by Laura Briggs
“Sure,” she answered. “No problem. But in the future, keep him there. Please.” She turned away, afraid to let him see what was in her face. She kept her focus on the door ahead, where her music lay waiting and her own dreams might possibly still be alive to make the sacrifice worthwhile.
14
The lights from the bar winked out in Libby’s vision, leaving her and Patty Craye in darkness in the auditorium.
“You know what my life was like, Libby?”
Libby nodded. “I read the biography,” she answered. “The one your husband wrote after the accident.”
“That says it all, doesn’t it?” said Patty. “A woman obsessed with her career, whose marriage was on the rocks. Whose son had a learning disability and needed his mother by his side.”
She folded her hands, head tilted towards the stage in a meditating gaze. “When you read between the lines, you can see what I regretted most. Every letter he put in there was about how my baby was doing. Was he eating well, was he sleeping all right. Was he getting beaten up in school by kids who didn’t understand why his words came out funny sometimes.”
“Then you regret it,” said Libby. “The sacrifice for the music.”
“It was the wrong choice,” Patty said softly. “Not the music, but the sacrifice. Because I was so focused on its future, I forgot how many opportunities were slipping away. It’s the curse of our profession, believing you can always go back to make up for what you lost.” Her gaze flickered towards Libby with a strange smile. “But I believe I’m proof that’s not always true. Is it?”
Despite the fact that this was all in her head, Libby shivered. “So this is your way of telling me I can’t go back?” asked Libby. “That the choice will always be between my son and the music?” She heard the edge of bitterness in her tone.
“You already made that choice, Libby,” Patty answered. “All I’m doing is trying to keep you from making others that you might regret when it comes to the other people in your life.”
“The band is fine,” Libby said. “They don’t care what happens, so long as they land on their feet. Once they get their checks, they’ll move on to someone else.” She avoided the eyes of the imaginary figure beside her, her gaze roving towards the darkness engulfing the stage.
“That’s true about all of them? Seems to me you have your doubts about that. Otherwise, you’d have told them yesterday that this was goodbye for good.”
“I don’t have to justify what happens on the road.” Libby blinked as angry tears burned her eyes. “It’s just the way life is out there. Dog eats dog in the music world. It happens everywhere.”
Something akin to a tolerant smirk dawned on Patty’s face. “I sometimes wonder if the people who say that are always the ones who do the eating. The people at the bottom probably don’t have much appetite for what they get.”
The murmur of voices interrupted, a crowd buzzing with conversation conducted in low tones. Libby glanced down, her weight resting against a table instead of an arm attached to an auditorium seat. Across from her was the apparition of Patty Craye, all around her, the atmosphere of a honky-tonk joint decorated with tinsel and plastic Christmas balls.
“Where is this?” For a moment, Libby didn’t recognize the room, although something about it seemed familiar.
“The Jukebox Junction,” answered Patty. “You played here last Christmas, remember? The early show on Christmas Eve.”
Through the smoky club atmosphere, a man was visible at the microphone, doing a Christmas-themed standup act.
It wasn’t a bar, but a lounge. Libby remembered it now, the polished floors and swanky wall decor in comparison to the usual joints she played. The set of Christmas songs had not been her idea, but the rest of the band’s. Bob especially leaned towards traditional carols since his wife and daughter had driven to the show that evening.
But afterwards, what had happened? In the bar, no trace of the band was visible. Libby racked her brain for that Christmas Eve in her past.
“You didn’t stick around for the post-show, if that’s what you’re thinking,” said Patty. “Step outside and you’ll find a hint about how you and your band spent Christmas.”
Libby resisted, then obeyed beneath Patty’s blue-eyed stare. Rising from her seat, she moved unseen through the imaginary crowd, pushing open the door in the back of the lounge that led to the rear parking lot.
Ahead, she could see herself clutching a paper bag, making her way through the grimy snow towards the bus. Its windows were lit up, strands of Christmas lights draped over the exterior.
