Somebody Everybody Listens To

by Suzanne Supplee

I switched off the light and stretched out on the sofa. “He said I’ll love you ’til I die,” I sang into the darkness. It was George Jones’s biggest hit ever, the comeback record from 1982 and redemption in a way after all those missed concerts and lawsuits and divorces. “No-Show Jones,” they’d called him back then. I sang the song over and over, a tribute to Ricky, a lullaby for me.

  The funeral was on Saturday in a little town forty miles south of Nashville. Ricky’s ex-wife made all the arrangements. The funeral home was elegant, a large Victorian house that’d been converted to suit the needs of an undertaker. The lawn was perfectly manicured with thick boxwoods and well-tended roses.

  Becky was a sturdy woman in her forties, pretty with short highlighted hair and perfectly manicured nails and lots of gold jewelry. She wore a black sleeveless sundress, and I could see she was cold in the artificial blast of air-conditioning. Chill bumps stood up on her plump arms. The service was already twenty minutes behind schedule, and the room had shifted from woefully quiet to restless and talkative. Finally, the preacher stood up.

  “We had a little problem with the singer this morning. She called to say she had car trouble. She’s coming all the way from Pulaski, so I don’t know if she’ll make it in time, but if she doesn’t, that’s just the Lord’s plan.” He gripped the sides of the podium and took a deep breath.

  “We all knew Ricky Dean had a wild side,” he began. The crowd laughed, and I could tell they were sitting up a little straighter. The truth has a way of getting people’s attention. “He wrecked a good many cars, had more than a few barroom brawls, and a time or two, he went to jail for the night. You can attest to that, can’t you, Becky?” Ricky’s ex-wife nodded and dabbed her eyes with a wad of tissues. “But a few years ago, Ricky came to me. It was right after his heart attack, and he said to me, ‘Brother George, I want to change. How exactly does God go about making that happen?’ ” The crowd laughed again, and the preacher smiled wryly and waited for them to stop. “I said to him, I says, ‘Ricky Dean, you the one that’s got to change yourself. The good Lord just cheers you on.’ And the good Lord did cheer him on. We all did, didn’t we?”

  Ricky’s son, Dale, sat next to his mother. He was a tall man, not much older than me, but with serious, dark eyes and thinning hair. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or -three, but already he had a shiny spot the size of a saucer on the back of his head. Dale put his arm around his mother and patted her gently.

  “These last few years Ricky lived a good life. He did kind things for lots of folks. You wouldn’t believe all the stories I’ve heard about just today. And there’s a hot rod sitting out there in the parking lot that looks like something out of a magazine. You like that car, don’t you, Roy?” the preacher asked. Ricky’s brother grimaced and nodded. “See, I believe that the Lord uses the good and the bad in us. Ricky’s wild side made him humble. It made him take kindness on people in their times of need. It kept him from judging the mistakes and weaknesses and addictions of others. ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged.’” The preacher looked at Becky hard then, and she sobbed a little then stifled herself.

  “So I guess Ricky’s leaving this earth too early can teach us something about ourselves. How can God use the frailties in you? How are you exactly the way God meant for you to be? And how does he want you to change for the greater good? It’s the question Ricky leaves all of us with today, but God is cheering us on,” the minister said.

  We stood and sang “Amazing Grace.” The words were printed on the program, but I didn’t need them. Thanks to all my years at Starling Methodist, I knew the hymn by heart. When the song ended, Brother George went to the podium again. “Looks like Mrs. Allister isn’t gonna make it. She planned to sing Ricky’s favorite hymn, “I’ll Fly Away.” Anybody else wanna give it a try?” he asked, and glanced around the room. I thought about raising my hand, but I’d had a hard enough time getting through “Amazing Grace.” “I’ll Fly Away” would’ve put me over the edge.

  An elderly man tottered to the front of the room. “I ain’t gonna sing,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, “but I’ll say the lines for y’all.”

  “That’d be just fine, Mr. Dawson,” said Brother George. As the old gentleman said the words, the mourners filed past Ricky Dean’s casket. Seeing Ricky dead one time was plenty, so I slipped out the side door and ran smack into Roy, Ricky’s brother. He was sucking hard on a cigarette and pacing back and forth across the steamy asphalt.

