“Now, Easy…”
“But what about Johnny Foster? Why was he so eager to adopt me out? What about him?”
“Johnny was a very sick man and he knew it.” Clarence pulled out a chair and sat at the table. He started to push the salt and pepper shakers around like they were chess pieces—like he was figuring out his next move. “Johnny would have loved nothing more than to take you back to Amarillo with him.”
“Why didn’t he then?”
“Johnny had only a couple years to live, Easy. He couldn’t be there for you. Not in the long run.”
“What about Agnes?” I asked the question, but I knew the answer already; neither Clarence nor Thelma—and maybe not even Johnny—would want me growing up in the curio shop on Highway 66.
“Agnes is a great lady, but she couldn’t be a mother to you, Easy. Not the way Thelma could.”
I saw tears form in his eyes.
“I did what I had to do, Easy,” he said. Then he said it again. “I did what I had to do.”
I knew that. It felt like a stabbing pain in my stomach—as if the lies that had been told to me had congealed and formed a stick that was being rammed into my abdomen. But I understood why he did what he did. I loved Thelma, too. I would have done anything for her.
I sat down beside him.
“So you adopted me for Thelma’s sake?”
Clarence nodded.
“And to be there for Johnny since he saved your life?”
He nodded again.
“And you were willing to take the blame all these years and put up with everyone talking about you behind your back and whispering things about you—so that you could help Johnny and give Thelma a baby?”
He paused for a long time before he replied.
“And for myself, Easy. I did it for myself. Because I loved you very much.” He took my hand. “And I still do.”
“But why didn’t you tell me? You and Thelma should have told me, Clarence.”
“We wanted to.”
“Then why didn’t you?” I asked.
“The time was never right,” he said. “We kept putting it off, and then—”
“Thelma died.”
“Yes, she died.” His eyes were soft and sad.
“And?”
“Well…you despised Wendy Wood so much, Easy, that I guess I was afraid that once you knew the truth, you’d wind up hating me too.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead dry. “You judge people so harshly, Easy.”
“I do?”
Me? Judge people? No, that’s Marsha’s department.
And while I’d managed to erase his remark from my mind temporarily, I soon discovered that the accusations I’d hurled at Marsha were really about myself.
Because Mrs. Hill’s network of spies included the cab driver who drove me home from the airport, by Sunday at noon everyone knew I was back, so when Larry came by the garage to feed Gillie, I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t there. I wanted to, though. I was in no mood to talk with anybody, and preferred to stay in my room, but Larry called and called through the door, and he wasn’t going away.
“Easy!” he shouted from outside the garage. “Easy, are you up yet?” With that much noise, I don’t know why he bothered to ask. “Easy!” he hollered again.
Because it was Sunday, and we were closed, I went around the back and let him in the side door.
“Hi,” I said, in the voice I normally reserved for proselytizing Jehovah’s Witnesses. He looked so happy, I felt I had to add “How are you?” I didn’t really care one way or another.
He gave me a big bear hug. My arms dangled beside me while he squeezed me like an orange. “I’m great,” he said. “I want to hear about your trip.” Realizing it would be better to deal with him and get the conversation out of the way, I pulled a couple of sodas out of the cooler, and we went outside and sat on the tailgate of a pickup truck.
“Thanks,” he said, when I gave him the pop. He shoved an envelope into his pocket.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“A letter home to my brother,” he replied. “With a check inside.” He took a swig of soda. “I’m heading to the mailbox next.”
“A check?”
“It’s my folks’ anniversary and we’re all chipping in to buy them a gift.”
“That’s nice,” I said, envisioning my future with nothing in it but motor oil and chitchat about Porcupine Plain.
“I didn’t know if I’d have enough money saved in time,” admitted Larry, “and that had me feeling lower than a fat frog in a dry well.” He tipped up the pop bottle, then clunked it down so dramatically, you’d think it was a mickey of rye and he’d just returned from the Alamo. “But I’ve been cuttin’ it close to the bone, and managed to put twenty dollars away.”