The door opened and Bob leaned out, taking notice of Libby’s figure with the paper bag.
“Hey, Libby,” he called. “Come on aboard, it’s party time. Greg’s girlfriend is making a punch. We’ve got snacks. Ted went out for a couple of pizzas...” He continued talking as she brushed past him with the paper sack.
“No thanks,” she answered.
One of the boys’ bunks was being used as a seat by Bob’s wife and daughter, who were decorating a miniature Christmas tree between them. Another woman was laughing hysterically as she watched Greg pour ginger ale over a big glass bowl filled with sorbet. The smell of liquor permeated the air as they opened a bottle of rum, the scent mixing with cinnamon from an open package of cookies.
“Come on.” Bob touched her arm. “It’s Christmas, Libby. Just come have fun with us. We only celebrate it once a year, right? It’s not so bad to party with us once a year, is it?”
She yanked her arm away. “Leave me alone,” she said. “Just…go back to your party, OK? I’m fine.”
A mixture of disappointment and sullenness was on Bob’s face as he drew back, allowing her to pass.
Libby watched as her former self disappeared into the back of the bus. The door was barely cracked, the faint line of visibility revealing a figure sinking to the floor beside the battered chest of drawers. The paper bag rustled, the sheen of a glass bottle emerging a moment later.
Alone in her room with a bottle again. Just like almost every Christmas on the road.
From the main section of the bus, sounds of celebration grew louder as someone cranked up a Christmas rock CD. Greg and his girlfriend were dancing to the beat.
“This stuff doesn’t do much for me,” Ted complained, popping open a pizza box. “I like the traditional stuff better. The old carols, you know?”
Bob’s wife laughed. “You like the religious stuff, huh?” She tapped a cigarette from the box in her hand.
“Must be the reason behind the season,” quipped Ted, with a grin. “Maybe that’s why.” His voice grew more solemn with this final remark as he poured himself a drink.
Libby stepped away from the party, from the crack of visibility that let her glimpse herself drinking. Climbing down the steps, she moved towards the lounge again, pausing only at the sound of music from Jake’s camper.
Will had hung paper snowflakes from the windows, a construction paper wreath on the door. Through the glass, he and Jake were visible inside, the boy busy decorating a skinny, lopsided tree as his father played Christmas carols.
She drew closer, their faces growing clearer. Jake was in a faded green flannel shirt, his fingers softly picking out the notes to “We Three Kings.” Will wore superhero pajamas, sliding candy canes over the fir tree’s branches.
“Play Mom’s favorite,” said Will. He peeled back the plastic on one of the candy canes. On the narrow camper counter, a plate of Christmas cookies was visible, a letter to Santa propped against a glass of milk.
“You got it,” answered Jake. His fingers switched notes, soft strains of “Silent Night” vibrating forth.
Libby pressed her face against the glass pane in the door, watching the boy’s face light up as he listened. His hands clumsily unwrapped a row of tiny ceramic figures, a chipped Nativity set that looked several decades older than the rest of the ornaments.
“I like to put the sheep in,” he said. “Then the baby. He should go
last, right Dad?”
“Right,” laughed Jake. “The most important part.” He reached the end of the song, holding the last note for a beat before setting his guitar aside.
“Bedtime, kiddo,” he said. “Santa won’t come until you’re asleep. That means no presents.” Wrapping his arm around his son’s shoulders, he steered him towards the tiny hallway..
“There’s no Santa Claus, is there? I want to know the answer, Dad. Seriously.” He pulled at his father’s jacket as this question arose..
“Yes and no,” Jake answered. “That’s kind of a long story for bedtime, but here we go...” They disappeared, leaving the makeshift Christmas tree and decorations alone.
As she drew back from the glass, Libby was surprised by the wetness on her cheeks. She had been crying without realizing it, the weight of sadness drawing her heart low in her chest. She stepped from the camping trailer, feeling her legs trembling from either the cold or her emotions.
