunshine in the shadows
There is sunshine in the rain
There is sunshine in our sorrows
Though our hearts are filled with pain
—A. P. Carter, “Sunshine in the Shadows”
CHAPTER 10
I saw it in the Bristol News Bulletin on Wednesday evening. It was just a few sentences, but they caus
ed an explosion.
I didn’t know it at the time, but by the third day, Ralph Peer had been getting frustrated because there weren’t many singers to record. Cecil McLister told him the key was publicity, and McLister invited a reporter to the Wednesday morning sessions. The reporter listened to Ernest Stoneman, then visited with Peer.
I saw the reporter when he came out of the building, so I knew something was up. I checked the paper that night and was able to read about what I hadn’t been allowed to see. An article described Ralph Peer and what he was doing. It mentioned the room and how it was draped with blankets to muffle outside sounds. Mostly it talked about the singers and how Peer was holding auditions to get more of them.
At the end of the article was the paragraph that caused all the fuss. It was about Ernest Stoneman and His Dixie Mountaineers, the people we had met two days earlier. Singers around town read the article and told their friends, and their friends told their friends, and by the end of the week, everyone was talking about it.
The quartette costs the Victor company close to $200 a day—Stoneman receiving $100, and each of his assistants $25. Stoneman is regarded as one of the finest banjoists in the country, his numbers selling rapidly. He is a carpenter and song leader at Galax. He received from the company $3,600 last year as his share of the proceeds on his records.
You have to understand—mountain people don’t have much money. When they heard that someone was making $25 or $100 or, by God, $3,600 just to sing, they lit up like bulbs in the Bristol sign. After reading the article, singers for miles around packed their bags and headed to Bristol.
***
They started coming that weekend—in cars and wagons, on horseback and on foot. They carried their instruments in cases, in burlap bags, or just slung over their shoulders. They brought their bands and families, and it seemed that all of them wanted to stay at Mrs. Pierce’s boardinghouse, on the Virginia side of State Street. Mr. Pierce was a barber, and he was happy to give people a trim before their auditions.
It was exciting, but it made me nervous too. Up to then, Daddy didn’t know what was going on at the hat company, and now he did. There was music happening, so you could bet he’d be on it like a pointer on a dead bird, which would make it harder for me to stick to my story. I might even have to spend some time at Mrs. Rickover’s house.
Sure enough, Daddy heard about the music and sprang into action. He painted some signs inviting people to church, and on Saturday morning, Arnie and I posted the signs around the boardinghouse and down the block. That night the tent was crowded with visitors.
“Welcome, Satan!” boomed Daddy from the pulpit.
The people, confused, whispered and buzzed.
“You heard me,” said Daddy. “Satan’s here. You brought him!”
Daddy stepped out from behind the soapbox pulpit and pointed into the crowd. “You! You! You dragged him in here with your music. You stink of it. You reek of it. Music! The devil’s tune. Satan’s melody. That guitar you play? A pitchfork! That big ol’ string bass? A coffin! Death is coming. He’s blowing his whistle. You’re humming along. You’re on the devil’s railroad.
“But look here—on the tracks ahead, a lone figure. Sandals set. Robe blowing in the wind. Face just glowing. It’s Jesus! Look out, engineer. Look out, musicians. Throw down that banjo. Stomp it. Crush it to pieces. Grind it to dust.”
Next to me, Arnie beamed. I wondered what visions swirled in his head and whether they involved a snake. Me? I squirmed, desperate to leave the tent. Hot air bore down on me. Daddy’s words pinned me down. I must have groaned, because Mama leaned over and put her arm around me.
Daddy wouldn’t stop. He knew the place was full of musicians, and he didn’t pause for a minute. You could call it bravery, I guess, or maybe it was a death wish. I imagined some stranger in the third row charging the pulpit, flailing his mandolin, and beating Daddy to a pulp.
The thought scared me, but it wouldn’t go away. That was the thing about Daddy’s sermons. Whether or not you agreed with him, they grabbed you by the shoulders, shook you hard, and wouldn’t let go. Colors were brighter. Pictures flashed by like dreams.
Maybe that was his real talent. Not preaching or praying, but making you feel—taking an ordinary summer night and filling it with joy and fear and dread. I wondered where he learned that. Did he practice, or did it grow wild, like mushrooms in a dark cave?
It ended finally. I watched the people file out and wondered what the musicians were thinking. Maybe somebody was converted. Maybe a guitar was burned or a banjo stomped. Or maybe they just enjoyed the excitement, and they’d go on playing and singing and then come back for more.
The next day, inspired by the big turnout, Daddy painted more signs. The first Wednesday of the month was that week, which meant there would be a potluck at church with a bonus sermon from Daddy, and he wanted to make sure the visitors heard it.
