Just four days. Hank was aging before his very eyes. Those four days felt like forty years and four million miles. He had bags forming under his eyes. He was constantly yawning. His hair needed to be washed. All he seemed to want to do is sit on Dylan’s couch and watch old Flintstones reruns. He always kept the volume loud to drown out the sound of her voice. His friends sat there and watched as his form started to sink into the couch. They would occasionally give him a beer for his cause, but he forgot how to communicate with the outside world. To even say thank you or piss off.
Hank couldn’t stop thinking while he watched the Flintstones. He thought about the stone and glass house, the beers, the poison, and he thought about the payphones. Those damn payphones were haunting him like the rest of the ghosts. Hank knew exactly how they felt now. Disconnected, disappearing like they were never once a part of this world.
Eight days. Hank was angry and ornery. His friends tried to talk to him, involve him in useless chatter, but he ignored them. Dylan made tacos—it was the only thing he knew how to make—and Hank thought he was making a sick joke. He crumpled them in his hands and threw them out the door.
More days passed. Hank wasn’t keeping count anymore. He started to drink a little more, started talking a little more. Mumbling things like, “Patsy and the baby are going out with the bath water.” He would cry sometimes when he would drink, begging her to come back to him in his sleep. He had tried calling her, but she refused his calls.
He couldn’t walk away. He felt like he was still standing at the door, trying to block the wind from blowing out of it. Even if it had, sometimes he had to believe the lies to give himself enough motivation to keep moving forward. He even took a trip to Nashville, against Curly and Tommy’s insistence that he should just stay put. He just couldn’t stay away. As soon as he walked in the door, Freud howled and he heard a door slam.
He ran to the back of the bar, to her office, ignoring the voices around him telling him to stop. He heard Hennessey talking from the side of his mouth.
“This ain’t no dame storm. This is a lover’s storm. Sisters, stay out of it.”
As he walked in, one of the papers on Delilah’s desk drifted to the floor, as if a slight wind had blown it off. He looked everywhere for her but couldn’t find her. He knew she could hear, though, because he knew her. He knew she was close to him. If only Hank had the energy to look up. He would have found her sitting above him, hiding in the rafters, like a leopard perched on the highest branch.
He stood in the middle of the office and closed his eyes. “I’m real sad without you, darlin’. I can’t think straight or eat straight or move straight or even talk straight. I know what you think, but I have my reasons, Delilah. Yes, I love her. I don’t understand it, like I don’t understand why I’m in love with you. I just…I just don’t know what to do. I know I love her, but I don’t even think of her anymore.
“All I think of is you. How you felt beneath my hands, the best thing ever in them. I can hear you tell me you love me, and it forces my heart to beat, like it does after it has been shocked back to life. I see your smile, and nothing else matters. Then all those things I love the most about you haunt me. You’re really not here with me, but you’re here and I can’t see you or touch you or kiss you. I’m not me without you. Hank without Delilah is just…Hank. And this I promise you, I hate Hank without his Delilah. I’m a damn fool. Nothing but a damn fool. If I lose you, darlin’…” Hank couldn’t go on. What are words when they feel worthless in expensive situations?
“Go away, Hank.” Her voice came quick and deadly with its intensity. “Go away, and just let me be.”
Even though the words were fueled by something other than love, Hank heard the crack in her voice. As he shut the door behind him, he could’ve sworn he heard the wind crying. When he reopened the door, it was silent. He headed back to Tupelo after that, much worse for the wear.
He took his title back as king of the couch potatoes. Apart from watching old reruns still, all he did was talk about her. He felt he was inching closer to something else. One teaspoon away from an angry outburst he might never recover from; just half a teaspoon away from madness. He was creeping toward it, slow and steady, his pieces disappearing in the wind, just like miniscule grains of sand.
