Songbird (32 page)

Well, good.

Tanzel agreed to keep the kids for us while we take a couple of days here in Roanoke. Tomorrow we're going to watch a taping of
Jesus Alive!
Now people have told me that I am Harlan's Vinca Love. Isn't that cute? I tell you one thing, I wish I had nice teeth like she does. And I take too much off people. With Vinca, it seems like she'll give you the shirt off her back, but if you push her too far in other ways, watch out! I know this because when we taped the Gospelganza show here at the resort, I saw her slam out of their home, yelling, “This time you have gone
too
far!” before shutting the door.

Well, you know the media types. They were probably interviewing her or something and asked an inappropriate, nervy question.

Harlan pulls the station wagon up to the Grand Lodge entrance. Now after staying in nice hotels with my singing and recording, I’ve gotten used to seeing luxury cars lined up for the valet to whisk away to some unknown lot. But here it's different. I see another station wagon like ours, an old one with the fake wood on the side. Rickety Buick sedans and Econoline vans populate the parking lot. Yes, I see a Mercedes or two, but regular old, everyday cars fill the lot.

As we make our way to the front desk, around one of those long cars with long horns on the hood, I say to Harlan, “This is a nice place for regular folks to come. You can give to a ministry, feel good about the tithe, and then have a nice vacation every year to boot.”

They've jumped onto the Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker time-share wagon.

“See Shug? It
is
a good ministry.”

“I never said it wasn't, Harlan.”

“Well, you've just never been sold on this sort of thing.”

“TV preaching?”

“Uh-huh.”

I shrug. “I’ve just never thought much about it, that's all. I mean, we couldn't even watch much TV until recently.”

I’m desperately trying to steer this conversation in another direction, pretending I have no idea what he is getting at. I don't want my husband to get up there behind people's household television screens, his long, tender face watching the world as they suffer, work, and play.

Truth is, TV preaching seems like an easy way to fulfill the great commission of going ye into all the world, and that's where I choke.
Is
there an easy way to fulfill such a calling direct from the lips of Jesus?
Should
it be easy?

I just don't know.

When Jesus said, “The harvest is plenteous, but the laborers are few,” did He have empires like this in mind? This doesn't seem much like labor to me. How can it be? And I’m trying not to be critical, just inquisitive. I have more questions than ever after looking around me here in this place, after looking through Harlan's eyes, and I feel bad. But Mrs. Evans and Grandma Sara always told me that questions are almost always a good thing.

I look about at the lobby. Now this is one classy joint. In a Western sort of way, naturally. Chains suspend dozens of chandeliers made of deer antlers (poor things!) above our heads. Give me faith, Lord! Let's hope whoever ordered those chains didn't cut corners.

A stone wall, bigger than a church, houses a fireplace I could walk into. I can see into two other rooms through that square inferno: the main restaurant calling Wyoming's, which, I hate to say, is way out of our budget, and the library for Mountaintop Members of the Forger's Creek Founder's Club.

Oh, it's all cushy in there, like something an English lord would have if he was a cowboy.

So much for that verse, “Neither Jew nor Greek, bond nor free, but we have all been made to drink in one body.” I guess money counts around here.

Now that snake Carl Bofa would just love it in here. In fact, over by the entrance to the family-style restaurant called Cowpokes, two of his paintings hang. I turn my back on them.

“I’m just going to walk around here in the lobby while you check in,” I say to Harlan.

“Go ahead, Shug. I’ll meet up with you in a minute.”

“Grandma?”

“I’m right with you.”

But I can tell Grandma is still quite skeptical. She doesn't want to say anything because she's a Williamsburg, Virginia, brass-sconce type. I know she finds this decor gimmicky at best. I love it, though. It's warm and friendly.

Must have cost a mint! But as these two are always saying, “Christians deserve the best, too! Why should we accept second-class blessings from a first-class God?!”

“Look here.” I point down to a discreetly placed plaque on a leather sofa and I read, “Given by Joseph and Delia Waters. Isn't that nice, Grandma? People just put this stuff in here so the ministry itself didn't have to pay for it.”

“Good tax write-off, too.”

I bap her on the arm. “Oh, Grandma, you tickle me to no end.”

