Velva Jean Learns to Drive (17 page)

With the help of Mrs. Dennis, I had saved up nearly five dollars for Nashville. I kept it tucked away in my hatbox, wrapped up in one of Mama’s old handkerchiefs. I had decided to sing a solo at the fair, all by myself, without my family. I thought it would be good practice for when I got to the Opry, plus I wanted the prize money, which, if I won, would be an additional five dollars.

When we got down to Alluvial that morning, everyone was abuzz because some men from the Scenic had come. One of them was in front of the school talking to Shorty Rogers and Wiley Butler. He was kind of medium height and medium build and had thick brown hair and glasses. I thought he looked a little like Buddy Rogers. He was handsome like a movie star. A group of old men stood up on the porch at Deal’s and picked “Bringing in the Sheaves” on the banjo, guitar, and washtub bass.

When we came walking up, Wiley Butler waved us over. He said, “That’s the one you want to talk to—Beachard Hart.”

We all stared at Beachard in surprise. Beachard was shy and didn’t like to be singled out. He looked like he might want to run and hide. He said, “Excuse me?”

Wiley said, “This man’s asking about you.”

The man with the glasses nodded a greeting at Daddy Hoyt. Then he looked at Beach and said, “Beachard Hart?” That man frowned at Beachard like he was expecting someone older than sixteen.

We all looked at each other. Beachard said, “Yes.”

“I’m Stanley Abbott. I’m working on the new scenic road. You had a conversation with Getty Browning a few months ago. He enjoyed meeting you. He was mightily impressed. He said he knows your father and that your father is a good worker who’s been of help to him already on our project.”

We were all staring at Beach, staring at Mr. Abbott.

Beach said, “Yes?” like this was the most usual thing in the world, like people said this to him all the time.

“We need men to cut survey lanes to locate the final path of the road so we can incorporate it into a map and Mr. Browning suggested we talk to you. This country is so isolated that it’s hard for us to find our way. It’s the largest unbroken wilderness area in the proposed path. We want to protect it, but we also need to put this road in. Mr. Browning is in the wild, flagging lines right now, but we need help. Do you think you’d be willing?”

“Where’s my daddy now?”

Mr. Abbott’s eyebrows drew down. I could tell he was trying to remember. “Hard to say. I believe he’s helping scout and survey the areas north of Linville Falls.”

Beach studied Mr. Abbott like he studied all people, really taking him in. It took Beach a while to decide on folks. Beach said, “I don’t know.”

Mr. Abbott looked uncomfortable. There was a fancy air to him, like he was from a city, like he wasn’t sure how to talk to people who weren’t from cities, like he thought you had to talk to people like us different. He said, “It’s my responsibility to decide which trees will be sacrificed, which cliffs will be blasted, which lands will be purchased and used as overlooks. We could use your help as someone who knows the area—not just this immediate area, but beyond.”

Beach said, “That’s a lot of responsibility they’ve given you. That’s an awful lot for just one person.” He looked like Daddy Hoyt when he said it. I thought that he had just about made up his mind about Mr. Stanley Abbott. I almost felt sorry for the man, standing there looking so hot and nervous.

Stanley Abbott realized he was losing Beachard, and it was clear he didn’t want to do this even if Beachard was only sixteen, so he started to talk. He told him all about his plans for the road and about how he planned to cause the least amount of harm to the mountains and the trees and the hollers (he called them “hollows”) and the landscape as it was. He said, “I want to fit the road into the mountains as if nature had put it there.” He could see Beachard cared about this, that this was important.

While Mr. Abbott talked, a quartet of men was singing “Jesus, the Light of the World.” Afterward, the True sisters sang “Blest Be the Tie That Binds,” accompanied by Pa Toomey on dulcimer and his son Claude on autoharp.

Beach didn’t say yes, no, or maybe, and Mr. Abbott was still talking. Finally Beachard said, “I have to go play banjo now,” and walked away. Beach was like that. When he was done with a conversation—that was the end of it.

Daddy Hoyt, Linc, Beach, Johnny Clay, Aunt Zona, and me played and sang “The Girl I Left in Sunny Tennessee” together while Granny danced. Granny could buck dance as good as any man in Alluvial Valley, as good as Daddy. She kicked her feet up, her back straight as a rod, hands at her side, holding her skirt, and moved with a rhythm and grace you wouldn’t have expected from someone so old and wiry.

I had never thought twice about singing in public, but when our song was ending and folks were clapping and I suddenly pictured myself singing up on a stage by myself, I felt washed over by a cold wave of fear. The stage of my imagination was enormous, and I saw myself as just a tiny speck in the middle of it, barely visible in my satin and rhinestones and my cowboy hat with red trim. I pictured opening my mouth and nothing coming out but a squeak.

Earlier that day, Johnny Clay and me had our fortunes told by the Cherokee fortune teller. She told Johnny Clay that he was destined for greatness, which made him almost unbearable to be around. She also told him to be careful with his heart and his temper. She told me that I was charmed and that this could be both bad and good. She said I needed to be careful I didn’t lose my way, because that would be easy for me to do, especially because I had a long way to travel. I asked her how I would do in the singing contest, but she said she couldn’t answer things like that. I told Johnny Clay as we were leaving, “Some fortune teller.”

