I Can't Make You Love Me, but I Can Make You Leave

by Dixie Cash

  Darla tamped down those bitter emotions. She had no time for the luxury of self-flagellation. Her concern had to be for the musicians on her payroll. The Darla Denman self-financed comeback tour kitty had just enough funds for the trip to Midland and a swing through Abilene for the next booking, and not one penny more. Certainly no extra funds for engine repair. The crack she had made earlier about her rattle-trap old bus being held together by a prayer and baling wire was no joke.

  Lighten the payroll, instinct told her as she looked at her group again. Someone had to go. Too bad Roxie was providing an opening number for free. Darla would like nothing more than telling that peroxide-bad-bleach-job-had-to-get-fake-tits-bitch to take a hike.

  Then Darla’s ornery streak raised its head and she thought of something. At the very least maybe she could convince her nemesis to stop spending tour money on food. Inwardly, she grinned as she walked toward the group. “Hey Roxie,” she said, keeping her voice pleasant and friendly. “Since I lost some weight, I’ve got some clothes that are too big for me. I mean they literally fall off. But they’d fit you just fine. Would you like to have them?”

  “Get real,” Roxie said. “I wouldn’t touch your sixties-era hand-me-downs wearing rubber gloves.”

  None of the troupe held high esteem for Roxie Denman. The group leveled a collective glare in Roxie’s direction.

  Hah! The day wasn’t a total loss. Buoyed by a feeling of their support, Darla added, “Well, darlin’, if they don’t fit there’s plenty of room to let out the seams.”

  “I think some of her clothes are cool.”

  That remark came from Valetta Rose Somebody, the makeup artist Roxie had insisted on bringing along. Bob had said Roxie hired her away from some funeral home in Nashville, but Darla was unsure if that was the truth or a wisecrack. She still hadn’t figured out the relationship between the two women. Valetta Rose was even younger than Roxie. She wore no makeup usually, which seemed odd for a makeup artist. And most of the time, she was a timid little thing with not much to say. Did Roxie see herself as a mother figure, a sister to the younger woman? Or did she simply enjoy playing the big VIP star with her own makeup artist following her around?

  Valetta Rose was met by Roxie’s icy stare. “What would you know about clothes from the sixties?”

  Before Valetta Rose could defend herself, a siren pierced the air. Glancing in the direction from which it came, Darla saw lights flashing on the horizon and an official-looking vehicle moving at high speed. Instinctively, she moved closer to the side of the tour bus. The group took the cue and stepped out of the way also.

  The red and white car slowed and came to a screeching stop in the middle of the road. A man, tall and skinny beyond description, hopped out of the car and stamped straight to Darla. “Oh, my gosh! It’s Darla Denman’s bus. Miz Denman, I can’t believe I’m meeting you.”

  Darla flashed her camera-worthy smile and tossed her hair over her shoulder for effect. “Guess you don’t get a chance to see many celebrities stranded on the side of the road, do you, Deputy?”

  “I’m the sheriff, ma’am.” He lifted off his white straw cowboy hat and blushed a deep crimson. “Sheriff Billy Don Roberts, ma’am. At your service.”

  “Oh, pardon me,” Darla gushed. “For a minute, I didn’t see that big star on your chest.”

  He set his hat back on his head. “I thought you were dead, Miz Denman. I sure as heck remember somebody telling me that. Man, oh man. When I was a little boy my mama used to sing your songs. She even dyed her hair to look like yours. She’ll pop a gasket when I tell her I met you.”

  Darla’s smile froze. Christ. If she had a dollar for every time a fan had said she looked good for a dead person, she could sidestep this bus tour and fly to her shows in a private jet. “Well, isn’t that nice? . . . Listen, Sheriff, I’m afraid the eight of us aren’t going to fit in your car.”

  “My deputy’s behind me. He’s got a pickup truck. I figure I can take four of you. He can haul two in front with him and two can ride in the bed.”

  The group exchanged looks and scowls.

  “I’ll ride up front with you, Sheriff,” Darla purred, slipping her arm around his. “Bob, why don’t you and your bride ride in the deputy’s pickup bed? That windblown look might be attractive on you, Rox. I figure it can’t hurt.”

