Her Wild Oats (24 page)

She’d come up with her theory when Oats was four years old and had a small part in a community theatre production of
Meet Me in St. Louis
. He kept flubbing one line, “Oh my goodness, oh my goodness,” saying “Oh golly, oh golly” instead. The director finally got so frustrated that he yelled. Oats was crushed, and started to cry. That’s when his grandmother came up with her theory. Part of him still believed it was true, which was why he always worried when sound check went too well.

But tonight the big worry was Dickie being AWOL and everyone having to shift their parts and come up with new arrangements to accommodate the lead guitarist’s disappearance. With no Pete, Gary was so overworked that he might forget to boost the monitors or make sure there were towels and water onstage. There was a lot to worry about.

Eddie and Hank Wilson were oblivious, excited to be marching around with backstage passes and a hefty snack budget. Hank Wilson kept running ahead and running back and pointing at things, all hyper and nutty. Eddie just had this big grin on his face, the kind he usually reserved for photographs of antique tractors. As for the girls, who ever knew what girls were thinking? Oats imagined they were thinking about how their hair looked, and—in Melody’s case—how Jesus’ hair looked, too.

He bought them all chili dogs and curly fries, and it felt great to have other kids to eat with. No one was a vegan or watching their weight or worried about cholesterol—they all just dug in. Hank Wilson, being the youngest, was honor-bound to stick a couple of fries up his nose and run around barking and flapping his arms like a demented walrus, and everyone else thought that was hilarious. They drank cherry Cokes to wash it all down, and the sweet bubbles tickled Oats’ nose in a nice way.

Once again, Melody grabbed his arm as they walked back over to the stage area. He excused himself a few minutes before show time so the other kids could go find their seats and he could have a few minutes to mentally prepare for the gig—he wished he could see Arizona for a minute without the others hanging around, so she could say some magic thing to help him calm down.

As Oats approached the dressing-room area, he noticed his mother and Bobby Lee in a corner off to the side, having what appeared to be a serious talk. He figured she was giving him another earful about not taking good enough care of her son, but he didn’t expect what he saw next. When Bobby Lee turned around it looked like he had been crying. Sarah Jean looked sad too, but smiled when she saw Oats come in.

“Hey, guys,” he said, voice cracking as he tried hard to sound casual. “Have you seen Arizona anywhere?”

“She’s off helping Gary with the monitor mix, I guess. He was about to totally lose it.”

“She can do that?” Oats asked.

“Guess so.”

Oats added Arizona’s mysterious multi-talents to his quiet list of things he would probably never figure out, along with what in the world his mother could have said to make Bobby Lee Crenshaw cry.

*

Arizona came backstage to tell the band they were on in five minutes, and Bobby Lee gathered everyone around for a pep talk.

“All right, team,” he said, “I know things have been strange lately with everything that’s been going on, but let’s kick a little extra ass tonight anyway.” He stuck his arm out into the middle of the tight little circle they’d all made around him. Billy grinned and put his hand in the circle on top of Bobby Lee’s, and then the rest followed suit. Starting with a low growl they all lifted their hands into the air together, and let off a whoop all at once. Dusk was falling, the festival techies came out and led them to their places onstage with little flashlight beams, and Bobby Lee counted off, “One-two, one-two-three-four,” into “Party Time Gal.”

Knowing that Arizona was out there, and his mom and brother and best friend and sort-of-girlfriend, made Oats’ scalp tingle. He felt every molecule of his body on edge as he stood there on that stage, even though he couldn’t actually see anyone with the huge spotlights in his eyes.

Bobby Lee rolled into the part of the song where Dickie usually took a solo, and looked at Oats. He took the microphone off the stand and cupped it in his hands to give it a dirtier, bluesy sound, concentrating every inch of himself on the solo, and what he heard coming back in monitors sounded good. When his solo was over he stepped back and winked at Bobby Lee. He winked back as the crowd stomped and yelled their appreciation. Something about Dickie not being there made Oats feel like when he got to hang out with his friends and no grown-ups were around. He was playing great.

They went charging through the set, and before the last song Bobby Lee kicked off a slow blues riff and stepped up to the mic.

“I’m sure you all have noticed that one of our band members is shorter than the rest,” he said. “But even though he’s only thirteen years old, Otis Ray ‘Wild Oats’ Pixlie has demonstrated that he has what it takes to play with the big boys. I’m sorry to say that this is Oats’ last night with us, and he’ll be missed. We’re going to feature this talented young man on the next tune, folks, so hold onto your hats.”

