Almost Heaven

by Chris Fabry

  There are a lot of players who talk about being “in the moment” when they perform. When you’re fully running inside a song, when it’s part of you and you’re part of it, you can take chances, try things, and I guess that’s the best way to describe what happened. I let my fingers work out what was in my soul. Somebody else who was there might have a different opinion, but for me it was pure joy. I let go of the nerves, I let go of who was watching, I let go of what Buzz and Pastor Turley might think, and I just became a mandolin evangelist. I showed them all why I love that instrument and what I could do with it.

  When I was done, the kids in the room responded. A lot of them clapped, and when I opened my eyes, Heather was smiling bigger than I’d ever seen her. She looked genuinely happy. I’m not saying everybody was converted. Certainly Paul didn’t throw away his Styx records. But there was a certain respect he gave me later as he walked down the hall and nodded. He’d never so much as made the distinction between me and a bug on the sidewalk.

  The truth was, I could play even better. I wasn’t holding back, but you can only do so much with one song to show your musical skills.

  Buzz talked with Pastor Turley in the control room, and then he wrote me a note and told me to come back after the last period. I told him I had to catch the bus, but he said it was important. I flew down the hall to gym class, and Coach Hall was fit to be tied that anybody would be late, but the note calmed him.

  When the bell rang after seventh period, I went back to Buzz’s room. The kids from the play were milling around and Heather was talking and laughing with some friends. Something inside me hurt when I saw that. The people talked about their lines or the upcoming game or a dance or a party at somebody else’s house. You don’t know how lonely you are until you hear people with normal lives talk about theirs. Maybe that’s why I’ve kept away from crowds.

  I stayed as long as I could, but I knew the bus wouldn’t wait, so I headed for the hall. I met Buzz as I turned the corner, and he handed me a record and said I could keep it. I thanked him and kept moving.

  “Wait; don’t go,” he said.

  “The bus is leaving.”

  “I want you to stay while we practice. I have something for you to do.”

  “I need to get home.”

  “You have a job?”

  “No, it’s just that Mama expects me to be home when she gets there.”

  He put a hand on my shoulder. “This is important, Billy. I want you to listen to this record in the control room. Play along with the songs and record it. I’ll get you a ride home. Does anybody in the play live near you?”

  I mentioned Heather, but as soon as I did, I remembered her mother talking with her as they drove away.

  “Good, I’ll ask her,” Buzz said, glancing at the clock. “Now get in the control room. You’ll have at least an hour, hour and a half tops, to record.”

  “All of it?” I said.

  He rubbed his chin. “Just start the record and hit the recorder and see what happens.”

  I studied the picture on the album. There were five men in striped suits standing next to a hay wagon. The title of the record was I Saw the Light, and the men were holding their instruments and smiling really big. I never figured out why they were out in the barnyard for the picture, but looking later at all the other album covers, it was clear they had exhausted their range of locations.

  The man in the middle of the cover was the only one who wasn’t holding an instrument. He was large, and the stripes made him look like the statue outside of a Big Boy restaurant.

  “That’s Pastor Turley, isn’t it?”

  “Billy, most every weekend he and his group are out on the road playing and singing.”

  “What’s that got to do with me?”

  “They lost their mandolin player a few months ago. He’s interested in you but wants to see how you react to their music. Do you think you can give it a shot?”

  I looked at the list of songs. It was a pretty standard set. I knew all of them but one and figured that was an original.

  “I can try,” I said.

  He closed the door and I got out the mandolin and began. The truth was, if I could have chosen anything in the world to do after school, that’s what I would have done. When I got home each day, I would usually find something to eat and get out the two Realistic recorders I had repaired. Recording on the Wollensak sounded a lot better.

  The record he gave me wasn’t well produced. They’d found some cut-rate studio where the first good take got slapped on the record. But truth be told, the musicians weren’t that bad. “I Saw the Light” was the first song, and it was mainly a banjo tune. I found the runs right away and figured out what they were doing with the chorus and turnaround. It wasn’t rocket science.

  I got lost in those songs and was on the last one, “Mother Left Me Her Bible,” when everybody returned from the auditorium. Buzz took Heather aside, and she glanced at the control room and shook her head like she was really sorry about something.

  He came in as the reel flapped. He had his jacket and briefcase in hand. “You ready to head out?”

  I put the reel in a box and handed it to him. “All done. There’s some good tunes on here.”

  He slipped it in the briefcase, and we walked to the teachers’ parking lot, which looked out on the river and the old covered bridge. He drove a little VW bug that chugged to life like a lawn mower engine.

  “I appreciate you doing what you’re doing,” I said.

  “How did you feel about your performance?” he said. “You looked pretty comfortable up there.”

  I shrugged. “I guess it was all right. I was nervous at first, but then when the music took over, I was okay. I could have been better with a little more practice.”

  Buzz smiled. “Do you think you could do that in front of a bigger crowd? say, a few hundred people?”

  “If I can do it in front of people who hate the music I’m playing, I guess I could do it for just about anybody.”

