Anthem

by Deborah Wiles

  “Really?”

  “Really. I reported our weekly sales to Billboard magazine. They never knew we were this little record store attached to a recording studio — that’s how many records we sold!”

  “What happened?”

  “Oh, lots of things. For one, we lost Otis in that plane crash. That really took the starch out of us.”

  “Otis Redding?”

  “That’s right. He was our big star. ‘Sitting on the Dock of the Bay,’” Estelle sang. “Oh, that was a time, when we recorded that.” She reached for her pocketbook on the counter and pulled out a packet of tissues. “We lost Otis in December ’67. Then Martin King was murdered here in April, just four months later. It split this city apart.”

  Molly didn’t know what to say. It was tragic. And Bobby after that, she thought. And Barry after that. She shook her head. Barry was still here. He wasn’t lost to them. But Bobby and Martin were. A line from the song “Abraham, Martin, and John” floated into her head. Didn’t you love the things that they stood for? It made her sad.

  Estelle patted Molly’s hand. “We never looked at color coming through the door at Stax — and we’ve got an integrated band! But after Dr. King was killed, it wasn’t the same anymore. Most everyone in this neighborhood is black — all our singers are black — and I don’t know, maybe we white people — me and Jim — look suspicious to folks around here now. We’ve had break-ins. We keep the doors locked. And now Al Bell is getting us back on our feet, but he wants this space for offices, so I think the record store’s days are numbered.”

  “That’s terrible,” Molly said.

  They sat in silence for a while, as the record player needle played into the empty bed at the back of the record. Estelle lifted the needle arm and placed it in its holder. She stubbed out her unsmoked cigarette. “Loss is hard.”

  It was Molly’s turn to tear up. Estelle took a tissue for herself and handed Molly one as well. “Have you lost someone, dear girl?”

  Molly nodded.

  Estelle patted Molly’s hand. “Time changes everything, doesn’t it? That’s why I want you to take these records, Molly.”

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t.”

  Estelle gazed out the large record store windows at the neighbor-hood surrounding the store and said, “Music heals. I listen to ‘Dock of the Bay’ and think about how Otis smiled when he recorded it. It helps.”

  “Doesn’t it make you sad?” Molly asked.

  “It does,” said Estelle, “but the sadness turns into gratitude, and that’s what I want to remember. I’m grateful we had the time we had. One day, Stax won’t be here, either, you know. All things pass. But I will have these records to listen to and remember the good times — and the not-so-good, because life is that way, isn’t it? — and it will comfort me to remember.”

  A memory floated into Molly’s heart and something shifted. “When I was nine,” she said, “my brother, Barry — that’s who is lost to me — took me to the movies in downtown Charleston. We got all dressed up. We went to see A Hard Day’s Night starring the Beatles. Do you know it?”

  “Oh, yes,” said Estelle with a smile.

  “It makes me sad to hear any of the songs from that movie now.”

  Estelle took a deep breath and let it out while Molly’s sad feelings weaved around her like whispers.

  “Tell me something about that day,” said Estelle.

  “We went straight to the music store after the movie, where Barry bought his first guitar. He learned all the songs on the album to A Hard Day’s Night, and I sang along to every one of them while he played.” Molly bit her bottom lip so she wouldn’t cry.

  “What a good time!” said Estelle. Molly nodded. “That’s what to remember,” Estelle went on. “None of us stays the same. Music reminds us of the journey, of where we came from, and it even shows us where we’re going. You’ll see.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Molly. She didn’t see.

  “Listen to those songs again,” said Estelle. “Let them bathe the sadness away so you can see the gifts it brings you.”

  “I will,” said Molly, and as she said it, her sadness softened.

  Estelle pulled a bag from behind the counter for the records she and Molly had listened to. “One day I’ll be gone, too,” she said. “One day, I hope, you’ll play these records and remember this day, remember me. Let me send you on your way with a little bit of Stax.”

  Molly smiled at Estelle. “Thank you, Lady A.”

  Estelle handed Molly the bag. “You are so welcome, dear girl.”