Arnie and I spent an hour tacking up more signs around town, and when Arnie finished, I noticed him sneaking off. I followed, curious, and was surprised when he went to our house. He didn’t go inside though. Instead he circled around back and entered the shed.
I moved to a window, and through the dirt and cobwebs, I watched Arnie approach the worktable where Beelzebub was coiled inside his cage. Arnie stood there, staring like he was in some kind of trance. He smiled vaguely and reached for the cage door.
Beelzebub saw Arnie, and his eyes glowed. Through the window I heard a faint sound.
The rattler was rattling.
I shook my head, as if I’d been in a trance of my own. Racing to the front of the shed, I plunged inside.
“Arnie!”
He reached for the cage door, barely an inch from Beelzebub. As he touched the door, I tackled him. We went down in a heap. Beelzebub, rattling furiously, hurled himself against the side of the cage. Four feet long and fat from the mice Daddy had fed him, Beelzebub struck repeatedly, but all he got was wire.
I held Arnie down, afraid he was going to try it again. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“He’s beautiful,” said Arnie, gazing up at the cage.
“He’s death! And if he doesn’t kill you, Mama will.”
“What about danger?” asked Arnie.
“What about it?”
“It’s what Daddy preaches. Danger. Living on the edge. That’s where Jesus lives.”
“Jesus said to love your neighbor, not snakes.”
Arnie peered up at the cage, then back at me. His eyes glinted like sparks from flint. “Jesus loves all kinds of things. Even you. Even me.”
I had watched Arnie grow up in Daddy’s tent, but until that moment I don’t think I realized what it had done to him. He was like clay, and Daddy had molded him into something dark and odd. He was Daddy distilled, Daddy twisted.
He said, “You won’t tell them, will you?”
“Mama and Daddy? I don’t know.”
I tried to imagine what I’d say. Your son is warped. If I told them, I wondered how they would feel. Hurt. Puzzled. Angry, probably at me.
I sighed. “Okay, I won’t tell. But you’ve got to promise. Stay away from that snake, you hear?”
He nodded, and I let him up. He brushed off his clothes, and we left the shed without another word.
CHAPTER 11
On Monday morning I headed off in the general direction of Mrs. Rickover’s house. On the way I met Sue Dean, and we joined the crowd of people going to the Taylor-Christian building for auditions. At first I kept glancing around, worried that I’d be recognized by church members. I didn’t see any, and after a while I relaxed, figuring music auditions were the last place I’d find them.
Sue Dean wore a dress she’d borrowed from her mother’s closet after her parents had gone off to work.
“You look nice,” I said. “Really nice.”
She reached out and straightened my collar.
“You too,” she said.
“I guess you read that article in the pape
r.”
She nodded. “I’m going to audition for Mr. Peer. What about you?”
“I thought I’d sing Mama’s song, or what I know of it. Maybe somebody will recognize it and tell me more.”
Sue Dean cocked her head and gave me a little smile. “You’re not a good singer.”
I laughed. “Okay, you’re right. But what am I supposed to do?”
“Could I sing it?” she asked.
“Mama’s song? For the audition?”
“Why not? I have other songs too, but I could start with yours. We could go in together. If anybody knows the song, you’ll find out.”
“All right,” I said. “Sure.”
I was glad, but I was nervous. Mama’s song, which seemed so private, would be out in the world.
When we reached the building, the line stretched out the front door and into the street. Sue Dean stood in line, while I went to Hecht’s Bakery to buy a sweet roll for us to split.
When I got back, she was talking to some people in line behind her. A tall, gangly man had slicked-down hair and eyes that blazed. The two women with him looked like sisters, plain faced but handsome. Behind them was a little girl who held a baby in her arms.
When Sue Dean saw me, she said, “Nate, they’re from Poor Valley!”
“Where’s that?” I asked.
“Scott County, Virginia, thirty miles across the border. It’s not far from Lynchburg, where I’m from.”
“We came by car and felt every bump,” said one of the women, smiling. She was the older of the two but couldn’t have been more than thirty.
“Nate,” said Sue Dean, “this is Sara Carter. That’s her husband, A.P., and her cousin Maybelle. Maybelle’s married to A.P.’s brother Eck, so she’s also Sara’s sister-in-law.”
“Confusing, isn’t it?” said Sara. “Sometimes I get mixed up myself.”
Maybelle shot us a shy grin. She shifted uncomfortably, and I noticed for the first time that she was pregnant, and pretty far along at that.
“Pleased to meet you,” I said. I stuck out my hand and realized there was a sweet roll in it.