“Too bad, isn’t it?” said Patty. “They would have invited you to join them. But you said no.”
She stood behind Libby in the snow, her bare arms showing no signs of chill bumps despite the cold weather.
“They don’t understand,” said Libby, suppressing a sob in her voice. “It’s hard. To see him growing up when I—” She bit her lip.
“When you had to let go of your own little boy,” said Patty. “But you didn’t. Did you?” She raised her eyebrows with this challenge. “Ever think that’s the reason you keep pushing everyone else away? Keeping that spot open for him to come back.”
“Why do you make that sound like a bad thing?” Libby snapped. “It’s nobody’s business what I feel. There’s a line between my personal life and my professional, just like there is for every performer. When it comes to this—to my past,” she said, blinking back the remaining tears threatening to escape.
“Does that line have to be on such angry borders?” Patty snorted. “When they reach out for you, they get slapped away.” She held up her hand. “And before you argue that it’s not every time, let’s remember something else about your past, shall we?”
Behind her, the light grew brighter from the parking lot’s lamps, until it became the glow of dawn. Instead of the smoky lounge from last Christmas, the familiar outline of Carlyle County Night grew visible. Slim’s place, complete with the familiar Christmas decorations from the day before.
“Go on inside,” said Patty. “And think a little about those lines you’ve drawn for yourself.”
15
The day before Christmas at Slim’s place had been another bad reminder of the holiday season for Libby. The decorations were strung all over the barroom, the plastic Santa was by the door, and the carols streamed over the bar radio.
Worst of all, were the persistent feelings this holiday brought back to her. Christmas was always her loneliest time, the time when fear and doubt assailed her more readily than any other season. Unlike the rest of the band, no phone calls or Christmas cards would comfort her. The last card her mother mailed in vain was almost three years ago.
“How about we do something a little more holiday-themed tonight?” argued Ted. “I mean, we do the classics every show. But people like Christmas. It’s been a big hit for hundreds of years now.” He grinned as Bob tossed a wadded napkin at his head in retaliation for the sarcasm.
“No Christmas,” Libby answered. “I’m not in the mood to sing carols for a bunch of drunks. No offense, but they’re sentimental enough without our help.”
Her words had a stinging effect on Ted, who rolled his eyes as he shifted his chair further from the table.
It occurred to Libby once that none of them were willing to challenge her openly. Perhaps they were afraid she would fire them for questioning her decisions.
Jake cleared his throat. “It’s Christmas,” he reminded her. “Do you think we can get away without even one song? Because no matter how small the crowd tonight—”
“Look, I get it,” Libby answered, irritably. “I just said no, all right? That’s how I feel and the audience can live with it. If they can’t, then they can go to the Christmas symphony instead of a honky-tonk where country music is playing.”
“What about a country Christmas song?” countered Ted. “How about that old Elmo and Patsy classic about Grandma and the reindeer?” Somebody at the table snorted with laughter.
“How about we talk about the songs we’re going to do?” snapped Libby. “Like ‘Walking after You’ and ‘Restless Dreamers’? You think that might be a productive decision?” Her tone was cold, but it had a profound effect on the band.
With slight grumblings and offended silence, they began sifting through the cover music options on the table.
She tried to tell herself that it was just the holidays that made her this way, that after Christmas was over, she would be more relaxed, even kinder to her band members than usual. Every year, she failed to keep her promise.
After the concert that night, she stormed off the stage with the notes of “Silent Night” still ringing in her ears. The most plaintive and simple of songs was haunting her like a ghost drifting along the fringe of the bar’s noise. Even the glass of liquor she downed didn’t drive it away.
That was when Jake showed up. “That was a beautiful song, Libby,” he said. “I never heard you sing a Christmas song before.”
I’m sure you think this is a perfect opportunity for a sermon. That was the sarcastic thought that popped into her head as she listened to his compliment.
