Songbird

by Lisa Samson

  She had a daughter!

  Why couldn’t she take the pills for me, at least?

  That purple Fantasia dragon is waking up inside me and I can only hope that when it opens its mouth and spews fire in a circle all around, we all won’t blacken, curl up, and disintegrate.

  Dovey pockets his notebook. “All right, then. I’ll get started. I’ve got other clients so this may take a while. But if she’s still out there, I’ll find her.”

  “I haven’t seen my daughter in over twenty-five years. If I have to wait a while longer, well, that’s what I’ll do.”

  He points to me. “What about you?”

  “I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”

  “Why do you want to find her?”

  “Just to know.”

  I feel a hardness petrify my own gaze and Dovey knows. Dovey knows I hate Isla Whitehead. “It won’t make the pain go away,” he says. “I’ve been in this business long enough to know that knowing doesn’t always make things right.”

  I smooth the table with my hand. “But it makes things what they are. And right now, I don’t even know that.”

  He nods and taps the tabletop with the fingertips of his left hand. “All right then. I’ll call you as soon as I know something. Try not to call me all the time for details. I call when I have some new information and not before. Continual updates are expensive and you two seem too sensible to need mollycoddling.”

  Grandma and I look at each other and shrug. “That’s fine, Dovey,” she says. “We’ll just go on as usual and try not to think about things too much.”

  “That’s the best way to go about it, ladies.”

  5

  I love October. I love the way the air breathes. I love the smell of people’s fireplaces going. I love the metallic taste of apple cider and the fastidious blue of the sky.

  I love spring even more.

  But October is here and I’m loving my new life.

  Nashville is a pretty old town. I’m riding down luxurious Belle Meade Boulevard in a limousine. “It’s not the best way to get to the studio, but it’s one of the prettiest,” the driver says.

  The leaves are ignited as though made of the money people in these parts must burn on whims I’ve never even considered.

  They’re all here. Italian villas. Colonial mansions. Tudor fortresses. Gated Greek palaces. Stone, brick, wood, you name it. I love the tiled roofs.

  The driver says, “This is the street to live on around here. Lots of artists and execs. I’m not sayin’ there aren’t other nice places, but there’s a regular who’s who here.”

  But you know, I’m surprised right now. Because while I admire this drive from my hotel in Brentwood to the studio at [BrooksTone on Music Row, I realize this life will never be mine, that when I married Harlan I said, “No” to riches, and that it’s fine.

  I have other riches.

  People God has sent me.

  I used to be alone, you know. I don’t come by these thoughts easily. The road to this point had a lot of broken glass along the way and the fact that I can still walk is only by God’s grace.

  If I could be spirited into these houses and see nothing but people getting along and loving each other the way we do, I might be jealous. But I doubt I’ll find that behind 98 percent of these walls. I really do.

  “Can I use this car phone?” I ask the chauffeur.

  “Of course, Ms. Hopewell.”

  I call Harlan. Things are fine.

  Tanzel comes on the phone and tells me about this mix-up between the music director and the children’s choir leader. “But I straightened it out!”

  As if that was ever in doubt.

  I call Grandma, but remember she’s at school.

  I call Ruby. She’s decided she’s taken a shine to Henry Windsor!

  I make a firm decision just then, to be more like Ruby and just decide things. So that is what I do. I make a decision.

  I call Grace’s parents before I can change my mind. If I give myself time to think about it, I’ll never do it. I tell them the truth.

  It’s abrupt. I know. But it’s right.

  “I can’t cover for her anymore. I’m not even sure where your daughter is.”

  Ruby would be proud of me. I tell them almost everything I know. All except for the part about Leo’s existence. How can I? What if they come and take my little boy, my little roller-skating, dinosaur-drawing, huggy-kissy boy, away from me? I couldn’t bear it.

  “Why didn’t you tell us?” Mrs. Underhill asks.

  “I promised Grace not to.”

  “But we relied on you, Charmaine.”

