Almost Heaven (23 page)

“I don't know,” I said.

The program kept going in the other room and I wished it would stop so I could go back there.

“Is it that you're scared of being rejected?”

I didn't know whether Callie knew about Heather or not, but I figured that's what she meant. “That could be part of it, I guess. I'm just not ready.”

“Billy, we're both in our forties. If you're not ready now, when will you be?”

“It's complicated. It's not like I can just turn a switch. This kind of thing is harder for some people than others.”

She leaned forward with her elbows on her knees. “Is there any part of you that wants to take a chance? to have something more?”

“Sure. But I like what I do, Callie. It's what the Lord called me to. And I know it's not much, but I get to speak to people that—”

“I'm not saying that what you do is not important. I agree that the Lord has given you this. You have a gift. What I'm asking is if you're going to settle for this the rest of your life. You sit here all alone each day and tell people what a wonderful friend they have in Jesus, you go to church and sit in the back, you eat alone with your dog, you go to bed alone at night, and you wake up alone. Do you want something more?”

I sat there like a stump. She could not have known what feelings she had stirred. She could not have known how much I hated having feelings stirred. “I don't know.”

“You know what I think?” she said, and there was an edge to her voice. A bit of righteous anger. “I think you're afraid of having somebody really know you. I think you're a little boy who's afraid. Just a boy stuck in a man's body. You're scared.”

I laughed but it felt like nerves. “How can somebody who's on the radio be afraid of having people know him? Tell me that.”

She shook her head. “That's just veneer and you know it. Polish on the shoe leather. And that doesn't mean what you do is not important. It is. But there's something deeper, Billy. You don't have to go through all of this alone. And maybe I'm not the one for you. But it breaks my heart to . . .”

Her voice cracked again and she put a hand to her mouth. Rogers sat up and looked at me, then put his head in her lap.

“I've heard you during the day when you'll play the wrong programs. I know it's your sugar levels. I worry about you not waking up someday. And what's being done to your body since you don't take care of yourself.”

“Oh, you don't have to worry about me,” I said, and as soon as I did, she shut down. “I think I've done pretty well taking care of myself.”

We just sat there, Mama's clock ticking.

“I do understand what you're saying about having a deeper relationship,” I said. “It's the same way with God. You can just go to church on Sunday and sing the songs, or you can take it seriously and really walk with him. That's what I try to do every day.”

“Don't patronize me.”

“How am I patronizing you? I don't even know how to patronize.”

“I'm not sure if that's the word. Don't turn this into something spiritual and feel like you can get off the hook.”

“I don't want to get off the hook, Callie. I like you. I truly do. And I appreciate everything you've done. But my life is set now. I like speaking into people's lives and making them a little hungrier for God.”

Callie sighed. “Have you ever considered that you might be able to know God better with somebody else by your side? somebody who could encourage you and show you real love? who could challenge you and knock off the rough edges?”

“I have considered that.”

“That probably sounds judgmental and selfish. I don't mean it to be. It's not that I know what's best. I'm in the same boat. I've held out for so long, scared you'll think I'm too ugly and not want anything more to do with me.”

“You're not ugly, Callie,” I said.

She closed her eyes. “I've said enough. Probably too much.”

The theme music was playing and I told her to wait. I got into the next program, but when I came back out, Rogers was looking out the back door, his tail wagging. Callie was in her car pulling out of the driveway.

17

I thought a lot about what Callie said over the next few weeks. Of course, my diet changed without her cooking, and that probably affected my mood. I ate a lot of macaroni and cheese and Stouffer's frozen dinners. But I knew the itch on my soul was more than just getting my belly filled. There was something to what she was saying, but I pushed it down. I told myself I had been alone for this long and there was no way I could change. And God could use a cracked pot like me, something weak. I sure count myself like that.

The diner had stopped advertising because their business had all but dried up. I wound up trading out some spots for a meal or two here and there. When my truck broke down and I couldn't fix it, I made a deal with the auto shop to pay half in cash and half in spots. The electric, gas, and water companies were less favorable to such an arrangement. I managed to pay them and still stay up on the mortgage, but it was tight.

I could set my watch to Callie coming around each day. Her old Subaru would rumble up the road, going from mailbox to mailbox like a honeybee to flowers. She'd needed muffler work done for quite a while. Since she had talked with me and stopped bringing food, I hadn't had any kind of word from her except the times when I owed money on some piece of mail. Most of the time she'd pay it and I would put an envelope with some change in the box. I'd write a note on a scrap paper saying, “I hope you're doing well” or something like that, but I hadn't heard anything.

One afternoon she drove up and I got this feeling that I needed to go out there and talk. She saw me as I came off the front porch and slowed down right at the driveway. Her car was plastered with mud from the recent rains. She sat in the passenger seat and straddled the console in order to deliver the mail, using her left foot to hang on to the brake or move ahead. Both flashers going. The radio was up pretty loud, playing my station, and it made me feel good to hear it.

She turned the sound down with fingers that stuck through leather gloves she had cut. She had on an old Cincinnati Reds ball cap with her hair tied through the hole in the back. She kept her hair up with rubber bands—the same ones she used for all the big stacks of mail she banded together.

“Howdy, stranger,” I said.