“What are you getting them?” I asked.
“A septic tank.”
I choked on my drink. “A septic tank? Well…uh…I hope they’re happy with it.”
“They will be,” he said with a smile. “So tell me about your trip to the desert.”
“Didn’t you get my postcard?” I asked. “Actually, I’ve got another one that I never mailed. You can have that one, too.”
“I didn’t get a postcard, at least not yet.” He was clearly disappointed. “Maybe it’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Too late to be bothered with it.”
“No it isn’t,” he declared. “I love postcards. My brother sent me one from Niagara Falls when he got married.”
Oh, no. He’s on to weddings. Now he’s going to tell me about the one I missed.
“Well, Larry,” I said, glancing at my wrist where there was no watch, “I’d better be getting back inside. I’ve got a ton of laundry to do.”
“Please stay another minute,” he begged. “I want to hear about your trip. What was it like in the good ol’ Yew S of A?”
I gave him a quick summary of the events, hoping it would satisfy him and I could get on my way.
“Gee, I’m real sorry that it didn’t work out with Janis Joplin,” he said.
“Yeah,” I replied, looking at his pop bottle to see how much was left in order to calculate how much time I’d have to sit there. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Larry, but at that abysmally low point in my life, I was feeling sorry for myself and didn’t have the energy for anyone.
That was when Larry hijacked the conversation and swung it around to Skeeter.
“You missed a fabulous wedding, you know. It was really nice.”
Yeah, I’ll bet it was. He probably spent the whole night in the stag line with a bunch of hunched-over fifteen-year-old boys.
“My brother and Skeeter were real upset that you couldn’t make it. They were looking forward to meeting you.”
“Yeah, well—look, I’ve got a lot to do today, Larry.”
I jumped off the back of the truck and was ready to go inside and sulk, but Larry hadn’t finished all of what he wanted to say.
“I played the tape of you singing. I played it for Skeeter and a good friend of hers. I met him at the wedding—great guy. His father—”
“You did what?” I hollered. “I didn’t give you permission to do that! I didn’t want that stupid Skeeter woman to hear my tape, let alone anybody else.”
“She asked me to bring it, Easy, because—”
“I don’t care!”
I felt blood boiling inside my ears.
Now I didn’t like Larry at all. I hated him.
What right did he have to play the tape? I didn’t even want to be taped in the first place.
“But Skeeter—”
“I don’t give a damn about Skeeter, or your brother, or your septic tank, or anything else about you, Larry. That was a dirty trick.” Seething with rage, I started f
or the door.
Larry ran behind me.
“But this friend of Skeeter’s, his father listened to the tape, and he wants to give you an audition, Easy. He thinks you’re terrific.”
I stopped.
“Audition?” My back was still turned.
“You’ll probably be singing on weeknights to start, but—”
I wheeled around to face Larry.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“He owns a place here in town.”
“You’re out of your mind, Larry. There are only two clubs in this town, so unless this guy is George Penn and owns The Beehive—”
“No, he doesn’t own The Beehive. He has a really nice place. It’s called Saskatoon Blues.”
I wore the green dress that Thelma made for me. The one we worked on together for my graduation. What else could I wear for my opening night at the club? At the club where Billie Holiday once sang.
I watched as Clarence took a seat. I don’t know if it was thanks to the owner insisting he have the best table in the place, or if it was thanks to Mrs. Hill for making sure everyone in Saskatoon knew the truth about him, but it was the first time my father felt comfortable enough to sit at the front. And in his brand new suit, he sure looked like Mister Merritt.
To his left was Larry, that big white toothy grin of his lighting up more of the table than the candle in the centerpiece. I figured his mother must have made a one-time exception and let him get within a hundred paces of alcohol. It was hard to believe that it was thanks to a guy from Porcupine Plain and a woman named Skeeter that I finally had a chance at a career as a blues singer.