  “And Grace relied on me. Maybe you all should keep family business exactly that.”

  And I hung up the phone after a quick, “ ‘Bye now.”

  I know it’s not a way to tell someone their daughter’s a drug addict. But for the life of me, I couldn’t summon up the strength to do it any other way. They deserve to know. Grace doesn’t deserve anything else.

  The buildings become more intensely gathered the farther into the city we drive. I purposely push Grace from my mind. This is my day. This is my day.

  We pull into the parking lot and I am so excited. When I signed the contract Jay said, “Now a lot of artists have their own studios they use and producers they like to work with and they just send the finished product here. What are your preferences?”

  I wanted to guffaw. I mean, I am so professional! “Just point me in whatever direction you want,” I said.

  So here I am. Ella’s showing me back down the hallway that Jay took me down last month.

  “I’m kind of nervous.”

  “Don’t be. I’ve heard your other tape. It’s wonderful.”

  “You think so?”

  “Of course.”

  She’s wearing ivory today. No panty-hose runs, but part of her French twist is falling down at the back.

  “Trust me, Charmaine. Jay’s got a good nose for this sort of thing. He wouldn’t have brought you in if he didn’t think you could deliver.”

  “What about Carl?”

  “Carl doesn’t care about BrooksTone. He was sent here by Kinglee because they wanted him out of their hair.”

  “Really? How do you know?”

  “This is a small community, Charmaine. Word gets around.”

  She shows me in and we start. They’ve already picked out a bunch of old favorites for me to sing, the arrangements have been done, and all I have to do is sing what’s on the sheet music.

  Now that I can do.

  One song is an original.

  “We thought we’d give this songwriter a shot, Charmaine,” Jay says. He’s been sitting with me in the studio the whole time and I am glad.

  The song is perfect. Soft, sweet, and all about Jesus. It’s called “Ten Thousand Lilies.”

  “I think this will be your hit,” he says.

  And I believe him.

  “Do you think we’ll have this all done in two weeks?”

  “I sure do. All the accompaniment tracks are laid down, and besides, you’re a natural.”

  Are people in this business always this flattering?

  The gang and I just finished a swanky dinner at Merchants. My two weeks are up and I’m basically done. I’m sharing a limo with Carl because he lives in Brentwood where my hotel is. Not the horsey guy I thought!

  “So what do you think, darlin’? You like BrooksTone so far?”

  “I love it.”

  I’m trying to look out the window as much as possible. But I’m having a hard time finding the balance between being rude and yet still seeing the sites of Nashville.

  Plus, I don’t want to connect with him on any level.

  “Good. We like our artists to be happy. You happy, Charmaine?”

  “You mean happy with the recording sessions or happy in general?”

  “In general.”

  “Oh, yes, sir. I sure am. I love my husband and my children so much. They’re the most importan
t thing to me. More important than even this stuff, Carl.”

  “Still, you do seem like a gal that knows what she wants and how to get it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You know sometimes we take a BrooksTone artist and put all the Kinglee muscle behind her. The marketing, the distribution. Everything.”

  “Really?” Oh, my lands.

  “I think you’ve got potential for a broader market. You’ve got such … appeal.”

  He runs a hand over my hand.

  I pull it away.

  “Phil, take the long way back to Charmaine’s hotel.”

  “Yes, sir.” The chauffeur puts up the divider between the front seat and the back.

  “Look, Mr. Bofa—”

  “We’re back to that? Come on, Charmaine, call me ‘Carl.’ “

  “What’s going on, Carl?”

  “Nothing that hasn’t gone on before, I can tell you that.”

  What do I do? I’m stuck in this car. “Let’s not take the long way home.”

  His hand reaches out.

  I slap it away.

  He reddens.

  He slaps me.

  That quickly.

  Right across the cheek.

  Oh, God.

  He rips my shirt.

  I can’t scream. I want to, but my throat fills, bloated with fear.

  I lash out again. Fists curled.

  He punches the side of my head, right on my ear.