Harlan's arm slides around my waist. “Hey, y'all. Isn't this something?”

Stars dance a ring-around-the-rosy inside his pupils.

“Wanna hit the little mall?” I ask.

Grandma nods. “This place just sort of reminds me of Disneyland's Old West part, doesn't it?”

“Only smaller,” I say.

Harlan squeezes me closer “But maybe not for long. Look how the Lord is blessing now. This all is just waiting to explode!”

“I just saw on TV the other day that plans for an amusement park are in the works as well as a big, outdoor concert setting. It will seat ten thousand people.” Hopefully they'll have me sing there someday.

We enter the mall area from the lobby, content to leave our bags in a corner of the lobby. As Harlan said, “What kind of Christian would steal something from a brother or sister in Christ?”

Oh, this place is too cute. “Look Harlan, a beauty parlor! Pretty Mares All in a Row. Isn't that the cutest thing?” I turn to him, laying a hand upon his arm. “Can I make an appointment, honey? Please?”

His gentle smile fills me. “Of course you can, Shug. What about you, Grandma? You up for a haircut?”

She runs her fingers through her short hair. “I need one badly. But I’m not sure I trust this place.”

I laugh. “Well, if we get butchered we get butchered together.”

“All right then. I’ll bet if I had a ponytail, they'd do great braids.”

Laughing, we walk into the salon to make our appointment for tomorrow morning.

I tug Grandmas sleeve. “Isn't this exciting?”

“You deserve a little pampering, sweetie.”

A permed hairstylist runs over on red pumps stuffed over bobby socks. “You're Charmaine Hopewell, aren't you?”

My eyes bug open wide. “Yes, I sure am. I’m sorry, but… well, have we met before?”

“Oh, no, ma'am. I go to Gospelganza every year when it comes to Winchester. I’ve got your tape. I just love you!”

Oh, my. Nobody's ever run up to me outside of the concert setting before. I’m so stunned. My mouth drops. Grandma snickers softly but takes my hand. I come to. “Well, what's your name, honey?”

“Georgie May.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Georgie. You do a good cut?”

She leans forward and whispers, “The best here in the shop if you want to know the truth.”

I turn to the receptionist. “Then put me in with Georgie.”

“Me, too,” says Grandma Min. “She seems believable to me.”

Harlan watches all of this from the side, shaking his head and smiling. In fact all three of us are smiling like insipid jack-o’-lanterns.

“Can you sign the tape cover for me tomorrow? I’ll be sure to bring it in. I just love that tape.”

“All right, I’d be tickled to do that.” And that's the truth. I’ve signed lots of tape covers at concerts, and each time I write my name I can hardly believe it. “I’ve got a new one coming out this spring.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“From a real record company.”

“No kidding? That's great! You here to sing on the show?” she asks.

“Oh, no! I’m sure I’m not even close to being in this league.”

“Of course you are, Mrs. Hopewell. You sing like an angel. You have the prettiest voice I’ve ever heard.”

Oh, my lands.

So I just smile and pat her hand. “We'll see you tomorrow morning at eight o'clock.”

As we walk into the mall she yells, “Hey y'all, that was Charmaine Hopewell!”

“Charmaine who?”

“Who's that?”

“Hopewell did you say?”

“Never heard of
her
.”

Now that is more like it.

“Looky there, Shug, you're famous.”

“Oh, Harlan. One hairdresser in Forger's Creek, Virginia, does not render a girl famous.”

“I don't think you give yourself enough credit.”

“I don't have to. You do it for me.”

He kisses my temple. “I guess I have to be honest and say that if you did, I may not find you so sweet and sexy.”

Harlan hardly ever uses the “sexy” word, so I turn and kiss him back and I’m thankful that we got two rooms instead of one. Let's hope Grandma Min turns her TV up real loud tonight! We haven't made love since Carl Bofa.

My lands.

I realize right then that I feel so much older than my twenty-five years.

Grandma walks in front of us, the twinkle lights on all the trees illumining her pathway.

“It's just so pretty in here, Harlan, isn't it?”

“It sure is, Shug.”

Grandma turns. “Look! A china store! Oh, my. Those are beautiful teapots in the window.”

“I’ve heard Vinca loves china,” I say. “Go ahead on in. We'll be there in a minute.”

