by Laura Briggs
It seemed like a slap in the face, the thought of freezing to death in the snow while reliving the first innocent moment of her dreams. Exactly like the kind of punishment an angry Divine being might devise.
“Who said this is where you messed up your life?” asked Tina. “What do you really remember about your past, Libby—other than other people’s fame and fortune, that is?”
Behind her, the child Libby vanished, along with her parents and brother. There was nothing left but the Christmas tree and the plastic record player spinning out “Old MacDonald” from a blue disc.
“I remember plenty of things,” she answered. “My parents. School. Church. Grandpa’s Saturday nights calling the dances.” She ran fingers through her hair, sinking down on the arm of her father’s club chair. Was the weakness in her limbs from the accident?
Here the accident didn’t seem to exist; only this teenage singer wearing the exact same outfit as the cover of her classic debut album.
“What do you remember about me?” Tina was seated on the edge of the sofa. “Compared to your life, that is.”
It was as if she could read Libby’s mind, seeing the fan articles and music stats logged from years of idolization.
“You need to think a little harder,” Tina answered, as the record player’s strains of “Old MacDonald” became “I Can’t Keep On,” the sound of Tina Wiley’s fourteen year-old voice transformed into a scratchy electronic sound, just like Libby’s first record.
7
“Just let me cry, cry, cry until you’re gone,” Libby sang as she swung back and forth, clinging to the chains as she held her white Sunday shoes above the dirt field beneath.
The screen door banged open and her mother appeared on the porch.
“Honey, you better come on if we’re gonna get to the dance on time. Your daddy’s already got the truck running.” Turning her head towards the kitchen again, she shouted, “Walt! Finish up your chores so we can get going!” She disappeared inside, the door slamming shut behind her as Libby hopped down and raced towards the sound of the rumbling motor.
Saturday night barn dances were legend in Wasikoba, the Taylors’ hometown. Garlin Howard, Libby’s grandfather, was something of a legend himself. A three-time fiddle champion, he’d made a record once with a bluegrass band in Nashville only a few years after Bill Munroe became a star.
While his recording career never made him famous, it made him a local celebrity. Every Saturday night, he drove to the rural barn where the town dance took place, doing double duty as the announcer and square dance caller for the national radio broadcast. His voice was made famous as the host of the Wasikoba Saturday Night Jamboree.
Onstage before a big performance mic, he stood in his signature shirt, slacks, tie, and work boots with a fiddle beneath his chin. He opened the show with a medley of notes from his harmonica before his voice emerged, dry and deep as it resonated through radio speakers across the corn belt.
“Ladies and gentlemen, gather ‘round your radio for a Saturday night special. It’s the Wasikoba Jamboree with me, Garlin Howard. We’ve got an awful good show for you folks...”
He would launch into a fiddle tune after the opening speech, then introduce the performers one by one. Banjo players, guitarists, harmonica soloists, and bands formed by young farm boys or girls. Washtub players, mandolinists, even the occasional farm wife with a warbling soprano. All had been auditioned in the past and approved, taking their turn on the stage each Saturday night. On the floor below, dozens of dancers paired off for waltzes or formed a square for lively fiddling tunes.
Anybody who was approved by a three-judge panel could take a turn as performer as many Saturdays as they wanted. Anyone, including Libby.
“Now we got somethin’ special for you tonight, folks. A little girl I’m real proud of is gonna sing for you tonight one of Patty Craye’s classic songs that a lot of you remember real well from the Opry stage. Here’s Miss Libby Taylor to sing you “Midnight Madness.”
He pulled a wooden soap crate to the stage’s performance microphone, then hoisted Libby onto it. She spread the pleats of her plaid ruffled dress, facing the audience with a prim, determined expression as her grandfather and a guitarist struck up the opening chords.
“I go a little crazy, without you here...this midnight hour’s ticking by so slow...” Her voice was loud, wavering off-key slightly here and there. “There’s something in this lonely place that makes my heart feel blue...and maddening thoughts that in my mind do grow...”