Clarence found an empty chair and pulled it next to him at the table.
I knew that one was for Thelma.
I picked up the microphone.
“I’d like to dedicate my first song to my parents, Thelma and Clarence Merritt,” I said, and Clarence wiped his eyes with the back of his hand.
It was “God Bless the Child,” and when I sang it to that empty chair, it wasn’t empty anymore.
CHAPTER TWENTY
October 5, 1970
It was on a Monday afternoon that I heard the news about Janis. I was alone at the time—Clarence and Larry had gone to Regina for parts—and I’d been thinking about her a lot. Wondering if I’d ever see her again, yet somehow knowing that I never would.
I just hadn’t figured on the reason.
Then I turned on the radio:
Rock Star Janis Joplin is dead at the age of twenty-seven. Known for her full-throttle performances and uninhibited lifestyle, the blues singer was found yesterday in her room at the Landmark Motor Hotel in Los Angeles, dead of an apparent overdose of heroin.
The announcer went on to say that Janis and her band had been working on an album for the past month at the Sunset Sound Recording Studio. When he said it—in a voice that was distant and cold—I wondered how the life of someone so free-spirited, so incomparable, could be reduced to a twenty-second news item. At that time, of course, I had no way of knowing that “Me and Bobby McGee” would hit number one on the charts.
That’s her legacy. Not the crap people say about her.
It’s hard to explain how Janis’s death affected me. It was a different kind of pain than I felt after losing Thelma—that kind cuts right through you and leaves a rift in your heart that never heals. Never.
With Janis, I felt anger. Anger at the stupidity of a twenty-seven-year-old woman with the best voice on the planet throwing her life away to drugs and alcohol. And while looking at things in retrospect ordinarily blunts corners, the passing of time has never made me feel any different.
Just like the black blues singers she venerated, her life had been one of turmoil. I couldn’t help but wonder if fate had played a hand—October 4th was the same day Bessie Smith was buried in 1937. And Janis had put a headstone on her grave just a few weeks before her own death.
When Marsha roared through our lot in the yellow submarine, I knew exactly why she’d come. I pushed up the garage door and went out to meet her.
The driver’s side door swung open and out she slid. I hadn’t seen her since that evening in July when I left her in Albuquerque, crying over what she’d done to Roy.
“So you heard?” I asked her.
“Late last night,” she said. “Sister Beatrice and I were almost back to Saskatoon when it came over the radio. It’s—it’s horrible.”
“I didn’t think you cared much for Janis,” I remarked.
“I hated her, you know that.”
“And you don’t anymore?”
“After what happened with Roy, I learned…well, I learned not to hate anyone. Let’s just say I learned what hate can do. And it frightened me.”
“It did?”
“After you left,” she told me, “I worked every day in the mission. Mother Grace forgave me, and I went to confession more than I ever have in my life. The priest helped me work through a lot of things.”
“So…um…did Roy ever—”
“No. He didn’t come back.” Her eyes hit the ground.
“I’m sorry to hear that. I hope the news about Janis doesn’t make him do anything foolish.”
“I hope he’s still—”
“Alive?” I asked, and Marsha nodded.
I sighed and leaned on the hood of the car. “If he is out there someplace, he’ll make his way back to Mother Grace. She’s a magnet.”
Like Janis. She was a magnet, too.
As I thought about Janis, I glanced at Marsha’s wrist and wondered about the gold bangle.
“The bracelet—”
“Mother Grace is keeping it for Roy. In case he comes back,” she said.
We were both quiet for a long time, then she looked at me closely. “I’m sorry for you, Easy, because I know you thought so much of Janis.”
Her remark was like a plug, that when pulled, made everything gush.
