by Laura Briggs
“It’s amazing,” whispered Libby, watching herself take a bow from backstage, the illusion of Patty Craye beside her in the wings. The tears on Libby’s face had dried, leaving only traces of her previous emotion. A glow illuminated her cheeks that had seemed so pale in the cold car after the accident.
“It’s the usual love fest,” said Patty. “Even in my day, it was an experience to see performers on this stage on Opry nights and any other nights they sang in this place. There were always legends before legends. Always somebody to be the idol for the next generation.”
Libby watched herself take a bow, stepping back from the microphone. A little girl toddled forward from the crowd of backstage pass attendees in the opposite wing, handing Libby a red rose in cellophane before her mother hurried out to retrieve her. All the while, the smile on Libby’s face seemed magical as she moved onstage.
After the stage manager whispered in her ear, she returned to the microphone again.
“Thank you for being such a wonderful audience tonight,” she said. “I want to leave you with a little something extra.” The band struck up the notes for her encore as she swayed to the music, awaiting her cue.
“Wherever I turn, you’re there...softly I reach for your hand...” She tilted her face so the light captured the angles of her face, the alluring red lipstick against her skin.
“So what do you think?” asked Patty, touching her arm. “Are you happy with your performance?”
Libby nodded, slowly. “It looks like everything I dreamed about. When I used to imagine singing on this stage. The dress, the fans...” It was even the music she would have chosen, the songs of her idols. Something she always assumed would be set aside for success in the modern industry. But here she was, singing Patty Craye’s songs in a surreal scene on the stage of the Ryman Auditorium, played out with the encore and a final bow before the stage lights.
Her dream self turned towards the wings as the lights dimmed onstage, the velvet skirts sweeping around her feet as she approached the backstage zone.
Waiting for her was an assistant, a young woman armed with an electronic planner. The smile on her face vanished as Libby approached, as if the girl was cringing from her presence.
“I called about the New Year’s Eve gig and they said, yes, they can move you to the eight o’ clock spot,” said the assistant, consulting the planner as she followed along behind Libby. “I forwarded the cover art for your next album to the reporter who interviewed you this afternoon.”
By now, they were in the dressing room, obviously prepped for a performer of importance. A large vase of red roses sat on the dressing table, a pile of makeup and hair care supplies before the mirror. Several expensive gift baskets were on the table, untouched fruit and imported chocolates beneath the shrink wrap.
“Did you hear the sound on the mic tonight?” Libby sounded annoyed as she dropped the little girl’s cellophane-wrapped rose into the trash. “Someone in the sound department hates me. I want you to take care of that pronto, understand?” Dropping into the dressing table chair, she popped open her phone and began texting without giving a second glance to the assistant busy collecting the personal possessions from the room.
“Your mother called,” the assistant began, as she shoved a scarf and music player into an oversized leather tote. Libby’s head whipped in her direction at these words as if a pin had been jabbed in her side.
“Don’t tell me you spoke to my parents.” There was a dangerous tone in her voice as she spoke..
The assistant flinched, meekly. “No, I didn’t, Miss Taylor. I promise. I told them you were busy with concert prep all day—”
“You don’t have to tell them anything,” Libby snapped. “How many times do I have to drill it into your head that you don’t need excuses to get rid of them for me?” She snapped the phone shut.
“Your lawyer phoned about the custody,” continued the assistant, after a moment’s pause. “He said the Hammonds aren’t interested in your offer.” Her fingers clicked over the keys of the planner as if confirming this.
Libby sighed. “Then tell him to tell them that Nathaniel is old enough to decide where he wants to live.” She removed the diamond studs from her ears and pulled her hair back in a soft knot.
“Did the contractor call about redecorating that room for Nathaniel?” she asked.
The assistant’s head bobbed. “Nathaniel picked out his wallpaper, but doesn’t like the bed. Also, he liked the music player you sent him, but says he really wants a dirt bike.”
“What about spending the weekend with me?” Libby’s fingers paused with these words.
The response from her assistant was awkward silence. “He says he’s too busy with his friends this weekend,” the girl responded. She offered Libby a weak smile. “But I’m sure he’ll want to come see you soon—”
“Stop it. I don’t need to be comforted. He’s my son. He wants to be with me; he just doesn’t realize it yet.” Libby rose, unbuttoning the long velvet performance gown. Hanging it carefully on a hanger, she slipped on a green silk, snapping her fingers for the assistant to stuff the other one in a garment bag.
The girl moved forward swiftly to tuck the costume inside and zip it closed as her employer adjusted the fitted silk before the dresser mirror.
“Tell him yes on the dirt bike,” Libby said. “Order one and have it sent by Tuesday” She pulled her coat from the nearby clothes rack.
She snatched her bag from the floor beside the dressing table. “Is my car waiting for me?”
The assistant’s head bobbed. “Yes, it is, but there’s—”
“Forget it,” said Libby. “We’re done for tonight. You can finish contacting all those people tonight and we’ll talk again in the morning.” She shouldered her personal bag and the garment bag with the velvet costume. Her free arm lifted the large bouquet of roses from the vase. The edge of the cellophane-wrapped memento from the little girl peeked over the top of the trash can. Libby didn’t give it a second glance as she moved towards the door.