Below, her parents watched from the foot of the stage, the dancers twirling behind them in calico skirts or western attire, men in their second-best suits or dress shirts and denim. Couples two-stepped to a classic country song from the child’s voice. The little girl’s gaze roved through the darkness with pride, casting a beaming glance in her grandfather’s direction as he sawed away at the chorus.
“There’s no one left to save me, since this secret never shows...into madness with this midnight, I now go.”
****
On Saturday nights, Libby sang honky-tonk favorites as dancers thundered across the floor below. On Sunday mornings, she sang hymns in the children’s choir, in a white pinafore and patent leather shoes.
By the time she was fifteen, she was old enough to stay until the jamboree ended around midnight, sleeping in her grandparents’ guest bedroom until it was time for services the next morning. She hummed the songs of Tina Wiley and Alecia Allard under her breath as she hurried to pin back her long hair and button a sensible cotton dress in place of the pink party gown she wore to the dance.
The church choir seemed dull in comparison to the dance’s lively atmosphere, especially since Libby spent more time with the younger musicians who played gigs on the weekends, eyes bright with dreams of Nashville as they plunked out modern covers on acoustic guitar strings.
“You got a voice that could make heads spin in Nashville.” That was the compliment paid to her by more than one boy who approached her at the dance. It was said enough times that Libby began to take notice, not only of the words, but of the boys who said them.
“Who is this Ricky Miller who called?” Her mother confronted her at the door when she arrived home after church. “He tried to phone you before services and after, and I had to force him to give me a name.” Arms crossed, she studied Libby with a disapproving stare.
“He’s just a boy, Mom,” Libby argued. Inside, she hung her dress from one of the hall tree’s hooks and dropped her overnight bag on the floor. “He doesn’t mean anything by it.” Her tone was one of exasperation, tinged with sarcasm.
Ricky was an older boy, almost eighteen, a senior in high school. His cousin, he claimed, had played in a famous rock-and-roll band.
“That’s what you think?” her mother said. “You got a lot to learn about boys, Libby Taylor. And maybe until you do, it’s better if you don’t stay all night at that barn dance.”
Libby froze in the kitchen doorway. “You said I was old enough to stay,” she argued. “What? A boy calls me twice, and that all changes?”
“It changes because you’re losing perspective in life,” her mother shot back. “Your schoolwork’s sliding, you’re not interested in the church or your family anymore. The preacher told me that you’ve been late to choir practice three times this month—”
“Maybe that’s ‘cause I’m not interested in choir anymore,” said Libby. “Maybe I’m just gonna quit.”
“Your father and I talked about this. We think it’s best that you stop going to the jamboree until you get your feet on the ground again.”
Libby’s mouth dropped open. “You can’t do that!”
“Once you start showing some interest in the right things again—”
“You mean your things,” Libby spat. “Well, that ain’t gonna happen anytime soon.” She whirled around and marched off to her room, slamming the door behind her.
Her parents kept their word. Saturday night, she sat in her room with t
he door closed, listening to her records as loud as she dared. Vinyl classics from Patty Craye’s heyday, the pop-infused hits of Alecia, Ricky Rayson, and the Wandering Hearts. On the other side of the door, she could hear the sound of canned laughter from the television, her brother’s heavy sneakers crossing the kitchen floor to the fridge.
She refused to come out, even when she heard her mother’s gentle rap on the door. Her fingers reached over and turned the stereo’s volume louder.
By the time she was sixteen, she had learned the fine art of sneaking out of the house for weekend dances and performances in smoke-filled bars. Ricky Miller possessed a fake I.D. and his own truck, which he used to shuttle his band around for weekend gigs. Libby was among them, bouncing over dirt roads while wedged in the cab beside him, the back filled with band members, equipment, and beer for the party after the concert.