He motioned for Oats to take the center-stage microphone, the one he usually used. Oats nodded agreement, and turned around to face the band. He knew they all were expecting him to kick off “Flight of the Bumblebee” or “Juke,” some blues harp show-off song, but he had a different idea. He decided to pay a little tribute to Bobby Lee by referencing his hit single in a song, and he had a new verse ready:

I liked this girl in school, but I think that I was cursed

I said, “I’ll see you later, baby,” she said, “Not if I see you first!”

“Blues shuffle in ‘E,’” and he let the band go around the whole progression one time while he introduced “Loser Blues” as a “classic by Fast Freddie Blouster with a few new verses by yours truly.”

Then he stepped into Bobby Lee’s spotlight and started to sing.

*

It wouldn’t be exaggerating to say that Otis Ray Pixlie brought down the house with “Loser Blues” and his winning combination of pathos, humor, and expertly played licks. His friends stomped and cheered from their reserved seats in the front row; his mother swooned. Arizona Rosenblatt couldn’t believe what she was hearing and seeing this extraordinary child do. The final grace note was Patty Loveless swooping onstage from the wings for her duet with Bobby Lee, planned for the end of the set, and stopping to give Oats a kiss on the cheek. He blushed bright scarlet, lit up by the spotlight for all the world—or at least the Bakersfield Fourth-of-July crowd—to see.

For the first time on the tour, the crowd, instead of impatiently yelling for the headliner, wouldn’t let them offstage without an encore. Bobby Lee pulled another surprise out of his mangled cowboy hat and called Sarah Jean Pixlie onstage for a performance of her very first hit, “Heartaches for a Guy” with Patty Loveless and Bobby Lee singing harmony. Then Sarah Jean and Patty commandeered a mic and sang doo-wop-style, girly background vocals for Bobby Lee’s last song, a rockin’ version of the old standard “Route Sixty-Six.”

They left the stage to stomping, screaming, and rowdy cheers, and ran to their dressing room sweaty and grinning, high-fives all around, to wait for their family and friends to make it backstage.

Bobby Lee walked over and threw his arm around Oats’ shoulder.

“That was amazing, you were amazing,” he gushed. A minute later Oats found himself surrounded by his mother and brother, Arizona, Melody, Eddie, and even Patty Loveless, all yelling about how great a job he’d done as Patty’s band members began filing in and preparing for her set. Guitars and tuners came out of cases, and Bobby Lee’s bandmates rushed to put their gear away and vacate the premises.

“You all have front-row seats for my set,” Ms. Loveless announced, “the crew, too. Come on, guys, don’t rush off. Afterwards we can get some dinner, what do you think?”

For once, Bobby Lee agreed that it would be OK to stick around for another hour or two. The entourage filed out to take their seats, as Patty put her hand on Bobby Lee’s arm.

“Why don’t you hang awhile?” she said. “Join my band onstage for old times’ sake. How about it?”

“Yes ma’am.” Bobby Lee grinned.

Oats sat quietly, waiting for the rest of the show to begin. Now that his set was over, reality kicked in. He would be leaving the tour in the morning—there was no way around it. Back in Lake County, the rest of the summer loomed tediously. It didn’t seem possible that he could get through so many long hot days without a show to do every night, even with Eddie around. What would they actually do with themselves? Hang around the lakeshore water-skiing clubs, hoping for boat rides with the locals when the weekenders and tourists weren’t keeping them busy; a little fishing or camping, maybe; a few harmonica lessons from Reverend Walter Little. In that amazing moment onstage, all the boredom and discomfort of road life had been forgotten. He wanted to spend the rest of his life standing onstage and impressing people with his playing. The immediate future was looking drearier by the minute.

Patty Loveless’ band took their places onstage and cranked out a perfectly arranged introduction. Oats noticed Bobby Lee off to the side, playing his beautiful old Martin acoustic. He looked happier and more comfortable in the role of sideman than Oats had ever seen him look as the band leader. The bass player stepped up to his mic and introduced Patty Loveless and she bounced out onstage in a spangled dress and boots, and began to sing. In the middle of her first chorus, she walked over to the edge of the stage, caught Oats’ eye, and winked at him.