  * * *

  Al Jackson, Jr. moseyed into the studio at eleven. He wore a striped shirt, a goatee, and a kufi cap. He opened the cymbal case and pulled out two Zildjian ride cymbals.

  “Ahhh, beautiful!” he told Norman. “But they ain’t mine, man.”

  “No?”

  “No way.”

  “Well, I … I don’t know what to do with them now.”

  “You said you’re going to California?”

  “Yeah. Yessir.”

  “I know what you should do with them.”

  “What?”

  Al pulled a small card out of a pocket inside the cymbal case.

  “Take ’em to Hal Blaine. Capitol Records. Los Angeles. They’re his.”

  SUSPICIOUS MINDS

  Written by Mark James

  Performed by Elvis Presley

  Recorded at American Sound Studio, Memphis, Tennessee, 1969

  Drummer: Gene Chrisman

  “Who is Hal Blaine?” asked Molly.

  “I don’t know,” said Norman. “Some drummer in California.”

  “How does Al know the cymbals belong to Hal Blaine?” asked Molly.

  She and Norman had left south Memphis for the city proper and now sat in a turquoise-and-butter-yellow booth at the Arcade, the restaurant Estelle had recommended. It was full during the lunch rush and they’d been lucky to get a booth. Their table was littered with sugar packets and platters dotted with a half-eaten stack of pancakes, bacon and eggs, a cheeseburger and fries, a chocolate milkshake, glasses of orange juice, and two cups of very sweet coffee with glasses of milk half-emptied into them. They had feasted.

  “There was a card,” said Norman. “And they have these nicks on them, or cuts, or something, on the bottom, made with a rat file, where they hook to the cymbal stand, so they’ll tilt the way he likes them.”

  “Well, we go through Los Angeles. But really, Norman, how many more musical stops do you need to make?”

  Norman stirred the cold, milky concoction in front of him. He would never learn to drink coffee. “I don’t know. Maybe none. But now I’ve got these cymbals …”

  “The faster we get to San Francisco, the more time we have to look for Barry.” She tried a tactful voice. She wasn’t good at it. Her anxiety showed.

  Norman finished his half of the cheeseburger they’d split. “I know,” he said, his mouth full. “Believe me, I know. We should call my mom tonight, too, to see if I’ve got any mail from him.”

  Molly sat back on her side of the booth and sighed. “I’m so full it hurts. Everything looked good and I was so hungry.”

  “Me, too,” said her cousin. “Maybe we can take some of this with us.”

  “What time is it? I left my watch on the bus.”

  “It’s just one o’clock. We’ve got plenty of time to get to Little Rock — it’s only three hours away.”

  “There’s a campground there,” Molly began, just as two girls banged into the restaurant. The tall one had a ponytail, like Molly’s, and was smartly dressed in a sleeveless blue button-down shirt and white shorts. The shorter one had wild straw-yellow hair and wore cutoff jeans as shorts. She looked around until she caught Norman’s eye. He looked away quickly.

  “Full up,” a hostess called to them as she whizzed by, carrying an order.

  “That’s okay!” said the yellow-haired girl. “I see our friends!”

  Before Molly could turn around to s
ee who was talking, the girl sat next to her in her booth. She radiated heat from the day and her freckled face was beaded with sweat. The ponytailed girl, cheeks red from heat or exertion or both, stood at the table and said, “Stop it, Birdie. Get up.”

  “Yes,” said Molly, all nerves on alert. “Get up!” This girl was older than she was, and much rougher. Probably tougher, too.

  Birdie helped herself to the other side of the cheeseburger Norman had cut in half. She took a giant bite. “Ummmm!”

  Molly shot Norman a look: Do something! But Norman was all eyes on Birdie and the girl standing in front of him.

  The waitress marched smartly to their table, her pad and pencil in hand.

  Instinctively, Norman moved over and the ponytailed girl, who saw the waitress coming, sat gingerly beside him. She folded her hands in her lap and stared at them.

