“You mean the Country Music Festival?”
“Oh, whatever the hell they’re calling it this week. Fan Fair. Country Music Festival. Anyway, she broke her ankle.”
“That’s terrible,” I replied.
“It ain’t that terrible. She comes in here irritable as hell and hungover about half the time. She’s a mess, really. You know, you could answer phones for me the next few days while she’s out. Alls you got to do is say ‘Ricky Dean’s Auto Den’ and make appointments. Stuff like that. It ain’t rocket science, even though Shanay tries to act like it is.
“Shanay’s the regular girl,” he explained. “Tell you what, you work for me a few days, and I won’t charge you nothin’ for fixing this geriatric car.”
It was a generous offer, I knew, but not at all what I had in mind for the new Nashville me. For years I’d stood over that sizzling griddle at Bluebell’s and fantasized about getting one of those hostessing jobs in a fancy restaurant. I’d get to dress up and lead all these famous stars and their managers and publicists and such to a table. Of course, that was only until one of them took an interest in me and found out I could sing. Then the rest, as they say, would be history.
Ricky Dean’s Auto Den didn’t seem like a place for making history, but I didn’t have much choice. “I really appreciate your offer. I’d be happy to work for you,” I replied. Ricky beamed at me with his gold-edged teeth. I could tell it made him proud to do something nice for somebody, probably a rare thing for a guy with a tow truck. He scribbled out directions to a clean (and cheap) motel up the road and instructed me to be at work the next morning by eight.
After I’d checked in at the Southern Belle Motel and taken the world’s fastest shower (I kept thinking about that scene from Psycho), I called Mama. It was late, but she’s always up till midnight.
“Hell-o,” she said. Her tone was flat. In fact, she didn’t sound at all happy or relieved to hear from me, but I ignored this.
“Hey, Mama. Guess what? I got a job, and I already made fifty dollars singing,” I blurted. It was a slight exaggeration, but I wanted to make her proud. Besides that, I wanted to have lots to talk about so I could keep her on the phone. Being all by myself in a dank motel room was giving me the creeps.
“So you’re safe?” Mama asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, praying it was true. “How’s Daddy’s back?”
“He passed out on the job today.”
“What?”
“Ended up at the Percy County Hospital’s emergency room.”
“Is he okay?”
“Well, of course he’s o-kay.” She said this all irritated, as if Daddy’d thrown his back out just so he could ruin her day.
“Let me talk to him,” I said.
“You can’t. He’s on pain medicine now and dead to the world.”
“Mama, don’t say stuff like that!”
“Oh, Retta, calm down. It’s just an expression.”
I held my tongue, kept hoping Mama would say something else. Like, You go on and pursue your dreams, Retta Lee, and don’t feel one bit guilty about leaving us. But she didn’t. She just sat on the line stone silent, and I felt guilty as hell because Mama wouldn’t do anything nice for Daddy. She’d just bark orders at him or huff real loud every time he needed her to get something for him, and then, as payback, Daddy would turn the TV up too loud or get crumbs in the clean sheets. With me gone, Mama would probably start sleeping in my room, the gap between them just getting wider and wider.
“Well, there’s no point sitting here if we’re not gonna talk,” Mama said finally. “And this call is probably costing a fortune.”
“Okay,” I said, even though Brenda had us on one of those friends and family plans where you could call Alaska and talk all night and it wouldn’t cost a dime. “Tell Daddy I hope he feels better,” I said. She wouldn’t do this, of course.
“Good night, Retta,” Mama said curtly, and hung up.
For a while I lay in bed and watched the headlights flicker through the drawn blinds and cast eerie shadows on the wall. Inside my head, I heard Hank Williams’s mournful voice—I’ve never seen a night so long when time goes crawling by . . . I pictured him as a skinny little boy down in Alabama, selling peanuts and shining shoes just to scrape together enough money to get by. Maybe all those hard times gave him more stories to tell. Maybe my hard times would give me stories, too.
richard keith urban
BORN: October 26, 1967; Whangarei, New Zealand
JOB: Worked for a concert lighting company
BIG BREAK: In 1990, Urban won Star Maker, an Australian talent competition similar to American Idol.