She knew she wasn’t supposed to be going to parties in fields or at strangers’ houses, but she went anyway. She felt guilty listening to a singer in a bar while her parents were half-asleep in front of the late-night Friday movie on television.
“You all right?” Ricky nudged her arm. She glanced at him, forcing a half-hearted smile.
“Yeah, it’s great,” she answered. Her beer was in front of her, untouched. Several empty bottles were lined up in front of Ricky and his band mates around their table, a dark semi-circle of listeners in a smoky bar.
He leaned closer to her ear. “Guess what?” he whispered. “I got my dad to promise he’d sell me his minivan. As soon as he does, we’re taking off on the road. Take our gig somewhere Nashville talent agents are gonna see it.”
A tingle traveled up Libby’s spine at the dual meaning in Ricky’s suggestion. She had never been anywhere with a boy overnight—even if the boy was just a friend like Ricky, she knew what kind of temptation existed.
But Nashville talent agents and performing miles away from home and anybody in her home community...
“What do you say?” Ricky whispered. She sensed he was disappointed by her lack of excitement.
What do you say? That was the question burning in Libby’s troubled heart as she watched the singer in rhinestones through the haze of smoke around her.
8
“And so you ran away.” Tina Wiley seemed to be reading Libby’s thoughts.
“Yeah,” Libby laughed, faintly. “I did. With a suitcase in the middle of the night, just like in the movies. With Ricky and his band.”
She was aware of a pain in her head, the cold seeping through her thin coat and into her bones. She was not in her childhood room, but the remains of the rental car smashed into the tree. Beside her, however, was the teenage singer of her memories.
“What do you remember about my life, Libby?” the girl asked. “Think back. Not the concerts or the album covers, not the radio hits. My real life.” She drew her feet up in the seat, a cross-legged figure surveying Libby with a solemn gaze.
Libby licked her lips, feeling cracks in her skin from the cold. “You won a talent contest at your county fair,” she began. “Then you played on the road awhile and opened for bands. That’s when a talent agent gave you a contract.”
Tina leaned forward. “What about afterwards?”
Libby shrugged. “You were a big star. Your first album was a gold record. You won Best Song for ‘I Can’t Keep On.’ You married Giles Carson and divorced him. You had three children, and then retired outside Nashville—”
“And stopped having hits in the middle of all that,” Tina interrupted her. “Everybody knows the reasons—drugs, booze, parties. First it was the band that went on the road with me, then with Giles’s addictions, then after I lost custody of my kids.”
Her fingers reached to touch Libby’s cheek with a warmth that seemed real to Libby’s shivering skin.
“I ran away from home, too. Remember?” Tina asked. “With the agent who saw me at the talent fair. The press squawked that my parents just wanted a cut of the money. But every sane body knew how they’d feel if a thirty year-old man took their thirteen-year-old on the road with a band.”
“Why didn’t they stop you?” Libby asked. “If they hated you going on the road, why didn’t they make you quit? They could have called the cops, had you brought home.”
“Why didn’t yours? Who says they didn’t try and fail?” She didn’t say whose parents she was speaking about anymore.
Libby noticed that with a shiver.
“This is ridiculous,” said Libby. “I was sixteen. How was I supposed to know my life would turn out the same way as yours based on some tabloid rumors?” She pressed her hand against her forehead and felt something cool and sticky. Her fingers seemed frozen, moving with difficulty as she withdrew her hand.
“You make my mistakes and expect a different outcome? I think you know better than that, Libby Taylor.” There was a touch of the sardonic in Tina’s voice.
“It’s not that easy,” Libby retorted, turning towards her antagonist. Instead of the sleek figure of her imagination, there was an empty seat beside her. A snow-covered scene was visible through the passenger side window, an icy powder sifting over the cracked windshield across from it.
She drew a ragged breath, feeling a strange sense of panic for someone who was imagining things. She was alone in the gloom, the snow pressing against the fragmented windshield, cracks fanning out from the point of impact from her forehead.
