by Nick White
After the song, Buck turns to Forney, his eyes watery and wide. “See,” he says to the boy. “See what your mama can do?”
And he does. He really does.
She practices with Buck late into the night, going through most of the Patsy Cline songbook, aptly ending the evening with “Sweet Dreams.” Before he leaves, Buck kisses her hand. And this time Forney doesn’t laugh.
* * *
—
ON FRIDAYS, Buck drives up in his outlandish car, pulls around back, and parks beside the unfinished chicken coop. He lopes through the back door, yapping like a grateful dog. “Weekend’s here, friends,” he bellows, and Forney and his mother run to meet him in the living room.
Not exaggerating about his sweet tooth, Buck usually brings some sugary confection for them to devour: cream-cheese Danishes, glazed bear claws, doughnut holes, strawberry crullers. You name it. And he always eats more than Forney and his mother, yet he remains rail thin. Puny almost.
No matter how late it is after practice, he never stays the night. Felicia and Buck maintain—at least in front of Forney—a professional, businesslike demeanor. Whatever occurs physically between them (and Forney tries to steer his brain away from such thoughts) is kept far from his purview. The only time they touch is just before Buck leaves, when he gallantly kisses her hand.
Most of their time together is devoted to singing. To improving her natural talents. Her voice is shaky in those first few sessions, unsure of itself. Buck, the patient teacher, shows her how to sing from her belly. How to use the air in her lungs and how to pace herself.
In most things, they agree. They quarrel, however, over song choice. She prefers the upbeat country pop melodies currently played on Top 40 radio. Songs such as “Meet Me in Montana” and “Lookin’ for Love” and “Take Me Home, Country Roads.” Buck will have none of it. He claims—and Forney is apt to agree with him, though he never voices his opinion during the practices—those flimsy tunes will be forgotten in five years or so. “What you need,” he argues, “is a more traditional sound.” The achy-heart standards of years past. He steers her toward the likes of Loretta Lynn, Kitty Wells, and Lynn Anderson. Which she balks at. “They’re all so whiney,” she says, and Buck replies, confidently, that “whiney sells.” Eventually, they compromise: Each practice session, they alternate between his song selections and hers.
Between songs, while she is gargling with whiskey to loosen up her vocal cords, Forney has several talks with Buck. Pleasant talks. He tells the boy about his failed marriage and his son who serves in the Peace Corps. “Somewhere off the coast of Africa,” he says. “I’ll show you on a map sometime.” His ex-wife lives in Gatlinburg and works as a day performer at an amusement park called Silver Dollar City. “But that’s all the past,” he says, and then, in his deeper radio voice: “And we deal in futures.”
Forney listens to Buck’s radio show a couple of times during the week to see what it is like. Buck sounds like a much bigger man on the air. A learned man. He often gives brief history lessons on the music he’s about to play. “Now this one here, friends,” he says once, “was Bobbie Gentry’s best-known and biggest hit to date. You might remember the TV movie inspired by the tune, starring teen heartthrob Robby Benson.” Then the music fades in as he says, “And don’t forget: This is Buck Wild in the Morning!”
In late July, Forney’s mother and Buck start gallivanting to clubs and piano bars with open-mic nights. Traveling to Biloxi and Tuscaloosa and Shreveport. “Fine-tuning our sound,” Buck calls it. During these trips, Forney is always left with his father’s brother and sister. “Those twins,” his mother calls them. They still live together in their childhood home on Claymore Street in the nearby town. Aunt Mavis and Uncle Lucas pretend they don’t care what his mother is up to, but Forney knows they are ravenous for what bits of information he can throw them. “Oh, her music teacher,” he answers, when they ask about Buck. “Oh, really,” they say, gazing at each other knowingly. As if he weren’t even in the room. As if he were some kind of dummy and didn’t know they were trying to pick him clean for information.
“He’s teaching her how to sing is all,” he offers.
“Sing what?”
“Country music.”
“Of course he is.”