  Now I can scream.

  Phil slides the divider down a tad. “Everything okay, sir?”

  “Keep driving!” he screams.

  “No!” I yell.

  He jams his hand over my mouth and whispers in my ear. “You be quiet, darlin’, or your future is as good as gone.” He says, “It really is okay, Phil. Charmaine just pulled a muscle if you know what I mean.”

  Phil laughs and the divider returns.

  I bite Carl’s hand.

  I pray.

  I feel my panties being torn down and I kick out as hard as I can.

  God, get me out of this.

  His pants come down.

  I thought I had known fear before.

  But he isn’t ready to perform. I am one percent relieved even as my heart speeds up yet again at the rage flipping in his eyes.

  He decides to just beat me up now that his intended weapon has lost its aim, now that he has no hopes of anything.

  God, just let Phil stop the car.

  Please.

  Fists fly from both of us. I am able to remove a high-heeled shoe and I swing it across his face, landing it on the tender spot of his cheek.

  He roars, grabs my arm, and slams it back against the door.

  “Stop the car, Phil!”

  The divider goes down.

  “Stop the car!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  The wheels have not stopped turning and I am on the street, scrabbling to my feet and running for my life toward a Waffle House.

  Harlan jumps to his feet when they return me to my hospital room after surgery. Carl broke my arm and ripped tendons.

  “I drove as fast as I could, Shug.”

  He kisses me.

  I am safe.

  “I won’t leave you again, Harlan. I’m sorry.”

  I start to cry but force it down allowing only a single sob to escape.

  “Go ahead and cry, Shug.”

  “I can’t Harlan.”

  “Then don’t, Charmaine. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.”

  “Can you climb up on the bed with me? I think I just need to feel you here.”

  He does, his big feet in their big wingtips looking clownlike and awkward. And so safe.

  I think I will fall back asleep before I look in a mirror and see the bruising. I think I need just a little more time before I see the extent of the damage.

  “Harlan?”

  “Yeah, Shug?”

  “I fought as hard as I could. He never penetrated. Nothing even touched down there.”

  He cradles my face in his hands. “Charmaine Hopewell, you’re really something. But then, I’ve always known that about you.”

  “I love you, Harlan.”

  “I love you, too.”

  And he does. Oh, Harlan sure does. And it is in this that I seek my rest and find it.

  Not long afterward a nice detective lady from the Nashville police department comes and talks to me. She asks me if I’d like to press charges and I say, “Yes, ma’am. I surely would.”

  I’d like to see Mr. Bofa and his sofa put away for a long, long time.

  Harlan caresses my face. “You’re a fighter, Shug.”

  “Wish I didn’t have to be.”

  “I admire you, Charmaine. I still can’t believe a woman like you would have a man like me.”

  6

  Bring it right on over here!” Harlan points to the corner of the living room. A white cable with a pointed end sticks out from the wall. Just installed. Cable TV!

  Isn’t technology just a wonderful thing? I lie on the couch still nursing my arm and my bruises. And am I jumpy these days! I’ve dipped down a bit emotionally, but I really don’t want Dr. Braselton to up my dosage. I’ll get through this.

  The deliverymen deposit the set on the $39.99 Walt’s Mart TV stand Harlan already assembled. Two hours later the cable man comes and hooks up everything. He shows us how to work the box on the top of the TV and hooks up the VCR, too, so we can use the remote. Can you imagine? You can just tape things off the television. I’ve always wanted to really get into soap operas and maybe now I can.

  But which one should I choose?

  Definitely not one that has anything to do with hospitals. Not after what I’ve just been through. But I’d like one with lots of rich people who have nothing better to do than slam doors, whip around quickly during an argument, and plan society galas that help the homeless.

  Take it from me, though, homelessness comes in many forms.

  I wonder if those rich people on Belle Meade Boulevard are really like that?

  The kids jump around talking about a network named Nickelodeon and this show called Pinwheel they watched over at Tanzel’s house when she baby-sat them.