  Roxie propped a hand at her waist, her mouth flattened into a reptilian grin. “This coming from a person everyone thinks is dead?”

  “Ladies, ladies,” Bob interjected. “Let’s not start something we can’t finish. Look, Sheriff, Darla, me and Roxie will ride with you. Judy, why don’t you join us?”

  “I want Valetta Rose to ride with us,” Roxie said.

  Bob sighed. “Okay, Valetta Rose, you ride with us. Judy, you ride with the deputy.” He motioned to Mike and Eddie, the drummer and keyboard man respectively. “Guys, how about y’all ride in the bed of the deputy’s pickup? Everyone else can sit in the front with the deputy.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” the sheriff said enthusiastically. “Man, oh man, this is the coolest thing I’ve ever done.”

  When the deputy’s pickup arrived and came to a stop, the group began to file to their assigned seating.

  In a move that was surely made to irritate, Roxie darted ahead of Darla to the passenger door of the sheriff’s car and grabbed the passenger seat for herself. As soon as she was seated, she twisted the rearview mirror toward herself, checked her lipstick and fluffed her long hair.

  Darla held her tongue and scooted into the back, leaning away from Valetta Rose and snuggling against Bob’s side. “Bobby,” she said sweetly, “this reminds me of the times we had limos taking us everywhere we wanted to go. Sheriff, let’s pretend you’re our limo driver and Roxie, you be the go-ahead person.”

  Roxie returned the mirror to its original position and glared over her shoulder into the backseat. “The what?”

  “The go-ahead person, sweetie. You know, you go ahead of us and make sure everything is set up properly.”

  “Oh, you mean the person who tells everyone who you are and confirms that you’re not dead.”

  On a growl, Darla reached for the back of the seat to pull herself forward. She intended to slap that little bitch silly.

  “Cut it out!” Bob roared. “I am sick and tired of this sniping between you two. You’re making the rest of us miserable and there’s no need for it. Darla, if you don’t want us here, and yes, I said us, we’ll leave. But make no mistake about it. If I’m here, Roxie will be with me. She’s my wife and I expect her to be treated with respect. You don’t have to like each other, but you do have to get along. Behave like adults, forgodsake.”

  Silence filled the car. Sheriff Roberts sat with his spine straight as a board, his hand frozen on the ignition, his eyes aimed straight ahead.

  An evil little smile played with the corner of Roxie’s mouth.

  “Don’t look too smug, Roxie,” Bob added. “The same damn thing goes for you. Opening for Darla is giving you a break in the business and you should be grateful.”

  A longer silence.

  Finally the sheriff said, “Is it okay if I drive now?”

  Darla gave Bob a drop-dead glare, then said sweetly to the sheriff, “Of course, darlin’. We’re sorry to involve you in our little family problems, aren’t we, Robert?”

  Bob blew a great breath from puffed jaws. “Yeah, sorry, Sheriff. Let’s get on into town. Sheriff, do you know someone who can work on our bus?”

  The sheriff gave a snorting laugh. “Only about half the population in Salt Lick. We all drive old cars or trucks that need fixin’ up. If they can’t fix it, they can’t drive it. Know what I mean?”

  Bob nodded. “Certainly do, Sheriff, certainly do.”

  “Where y’all headed?” the sheriff asked. “Bet you got a show in Vegas or Reno. Am I right?”

  “Sugar, we’re going to Midland,” Darla answered. “We’ve paused our schedule and volunteered our time to be on the telethon f
or Alzheimer’s this weekend.”

  “No kidding? Man that’s big. Last year they had those folks that starred in The Brady Bunch, that TV show with all them kids? And the year before that, it was Mr. T. Remember him? The one that says, ‘I pity the fool?’ ” The sheriff chortled. “Man, he was great. Do you know him?”

  “No, sir,” Bob said. “I don’t believe any of us do. But you’re right. He’s great.”

  They rode a few more minutes in uncomfortable silence, until they drove into a town—a one-street, one-traffic light town with aged and dilapidated buildings flanking the highway.