* * *
—
THE TRIP TO MEMPHIS comes about in August. Buck drives up into the front yard one afternoon, the windows rolled down, radio blaring a David Allen Coe song. The Crown Vic halts inches from the porch, its grille nosing the porch railing. “Easy now,” Forney’s mother hollers from the kitchen window. “You got the red ass or something?”
He’s jabbering before he stumbles out of the car. “You won’t believe it, friends,” he says, gasping. “You simply won’t believe it.” An old friend who works at Capitol Records in Nashville as a talent scout called him up that morning. Bishop, the old friend, will be traveling to Memphis the following week to see an up-and-coming band at the Orpheum and wants to see Buck. “Shoot the shit” is how Buck put it. And Buck, seeing an opportunity, raved about this great female singer he knows who will be taking the stage at the Little Tina on Beale Street the night before.
“Who’s that?” Forney asks.
“Her, friend.” Buck nods to his mother.
“I didn’t know you were going to Memphis?”
Forney’s mother sips from her pink can of Tab. “Me either.”
“Details, details,” Buck tells them. “The point is: He said he’d drop by.” Buck is panting now. “This is your moment, Bathsheba.”
* * *
—
THEY GO SHOPPING in Jackson for a new outfit for Forney’s mother. At McRae’s and Gayfers, she dons various dresses. Spiriting out of the fitting rooms in gowns bathed in sparkles and flanked on either side by a fat shoulder pad. Buck says, “No, no, no” to all of them. “Understatement,” he reminds her. “We want your voice to be onstage, not the dress.” Eventually, they find one they both like: a modest green number with a silver belt.
“Perfecto.” Buck scoops up her hair in his hands. “We’ll wear it up. Like this. Classic.”
She’s staring at her reflection in the three-paned dressing mirror. Her eyes settle on Forney sitting on a pink bench, studying a rack of women’s lingerie. “Let’s find something for him too. Something classic.”
Buck agrees. They have decided to take Forney with them to Memphis. For the story. Play up the strong-widow-woman-turned-country-singer angle. Opry crowds eat that up, Buck says.
In JCPenney, Buck selects for Forney a gray suit with a starchy white button-up shirt. He was about to refuse the whole thing. Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll just stay behind with Aunt Mavis and Uncle Lucas. But then his mother appeared behind him and pressed her fingers into his neck.
“For flourish,” she says, and ties a blue bow tie around his neck. She guides him over to a full-length mirror. “Look at yourself: a little man.”
Forney tells her the bow tie’s choking him.
“It’s supposed to choke you. Lets you remember what you’re wearing is not some old potato sack.”
The two of them—mother and son—gaze at the reflection of themselves wearing their new getups. Like different people, Forney thinks. Happier people. But is he happy? Or on the way to happiness? This singing stuff makes her happy, and he guesses he’s happy that she’s happy. But is he? The boy reflected back at him appears to be. While he’s mulling this over, his mother kisses the top of his head. Normally, she’s a side hugger at best. So this is like an atomic bomb to his senses.
“Who are we?” he asks.
She beams. “Whoever we goddamn want to be, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart—he repeats it quietly. Savors the word in his mouth as if it were a Jolly Rancher.
Behind them, Buck’s applauding.
* * *
—
F
ORNEY’S IN THE BACK SEAT of the Crown Vic on their way to Memphis. They stop at four gas stations along the highway, and each time Buck returns with individually wrapped fried pies or an assortment of candies. He munches as he drives.
“My god,” Forney’s mother says once when he tosses a box of Krispy Kremes between them. “You’ve got a problem.” She averts her eyes as he licks the sweet crust from his fingers then dusts the crumbs from his lap.
“My nerves,” he explains.
“He’s coming to see me.” She looks at him again. “Not you.”
He cranks the Crown Vic, and Forney’s happy to be moving again. Down Highway 51, the same highway that runs in front of Graceland. Which his mother points out several times, as if the coincidence were a good omen or something.
Forney has this notion that he’ll see Memphis glittering in the distance a good mile or two before they reach it. So far, however, there’s been nothing but a wide stretch of nothingness in front of and behind them: a hazy wall of humidity, a diminishing wall of trees. Like they’re headed away from civilization, not toward it.