  Whereas Ricky was all T-shirts and jeans and tattoos, Roy was just the opposite: navy suit, shiny shoes, starched shirt, necktie. The only thing even slightly rebellious about him was the cigarette dangling from his thin, tight lips. “Hidy,” he said gruffly.

  “Hi,” I replied, thinking how little I liked this man. The two of us had met briefly the morning after Ricky died, and it’d been an uncomfortable introduction. Roy was Ricky’s brother, yet he didn’t seem to know him, not well anyway. In fact, he confessed that in the ten years Ricky had owned the Auto Den, he hadn’t been by even once to see the place.

  “I reckon you’ll be moving out today,” said Roy. This was not a question, I noticed. I couldn’t think of a thing to say, so I just stood there. “I realize this is all unexpected,” he went on, “but you’ll need to clear out your things. Find another place to live.”

  It crossed my mind that Ricky hadn’t given me my last paycheck—for a full week’s work—but I couldn’t bring myself to be tacky enough to ask about it. “I . . . well, it—”

  “Today. No exceptions,” he said firmly. I tried not to glare at him. “I’ll be by this evening to collect the keys.” He looked at me hard, then added, “I trust you’ll take only what belongs to you.”

  I didn’t say a word in return. I didn’t protest. I didn’t tell him how undeserving he was of the Redneck Rider. It was the day of Ricky Dean’s funeral, and I wasn’t about to say anything ugly, even if it killed me to keep my mouth shut. Instead, I walked off toward Goggy’s car.

  The whole drive back to Nashville, I tried to think what to do, but my mind was twisting over itself with sadness. In no time, I was back at the Auto Den. The window tinter had placed a wreath on Ricky’s door and left a note of sympathy, and there were several cards tucked in the key drop-off box, but I didn’t read them for fear Roy might acuse me of misconduct.

  “Jerk,” I mumbled under my breath as I peeled Emmylou off the wall and rolled her up carefully. Within minutes, I had my sheets and blanket off the tattered sofa, my guitar and music and demos packed up in the trunk of my car. I stood there looking at the cinder-block walls and soaking up the emptiness of the place. Already, in just a few days’ time, the garage was stale smelling—no coffee or leftover ribs or grease, no exhaust fumes or buffing compound. No life, I thought glumly. No Ricky Dean, and now no me either.

  I walked over to the desk, looked at it for a second, then pulled open the squeaky top drawer to retrieve my ChapStick and the extra ponytail holders I kept there. Amid the organized paper clips, receipts, rubber bands, and desk key was an envelope with my name on it. For the longest time, I just stood there and stared at Ricky’s handwriting. Slowly, I opened it.

  Retta, here’s your paycheck and a little extra. Get yourself something pretty for the Mockingbird or save it for a rainy day.

  Your friend, Ricky Dean

  albert edward brumley

  BORN: October 29, 1905; Spiro, Oklahoma; died 1977

  JOB: As a young man, Brumley worked in his father-inlaw’s general store for a dollar a day.

  BIG BREAK: Brumley wanted to attend the Hartford Musical Institute in Hartford, Arkansas, but lacked tuition money. Eugene Monroe “E.M.” Bartlett, the institute’s head and owner of the Hartford Music Company (which Brumley would eventually purchase in 1948), allowed Brumley to attend the school at no cost.

  LIFE EVENTS: Brumley has received countless accolades for his music and was inducted into the Country Songwriters Hall of Fame, the Gospel Music Hall of Fame,
and the SESAC (Society of European Stage Authors and Composers) Hall of Fame. His songs have been recorded by the likes of Elvis Presley, Ray Charles, the Supremes, Aretha Franklin, the Oak Ridge Boys, and Loretta Lynn, among others.Boys,

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  i’ll fly away

  I HADN’T GIVEN A THOUGHT to my open-mike night at the Mockingbird. For the past three days, I’d done nothing but fret over things at the Auto Den and grieve for Ricky Dean. I hadn’t taken my demo to the labels like I’d planned, so nobody even knew I was appearing at the Mockingbird tonight. Judy Dickenson had taken the time to write a flattering article about me, yet I’d failed to follow through—to capitalize, as Emerson said.