  He flicked on the radio and tuned it to the local country-and-western station, WDGW. There was a Don Williams song on and Buzz said he liked the man’s music.

  “There’s something so smooth and clean about his recordings,” I said. “The voice lays into his songs just right.”

  The signal got stronger and he pointed out the antenna. “I know the manager of that station. He actually hired another one of our students to work there.”

  It was a white metal building that looked like it could have been a sausage factory or a warehouse. I’d been past there a hundred times and never really noticed the antenna. He flipped to another station and we listened to Kenny Rogers’s scratchy voice. I gave Buzz directions, and as we passed neighbors’ houses, I got that bad feeling when you know somebody from the outside is going to look in at your life.

  Buzz parked next to the road because our driveway was a mud hole. Mom’s car was in the grass by the back door. I took him around back because of all the laundry still hanging up on the front porch.

  “Where have you been, Billy?” Mama said. “I was worried sick.”

  “Mama, this is Bu—uh, Mr. Gibson. He’s one of my teachers.”

  Mama wiped her hands on her apron and shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Gibson. Is there something wrong?”

  “Not at all,” Buzz said. “I kept your son after school working on a project. Do you mind if I come in and talk about it?”

  “Not at all,” Mama said, backing up the cinder blocks. “Can I get you something to drink? All we have is Diet Shasta.”

  “Love it,” Buzz said.

  Mama got him a glass bottle and he sat at the kitchen table. I’d never noticed how many cracks in the walls there were, how the linoleum was turned up in the corners, and how the wood was rotted around the doorjamb until somebody new sat in the house.

  “Can you stay for supper?” Mama said, cracking open the bottle.

  “I would love to, Mrs. Allman, but I have a dinner date with my
wife tonight. I can only stay a few minutes. I want to talk to you about your son.”

  Her face fell and she sat down on the one chair with the rooster painted on it. “He’s done something wrong?”

  “Your son isn’t in any trouble,” Buzz said, reaching a hand out and patting my mother’s. “He brought his mandolin to school today and played for the class. He’s very good. Exceptional talent. I invited a friend of mine to listen to him who has a gospel group. The Gospel Bluegrass Boys.”

  Mama’s eyes lit up. “Is that so?”

  “They’ve been around a few years,” Buzz said. “They travel all throughout West Virginia, Ohio, Kentucky, and a little into Tennessee.”

  “I’ve heard about their records,” Mama said, masking a smile. “But I never thought a teacher in Dogwood was part of them.”

  “No, you don’t understand. I’m not part of the group. But Vernon is—he’s in our church—and when I heard Billy, I invited him to hear your son.”

  “I see,” she said. But I could tell she didn’t. Her mind wasn’t all there at times. Part of that was all she’d been through and part of it wasn’t.

  “They play mainly in local churches and revivals. But they have done shows as far away as Cincinnati and they’ve opened for some name bands. It’s not just a hobby; it’s serious, but the music is a ministry. It touches lives and encourages people.”

  “I’ll just bet it does.”

  “Teaching is a love of mine. Helping kids learn and grow is a passion. And when I see somebody with Billy’s talent, I try to help them channel that in some positive direction.”

  “Well, I appreciate all you’re doing.”

  “I tell you, Mrs. Allman, your son has something special. A gift. And since all good gifts come from the Father of lights, I don’t think we should hide it under a bushel basket.”

  Mama sat back, relaxed, like someone had given her a full-body massage. “Well, what do you think about that! I knew from the moment he was born, he was special. It’s just good to hear somebody else come around.”

  “You have reason to be proud,” Buzz said. “You’ve done a fine job raising a son who’s respectful and attentive.”

  “His daddy taught him the mandolin,” Mama said. “And he’s good at electronics, too.”

  “I know you’ve been through a difficult time in the past few years. And I want to make you a proposal.” He smiled and sat back. “Not that kind of proposal.”

  Mama chuckled and covered her mouth with a hand. Being a woman of the hills, her teeth were not in the best shape.

  “Billy made a tape of himself playing along with the band’s songs. I want to take that to my friend. They lost their mandolin picker a few months ago and haven’t replaced him.”

  “And if they like me?” I said.

  “If they approve—and I don’t have any reason to believe they won’t—I think they’ll ask you to join them. Come to practices. And eventually go on the road with them. Vernon has to be at the church on most Sundays, so usually it’s Friday and Saturday nights that they’re gone.”

  My mouth dropped open. Mama turned to me with a smile that didn’t fit the situation. “Well, that would pretty much take him away every weekend.”

  “Eventually. But he would be able to choose when he wanted to go and when you’d want him to stay. Now, their ministry is not-for-profit, so they don’t actually pay their players, but they use the money from record sales and their honorarium to buy clothes and instruments and sound equipment. They’d probably get Billy some new clothes and maybe even help out here at the house with repairs you might need.”

  “That’s real kind of you to think of Billy, Mr. Gibson. Why don’t you let us talk it over?”

  “I think that’s a fine idea,” Buzz said. He took a final swig of his soda, screwed on the cap, and tossed the bottle in the trash. “This would be a great opportunity for your son, ma’am. He’ll gain confidence, get some great experience, and help out the group. And there’s no rush. Just let me know what you think.”