  “What’ll y’all have?” said the waitress, clearly irritated. Anyone could see, this table could be cleared for waiting customers who had written their names on the paper by the front door.

  “Two Coca-Colas!” said Birdie in a cheery voice, as if she’d just invented the drink herself.

  The waitress stalked away.

  “Does that mean no?” Birdie asked.

  “Who are you?” said Molly, wary but putting on her toughest voice.

  “I’m sorry —” began the ponytailed girl.

  “Oh, it’s okay,” Birdie interrupted. She picked up Molly’s fork, pulled over her plate, and began to eat the leftover pancakes.

  “No, it’s not,” said Molly, gathering courage by the minute. “Let me out!” She wanted to shove Birdie, but she didn’t want to touch her.

  “Listen,” said Birdie as the waitress slapped two Cokes on the table and dropped two straws next to them. She also tore the lunch bill — to which she had added two sodas — from her pad and gave it to Norman, who took it wordlessly.

  “Pay at the front,” the waitress snapped.

  Birdie squinted at the waitress’s name tag. “Thank you, Dottie.”

  Dottie stormed away.

  “Listen,” Birdie repeated. “You drive a school bus, you’re a sitting duck. We just got off the Greyhound from Jackson — bus station’s right over there … a ways.” She waved a hand in no general direction. “We’ve been walking. Saw you get off your bus and come in here. We waited to give you enough time for your lunch, but you’re taking forever to eat it, so I’ve come to help you!”

  The ponytailed girl sat up straight and found her voice. “What she means is, we’re lost.” She took a sip of her drink and made a short, appreciative sound.

  “This is Mags,” said Birdie.

  “Margaret,” said the other girl. “I’m Margaret, and I’m out here in the wilderness with a lunatic.”

  “This is a city,” said Molly primly. This girl was older, too, but not nearly as scary. “I’ve been in the wilderness and this is not it.”

  Birdie drained her Coke in one long gulp while Norman and Molly watched in amazement.

  “Ahhhh! Better.” Birdie belched. “We must have walked two miles! We’re also broke after that bus ride, but that’s another story. Are you going to eat the rest of those fries?”

  “What do you want?” asked Norman. He sounded overwhelmed and unsure. Molly kicked him under the table and opened her eyes wide as he looked at her. Do something! Norman stared back with a look that said, What do you want me to do?

  “We want a ride to this address.” Birdie reached into her shorts pocket and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper on which she had written 827 Thomas Street, Memphis.

  Margaret took two long, ladylike sips of her drink and said, in a voice that indicated she was restored by the soda and the air-conditioning, “I think we walked in the wrong direction. Someone was sure this was the way. Someone wouldn’t listen to reason. As usual.”

  “But now we’ve found a ride!” said Birdie. “We don’t have to walk back the two miles, and we’ll be going the right way!”

  “This is not how I would have done it,” sniffed Margaret.

  “Well, you’re not me,” sassed Birdie.

  “Thank the heavens.” Margaret sipped at her drink again.

  The waitress appeared at their table and began to clear dishes. “Y’all come back,” she said in a flat, uninviting tone.

  “You don’t mean it, Dottie,” Birdie replied.

  Molly’s face caught fire with embarrassment. Let’s see Birdie treat Mama Louise like that, she thought.

  Birdie grabbed the last piece of bacon from the plate in the waitress’s hand. “Thank you, Dottie!”

  Dottie stiffened. “We have customers waiting.”

  “Right,” said Norman, his own embarrassment showing.

  “Let me out!” Molly snapped.

  “Whoa!” said Birdie, as she stood to let Molly by. “You and Mags would be great friends.”

  Molly managed to get out of the booth without touching Birdie, who she was convinced had something living in her hair. She snatched the paper out of her cousin’s hand. “Give me the check, Norman. I’ll pay it.” She stalked to the register.

  “I’ll pay for the Cokes,” said Margaret. “We’re not that broke.” She followed Molly to the register — but not before she said to Norman, “She’s not always like this.” Then she reconsidered. “Well, yes, she is.”