That night, the pressure had gotten to him. A man could only take so much. He had one too many. Hank wasn’t keeping score. He was getting carried away, lost in the count, lost in the amount, lost in the sadness, and totally consumed by life. Hank felt there was nothing more horrendous than when a man causes his own demise, and this time he had caused it and pretty much buried himself underneath his own mistakes.
He was singing to himself “Crazy” by Patsy Cline. God Almighty, he couldn’t get her music out of his head. Her music was the Dear John of the country music world. He made himself switch over the channels in his mind, to another one, one that was sad but different than Patsy. But he couldn’t stop it; he was flipping back and forth, merging the two. Confusing the hell out of him.
Dylan sat back and shook his head, watching him. “You know all that stuff she sings about? Being crazy and all that? She was singin’ about you. You have gone off the deep end. Big splash and all.”
Hank put his empty bottle on the floor. “Patsy Cline, Dylan. Can you believe it?”
“Yes, because you’ve told me a million times. I didn’t believe you at first, but by time twenty, I was a firm believer.”
“Good. You should be. I wouldn’t lie about a thing like Patsy.” Hank sat back and sighed. “I had it all planned out. We would always be ‘Hank & Delilah & Freud the gentleman dog.’ We were going to take our show on the road, and we would do all these little funny skits about our life. She would poke fun at me for hating her robbing banks, and I would poke fun at her for being a bank robber. It’s almost contrary how the roles are reversed, wouldn’t you agree? The man usually does the robbin’ while the little woman stays home and pines after him. Ain’t it a damn funny life or what?”
Jesse hit Dylan’s leg, one eyebrow cocked, answering the silent question hanging between the three of them, even if only two were paying any attention to it—Hank was on the edge, and they needed to stop him before he fell to his doom.
“Hank, what did you do while you were off running with her? What did you accomplish besides falling head over heels for this woman? The purpose of you going was to ask her who she really was. To find out, not beat around the bush and then suddenly be surrounded by the flames of a wild fire you can’t fight your way out of. Why didn’t you just ask her, Hank? Before the California robbery? Why didn’t you just tell her: ‘I love you and I want to know who I’m spending the rest of my life with.’ That’s not too much to ask of someone you plan on loving,” Dylan said.
Hank moved his fingers up and down, staring off into space. “I thought I had it all figured out. I knew her dark side. I wanted to know her good side. How many times do people meet and fall in love with all the good stuff first? All that other shit is hidden behind walls. And over time, all the bad things just creep over that wall, and then you have to adjust everything you’ve ever known about that person because they couldn’t come clean in the beginning, because they were afraid. I met her bad side first, and I fell head over heels. When I met her good side, well, look at me.
“I had two pleas, that she never cheats on me, and that she never left me. Even though I always thought of them as two women, she was one person to me. I didn’t mean for it to happen. It just did. They morphed, and Delilah somehow became everything. Everyone.”
“Why didn’t you ask her, Hank?” Dylan said again—a stern edge to his question this time.
“I fell in love with them both, the instant I saw them. It was like falling in love with the air, before you even knew what the air was. That first breath you take in this world, unconsciously, but consciously knowing you’re breathing the stuff that keeps you moving. Instinctual. I was sitting in Delilah’s kitchen while she was singing
this little song to me about Hank loving her pancakes, yes he do, when I truly understood. I couldn’t live a day without her. Just like the day in school when you learn how come you can’t live without air. They explain why, but it’s a true mystery as to why it’s air we have to breathe instead of, let’s say, water.
“Why didn’t the Lord up above choose for us to breathe water instead of air? It would have changed the entire course of who we are and how we’re built. Why? Why did he choose for us to have air in our lungs? Who knows, but we have to have it. That’s what her love is to me, boys. It’s the air that I breathe.”
“Why didn’t you ask her, Hank?” Dylan’s voice became loud, as though he was trying to talk over the invisible, metaphorical wall that Hank spoke of.
“Have you ever had a burning question that you wanted the answer to more than anything else in the world, but on the other side of the coin, you were terrified of knowing because once you asked, and the person answered truthfully, there was no turning back? I was afraid. I was terrified of turning back.”
