A Nashville Collection (23 page)

Birdie is asleep when I pound on her bedroom door. “Wake up.
It's me. Robin.”

I hear a light switch and shuffling feet across the hardwood floor. Birdie opens the door with her eyes half shut, her blonde bombshell hair exploding all over her head. “Where's the fire?”

“In my belly.” I barge into her room.

Birdie cinches her robe. “Hey, Robin, why don't you come on in?” She yawns and scratches her lopsided head.

I pace around her bed. “I found this picture on James Chastain's wall.” I hold it out for her to see, but when she tries to look, I jerk it away. “I can't believe it.”

Birdie snatches the picture from me and bends into the lamp light. “Did you steal this?” She hands it back to me.

“No, I borrowed it. It's almost like the . . .” I bolt out of her room and up to my apartment.

“Robin.” Birdie shuffles up the stairs after me.

On the bookshelf, I pick up the ripped picture of Momma with her bell-bottomed, big-haired friends. Three of the faces are in James's picture. Two I don't know. But one, I do.

I hold both photos up for Birdie to see. “You wanna tell me what's going on?”

Bleary eyed, she turns for the stairs. “I'll make coffee.”

At six in the morning, Birdie scoots about the kitchen in silence,
brewing coffee, toasting bread.

“Birdie, talk to me.”

She opens the cupboard for the butter, then yawns. “I'll be right back.”

“Is she the reason you left Nashville Noise?” I holler after her. “Birdie, were you and my Momma rivals?”

I slump over the center island, staring at the pictures. Good grief. How in the world did the hounds of Freedom keep this bone buried? Between Jeeter, Grip, Paul, and all the family, surely someone would have slipped.

But no. Not one word about Momma being a Nashville Noise artist. It blows my mind.

Surely this is the core of her feud with Aunt Lynette and Aunt Carol. She signed on at Nashville Noise without them. And maybe it's why she bristles at the sound of Birdie's name. Maybe it's why we never had any music in our house growing up except when Granddaddy came over.

Birdie returns with my toiletries bag. “I packed your toothbrush and face soap. You don't wear contacts, do you?”

“No.” I take the bag. “What's this for?”

Birdie hunts through her cupboards. “Well . . . Ah, here it is.” She pulls out a 1960s-green thermos and fills it with coffee. Then she butters the toast and wraps it with a paper towel. “Off you go.”

“To where?”

She shoves me off the stool. “Grab your bag.” At the front door, she hands me the thermos, the toast, my keys, and my purse. “Go home. Talk to your momma.”

I jerk away from her touch. “No, Birdie, I want you to tell me. She's been lying to me for twenty-five years.”

Birdie taps the picture with her spearlike fingernail. “She won't now.”

21

I barrel down Main Street toward Whisper Hollow Road a few
minutes before eight a.m. Careening into our driveway, I skid to a stop just shy of the willow tree.

Jacked up on a thermos of coffee, I've had two highway hours to mull this over. I'm good and mad.

With Mr. Chastain's picture in one hand, my guitar in the other, I stride toward the porch, muttering, “Lord, Momma, better tell me the truth.”

The kitchen screen slams behind me as I enter. Momma whirls around, hand over her heart. “Oh, Robin Rae, you scared me. Land sakes, girl, what are you doing here?” She takes a step toward me, her forehead wrinkled.

Daddy rises from the table where he's nursing a cup of coffee. “Everything all right?”

My boot heels thud against the hardwood. I drop my guitar case on the kitchen table and snap open the buckles.

“Play.” I thrust my old Taylor at Momma, trembling so bad the guitar shimmies.

“For crying out loud, Robin. Get that out of my face. What on earth?”

Daddy sips his coffee, watching.

I grit my teeth. “Play it, Momma.”

Momma stares me down with one hand on her waist and the other resting on the edge of the sink. Suds drip from her wrist onto the floor. “I don't know what kind of foolishness you're up to, Robin, but I know this—” She turns to the sink and starts washing the skillet.

“Momma!” I screech from the core of my being. “Play it.” I stomp my heel against the floor.

“Dean, are you going to let her talk to me this way?”