  The thought crossed my mind to point Goggy’s car toward Starling, but I didn’t. Instead, I headed to the Book Shelf to see if Emerson could help me put together a decent outfit before tonight. I couldn’t very well wear my funeral clothes—the tired A-line navy church skirt and Bluebell’s blouse—and my jeans and undershirts were too dirty, no time or energy for the Laundromat this week.

  I crossed the threshold, and Emerson came running (I guess I looked as bad as I felt). “Retta! Where have you been? I’ve left at least five messages on your voice mail.” She was wearing her funky glasses again and a peasanty, gauzy-looking white skirt with a perfectly white T-shirt and what appeared to be bowling shoes only with high heels.

  “Ricky Dean died.”

  “Who?” Emerson asked, tucking the glasses into her hair.

  “My boss, the tow-truck driver. I just got back from his funeral, and I had to move all my stuff out of the Auto Den. I can’t go onstage tonight looking like this.”

  “No. No, of course, you can’t. What about your jeans and white T-shirt? Judy liked your look, remember? I think consistency is important.”

  “Everything I own is dirty, and I don’t know if I can even sing after the day I’ve had.”

  “Retta, you know what they say—the show must go on. This could be a very big night for you.”

  I looked at Emerson and shrugged. I wondered why on earth she’d gotten herself mixed up with a girl like me. Her life was so smart and together, like her clothes, and mine was a total mess.

  “What time do you go on?” Emerson asked, and glanced at the clock on the wall.

  “Seven,” I replied.

  “Seven? Seven o’clock? Retta, that’s less than two hours from now! You haven’t even showered,” she pointed out.

  “Actually, I did, but it was early this morning. It’s been a long day.”

  “Did you take any of your demos around this week? Show people the article?” I shook my head. “Retta!” she scolded. “You were supposed to make the most of this opportunity. Remember?”

  “I know, but I couldn’t.”

  Emerson clasped her hand over her mouth and switched her eyes from side to side. “Okay. Okay. First things first. We’ll stop off at Kinkos, and I’ll run in and make copies of the article. I’ll hand them out when we get to the Mockingbird. Label people go there all the time, right? So they’ll read the article and see you onstage. Maybe it’s even better that way. But we still have to figure out the clothes situation. Um . . . let’s see . . . Deandra!” she blurted suddenly. “Come on, let’s go.” She hurried around the counter again, grabbed her overloaded canvas book bag from underneath. “Mrs. Scribner, I have an emergency!” she shouted toward the back office. “I have to leave now.”

  “Have a nice weekend,” Mrs. Scribner called back. “Lock the door on your way out.”

  Emerson and I ran all the way to the Treasure Trunk, and I huffed and puffed the events of the past few days. She just kept looking at me, her eyes getting wider and wider with every detail.

  By the time we reached the Treasure Trunk, sweat poured off both of us, but it was cool inside. The chartreuse carpeting had been replaced with hardwood floors, I noticed, and little cloud-shaped rugs were scattered everywhere. Matching lanterns hung from the ceiling, and twinkling star-shaped lights made the already-pretty store sparkle.

  “This season’s decor theme is ethereal,” Emerson explained before I could even ask. “Deandra!” she called, and tried to catch her breath. “Deandra, we have a fashion emergency here! A real one! Where is she?” she asked irritatedly, and looked around.

  I noticed the room changes were reflected in the clothing, too. Racks and racks of gauzy white blouses and skirts (more than likely where Emerson had purchased her outfit), soft blue denim jackets and jeans, and lots of silver and gold accessories—shoes, belts, jewelry.

  Deandra sashayed out of the back, Diet Coke in hand. “A fashion emergency? I should say so,” she said. I expected her eyes to be on me, but they were on Emerson. “Those shoes are hideous, Em.”

  “They are not. I predict by November you’ll have a pair yourself. And I’m not the one with the emergency. Retta needs something to wear.”

  Deandra looked me up and down. “Retta is not a fashion emergency. She’s a fashion calamity.”

  “As a personal favor to me, would you loan her something to wear?”

  “I’d be happy to sell her something,” Deandra replied.

  “It’ll be good publicity for you, I promise. Retta is a New & Noted.” Deandra raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. “That’s right—Judy Dickenson,” Emerson went on, “which means all eyes will be on Retta tonight and her outfit. You’ll say your outfit came from the Treasure Trunk, won’t you, Retta?”