“That’s because I hate Christmas,” she had answered, aware that the sight of her knocking back shots of liquor would only hurt him further. Right now she was angry at Christmas, angry at the crowd who listened to her sing, and ready to be angry at anyone who pressed her to change.
“Run along, Jake,” she said. “I’m sure you have other things to do this evening.” I know I do. Plans to get drunk to forget this time of year.
“Libby...” The reproach in his eyes made her feel angrier than before. Guilt. That was all Jake was concerned with creating. He had no clue what she was feeling right now, the kind of pain that comes from betting everything on the outcome of one dream. If he would just leave her alone—
A man approached, a figure in a blazer with a businesslike attitude that offered her an escape. He seemed like a good choice for a temporary escape from Jake’s gentle inquiries, another sleazy proposition she would have to drive away in fifteen minutes’ time.
But when he slipped her the card, she knew it was something more. W. Lendell, Vistal Records, Nashville, Tennessee.
****
“I got your demo tape a year ago,” said the producer. “I was impressed. Very impressed. Both with the covers and original materials.”
He sat across from Libby in one of Carlyle County’s back booths. She held the card in her hand, gazing at it as if it was a joke.
“So you came all the way here to hear me live?” she asked. She was doing her best to seem cool and nonchalant, despite the tremor of excitement that passed through her veins and pounded her heart like a grandfather clock.
“I was passing through and saw the bar’s promotional ad for your appearance,” he said. “Thought I’d stop by and see how your audience liked the product in person.”
Most of the time, this was where the interview went downhill. The tone of voice became suggestive, a pair of oily fingers would creep towards her hand. A suggestion that they finish discussing business someplace more private—like his hotel room.
This time, it didn’t happen. W. Lendell remained on his side of the booth, his hands resting casually beside his briefcase. The space between them remained occupied by nothing more than a dinky plastic Christmas tree with battery-operated lights.
“Are you still interested in a career in Nashville, Ms. Taylor?” he asked. “Because if you are, I think we can make this happen. The crowd tonight showed a lot of enthusiasm for you. You have a following out on the road, a guaranteed audience�
�that takes a lot of work to produce.”
It takes a lot of sacrifice, more than you ever dreamed. “I’ve been part of the country circuit for a long time now. Music is pretty much my life, sir.”
He smiled. “It will be for a long time if we can make it possible.” Snapping open his briefcase, he withdrew a sheet of paper.
“This isn’t a contract, but it’s an appointment for you to audition at Vistal’s studios in two weeks. I can’t speak for the other two producers who will be listening, but I think I can promise you the chances are good that we’ll sign you to our label by the end of that session.”
For a moment, Libby was breathless. “I see,” she said. “Thank you. Thank you very much.” Her fingers trembled as she took the piece of paper with the information printed on it.
“About your band,” he said. “Are they—a permanent fixture?” Something in his voice suggested to her that he wanted the answer to be no.
“They’re—” she hesitated. “If they are, is that a problem?”
He folded his hands on the briefcase. “Whoever your future agent is, Ms. Taylor, he will probably be open to a lot of changes about you as an artist. Typically, the band backing a solo performer changes as often as wardrobe and public relations photos.”
So the Blue Persuasion would not share her space on the headline. In the eyes of the studio, they were as expendable as she chose to make them.
“Success doesn’t happen overnight,” said the producer. “It’ll be awhile before you have a breakthrough record. And as for your sound, it’ll be something more modern to make a hit. Meaning the classics and the steel guitar bit won’t be part of it.”
He rose, collecting his briefcase from the table. “Think about it, Ms. Taylor. We’re looking forward to your audition.” With a goodbye smile, he turned to go.
The card in Libby’s hand seemed to have faded in luster, the raised letters like words rising up in condemnation of her final decision. The members of the band wouldn’t be interested in the mainstream sound of country music—no more than she, but she had something to gain by the change. A chance at fame, a need to surround herself with more talented, more focused musicians.