Daddy looks between us. “Robin, watch your tone. Your momma deserves respect. I don't care if you are grown—mind yourself.”

“Yes, Daddy.” A sudden drop in my adrenaline leaves me weak and wobbly.

“Bit, I reckon you'd better do as she asks.
If
she asks you nicely.”

“Dean!” Momma whips around, splattering water all over. The old skillet clatters to the floor.

Daddy tips up his coffee cup for the last drop. “This don't concern me, Bit.” He puts his cup in the suds, then stoops to pick up the skillet.

“It does so concern you, Dean.” Momma's eyes narrow and her lips pale.

I back away, feeling like I've jerked a tiger by the tail and am about to lose my arm.

“Bit,” Daddy says softly, “she asked you to play a little guitar. That ain't so bad, is it?”

“Momma.” I walk closer. “Please play.”

The tip of her nose and the high angles of her cheeks redden. She wipes her hands on a faded dishtowel and takes the guitar.

Without a word of excuse or explanation, she balances the instrument on her knee, and with ease and beauty, she plays the most haunting melody I've ever heard.

My mind is stirred with an image of young lovers torn apart. Her fingers move up and down the fret as if she'd played every day of her life.

When she finishes, she hands me the guitar. “You happy?”

“No, I'm not. Why didn't you tell me you could play? That was beautiful.”

“You knew your granddaddy taught me. For pity sake, he taught you. And you knew about the Lukeman Sisters.”

“But, I didn't
know
, Momma. What's the big secret? How come you never played for us kids? How come we never had music in the house?”

“Bit, go on. Tell her.”

Momma nails Daddy to the wall with a hard look. “Dean, please . . .”

“Tell her,” he urges with his gentle voice, smoothing his big hands along her slight shoulders.

“Will this help to get things started?” I hand Momma the photo from Mr. Chastain's wall.

With a fleeting glance, she rolls her head back and lifts her hands. “Oh, heaven help us, Robin, where did you get this? Did Birdie give this to you? I knew it, I knew it.”

“No, in fact, she didn't. I saw it when I was cleaning Mr. Chastain's office. Nashville Noise is one of Marc's customers.”

“Of all things . . . Dean?” Momma's eyes seem to plead with him to get her out of this situation.

“Go on, Bit.”

“I found this too.” I bring out the torn photo from the attic. “It was sticking out of the side of your old trunk. I'm sorry, it tore.”

She pinches the edges between her finger and thumb, and a very slight smile plays across her lips. “I was looking in the trunk before you left. I always liked this picture. Remember Burt Michaels, Dean?”

“I do.”

I pull up a chair. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Momma pieces the torn photo together. “I dropped out of high school at seventeen and ran off to Nashville with my head full of dreams. Your granddaddy was madder than a hornet and demanded I come home, but I refused. Lynette and Carol were angry because I left them. We were about to sign a gospel deal with a producer over in Muscle Shoals.”

“Thus the silent feud.”

Momma smoothes her hands down her hips. “The lure of fame makes people crazy.”

“Did it make you crazy?”

“In a manner of speaking. I'd met Birdie during a fair tour. We became instant friends. She was older, wiser—a star. I wanted to go where she was going. So, I left the Lukeman Sisters and moved to Nashville. Birdie had a nice place in Forrest Hills in those days.”

“Why didn't you tell me any of this?”

“It was a long time ago . . .”

“In a land far, far away?”

“Don't be fresh.” Momma pats her curls into place.

“Is this why you were so against me moving to Nashville?”

Momma doesn't answer at first, then mutters, “I reckon so.”

Daddy moves to the wall phone by the door. “Gary, it's Dean. I'm gonna be a while . . . Not sure . . . Be along soon as I can . . . Thanks.”

“Why would you get in my way? Because things didn't work out for you?”

Momma jerks a chair away from the table and plops down. “Good heavens, no. I want you to do what your heart tells you to do.”

“Is it me? Or are we talking in circles? You want me to follow my heart, but you want me to stay home at the same time?”

Daddy pours another cup of coffee. “Your momma did make it in Nashville, Robin. In fact, she sang backup on one of Grace Harding's albums. She's the beautiful echo on ‘Living Without You.'”