  My mind was fixed on the all-eyes-will-be-on-Retta part. Like most things in Music City, maybe this night was bigger than I understood, like swimming across the river during a storm. On a double dare, Brenda and I had done that once. Daddy nearly killed us when he found out, kept saying how easily we could’ve drowned or been struck by lightning. We were only thirteen, but I wasn’t a bit scared, not until it was all over and Daddy pointed out the dangers, that is.

  “Won’t you, Retta?” Emerson and Deandra were staring at me now.

  “Yeah,” I replied.

  “Are there any industry people coming?” Deandra asked.

  “Yes,” Emerson answered. “At least we hope so.”

  “You don’t have to loan me any clothes,” I said.

  “I know I don’t have to, but I will, provided you don’t forget this favor.”

  “You’re not giving her a kidney,” Emerson scolded.

  “What size are you? A four? Six? You’re bigger on the bottom than you are on the top,” Deandra pointed out. “Tight jeans,” she said to herself, then rummaged through a rack. “Tight jeans and something flowy, maybe ruffles on top. It’ll put your body in better proportion,” she explained. Personally, I’d never thought my body was out of proportion, but I didn’t argue with her. Instead, I went to try everything on.

  “She lived where?” I heard Deandra ask. Emerson was whispering outside the dressing room, more than likely filling Deandra in on the latest events of my pathetic life.

  “I’m not about to wear this,” I said, and stepped from behind the silky white curtain so they would shut up about my living situation (or, as of this afternoon, my lack of a living situation). Half my bra was showing in the low-cut top, the jeans were so tight I’d need a crowbar to get out of them (“Badonkadonk” britches for sure), and I hadn’t even bothered to try on the gold stilettos.

  “Turn around,” Deandra said, and scowled. “Not bad.”

  “Not bad? I feel like I have appendicitis in these pants.”

  “Sex sells,” Deandra replied.

  “It’s too far off the mark,” Emerson observed. “Judy Dickenson actually liked Retta’s plain style, and she has to wear the blue boots. They’re like her signature now. It’s got to be more . . . more ...”

  “Real,” I filled in for her.

  “Exactly,” Emerson agreed.

  In no time, we were in Goggy’s car with all the windows rolled down and lead-footing it to Target. This time I bought a simple white cotton shirt with a small ruffle down the V-neck. It was
soft and feminine, not boys’ underwear for a change. The jeans hugged me nicely, but they weren’t so snug I’d give the front row a female anatomy lesson. Plus, they looked perfect with my boots. Purchases bagged, Emerson and I headed to the Target bathroom. There was no time for a real shower, but at least I could freshen up. Just my luck, the bathroom was packed and stinky. Some woman was changing her toddler’s really poopy diaper. We bolted and headed to Sam Hill’s Market instead. Emerson stood guard outside the door while I gave myself a birdbath, and I could hear her giggling. She thought this was some sort of wild, hilarious adventure—bathing in public, that is—and I wondered if I should confess that just a few weeks ago this was everyday life for me. Our last stop was Kinkos. It was obvious Emerson had lots of experience with a copier, so I stood aside and let her take charge. Within minutes, the flyers were neatly printed, and we were on the road again.

  The Mockingbird parking lot was packed. Cars were everywhere, and on the marquee out front, there was a big flashing sign—FAN APPRECIATION NIGHT! It was like somebody had let the air out of our balloon. “Oh, no,” Emerson and I said at the very same time.

  “Retta! Did you know it was fan appreciation night?” she asked. I shook my head. “You realize what this means?”

  “Drunk tourists and no label people,” I said, and swung the car into a spot along the highway. Truth be told, I was somewhat relieved, although I didn’t say this to Emerson.

  We left the flyers in the car and headed inside. The place was packed with loud, buzzed tourists. They were easy to spot with their Nashville-themed T-shirts and too-white sneakers and sunburned faces. Some poor guy was onstage, but you couldn’t hear a word of what he sang, like lip-synching except without the music. Since there were no free tables, Emerson and I hung out by the stage. I was terrified someone would smash into my guitar, so I leaned it against the wall then shielded it with my entire body.