“I can’t stand the thought of her dying like that. All alone in some lousy hotel room. All alone! Janis Joplin!” I shook my head. “I wish now that I had tried to help her in some way. Not that I could do much. But I was so impressed by her, so in awe of her, that I didn’t even think about her heroin abuse. I didn’t think anything could bring her down. If it had been anyone else, I would have tried to intervene. And now it’s too late.”
“It’s hard to live with regrets,” said Marsha.
“It is.”
We were quiet again, and I began to think about something else I regretted.
“I’m sorry for what I said in Albuquerque—when I accused you of judging people.”
“You were right. The things I said about Janis Joplin were horrible and hateful. She treated me with respect, and I gave her none in return.”
I didn’t know how to reply, so I changed the subject and asked about her plans.
“I’ll be receiving my full habit in a few days,” she said. “Then I’m on my way to Alberta.”
“Would you do something for me, Marsha? When you’re in Calgary?”
“If I can.”
“I’ve been saving money for some time now—to buy a car. But do you remember that 1951 Chevy—behind the curio shop in Amarillo?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“I’ve kept in touch with Agnes Foster over the last few months, and Clarence and I are going down to visit her. Larry’s going to look after the garage while we’re gone.”
“Larry?”
“He’s our apprentice,” I explained. “And a good friend.” I smiled. “Anyway, Clarence wants to see Route 66 again—you know, before it’s gone. And I’d like to see more of it myself.”
“Right,” said Marsha.
“Well, I’m pretty sure Agnes is going to let me have the car—I’m going to restore it
to its original condition. So I’ve got several hundred dollars that I won’t be needing now, and—”
“But what has that got to do with me?”
“There’s a woman in Calgary. She’s homeless and known to frequent the mission downtown—in the East Village. I doubt you’d have much trouble finding her. Her name is Wendy Wood and, well—”
Marsha took a pad out of her purse and wrote down the name. “Wendy Wood,” she mumbled.
“She used to be a good singer, but she needs a lot of dental work. I have enough to cover it, if you wouldn’t mind helping her to find a dentist.”
“Well—sure I will, but—”
“You can’t just hand her the money. She might—”
“Spend it on something else,” said Marsha.
“Right. I’d like her to be able to sing.”
“Okay…well, I’ll do my best.”
“Thanks.”
We stood there for a minute, then I offered Marsha a soda. She declined. (Still the same Marsha in many ways, she said anything carbonated goes up the back of her nose.) Then I asked about her new name. “What’s it going to be? Sister Bohuslava or Sister Nastasiya?” I could only recall two of her choices—but I knew they had to do with God’s grace and the resurrection. Something religious like that.
“Neither of those,” she said.
“Oh,” I replied. “You picked something different?”
“Yes, Easy, I have,” she said, and by the look on her face I could tell it was special. “I realized this morning that it was the only one that would ever be right,” continued Marsha. “I wasn’t sure whether or not the Mother Superior would approve it, but when I told her why I had chosen that name—why I wanted to carry it with me for the rest of my life, to remind myself never to be high and mighty again—she gave me her full blessing.”
Then it hit me.
“Oh, my God,” I said. “You’re going to be Sister Janis?”
“No,” said Marsha, “not Sister Janis.” She looked up to the sky, like she was trying to see through the clouds, and then she turned to me. “I’m going to be Sister Pearl.”
THE FESTIVAL EXPRESS
In the summer of 1970, a fourteen-car passenger train, its baggage car painted with giant orange letters reading “Festival Express,” pulled out of Toronto carrying some of the era’s most fabled musicians. The infamous boozy five-day train trip halted in Calgary and Winnipeg to give legendary performances by The Grateful Dead, The Band, Sha Na Na, Ian and Sylvia, and many more. Joplin, who by all accounts was the presiding life of the party, stole the show, of course, although her penchant for Southern Comfort and heroin had already begun to take its toll, as revealed in film footage from the Calgary gig, where the singer stumbles more than once, but still mesmerizes everyone in the venue.
Freedom's Just Another Word Page 15