Her blood was already frozen against the glass, and the blood on her fingers flicked away like ashes, cool and dry to the touch.
Libby’s eyes closed. Resting her head against the steering wheel, she remembered the first weeks she’d spent on the road. Everything she owned in the world was in the farmhouse long behind her, the most necessary things in a bag beneath her feet in the van. The feeling of fear and apprehension had tainted her excitement as they rolled towards their first gig across state lines. Ricky’s arm slid slowly around her shoulders as he steered with one hand.
It was painful to recall now. Almost as painful as the throbbing in her temples that served as a reminder of her ebbing strength. Someone like Jake would probably think this was her period of penance, reliving her regrets before facing God.
Jake. The closest thing she had to a conscience, with his sixth sense for people’s problems and his gentle smile. She remembered the look of sorrow and disappointment in his eyes during some of her lowest moments.
At least she never saw judgment in those eyes. Not at all like in the imagined Tina Wiley’s gaze.
****
The first time Libby laid eyes on Jake was in a town near the Michigan border. Two days beforehand, her lead guitarist had run off to Vegas with a girl he met at one of their gigs, leaving Libby and the Blue Persuasion in a bind.
At their emergency auditions in the Wild Coyote Bar, she was seated with the rest of the band at a table, watching the long line of musicians parade past with their guitar cases and country repertoires. Men with hair hanging past their shoulders, skinny young boys fresh from high school—even a few girls like herself sporting battered acoustic guitars.
“I think we should’ve tried the talent in Wisconsin,” grumbled Ted. “That last guy’s riff sounded like a mangled ball of twine. Most of the others stank.”
“The first girl we saw wasn’t too bad,” said Bob.
The drummer snorted. “Yeah, if looks are all that count.”
“Shut up, Ted. You’re making an idiot of yourself.” Libby fiddled with a pencil, its lead flicking against the tablet of names before her, leaving a trail of grey dust. “Unless you’re going to Vegas to talk Peter out of his wedding, then one of these people is his replacement.”
As she spoke, her eye drifted towards a figure shuffling through the line. A pair of worn sneakers protruded from beneath faded jeans, a leather jacket that had seen better days, possibly riding in the breeze on a motorcycle. She glimpsed a pair of dark hazel eyes glancing around the room in a casual manner. He ran a hand through shaggy brown hair, an
d then shifted his guitar case to the other hand, displaying a side plastered with miniature album covers from classic country music artists.
He was fourth in the current line; in less than fifteen minutes, he was onstage before her, seated on the stool provided for auditioning performers. Silently, he popped open his case and withdrew an acoustic guitar. After thumbing through a few bluesy chords, he glanced up at them.
“Any requests?” he asked. One of the band members snorted a laugh.
“Can you do something by Craye?” asked Libby.
She watched him thump his fingers softly against the strings before nodding.
The first notes of “A Smoke-Filled Room” serenaded them, resonating from deep within the guitar’s chamber. The look on the guitarist’s face was neither concentration nor nonchalance. It was as if he were part of the audience listening to the song instead of intent on performing it.
When he reached the end of the second chorus, his fingers slid into a new chord, segueing into a B.B. King medley. Fast and furious, the notes tumbled forward, twanging with blues chords in a country style before ebbing away.
A moment later, he lifted the guitar strap from his neck, giving them a short smile before he tucked the instrument in its case and walked away.
“Who was he?” asked Ted.
Beside him, Bob shuffled through the applications. “Jake Dillard,” Bob read aloud. “Twenty-nine, played with a gospel band in Tennessee a few years back, spent some time on the road as a sub for the Wandering Hearts.”
“Decent enough,” said Greg, his own pencil tapping against the table.
Libby was silent for a moment, watching the guitarist disappear into a crowd of already-played auditions. His shoulders relaxed beneath the jacket as he shifted the guitar case, strolling with cool ease towards the exit door.