  The sheriff announced brightly, “Well, this is it. Our little town of Salt Lick. Not much to look at, but there’s real good people live here.”

  Darla stared out the window. The town looked the same as dozens of other small towns she had seen all through her childhood. Her dad had worked as an oil field hand and they had moved from place to place. The oil business and the West Texas economy hadn’t gone bust until after Darla had left home.

  And so far, it hadn’t really recovered. Nowadays, the whole vast area was filled with what had once been thriving small towns but now looked like ghost towns holding aging populations. The young people always left for greener pastures, but back when Darla had been a kid, every teenage boy’s plan was to go to college and become a “petroleum engineer.” And every teenage girl’s plan was to either become a schoolteacher or to marry one of those well-paid “petroleum engineers.” Only Darla had set her sights on a music career.

  “Is this the whole town?” Roxie asked, interrupting Darla’s stroll down memory lane.

  “Yes, ma’am, it shore is,” the sheriff answered, beaming. “Best little place between Odessa and El Paso.”

  Even from the backseat, Darla saw Roxie roll her eyes, which added a new layer of resentment. The citizens of Salt Lick, whoever they were, were Darla’s people. She was unwilling to tolerate their being criticized by anyone as vapid as Roxie. Then a new thought direction intruded. Would the citizens of Salt Lick remember Darla Denman and her music? Would they come to see her show or watch her on the telethon? Would they be happy to learn she was touring again? Or would they just be surprised she wasn’t dead?

  The public was a fickle lover—happy in your presence but seeking a replacement the second you left the stage. And if anyone knew that from experience, Darla did. And if anyone knew that time and that friggin’ mirror couldn’t be fooled, Darla knew that, too.

  She spotted what looked like a gas station. Or something. Someone had put skirts and sweaters with college letters on the antique gas pumps that stood out front.

  “Wow,” Valetta Rose said. “That’s what I call making the best of a bad situation.”

  A large white sign with hand-painted red letters was mounted on the roof ridge. THE STYLING STATION.

  An easel sign stood beside the front door.

  THE DOMESTIC EQUALIZERS

  Don’t Get Even! Get evidence!

  “The Domestic Equalizers,” Darla mumbled against her window. “I wonder what that is.”

  “Who cares?” Roxie snapped.

  Then it dawned on Darla that the Styling Station was a beauty salon. She could well imagine a beauty salon’s struggles in a town like this one. She looked around at the tumbledown surroundings. Bless their hearts, she thought.

  Chapter Two

  With no warning, Sheriff Roberts made a sudden right turn, jerking Darla from her thoughts. Bodies zoomed across slick vinyl seats, crashed against doors and rib cages. Darla couldn’t hold back from sputtering a string of cuss words. Before she, or anyone in the backseat, could right himself, the car came to a screeching halt, throwing all of them forward.

  “Good God almighty,” she shouted. “Did we hit something or did something hit us?”

  The sheriff tilted his rearview mirror downward, allowing eye contact between him and Darla. He was grinning like a fool. “Sorry, ma’am. Guess I’m used to driving in high-speed pursuits of fugitives.”

  Pursuits of fugitives, my ass, Darla thought. She opened her mouth to blast him, but Bob’s don’t-do-it look silenced her. She didn’t always heed her ex’s warnings, but without fail she always wished later that she had. Few people knew her softer side, the one she hid beneath her tough act. But Bob did, and he also knew it took only one look from him to stop her cold.

  But that wasn’t true of his current wife. “You backwoods ignoramus,” Roxie yelled. “I just about broke my nose on the windshield.” She pointed at the windshield. “Look! Those lip prints are mine!” She flipped her visor down and studied her reflection in the mirror.

  Darla noted that Roxie wasn’t in a position to see Bob’s scowl, not that it would have mattered. She was young enough to think her own opinion was the only valid one in the room.

  Refusing to look in Bob’s direction, Darla purred to Roxie, “Well honey, if proof of your presence is in lipstick smears, that’s going to cover a lot of territory, including beast as well as man.”