  Harlan fixes the service men some iced tea and they drink it down gratefully, their big Adam’s apples bobbing in their throats. And then, after they leave, he pulls out the remote, juggling it from one hand to the other, eyebrows rising and falling. “Shall we take her for a spin, Shug?”

  “I wouldn’t stop you.” With my good hand, I pull my blankets up to my chin. “Grandma? Wanna come in a see the new television set?”

  She hollers in from the kitchen where she’s browning meat for the sloppy joes. She’s been a real peach during this recuperation time. “I’ll be right there. Go ahead and get started without me.”

  It’s funny how she’s blossomed since the moment I first saw her. A closed mum turned into the sunny bloom of Autumn. I just love her so much. I’ve forgiven her about the father thing. I have to. But I do plan on scouting out Mrs. Potter’s house if I’m ever in Suffolk again.

  See, I’ve got to think of it this way. Me suddenly showing up on her doorstep may give her a heart attack or something. Talk about “out of the blue.” I mean, it was one thing for Grandma Min, because she was my mother’s mama. But this Mrs. Potter lost her son over two decades ago, a nice kid who worked at a peanut factory, and all of a sudden his daughter shows up?

  That might make even a perfectly healthy person have a stroke and I have no idea what state this poor woman is in. I mean, she’s already lost a child and that’s the worst thing anyone can go through.

  Harlan flips through the channels slowly, a big grin pulling his face apart at the seams. I watch him instead of the TV but then realize this is a new stage in our lives. We are the family living in a brick ranch house with cable TV, so I take heed of the screen in front of me.

  “Harlan! Stop! Stop right there! Is that that MTV show?”

 
; “Oh, my.”

  “Who is that man?! And what have they done to his hair?”

  Harlan’s eyes go buggy. “And what in the world does ‘the union of the snake’ mean?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Those are the craziest darn words I’ve ever heard.” Harlan looks disgusted. “They don’t even make any sense.”

  “Who are those guys?”

  Grandma Min walks in, drying her hands on her apron. “Oh, that’s Duran Duran.”

  “Who on earth?” I ask.

  “Actually they’re not the cat’s pajamas anymore. But they were hot tickets a couple of years ago.”

  My mouth falls open. “How do you know about this stuff, Grandma?”

  “I taught sixth graders for years, sweetie. I’ve always been up on the latest pop idols.”

  “Well, my lands.” I point to the screen. “This calls for popcorn ‘cause this is even better than the circus!”

  “I’ll make it, Shug! We’ll have us a good old time.”

  Harlan’s been trying to wipe out Mr. Bofa’s attack ever since it happened. And I guess the pictures of that night will fade eventually. But maybe not.

  But I’ve lived through worse for a long time now.

  Still, I’m jumpy and skittish and I look over my shoulder a lot when we’re out because a man like Carl Bofa could pop up anywhere, waiting to get me back.

  I hope they throw the book at him. I’m not looking forward to testifying against him, I can tell you that. But I will because I’ve made up my mind to do just that.

  7

  I’ve turned into a regular night owl, thanks to the TV in the house. David Letterman tickles me to no end! That space between his teeth makes him naturally humorous. Kind of like what my hair does to me. And I don’t know why dropping items from a high window makes me laugh, but it gets me every time!

  I’m lying in bed in a Nashville hotel room. This place has a king-size bed, a microwave, a minibar that I’ll tell you right now I’m not taking a thing out of because that stuff costs as much as it would at a kiosk by the Smithsonian in Washington, D.C. or out at Forger’s Creek, that new Christian resort near Roanoke. Whooo-eee. They charged two dollars for a Diet Coke by their pool!

  I did a Gospelganza concert at Forger’s Creek last summer.

  I love swanky hotels. A coffeemaker rests on the sink not three feet away from my toilet. I’m not about to make a pot of coffee in that thing tomorrow morning! You know, they say you should keep your toothbrush eight feet away from the toilet? I can’t even begin to imagine the germs on that coffeepot.