My mouth drops. The song is a cover band classic. “
You're
the famous echo?”

Her lips twitch, and she folds her fingers together so tight the tips turn white. “Guilty.”

I can't believe it. I just can't believe it.

“Nashville Noise planned on releasing her solo album in 1981.” Daddy stirs in his sugar.

Momma cradles her chin in her hand. “I thought I owned the world.”

“So, where's this album?”

Momma glances away. “I didn't finish recording it. My heart got broken, and I came home.” She smiles weakly. “Ain't that a country classic?”

“Who broke your heart, Momma? Did you and Birdie fight over someone?”

“No, no. Birdie was a good friend. The best, but . . .” She gazes toward the door. “It was a long time ago and not important now.”

“Not important?” I peek at Daddy, hoping he'll spill more of the beans, but he doesn't. “So a guy broke your heart? Why did you quit?”

“You know there's no accounting for actions of the broken hearted.”

I sit back. This is amazing. My momma, a James Chastain protégé. How different my life as a songwriter would be if Momma's broken heart hadn't driven her home. “Why didn't you go back? I'm sure Nashville Noise would've—”

“I fell in love with your daddy,” Momma says. “We got married, had you, then Eliza and Steve. Next thing I know, you're all grown, trotting off to chase your own dreams.”

I edge around the table and kneel beside her. “Momma, thank you for telling me.”

She kisses my forehead gently. “You're welcome. Don't let no sweet-talking man break your heart, hear me?”

“I won't. I promise.”

Daddy sets his coffee cup in the sink. “I'm going on to the plant.” He kisses Momma, then me.

We watch him drive off, standing shoulder to shoulder on the back porch. Slate gray clouds weep a gentle rain. The grass is wet and green, the air fresh and sweet.

“Did you have breakfast?” Momma asks in the next minute.

“No, and I'm starved. Eggs sound good.”

“Come on, then.”

Momma retrieves the skillet from the dish drain and scrambles up some eggs while I perk another pot of coffee. At this rate, I won't sleep for a week.

“What happened between you and Birdie?” I sit at the table and reach for the
Freedom Rings
front page.

“Oh, she went on with her life, me with mine. I don't have to tell you people drift apart.”

I look up from the headline: “Target Store To Break Ground.” “Drift? You act like you never knew each other. She saw that torn picture of you and never said a word.”

“Leave it be, Robin.”

I suppose we've done all the soul bearing we're going to do for today. When Momma hands me my breakfast, I offer up the wisdom of twenty-five years. “Everyone makes mistakes.”

She jerks open the silverware drawer for a fork. “Some mistakes hurt innocent people, and no matter how hard you pray, they can't be undone.”

While I eat, Momma washes the skillet and starts a load of
laundry, giving me an update on the town, telling stories about her friends.

“And, Robin, I like to have died when Henna talked prim and proper Sissy into riding a horse for the Founder's Day parade.” Momma laughs with her hand on her middle. “She sat atop the horse wearing white gloves, her back as stiff as Custer's at the last stand.”

Momma is light hearted, almost floating. I do believe the Nashville Noise confession cut a weight from her soul.

“But the horse trotted off the parade route, and Sissy couldn't get him back in line. The whole time, she's bouncing and listing to one side, hollering, ‘Henna, you crazy woman, putting me on this crazy horse.'” Momma wipes her eyes. “Oh, my.”

I laugh with her. “Only in Freedom.”

By now the rain has stopped, and Momma hurries out to tend her garden before the next rain cloud bursts. I wash my dishes, watching out the window as a thick water droplet stretches down from the porch eaves. Now that the dust has settled, I'm wore out.

In my old room, I crash face-first into a pile of pillows. Birdie must have anticipated an emotional meltdown or something. Otherwise, why pack my overnight bag? She underestimated the stamina of the McAfee-Lukeman women. I'll go home after dinner and, if I'm not fired, go to work in the morning.

Dialing Marc, I leave a voice message apologizing for my abrupt exit, promising to explain later—and return the picture. Pressing
End
, I toss my cell onto the nightstand and flop over on my back, staring at the ceiling. My room is layered with memories. The walls are privy to my dreams and tears, laughter and songs.