LIFE EVENTS: Urban married Academy Award-winning actress Nicole Kidman on June 25, 2006.
CHAPTER NINE
shine
WHEN MY EYES POPPED OPEN, I had no idea where I was, at least not at first. For a while I lay there in that saggy motel bed with its flat pillows and slightly mildewed mustard-colored blanket and tried to get back to the dream I was having—me and Bobby were down at Baker’s Point, and he was just about to kiss me—but it was no use. I was fully awake now, with a long and unpredictable day ahead.
In no time I’d packed up all my stuff and checked twice under the bed to make sure I wasn’t leaving anything behind. After all, I wouldn’t be back. The Southern Belle Motel was cheap by Nashville prices, but it was still too expensive for me. I tried not to think about where I’d sleep tonight or the next night or the one after that.
The Auto Den parking lot was fi lled with junky old cars, a couple of rusted-out trailers, the kind used for hauling, and metal barrels overflowing with trash. By eight-thirty, Ricky Dean still hadn’t shown up, and my sugar (doughnut) and caffeine (Sundrop) breakfast was already wearing off. Besides that, it was starting to heat up, and I regretted wearing jeans instead of shorts. I leaned my head against the warm seat and thought about Bobby again, let my mind wander off into maybe-if-I’d-stayed-in-Starling dreamland. Just then Ricky Dean came rumbling through the parking lot in his mammoth tow truck and jolted me back to reality.
After a quick tour of the place, Ricky showed me how to work the phone (which only had two lines, mind you) and went over the appointment book. “Thangs like a regular oil change or a tune-up should be scheduled in the mornings, that way the vehicle owner gets the car back after work,” he explained. “Any major body stuff, they need to speak to me directly. If it’s a towing call, tell them a hour’s wait and find out where they’re at. Get a cell number, too. Sometimes I get there quicker, but don’t say that. Just let them thank a hour.”
“Okay,” I said, feeling confident I could remember everything. After all, I was used to taking picky orders at Bluebell’s. These instructions were simple by comparison.
“Oh, and if you get a yeller, press this button here. It’ll record ever-thang they say.”
“What?”
“You know, the cussing type. Happens all the time. Some jerk gets mad because his car was towed and calls up to raise hell. Anyway, alls you got to do is say ‘I’m recording you now’ and hit the button. Usually, they just hang up.”
“You’re not serious,” I replied, thinking Ricky was teasing me again.
“Oh, I’m serious as a heart attack. And I ought to know about heart attacks. Had one a few years back, right over there,” he said, and pointed to a grease spot on the dirty cement floor. “Liked to died, too. Ever since, I turned over a new leaf, as they say. I ain’t the same Ricky Dean I once was.” I wondered what he meant, but decided it was probably rude to ask. Besides that, the phone interrupted us.
“Ricky Dean’s Auto Den,” I answered.
“Well, good morning,” the woman replied. I was relieved to hear a friendly voice instead of a yeller.
“What can I do for you today, ma’am?”
Ricky gave me a thumbs-up, then slid under a Ford Focus.
Just before noon, Ricky left to go out on a towing call. The phones had been crazy most of t
he morning, but they’d gone quiet suddenly, probably because most people were eating lunch right about now. As if on cue, my stomach growled. I tugged open the bottom drawer of Shanay’s desk, hoping to find something to snack on, but other than a few salt packets, there was nothing even remotely edible.
I stood up and stretched then paced around the dingy room and thought about all the things I should be doing today—pounding the sidewalks down on Music Row or trying to line up a gig somewhere or looking for a real job—one that would keep me in Nashville for good. But, my stupid little mishap had landed me here. I glanced at the cinder-block wall, and for a brief second considered pounding my head against it. Instead, I grabbed my songwriting journal and sat down at Shanay’s desk again.
By the time Ricky got back, I had the first verse and chorus for a new song, no tune yet, but that would come later. “You must be starving,” Ricky said, and rubbed his sweaty face with a rag.
“I am,” I confessed. It was nearly two o’clock, and I hadn’t eaten a bite since the doughnut.
“Half a mile up the road is a right good barbecue place.” He took out his wallet. “Take this twenty and go get us some lunch. Hog Heaven is the name of it. You can’t miss it ’cause there’s a giant pink pig right out front.” He handed me a crisp twenty, and I wondered if it was just for Ricky’s lunch or if I should pay for my meal with it, too. Ricky must’ve known what I was thinking because he added, “My treat.”