Arizona leaned over to whisper in Oats’ right ear, just as Melody shouted something into his left.

“I think she likes you,” they both said at once. Talk about making a red-haired boy blush.

*

Dinner was a long table in a nearby steak house, rowdy beer-fueled musicians telling road stories long after the plates had been cleared. Patty Loveless made sure that Oats sat next to her, and asked him a lot of questions about home and school and music while Eddie and Hank Wilson tried to distract him by making goofball faces across the table. Finally, as the restaurant staff dropped not-so-subtle hints that the place was about to close, the entourage wandered outside. Patty was whisked away in a stretch limousine; the rest of them boarded the band bus for their trip back to Murphy’s and the motel.

As Oats drifted in and out of sleep he heard low voices talking seriously, in between snatches of Alan Jackson and Brenda Lee drifting through the static on the radio. The soft yellow lights inside the bus, the smell of cow dung and night-blooming flowers and his mother’s perfume all combined, swirling around his head in a soft dreamy fuzz. He woke with a start as the bus pulled up to the motel with a belching screech, sometime after two in the morning. The boys stumbled to their beds as the adults continued talking, standing in the parking lot outside the registration office.

Oats fell asleep thinking about a long-haired blonde in a spangled dress and boots, winking at him from the stage while she sang his special song, while a cute red-haired girl whispered in his ear.

*

He woke up late the next day, groggy and starving, watching the sun pour in through the cracks in the blinds. Eddie was awake and dressed, lounging on the other bed reading his antique tractor magazine. The door between the two rooms was open. Hank Wilson was still in his pajamas, watching cartoons in the next room. Their mom was nowhere to be seen. It didn’t even look like her bed had been slept in.

“Where’s Sarah Jean?” Oats asked.

Hank Wilson shrugged and returned his full attention to the Power Rangers.

“Did you guys eat breakfast yet?”

“Nope,” said Eddie. “Waiting for you.”

Oats threw on some jeans and a T-shirt and quickly brushed his teeth, then turned off the TV, resulting in predictable squawking from his little brother. He found some shorts and a shirt for Hank Wilson and told him to wash up and get dressed.

“So, I guess you’re coming home with us,” Eddie said quietly.

“Guess so.” Oats turned his head away, pretending he had to blow his nose, to hide the tears.

“It’ll be OK, Oats,” Eddie said.

“It’s not fair.”

“I know that.”

Hank Wilson came bounding into the room, pointing at his mouth and groaning, “Feed me, feed me,” while making grotesque faces. They couldn’t help laughing as they piled out of the room and down the stairs.

Sarah Jean, Bobby Lee, Billy, and Gary G. stood in a little group in the parking lot, near the bus, as words like “Pete,” “medical insurance,” “hospital,” and such drifted over in the boys’ direction.

“Hey, Oats.” Bobby Lee gave him a gentle punch on the shoulder. “Great job yesterday.”

“Thanks.” Oats didn’t quite trust himself to look the man in the eye.

“We’re figuring out the arrangements and how to get Pete back home,” Sarah Jean explained in her matter-of-fact mom voice. “We’ll be leaving in a little while to check him out of the hospital, so get your stuff together.”

“Can we get some breakfast first?” Hank Wilson wailed. “I’m staaarving.”

“Good idea, let’s get you fed,” Billy replied, a little too heartily. They all walked across the parking lot to Murphy’s. Eddie held the door open, and they entered the cold blast of air-conditioning that Oats had come to recognize as the Murphy’s environment.

Arizona stood at her usual place behind the gift shop counter, ringing up a purchase on Johnny Cashregister. She caught his eye as they walked by, but neither one of them stopped to talk as the group made its way into the big green dining room to a round table in the corner

*

They ordered huge breakfasts and tried to make small talk while waiting. It was the saddest and most awkward meal Oats had ever eaten, but that didn’t stop him from devouring everything in sight. Back home, he’d have to submit to the healthy-food-plan-for-young-growing-bodies, and he was determined to have one last huge junk-food meal. He took some small pleasure in watching his mother wince as he soaked pancakes in syrup and butter, and then loaded Hank Wilson’s plate with syrup, too. Powerless in the circumstances of the moment, if his actions could make her life a bit more difficult by ensuring a sugar-loaded, hyper six-year-old for the ride home, he felt honor-bound to do all he could.