She grabbed a plastic box from behind her and dragged it up front. Without looking at me and without emotion, she said, “Hey, Billy. You got another package today.”

“Those publishing people send me books, asking me to have their guests on, but I don't do stuff like that.”

“You ought to just write and tell them to stop. What kind do they send?”

I ripped open the bubble-wrapped package and pulled out a brightly colored book.

She opened her eyes wide. “I've heard about that one.”

“Here, take it. It's yours.”

“No, I couldn't accept that.”

“I just cart them over to the church library every few weeks,” I said. “It would save me a trip. You go on and take it. I'll have done something for you for a change.”

She thought a minute, then took it and put it by her foot. Her eyes were kind of bloodshot and I mentioned it.

“It's that time of year. Allergies. Not much I can do about it but take a bunch of pills and feel my head swell up like a balloon.”

She sat there for a moment, and I couldn't think of anything else to say and I guess she couldn't either. A car pulled in behind her and she looked in the mirror. “I'll be seeing you, Billy.”

She pulled forward and took the outgoing mail as the other car pulled into the driveway. Then she turned around and headed back down the muddy road.

I could see my reflection in the tinted window of the shiny car and wondered who in the world could be inside. I stood and waited until the window rolled down.

A man took off his sunglasses and stared at me. “Billy Allman, is that you?”

I stepped toward the car because I didn't recognize him at first. But when I heard his voice, I knew it was Vernon Turley. His hair was longer and gray and it looked like he'd had some work done. His face looked tight. From newspaper reports, he had become a much bigger deal than when I was traveling with the group. And he wasn't a pastor anymore. I knew that much from his Web site.

I was so shocked at seeing him in my driveway, I couldn't speak. But I guess he didn't need me saying anything because he just lit into the conversation.

“I heard about your station. Been listening to it on my drive over. Doesn't have much reach, but the mix you have is real nice, Billy. I like the one instrumental to the two vocals. That Andy Falco is something else, isn't he?”

“Yes, sir, he is.”

“Congratulations. Your own radio station. That's a big accomplishment. I always knew you would do something with your life.”

I stared at him, tongue-tied. It felt strange to hear his voice since I had been hearing it in my head for so long.

“I always wondered how you were doing after you left the band. How's your mother?”

“She passed.”

“I'm sorry to hear that. I remember your daddy passed when you were young. I know that was a tough time for you.” He held out a CD in shrink-wrap that was too loose. “This is our new album. Has some of the old standards and a couple of originals. This is really getting some good airplay around the tristate.”

I stared at the picture on the front. They were definitely using a better photographer than when I was with them. Back then we had the Dobro player's sister who lived in Red Jacket, and we drove half the day just to get to her place; then when we got there, she couldn't get her flash to work, so we wound up outside next to a chicken coop. That didn't make a whole lot of sense to me, but I wasn't about to say anything.

“The ministry is really exploding with the Internet,” he continued. “We're getting requests from all over the country. No way we could get to all of those places. It's a lot different than when you were with us.”

I stared at the CD and let the memories wash over me. Riding in his fifteen-passenger van with the little trailer hitched to the back of it. Stopping at Wendy's for a burger and a Frosty. Then we'd play in some little church way out in the sticks and finish tearing down around ten and then head to the next little church or for home. It was not a glamorous life, but we made some good music.

“So do you think you could work us into your rotation?” he said.

I scratched my head and handed the CD back to him. “I'm sorry, Mr. Turley. I don't think so.”

He took off the sunglasses and put them over his visor, then stepped out. “Why not? This is the music the people around here resonate with. It's right in your target.”

“I understand that. But I already have my playlist. I spin songs onto reels the old-fashioned way.”

“Then when you make a new reel, you could use some of these.” He held the CD back to me and I reluctantly took it.

“I don't think so.”

He held up a hand. “Okay, I don't know much about running a radio station. But in the mornings you play music from CDs, right? during Rise 'n' Shine?”

He had been listening, which was flattering on one hand and a problem on the other. “That's right. I just don't think it will work, Mr. Turley. Sorry.”

“Why don't you just take a listen? Maybe you'll change your mind.”

I stared at the CD. “I can't promise you.”

He put one foot on the higher part of the lawn and his loafer sank into the mud a bit. “I don't understand, Billy. Is there something wrong between us? I tried to give you a chance you never would have had. People said I shouldn't, that you were too young, not stable. And some in the group were against it, but I spoke up for you. I thought you appreciated what I tried to do. I thought we were friends.”

“I'm not saying I don't appreciate what the group did for me. It gave me a chance to play some good music. Be a part of something bigger.”

“Everybody was sad when you left. We had people come out at concerts after that and ask about you. I think they wanted to see you more than they did us.” He sighed. “Do you still play the mandolin?”

“Every now and again. But not in front of anybody.”

He shook his head. “I don't get it, Billy. Talent like you had going to waste. The Lord holds us accountable.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“And then to think you won't play any of the best music around. It just doesn't make sense. It's like a restaurant that won't buy the best bread in town for their sandwiches.”

“Well, I understand it doesn't make a lick of sense to you. That's just a decision I've made.” I turned to go back in the house.

“All right. Let me ask you this before you go.”

“I need to get back in and check things.”