  Just then, the dimwit sheriff announced loudly, “This here’s Hogg’s Drive-In. I thought you folks might like to rest or get a bite to eat or a cool drink while your bus is being towed. Y’all know about Hogg’s, don’t you? It used to be Mr. Elvis Presley’s favorite place to get a hamburger.”

  Darla looked out the back window and spotted a sign she had missed earlier. “Elvis Presley ate here,” she read aloud. “Hmm . . . seems like I remember reading something about this place last year in The Nashville Scene. Wasn’t something that had belonged to Elvis stolen from here?”

  “Yes, ma’am. His danged ol’ blue suede shoes,” the sheriff answered. “My deputy and I solved that one PDQ, though.” A smirk of pride played across his thin lips.

  “I think I read that two women who have a detective agency solved that,” Bob said.

  “Uh, well, some people might look at it thataway,” the sheriff said. “But without the go-ahead from the sheriff’s office it wouldn’t have happened. Ya see, we only got me and a deputy. If we need extra help, we call on them two women. They call themselves the Domestic Equalizers.”

  Darla thought of the other sign she had seen in front of the beauty salon. At least now she knew what or who the Domestic Equalizers were.

  “This shithole town has a detective agency?” Roxie said, looking around. “What does it do, look for something to do?”

  “No, ma’am,” the sheriff said indignantly. “The Domestic Equalizers have solved lots of crimes. Them two girls are smart.”

  “The Domestic Equalizers?” Roxie said, her eyes big with incredulity stacked on top of indignation. She turned toward the backseat and her heated gaze landed on her husband. “You know something, Bob? This whole fuckin’ trip is right out of the twilight zone.”

  Darla waited for him to say something back, but before he could utter a word, Darla felt Roxie’s venom turn on her. “You should feel proud, Darla. Your comeback tour is a big success. We’re stuck in a one-horse town with no decent places to eat or shop, but it’s got a detective agency. Maybe you can hire them to find your lost career.”

  Darla was concocting a stream of blistering insults when the sheriff spoke up. “Miss, I don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t think you’re talkin’ very nice to Miz Denman. And I’ll have you know we got more than one horse in this town. Lots more.”

  Roxie blurted a loud laugh, opened her door and stumbled out of the car, still laughing uproariously.

  The sheriff looked across his shoulder into the backseat at Darla. “She shouldn’t oughta talk to you that way, Miz Denman. You’re a living legend, ’specially since you’re not really dead. She should show you more respect.”

  Darla was touched by the sheriff’s defending her, a sudden reminder of why this tour was important to her. It was more than the money or the satisfaction of being worshipped again. It was the people like the sheriff and his mother who still saw her as a star and not a washed-up has-been trying to reconnect with her youth. “Come
inside the café with us, Sheriff,” she said. “Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”

  The sheriff leaped from the driver’s seat, yanked open her door and reached inside for her hand. “Oh, no, ma’am, y’all go on in and get comfortable. I gotta go find Little Earl and send him out to tow the bus in.”

  “Is he the mechanic you spoke to me about?” Bob asked, sliding out of the backseat behind Darla.

  “Yessir. Little Earl Elkins. I swear he could make a dead mule get up and run again.”

  “Funny you should say that. I think that’s just what it’s going to take. We’ll go into the café and wait to hear from you.”

  The rest of the group was now assembled near Hogg’s front door. Bob walked over to them. “Come on,” he told them. “Let’s go on inside. We can sit in the air-conditioning and have a bite to eat.”

  Eddie pulled open the door. “Sounds good to me. I’m ’bout starved to death and I’m pretty near parboiled in this sun.”

  Darla looked at the ground. Her guitar player and keyboard man ate non-stop. If he was awake, he was eating. Eddie had been in the music business more years than she had. His waist-long ponytail—once black as the coal his daddy had mined from the ground—was now a silver gray. He was a great guitarist, but he had once been a heavy drug user, which had ruined his chances to get into the bands of the big stars. She had always considered him a friend and now they had something else in common: They were both trying to make a comeback.

  Darla hung back and stood with him as he held the door for the group. The aroma of hamburgers assailed them.