I turn to Harlan. “Let's sit on a bench for a second okay?”

“All right.”

So we sit on a bench between two sparkling ficus trees. “Just promise me one thing,” I say.

“What is it?”

“Promise me you won't dream of this when you close your eyes.

“You know me too well, Shug.”

“You're right. This isn't you, Harlan. This isn't me. This isn't us.”

“You think this is wrong?”

“I just don't think it's us. There doesn't need to be two Peter and Vinca couples out there.”

He is silent.

“Honey, this isn't our style. We're down-home. Really down-home. Look at all this stone and glass and pewter and brass. For heaven's sake, we shop at variety stores.”

“But they started out that way years ago, Shug.”

Though Vinca is from society and Peter's family owned a large cattle ranch, they did start small, going on the evangelist circuit and even sleeping in their car for months on end. They never do pretend they're better than anybody else. I have to give them that.

“I don't begrudge them this, Harlan. Look how happy it's making these folks. But this isn't for us.”

He is silent again and I let him be. After five minutes of watching people go by I can no longer stand it. “Spill it, baby.”

“Spill what?”

“You're not telling me something.”

He sits back and slips an arm behind me on the bench. “You're right.”

“So let me have it.”

“We've been at the church for four months now, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I’m feeling that wanderlust again to get back out on the road.”

“Oh, Harlan, no! Please don't ask me to leave Mount Oak!”

“I’m not. Listen, Shug, I’ve got an idea.”

“Harlan!”

“No. Please. Just let me say everything and then you can get upset.”

I have to laugh at that and he jumps on it. “See, Shug? You're not as upset as you think you are.”

“Stop telling me what I am or not, Harlan.” I try to sound as serious as I feel. He deserves that. We all do.

“Okay. The church wants to start televising its services.”

I dip my head. “The church?”

“Well, me, too. But just on cable access. John Patterson is donating the cameras and the equipment we'll need to tape the programs. See, I’m hoping this will curb that wanderlust, Shug. You know I’m not happy if I’m not preaching to the multitude.”

“So it'll be the Sunday services?”

“Yep.”

“And that's all?”

“For now.”

“Harla-a-an.”

“Well, I’ve got to be honest, Shug.”

“And they want me to sing, right?”

“Right. It would be good for the show to have you on. I mean, look Shug, here's a hairdresser in Virginia who knows who you are. And with that BrooksTone record coming out in the spring, that will be wonderful for the show.”

Dear Lord. “What's it going to be called?”

“The Port of Peace Hour.”

“Sounds like the
Port-O-Potty Hour
.”

“Shug!”

“Well, Harlan! This is an awful lot to spring on someone in the space of two minutes!”

He puts his arms around me. “I know. But I didn't know how else to do it once you asked me to spill it. I’ve been trying to break it to you for weeks.”

“And you were hoping that coming down here would help me see the potential of a television ministry?”

“I guess so. Yes.”

“Oh, I see the potential all right. But maybe not the potential
you
see, Harlan.”

He doesn't ask me what I mean, and I don't have the heart to tell him.

Harlan looks around like he's at the Ritz or something. “Look at this bedroom, Shug! A wardrobe thing and everything.”

“It's an armoire, baby.”

“Darn. I don't see a TV.”

“Look inside the armoire.”

He pulls open the doors. “Well, would you look at that? There's the TV! Have you seen anything like this before?”

“In Nashville when I went to record.”

The hotel room isn't nearly as high-end as the lobby and the mall. However, it's neat and houses good, oak furniture, pretty quilts, and a clean bathroom with little soaps, shampoos, and lotions.

The coffeepot is not by the toilet, thank the Lord.

I look through my luggage just to make sure nothing was taken in the lobby, and sure enough, “It's all still here.”

“Did you think it wouldn't be?”

I shrug. “You can be too trusting sometimes, Harlan.”

Excitement stutters inside me. I sit in my studio seat and when the music and lights go up I am transported back to Suds N’ Strikes, back to that first moment of glory when the crowd belonged to me.

The
Jesus Alive!
gang files out smiling and waving and I understand exactly why they do what they do.

Harlan sizzles beside me like one of those glass balls with all the electric waves wiggling around inside it.