Just then the door swung open, and I heard Ricky’s breath catch.
“Why, Shanay! Hey there. I didn’t expect to see you today. I thought you’s supposed to stay off your feet,” he said, sounding guilty as sin.
Shanay didn’t even respond to Ricky’s hello. Instead, she glared. First at Ricky, then at me. “Who are you?” she demanded, and hobbled inside. Obviously, Ricky hadn’t told her he’d found a replacement for the week.
“I’m Retta,” I replied. “I’m just helping out. So you can recover,” I added quickly.
Shanay narrowed her eyes at Ricky. “You went and hired somebody behind my back? I thought I told—”
“You said the doctor told you to stay off your feet.” Ricky glanced at me and nodded toward the door. Shanay didn’t seem like the stable type, physically or mentally, so I grabbed my purse and hurried outside.
The sun was beating down so hard I was beginning to feel like a hell hag, and the trash cans smelled putrid. Flies buzzed all around them. I kicked gravel around and tried not to breathe through my nose. The door opened, but it was only Ricky. His cheeks were red as fire, and he was sweating.
“Are you all right?” I asked, wondering if I should go back inside for my guitar.
“I’m fine.” He wore the exasperated look Daddy sometimes did when Mama was on him about something.
“Maybe I should just pay you the money I owe,” I offered. “I don’t want to cause trouble.”
“I made a deal with you, and I aim to keep it, hear? Shanay ain’t in any shape to work. She’s supposed to keep that foot elevated. I acted like she had to stay, though. Told her she could take her pain medicine and go lay down in the back, and that way if you had any questions, she’d be right there to help out. You might want to act like you don’t know something ever now and then. You know, just so she don’t feel threatened.” Ricky took out a five and handed it to me. “Get something for Shanay, too.”
“Okay,” I agreed, and climbed inside Goggy’s sweltering car, drove up the road to Hog Heaven. Since it was midafternoon, the restaurant wasn’t busy. In no time, I was back with three pulled-pork specials, three large Cokes, and three peach turnovers. Ricky was clanging around under the Ford Focus again, and Shanay was, according to my best guess, one and a half sheets to the wind. Her purse was wide open on the desktop, a pint of vodka in plain view.
I glanced at the bottle then back at Shanay.
She pressed a finger to her lips and whispered, “I can’t take codeine.” Clearly, she didn’t want Ricky to hear. “It upsets my stomach. Vodka’s cheaper and it works just as well. Normally, I’m not much of a drinker,” she added.
While I ate my lunch Shanay polished off the vodka and read (slurred) the Auto Den’s price list to me. She didn’t touch the sandwich I’d brought, and Ricky was too busy to eat. He had to finish up the Focus then replace the front brake pads on a pickup, all before five o’clock. Every time the phone rang, Shanay and I both reached for it, which was awkward, not to mention annoying. I was relieved when she finally wobbled back to the tattered old sofa in Ricky’s office to take a nap.
“Shanay finally leave you to yourself?” Ricky asked when he slid out from under the Ford.
“Yes,” I replied. Finally.
He groaned to his feet and came over to stand beside me. I had taken everything off Shanay’s desk, including a disgusting ashtray piled a mile high with lipstick-ringed cigarette butts (which I emptied, of course) and stacked it all up neatly on the dented file cabinet.
“No tellin’ when that was cleaned last,” he said.
“It’s definitely been a while.” The surface was covered with grease and dust and crumbs and ashes and Lord only knew what else. Liberally, I sprayed a thick coat of Windex then wiped it down with some stiff paper towels I’d swiped from the bathroom.
“Aw naw,” Ricky said, and plucked the vodka bottle out of the trash can. “Did she drink all this?”
I shrugged and sprayed more Windex.
“Well, I hope she didn’t drink it and take a pain pill, too.”
“No,” I confirmed. “She said codeine upsets her stomach.”
He sighed and shook his head, tossed the bottle into the trash again. “You probably wonderin’ why I let somebody like that work for me.”
“A little,” I replied.