“No, I can’t say I have.” Dylan said.
“Then you just can’t understand,” Hank answered, feeling a hundred years older.
Jesse took a sip of his cola, his eyes staring off in the same direction as Hank’s, and then he belched loudly, blowing it toward Dylan. “I think I understand. I’ve always wanted to ask Tommy why he kept Beanie Barb Beeswaxes. I never asked, because honestly, I want to know, but then again I don’t.”
Dylan and Hank looked at each for a split second before Dylan exploded with laughter. Hank just smiled; it was his first genuine smile since she disappeared on him. Or it was intended to be. It resembled a painful wince.
“You never know, Hank. It still could be her,” Dylan said.
“How can it be?” How can it be! his brain shouted, but he shushed it with a merging of the Flintstone’s theme song and a lyric from Patsy.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Dylan became thoughtful. “But miracles happen every day. Take Dottie Sue Diddley, for instance. Have you seen her lately? From orthodontic headgear to double Ds and an award-winning smile. Miracles, Hank.”
“I’ve been thinking real serious about your predicament, Toots,” Jesse said. “I saw this show once, on the television, about twins. What if she’s a twin? Supposedly, they are connected through telepathic wavelengths from sharing the womb at the same time. What if Pistollette is the bad twin? Delilah is the good twin? Cray is working them against each other?
“You fall in love with Pistollette and she dumps you on the side of the road like trash. Delilah knows her movements and picks you up, because she feels sorry for you. Then when you get in the car, she feels that love for you because her sister does. And you, because you’ve been known to fall in love with two at once, fall in love with her. Bringing you to the very precarious quagmire you’re currently in now.” The note of finality in Jesse’s voice made Hank’s skin crawl.
“God Almighty!” Hank shot up.
“Don’t listen to him, Hank. He ate one too many sugar pills and he’s all hyped up.” Then Dylan quickly changed the subject. “I talked to Curly earlier. He said Pistol Fanny’s was having some local radio station out tonight. They’re doing a live show.”
“Can we listen?” Jesse put down his drink, looking around the room.
“I do have satellite radio.” Dylan hit Hank’s leg and Hank shook his head.
Although Hank’s heart felt as though it was melting, he gave in to the feeling, torturing himself. Because that’s what people do when they’re in love and have lost, don’t they? Give in to the all-consuming, heart-draining feelings that hit them every breath of the day. How can you not? The energy is not there to stop it all, so it’s easier to give in, let it consume you.
It felt right, so he went with it, holding the flame to the wick.
The guys listened in the living room, next to the couch. The show was airing live, and they were doing a segment on crying, loving, and leaving. The station was taking calls, and they encouraged callers with feelings in each category to call and share their stories. Then they could dedicate a song.
Hank turned it up when he heard her sweet voice through the radio. She was promoting Pistol Fanny’s and the Dix-Hens, who were going on the road soon. Hank felt a part of him disappear when she faded from the speakers. It was the first time he’d heard her voice since his last trip to Nashville.
Hank stood up and balled his hands into fists. “I’ll be damned if I crawl!”
Dylan and Jesse looked at each other, following him into the other room with quick steps. Hank called Curly and had him pull strings to get him through to the radio station. Once through, the DJ asked him if he was crying, loving, or leaving.
“I’m all three,” Hank said with more bravado than necessary.
Dylan tried to pull the receiver away from him, but Hank yanked it back, his eyes blazing. “Hank, you’re going to be sorry for doing this. Nothing good comes out of drunk dialing. Never. Trust me.”
Hank stared at Dylan for a moment and put the receiver back to his ear. He was going to show his nuisance of a friend just what defiance looked like. “Yes, I’m all three. I love that woman that was just on the line. Ms. Delilah Mae Turner. She loves me too. She left me, and her memory keeps on leavin’ me. Every day of my life, she’s all I see walking away from me. She played Patsy Cline and she left me—”
“So much for not crawling,” Jesse whispered to Dylan.