“Tomorrow is Christmas Eve,” faltered the girl. “I wondered if I could have the day off? I mean, I would take care of the arrangements for the New Year’s Eve concert and the upcoming album release first...”
“Unless you have plans to take off for somewhere important, then don’t bother asking,” said Libby. “You know how I feel about stuff getting done late, that’s why I fired the last the two assistants. If you like your job, then you’ll take care of things the way I want them done.”
“I thought you had plans for Christmas,” said the assistant. “You had me book those tickets on the cruise and arrange for a table at—”
“I cancelled.” Libby’s hand rested on the doorknob to the dressing room, her face averted from her assistant. “I just...lost interest in Christmas. I’ll be spending it at home instead.” She did not mention that she would be alone in whatever rambling Nashville residence she now possessed. That was painfully evident on the face kept carefully turned from her assistant’s view.
“But what about the call from your parents?” The little assistant asked, hesitantly. “They asked for you. They sounded concerned.”
Libby paused. “If they call again, I want you to hang up. And don’t bother giving me any of the correspondence or packages that come in the mail.” Glancing over her shoulder, she met her assistant’s eyes with a dark glance.
“If you want to send them something, send them a fruit basket,” she continued. “Something expensive. No card necessary. They know how I feel without one.” This last part was spoken more to herself than the assistant, her voice lowered with these words.
“Yes, ma’am,” said the assistant. “Whatever you say.”
Libby smiled. “That’s better. Her fingers turned the doorknob. “And let me know what my lawyer has to say the moment you hear from him.” This statement was delivered in an unhappy voice, the sound of someone afraid of what the answer would be.
“I see.” Her ass
istant’s voice was filled with disappointment. She lowered her head, her fingers slowly punching the keys on her planner.
Opening the door, Libby stepped outside the dressing room and closed it behind her,
Outside, she leaned against the door, eyes closed. The murmur of voices hummed around her, the sound of the band packing up their equipment. Something she could remember well from the past, even now that she was free from the drudgery of the post-show atmosphere.
Even the big star Libby Taylor was plagued by the same problems as before. Running away from the past, dodging the problems she had always avoided.
She swept down the hallway towards her band members’ dressing rooms. Past the figures of Libby and Patty Craye watching from the hallways as the cold, upright figure moved swiftly past.
“Still like what you see?” asked Patty.
She met Libby’s troubled gaze, as Libby turned from watching her future self disappear from sight.
18
“Miss Taylor! Over here, Miss Taylor!” An eager young man armed with a digital recorder pursued the star down the hallway.
Libby glanced over her shoulder as she walked. “Excuse me?” Her tone was frosty.
“Tonight’s performance was your first solo concert on this legendary stage. Do you—”
“Did you think it was too much trouble to schedule an interview through my staff or do you just prefer to accost people in the hallway? I don’t like being approached by reporters.”
“But your success tonight, do you feel you owe it to—”
“Leave me alone or I’ll have security remove you from the building.” Libby turned to walk away.
The disappointed young man rejoined a cluster of backstage observers from local papers and music media sources who were issued press passes. All in vain, apparently, since Libby Taylor didn’t have time for remarks en route to confront her band.
She rapped on the door to the band’s dressing area. It was answered by a heavyset man with a moustache, wearing the black Western-themed ensemble that her band wore for performances.
“Something wrong, Libby?” he asked, in a brooding tone.
“Yeah, your guitar style,” she said. “Roy, you’re supposed to be leading the band, not dragging it backwards like dead weight.”
He closed his eyes. “We’ve been over this. Unless you tell us when you change the order of songs, the timing’s bound to be a little off. Lou Riley’s a rookie bassist compared to the rest. It’ll take him time to get used to it.”
“He doesn’t have time,” Libby answered. “If that’s the problem, then find somebody better in the future. I don’t have time to approve every single hack you hire for out on the road. If spontaneity is a problem, then audition somebody when we’re in L.A.”
Roy’s expression narrowed. “Sure thing,” he answered, flatly. Behind him, other members of the band were glancing her way, their faces showing sullen features and bitterness. One face, younger than others, was filled with apprehension. No doubt the young bass guitar player fearing for his job.
“Fix it,” she said to Roy. Without bothering to say anything else, she continued on past their door, leaving him standing there awkwardly. He stared after her with evident distaste before slamming it shut.
The departing figure of Libby took no notice of this, or of the fans fawning over her and calling for her autograph from the backstage pass crowd near the exit. There were eager faces of teenage girls, even little girls like the one with the rose. Some had poster-board signs, others waved copies of her glossy photos or magazine covers with her photos on the front, begging for her to sign them.
Libby’s face remained lowered, without bothering to give her fans either a smile or a glance. It was almost as if she were afraid of them, afraid of what they might see if they looked into those eyes trained straight ahead towards the exit, where two security guards manned the door.