“Well, I wonder the same thang myself.” He pulled a pocketknife out of his coveralls, and dug under his nails with the blade. “I knew Shanay when she was young and pretty. Reckon I keep hopin’ that same girl will show up again one day.”
“Has she always been like this?” I asked, knowing it was none of my business.
“See, that’s the thang. She was real popular in high school. And she seemed to do okay for a few years after that. Everbody liked her, but then she fell in with the wrong crowd. Started dating some lowlife. Next thing we all knew, she was losing one job after another and in debt. She even got sent to jail once for stealing checks. My ex-wife won’t have nothing to do with her. They’re sisters,” he explained. “That whole family has pretty much disowned her. If it wasn’t for me, Shanay wouldn’t have nobody.”
Busting Goggy’s oil pan was a terrible thing, but meeting Ricky felt like a blessing right then. “You’re good to do that. Give her a chance, I mean.”
“I don’t know. Sometimes I wonder. The thing is I’m in a heap a debt for second chances,” he said, and flipped the pocketknife shut.
For the rest of the afternoon, I couldn’t stop thinking about Shanay and Ricky and Ricky’s son and the ex-wife and her family. Their stories caught hold of me somehow, filled my mind with song ideas. Shanay’s desk was sparkling clean now. I’d gone out to the ditch and picked some of those little yellow flowers Mama always said were just weeds and stuffed them in a jelly jar with fresh water. The paper clips were untangled, the nonworking ink pens had been thrown away, and the working ones were point side up in an old, chipped coffee mug. Shanay’s thermos was washed out and left to dry on a paper towel, and her wrinkled magazine clipping of Hank Jr. was now proudly tucked in a plastic frame I’d found in the bottom drawer.
I glanced around the Auto Den. Certainly, there was a lot more cleaning I could do, but Shanay’s desk felt like a big accomplishment for my first day. Besides that, I didn’t want to overstep my boundaries too much. The phones were quiet again, and no one had stopped by to pick up their cars yet. “Hey, Ricky,” I called.
“Yeah,” he replied. He was now wedged under a pickup almost identical to Daddy’s, except not so scratched up.
“You mind if I sing?” I asked.
“Lord, no. I was hopin’ you would. Make sure the office door is shut tight so it don’t wake up Shanay.”
I hurried to the back and eased the door closed then grabbed my guitar from the corner. Slowly, I strummed a few chords and adjusted the tune.
“I thought you’s gonna sang,” Ricky called.
“Just a minute,” I said, and grabbed the stool. I cleared my throat, adjusted my position, closed my eyes, and took a deep breath. All at once I wasn’t in a dirty garage anymore; instead, I pretended I was on the humble stage of the Mockingbird Cafe. It was a famous Nashville landmark, and I’d read all about it in Country Music magazine. Unlike the Opry with its vast crowd and bright lights, the legendary Mockingbird was rustic and dim. In my mind, a ripple of excitement passed through the audience as they waited for me to begin. Shhhh, someone whispered, and instantly it was quiet.
It was the third of June, another sleepy, dusty delta da-a-a-ay . . . I began, my voice soft and low. Someone clapped, and I paused, waiting for them to stop. The glasses clinked softly, and folks settled deeper into their seats. I was out choppin’ cotton and my brother was bailin’ ha-a-a-ay . . . My imagination shifted into overdrive. All of a sudden it wasn’t just the Mockingbird Cafe in my head, it was also the the dusty Delta where Bobbie and her brother toiled, and the supper table with her family sitting all around it, too. I stretched out notes where they hadn’t been stretched before, stopped to say lines instead of singing them, threw my head back and belted out a few newly inserted oooohhhhs and aaahhhs. The acoustics in the shop were amazingly good, and my voice filled up the room—Retta Lee’s spin on Bobbie G. this time instead of flat-out imitation.
By the time the song was over, sweat trickled down my back, and my heart pounded inside my chest. Ricky clapped and shouted “Bravo!” from underneath the truck. “That was damn good! Damn good!” Just then the office door squeaked open, and I looked up to see glassy-eyed Shanay clutching the door frame and swaying slightly. As Granny Larky used to say, her hair looked like cats had been sucking on it. “How’d you learn to sing like that?” she asked.
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