“I love her, and I’m crying, and she’s probably sleeping every night like none of this even matters to her. She’s probably moved on, not even thinking twice about me. She’s probably already pulled her hair back, in that beautiful way, in that hat, and she’s burning those highways, leaving my memory behind like she does all those miles. She’s going way too fast!
“She’s trying to out-run love. Out-run me. I’m burning up. I’m caught in a wild fire that I just can’t put out. If you can hear me, darlin’, I need you. I love you, and I meant every word that I said. I love your pancakes, and your pickles, and even Pepsi’s syrup. I love your chipped plates and your wild hair on Sundays. I just love you, Delilah.”
The man on the other line asked Hank what song he’d like to dedicate to her.
“Elvis,” Hank said. “I love her too much to play Patsy! Just because it’s raining doesn’t mean I refuse to share my umbrella with—”
Dylan finally got a hold of the receiver and shook his head, hanging up.
Things went from bad to worse after that. Hank had a hangover the next day the size of Texas, and he was planning on making another pleading trip to Nashville, once the pounding and nausea had subsided. He scratched his dirty head and started moving sloth-like to the bathroom. He heard voices, Curly and Tommy, along with Dylan and Jesse.
He shuffled into the kitchen, the bright bay windows blinding him. They had coffee and donuts on the table, and they were hovering over a large map. They were pointing and talking loudly.
“What’s all this?” Hank pointed.
“And the monster has emerged.” Dylan lifted a hand to him.
“All hail the king of the couch potatoes,” Jesse wheezed.
“Don’t come near me, Toots. You’ve been bit by that damn love bug and it’s contagious!” Curly razzed.
“This is your life, H-Hank Rivers. Welcome to it-it. If we can’t bring the hor-horse to wa-wa-water, we’ll move the ri-ri-river to the horse. You’re going to-to find Pistollette,” Tommy stuttered out, his eyes sharp and his demeanor that of a natural-born leader.
Hank stood there, rolling back and forth from the weight of his hangover. He scratched at his twelve o’clock shadow and took a gander at the map.
“If you want to save your relationship with Delilah, which, let me just be honest, at this point is looking slim to none, you’re going to have to act. If Pistollette is tripping you up and you’re not afraid, you’re going to have to do some work. You find her, find out what is driving you so insane about h
er, and then you can decide what to do. You’re going to have to go into these banks and wait.
“Hopefully, if we figure something out, this’ll work. Cray only has a few banks left, Hank. If she’s going to finish the job, she’s going to do it soon. She works slow, but steady. Let’s just cross our fingers, and our legs, and pray that we pick the right one.”
“What do you mean my chances are slim to none?” Hank said, his tongue sticking to the dry roof of his mouth.
“The thing is, Hank, you hurt her real bad.” Curly moved to his side. He went to put a hand on Hank’s shoulder but withdrew before he did. He waved the almost offered hand instead. “I don’t even think her sisters know what to do with her. I don’t think they’ve ever experienced heartbreak like this before. Our guess, they never let any man get that close. It’s always been on their terms. She’s falling to pieces, Hank. She truly is. Even though she’s hot-damn good at hiding it. I talked to her, and she said she never wanted to see you again. She was real sorry about that, but it was the way things had to be.”
“Why didn’t you fight for her, Hank?” Jesse said.
All the guys looked at Hank. He shrugged. “I thought I was.”
“Even the most independent ones, Hank, want to be fought for. Even men want that sometimes,” Tommy said.
“Last night after I heard her crying, I went to the toilet. When I came back out a big handsome fella went into her office. He was tall, broad shouldered, with black, slicked-back hair. He smelled like gold too. Next thing I know, I hear huffing and moaning and he was crying, ‘Call me daddy!’ I think they were playing house, Hank,” Curly said with an edge to his voice, taking a step away from him.
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