“Look at me,” Daddy Hoyt said now. His eyes were blue with gold around the center, like Mama’s. “Just sing right to me. Or to your mama.”

And then I was alone on the porch at Deal’s, where I’d stood one hundred times or more. I looked out over the crowd at all the faces. Some I recognized; some I didn’t. I hadn’t expected to see my daddy, but I looked for him just the same. It was hard not to, even though I knew it was my own fault for helping to send him away.

The song I chose was a murder song, “Pretty Polly,” because that was how I felt inside. It was a song Mama had taught me not long before she died, about a girl who was stabbed in the heart by the man she loved and buried in a grave he had dug for her.

As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I felt like the bravest person in the world. Even though I was singing about murder, I felt lifted. Music did that to me, just like God was supposed to, because music seemed both magic and holy. Just like the Wood Carver knew what was in the wood, I knew what was in the music. Whenever I sang, I forgot about being an orphan and having freckles and how much Sweet Fern hated me and how I wasn’t right with God or Jesus. I forgot that I was singing in front of friends and strangers or that I had ever been afraid. I just wanted to open my whole self up and sing as full as I could.

When I finished, there was silence. I stood for one horrible moment wanting to disappear. Then people began cheering and one woman was crying so loud, you could hear her over the clapping.

I had never seen or felt a ghost before, although Lord knows I’d tried my mighty best. But as I stood there singing underneath the trees and the sky, to folks in their hand-me-down clothes and bare feet, I could swear I felt my mama beside me.

I made my way through the crowd to where my family was waiting. Strangers stopped me to say congratulations or to tell me how much they loved my voice. They said they couldn’t believe that such a little girl, just twelve years old, could sing like that and that I seemed much older than I was.

Suddenly, a tall, dark-haired boy stepped in front of me. He was covered in coal dust and had two white spots around his eyes and held a lit cigarette in his hand. The moonshiner’s boy. He had to be fifteen years old now, almost a grown man. I looked but didn’t see his friends anywhere.

“You sing good, Bonnie,” he said.

“Thanks.” I felt my cheeks turn red.

“I sing a little, but not as good as you. My mama don’t believe in it. She says singing is an insult to the Lord and swears I’m going to hell.”

“That’s a horrible thing to say.”

“Yeah, well.” He took a puff on the cigarette and kept his eyes on me. “You still living a life of crime?” His eyes were a pure, light green made even lighter by the black of the coal dust on his arms and face.

“No,” I said. “I gave it up.”

He kind of smiled. “That’s too bad. You’d make someone a real good partner.”

“I’d rather save myself for the Grand Ole Opry,” I said.

“The Opry?”

“Yeah.”

He nodded. Then he pinched the end of the cigarette so that it burned out and took a handkerchief from his pocket. I watched as he wrapped up the cigarette butt, very carefully, and placed the handkerchief back in the pocket of his trousers. “You know what, Bonnie?” He smiled, sweet as could be. “You’re the prettiest girl on Fair Mountain,” he said.

That’s a fresh thing to say, I thought. I was shocked and thrilled all at once. “Why’re you so dirty?” I said.

He dropped his smile. He looked at me like I’d slapped him. And then he walked away.

Mrs. Dennis and Dr. Hamp stood with Sweet Fern and Danny under a tree. When I walked up to join them, Mrs. Dennis put her arm around me. She said to Sweet Fern, “My husband and I promise to look after her and keep her safe and to ensure that she returns home in one piece. I think the National Singing Convention could be a wonderful opportunity for Velva Jean—not only a chance for her to gain more experience, but a chance for others to hear her.”

“Atlanta is a far way to go,” Sweet Fern said. Her voice was cold but polite. “I’m afraid we don’t have that kind of money.”

“I was thinking that Velva Jean could earn the money for the train ticket herself,” said Mrs. Dennis. “Perhaps by working for me in the mornings or after school.” I looked at her in surprise, afraid she was going to give away our secret, but she gave my shoulder a little squeeze and kept looking at Sweet Fern.

When Sweet Fern didn’t say anything, Mrs. Dennis said, “She will be one of the youngest people there, singing with people who are far older and more experienced, many of whom are well known. Even some who have performed on the Opry.”

Mrs. Dennis was quiet then, and we all looked at Sweet Fern and waited. I held my breath and prayed to Jesus.
Jesus, if you are there, please hear me. Please let Sweet Fern say yes. Please. Please. Please. Please.

“No,” Sweet Fern said.

“Mrs. Deal, perhaps . . .”

“No,” Sweet Fern said again. She smoothed the front of her dress. “I’m sorry.”

Johnny Clay walked up. He said, “What’s going on?”

I said. “Why not? Why can’t I? Sweet Fern, please . . .”

“No,” she said again, this time to me. Danny looked at me and shook his head. The way he did it, I could tell he was on my side. “Velva Jean,” Sweet Fern said. “It’s time to go home.”