  I stood on the front porch and watched Buzz drive away. Mama was still sitting at the table running her hand over a crack in the plastic tablecloth. I leaned up against the wall and didn’t say a word. Sometimes it was better to wait her out.

  “Your daddy would be proud of you,” she said. “He always thought you had a natural talent.”

  “But?”

  She sighed. “People are out for themselves, Billy. What’s in it for this Gibson fellow?”

  I stared at her. “There’s nothing in it for him. He just gives a hoot.”

  She shook her head. “It doesn’t work that way. People are always in it for something. You don’t know people like I do.”

  I looked out the window at the hill behind the house. A red squirrel flitted from one tree branch to another.

  “I don’t know that it’s time. You have a lot of growing to do before you get into this kind of thing.”

  “Mama, I may only get a chance like this once.”

  “I doubt that. Maybe it’s just me not able to let go. I just don’t have a good feeling.”

  “Good feeling? Well, if you don’t have it, I do. And Daddy would let me go.”

  “Now that’s not fair, dragging your father into this.”

  “You brought him up yourself. You said he would be proud of me.”

  “You ought to be a lawyer, that’s what you ought to be.” She smiled. “What would this do to your studies?”

  “I’d make sure I had all my homework done before we went on the road.”

  “Where do they practice? We don’t even know that.”

  “Probably at the church in Barboursville.”

  “And how would you get down there? I can’t drive you every week.”

  “I can get a ride from Mr. Gibson after school. And then Mr. Turley could drive up the interstate and drop me off at the bridge. We’d work it out. No big deal.”

  “You’ve figured it all out, haven’t you? You’re already counting on it.” Just as I was sitting down at the table, Mama got up. “I’ve got to make supper.”

  I took hold of her arm and held on. She finally sat down.

  “Mama, something happened to me today. I got up in front of people and played. Kids my own age. They don’t even like the music and they enjoyed it. They noticed me.”

  “Getting people to notice you is not a good reason to join a group. Pride goeth before the fall.”

  “It’s not pride. It’s finding myself. I feel like I looked out a window I didn’t even know was in the building. And outside was a world I could fit into.”

  “A world of fame and fortune?”

  “This is not about becoming famous. It’s about doing what God made me to do. When I got up there with the mandolin, I thought, this is the thing that makes me feel alive.”

  “What about electronics and building things?”

  “They go hand in hand,” I said. “Don’t you see? I could probably help the group with their sound system. I could wrap cables and repair instruments if they need it. Please, Mama. I want to do this.”

  She looked out the back door and a mist came over her eyes. “Maybe it is the right thing to do, to let you fly and try out your wings.”

  “I think the Lord has ordered all this. What are the chances that Mr. Gibson would teach at Dogwood High and he’d overhear me playing in the back room? and then talk to Mr. Turley?”

  “Now there’s where you need a little bit of faith,” she said. “The Lord doesn’t need Gibson or Turley to help him find you. He can do that by himself.”

  “I’m just saying it feels like something God designed. He can use people like me if we’ll yield to his will.”

  Mama stared hard at me. “That sounds like something an old man would say. Do you trust this Turley fellow? That Gibson seemed kind of squirrelly. Nice, don’t get me wrong, but squirrelly.”

  “He’s one of the best teachers at the school and well-liked. I always learn a lot from him.” Tha
t wasn’t totally true, but I said it anyway.

  “Let me pray on it,” she said. “You go cut us some firewood.”

  As I went through the screen door, she yelled, “And take a jacket; it’s cold out.”

  I kept going in my shirtsleeves, unhindered by the chill in the air, almost floating, imagining what traveling with the group would be like. We’d probably eat at restaurants. Practices would be a lot of fun. And I wondered about the clothes. Would I be able to wear them to school?

  I broke a sweat swinging the ax and chopped enough wood for the two of us. It was the time of year when you could sense the turning of the earth from casket to incubator. The trees were bare, but I knew the buds would soon be breaking out and the green would replace the gray and brown.

  I brought an armload of firewood to the back of the house. Mama was standing in the kitchen with her hand against a hip, stirring a pot of macaroni on the stove, looking out the window. Tears streaked her face.

  “What’s wrong now?” I said.

  She shook her head. “Just another spell, I guess. All these thoughts swirling around in my head.”

  Ever since Daddy had taken his life, Mama had been going downhill. It was as if her mind was so full of things that they overflowed at times and bubbled up like macaroni that’s been turned too high on the stove. He had left her a miner’s pension and a little from Social Security and me. That put everything on her, and the weight of it made her a different person at times. I’d catch her talking to herself in her bedroom, brushing out her hair until there were clumps of it in the brush. I just chalked it up to all the shock she’d been through.

  “You’ll probably be bringing young ladies around now, won’t you?” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “That pretty thing you sit by on the bus. What’s her name?”

  “How do you know who I sit beside?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Doesn’t take Dick Tracy to know you’re growing up, Son. And I work at a beauty salon. What’s her name?”