  “Lucky you,” said Birdie. She trailed behind Margaret, calling back over her shoulder, “Don’t just sit there, Norman!”

  * * *

  Molly and Norman argued on their double-time march to the bus. Birdie and Margaret held back.

  “I promised Ray,” whispered Norman. “I promised I’d pick up the bodies in need.”

  “They are not in need,” Molly hissed. “They are in want.”

  “Same thing,” Norman hissed back.

  Molly raised her voice. “Not by a long shot, buddy boy.”

  “Hey!” said Birdie. “Lookee there! It’s a protest!”

  The four of them formed a little gaggle and stopped to look. Police cars idled in the block ahead, near a single-file line of people walking slowly with placards in their hands.

  “That’s the Lorraine Motel,” said Birdie, like she was a tour guide. “Martin Luther King was killed there last year.”

  Molly shuddered at the remembrance. And her thoughts strayed to Ray as well. Maybe he’d be home by now.

  Norman kept his eyes on the protestors as the four of them reached the bus. It felt strange to be this close to such a tragic place, a place they’d only heard about in the news.

  “This is my sixth time in Memphis,” said Birdie, interrupting everyone’s thoughts. “I keep count.”

  “That’s six too many,” countered Margaret.

  “Sez you,” said Birdie.

  “You visit the Lorraine Motel?” Molly felt the gravitas of the place envelop her. The clutch of protestors walked down the sidewalk in single file, with their signs, slowly and silently.

  “Nah. I just know it,” Birdie said. “I visit my father. He lives here in Memphis.”

  “He does not,” said Margaret quietly. “And he is not your father.”

  “Close enough,” said Birdie.

  “Does he live at this address?” asked Norman. He looked at the crumpled paper again.

  “He does today,” said Birdie. “Will you take us?”

  Norman looked at Molly for an opinion, but he also felt his promise to Ray still held.

  “Gaaaaa!” Molly climbed into the bus. “Everybody stay here,” she ordered. Norman raised an eyebrow but obeyed. “Give me the address, Norman.”

  She yanked the lever and closed the folding door on the rest of them, leaving them in the boiling midday sun. It was boiling in the bus as well. She opened her window and dropped into her navigating seat behind the driver. She consulted her road map. Then she reappeared at the door.

  “It’s three miles up the road, give or take. It’s out of our way — we need to go the opposite direction. But —” he
re she sighed and looked first at Norman, then at Birdie “— a promise is a promise, and maybe I can stand you for three miles. But no more! We drop and go, understand? Please sit far away from me.”

  “Done!” crowed Birdie. “You see, Mags? I told you they’d be nice.”

  Three miles later, all windows down and a hot breeze blowing through the bus, they rolled in front of a large white building with AMERICAN SOUND STUDIO plastered across it in bright red letters.

  Birdie screamed from the back of the bus. “That’s it! Turn here!”

  Margaret said, “Or just stop at the next red light and let us off, that’s fine.”

  “Is that a recording studio?” Norman yelled back at Birdie.

  “Oh, no you don’t!” shouted Molly.

  Norman made a right turn on a side street and began looking for a place to park the bus.

  “Norman!” Molly called. “Drop and go!”

  Birdie was already making her way up the aisle. “Stop first!” she hollered. “I will do a lot of things, but jumping off a moving bus is not one of them, although I did jump once from a moving train — ask Mags, so did she — but that was onto soft, cushy grass. You jump off a moving bus, even a bus traveling just ten miles per hour, you suffer cuts and contusions and possible broken bones, which require splints, casts, stitches, or at the very least rubbing alcohol to kill the germs, and at the very medium, a washing of the wounds with antiseptic to get out the gravel, and at the very worst, a tetanus shot. I hate shots.”

  Molly opened her mouth to speak, but Margaret beat her to it.

  “Just stop. Take a breath.”

  Norman found a place to park behind the building. He cut the engine and turned in his seat to talk to Birdie, who was almost on top of him and holding on to the stanchion like she might swing around the metal pole, into the stepwell, and fly off the bus. Norman opened the folding door.