“Evening, Miss Taylor.” An attractive man in a cowboy hat and pressed jeans, whose photo covered country music magazines, tipped his brim to her as he passed. Instead of ignoring him, she turned her head and smiled after him.
“So I guess somebody can get a glance out of you after all.” Patty observed with a smirk.
She, along with Libby, stood in the imaginary crowd of fans, where Libby couldn’t help but look down at the hopeful faces trained eagerly on her future self. One dark-haired girl bore a striking resemblance to Libby as a child, her t-shirt depicting the star who was disappearing as she pushed closer to the edge of the line.
“I can’t believe I would ignore them like this,” said Libby, shaking her head. “This isn’t the way it would work. I would show more interest in my fans.” Her eyes were accusing as they glanced at the singer beside her, who simply shrugged.
“It’s not my mind that creates these images,” she said. “There was a time, perhaps even now, when you would be happy to meet a child who was a fan of music. Or would you?”
Libby closed her eyes. “It’s different, the way things are now,” she said, stubbornly. “I sing in bars and clubs. Those aren’t places for kids. And Will, he doesn’t understand what he’s admiring,” she finished lamely, unable to explain what she really meant.
“Because his mother sang country music, too?” asked Patty. “If he wanted to latch onto someone to replace her, then why you? Why not pick someone who might actually care. There’s plenty of young women out on the road.”
“His father probably influenced his choice a little,” Libby muttered. “The tape of songs he made, the way he keeps trying to influence me.” She pressed her hand against her head, as if the pain was returning, the wound throbbing from her unconscious body.
“It always comes back to Jake,” said Patty, softly. She drifted away in the crowd, towards the exit door flanked by security guards.
For a moment, Libby did not follow, distressed at the sight of her future self, a fictional work of her mind behaving in a way she couldn’t imagine herself acting. Not if she had the success she dreamed of, a connection with her son. She would be happy to scribble her name at the bottom of photos for little girls dreaming of the Ryman stage. She wouldn’t treat her band with such contempt after her night of triumph.
But what was the real difference between the Ryman stage and the cordoned-off performance zone at the Carlyle County? Between the musicians who traveled with her now and these “professionals” who reacted to her presence with loathing?
There was no difference between the Roy who answered the dressing room door and Jake answering the door of his camping trailer. They were in the same business, the same position—right down to the employer who treated their feelings with contempt.
She stirred restlessly, trying to escape the feelings ensnaring her like a net. Patty’s pink and silver skirts vanished through the open door, unseen by the equally imaginary crowd held at bay by the velvet ropes.
Would escape come if she woke up, Libby wondered. Or would she ever wake up again? Maybe the only way out was to break apart this fantasy like pursuing a dream to its end.
Weaving her way through the crowd, she followed the vanishing figure of her heroine into the darkness outside the auditorium.
****
The future star Libby had shifted her burdens to one arm, making her way down the stairs to the lighted zone where her car awaited, a luxury model parked in a prominent space for her convenience.
The sound of noise from the nearby crowd of fans drew her attention for a moment, still more enthusiasts cordoned off by tape and stern-looking security guards keeping them from slipping beneath the lines.
Her attitude was the same with this crowd as the last one, except for something that caught her eye. A young boy at the front of the line, holding onto the tape barrier despite the rules against it. Behind him, his father held onto his shoulders as if holding him in place.
“Hi, Libby,” he called. Not in the fawning voice of the other fans, but with a note of sadness. Will’s face was still pale, his shock o
f dark hair overgrown and unkempt as usual. In fact, he seemed not to have changed at all, his features so accurate as if they were chiseled into Libby’s mind.
The future Libby’s footsteps slowed. Her eyes fell upon him, a strange look of pain and sorrow mingling in her features. She raised her gaze to the face above, Jake’s dark eyes filled with friendliness beneath his tousled hair.
“Libby,” he said. Nothing more, but his lips turned up in a smile. One of the roses slipped from Libby’s bouquet, but she did not retrieve it.
“Jake,” she said. “How are you?” Her tone was flat, despite the tremor invading her voice. “And Will.” She looked at the boy beside him, who stared at the pavement instead of her.
“Good,” Jake answered. “Will wanted to see you tonight. Couldn’t get into the show, but we came to wave, anyway.” He said this with a faint smile as he patted his son’s shoulder, the boy continuing to avoid her eyes.
She wondered if this was true, given Will’s shyness in her presence, or if Jake had brought his reluctant son to say goodbye to the woman he once knew.
“Well, I’ll send you some tickets sometime,” she said. “I guess you must be busy now. I have to go.” Every word emerged as a singular act of pain, as if brought into existence by labor. “The holidays are a busy time.” She raised her voice to be heard above the crowd, the remarks seeming stilted and short, as if two strangers conversing about the weather in this melee of screams and excitement.
“Yeah,” Jake answered. “Good to see you.” His hand was still on Will’s shoulders, steering him gently away from the front lines as other fans pushed their way closer to the star on the other side.
She backed away and turned towards her car without looking back to see the father and son disappear from sight. As if she did not care to know what happened to her former guitarist and the little boy who once covered his wall with clippings of her concerts.