The air conditioner conks out soon after they pass Grenada, so they roll the windows down—but not before his mother wraps a scarf around her newly curled chignon. Buck keeps the radio on so loud that Forney can hear the music even above the roar of wind gushing in and out of the car. By the first note, Buck usually recognizes the song and—unable to squash his radio-host tendencies—shares his knowledge with the car. “The Statler Brothers,” he yells over his shoulder to Forney. “‘Too Much on My Heart.’” Or, later, to Forney’s mother: “‘I Wouldn’t Change You If I Could,’ Ricky Skaggs.” Or to himself: “‘There’s No Gettin’ Over Me,’ Ronnie Milsap,” his eyes scanning over the empty road tarring over in the afternoon heat.
“You ever meet any of them?” Forney asks at one point. “The singers.”
Buck catches Forney’s eyes in the rearview mirror and winks. “Oh, I’ve got some connections. Here and there.”
* * *
—
THEY PARK in a large three-story garage two blocks from the Little Tina. Scrunched in the back seat, Forney and his mother take turns changing into their new clothes. As before, he finds his suit oppressive. Stepping into the neon brilliance of Beale Street, he feels like he’s got a wet towel around his chest. Buck finds a pay phone and calls the motel to inform them that they’ll be late checking in, and in the meantime, Forney and his mother cross the street. She leads him to a tall statue situated in a little pavilion.
“W. C. Handy,” she tells him, and touches the statue’s foot. “For luck.”
Forney places his hand on the other leg. “Okay,” he says.
Buck finds them like this. “Ready?”
The Little Tina is a bar and grill of sorts, named—according to the placard outside—for an ill-fated (possibly fictitious) showboat that used to go up and down the Mississippi River, once upon a time. The restaurant’s located in a redbrick storefront, stuffed between a dance hall and an old-timey general store with signage boasting the world’s largest pair of overalls for sale. Buck leaves Forney and his mother at the front of the Little Tina to speak with a man standing behind the pedestal by the bar. He’s dressed in some sort of costume that Forney can’t place—a strange suitcoat, a funny hat, like a train conductor maybe. It’s poorly lit, and Forney cannot see what lies beyond the bar, but he’s excited. Finally, Buck waves them over, and they follow the man around the bar and down a long hallway, through a large crowd of people waiting in line, that empties into a dining room. Windows hold the illusion of the outside, showing segments of what must be a large mural of a riverbank, and brown slivers of trees and dark-green overgrowth. The waiters wear gray uniforms with bright yellow sashes. They are moving quickly about the room, gliding past one another in a kind of dance as they take orders, carry large trays of food, flip warm disks of corn bread from cast-iron skillets.
Their booth’s in the back, half-hidden by a greasy cloud of cigarette smoke. On the walls surrounding them are portraits and drawings of the “famous” showboat, calling it a “Floating Theatre of Talent.” Having swiped a menu earlier, Forney learns that the boat supposedly sunk sometime before the Civil War. There was a story about how this was the North’s fault, but he couldn’t follow the logic. Their waitress—a chubby girl with deep pockmarks on her face—brings them a plate of pickled onions and mugs of ice water. Not wasting any time, Forney’s mother orders a gin and tonic. Buck and Forney ask for sweet teas.
A raised platform along with a microphone and an electric keyboard is at the center of the room. A skinny black man with an exuberant mass of dreadlocks is playing a saxophone while the people in the restaurant blissfully boo him. Even though, to Forney’s ears, the man seems to be doing a good job.
“Tough crowd.” His mother’s hand finds his. Another first. He can hardly believe it: atomic bomb number two.
“Bishop said he’d be here by now,” Buck is saying. He glances down at his wristwatch. “We’re on in thirty—I think.” He tells them that he needs to speak with the manager, give him the tape of recorded music she would be singing to. (Buck didn’t feel confident enough in his ability to play tonight.)
The crowd’s heckles grow louder, but the man on the saxophone appears oblivious. Forney catches the melody. “‘Love Is Here to Stay,’” he says, but his mother’s looking off and doesn’t hear him. Last year, his school’s music teacher showed them An American in Paris, and this particular piece he liked the best. The saxophonist finishes, and he bows. There is a rupture of applause then. Cheering him off the stage.
“Pearls before swine.” Forney’s mother gulps down her water. “Where’s my gin and tonic?”
When Buck returns, he informs them of a problem. The manager is insisting that she take the stage next after a fifteen-minute intermission. Supposedly, they have a full list of performers. “Says he needs to keep it moving.” Buck shakes his head, clearly disgusted with the way things are turning out. “Just get up there,” he finally says. “It’ll be better this way. He’ll see you in medias res. Give you a chance to work out the nervousness.”
Forney grips his mother’s wrist. “If they boo you, just keep on singing.”
She examines the crowd. A mix of tourists and locals. Shoveling fried catfish in their mouths. “Bastards.” She gently slaps herself across the face. “Let’s do this.”
Forney watches as Buck takes her to the stage and helps her onto the platform. The restaurant lights dim, and the crowd, curious, becomes silent and turns their attention to the woman onstage before them. The floodlights pick up the green in her dress and the silver of the belt—she is, indeed, dazzling. Forney wishes she could see herself like this. Buck, the old fool, was right about everything: the dress, the hair. Forney’s mother belonged there. In front of an audience. A hand unclenches from around his heart—he can feel the slow release. Maybe he’s always loved his mother, and it has taken the singing and Buck and whatever else to awaken him to it. He recognizes it, this love inside him, and shudders. With this feeling of love comes, also, dread. Dread because when you love someone you put yourself in their hands. Give them the power to destroy you with something as little as a look. Or a song.
From the speakers in the wall, Buck’s sure-footed piano riffs of Kitty Wells’s “It Wasn’t God Who Made Honkey Tonk Angels” floods the room. His mother waits for the moment. Parts her lips.
She sings.
And nothing happens.
The audience returns to their plates of coleslaw and fried dill pickles and steaming lumps of turnip greens. They continue with their loud talk, as if his mother were nothing more than a noisy bird on a windowsill. Forney can’t believe it. Boos would have been better.
Buck comes back to the booth. “Bishop will be here soon.”
But Forney hardly hears him. Loud sobs are shaking loose from his throat.
&nbs
p; III.
One balmy summer day, they were outside shelling peas, their hands stained purple, when Forney’s father keeled over, landing facedown in the monkey grass. At first his mother thought it was just the heat. He had merely passed out. “You, Reuben,” she kept saying, nudging him with her foot, placing her ear to his chest. When she discovered he wasn’t breathing, she leaped inside and called 911. Forney put his father’s head in his lap and slapped his cheeks. Neither one of them knew CPR, so all they could do was wait for the ambulance. Keep the ants off of him. “Reuben, Reuben,” his mother kept repeating. Like a chant. Forney, on the other hand, didn’t say anything. He didn’t cry either—though no one would have blamed him if he had. But no: His sockets remained dry even during the memorial service, even when he saw the little urn being handed to his mother that contained—somehow—the remains of his father, all that he had been, all that he would ever be. So, needless to say, it’s a great shock to him that he decides to let loose with the tears when he does. Here, at the Little Tina.
His mother sings two more songs and quietly exits the stage to little fanfare. Two hours later, Buck’s friend Bishop turns up. A tall man with frumpy hair and a curlicue mustache that curves into itself like a musical note. By this time, Forney has taken off his coat and undone the bow tie. The swirl in his mother’s chignon has become knotted. Buck nibbles a lemon. Their hands are slimy from all the catfish they’ve eaten.
Bishop moseys up to the table. “Who died?”
“You’re late.” Forney’s mother is on her third gin and tonic.
Buck spits out a seed. “You missed it B. She was— spectacular.”
Bishop slides into Forney’s side of the booth. The waitress appears and asks him what he would like to drink. Bishop studies Forney’s mother. “I’ll have what the pretty lady is having.”
She huffs, clearly unimpressed.
