Almost Heaven (42 page)

“Before we get started with the dance,” the cheerleader/president/valedictorian said, “we have a special guest with us tonight, all the way from Washington, D.C. You all remember Heather Blanch Hargrove from her years at Dogwood High, but you may not know what has happened in her life since our years growing up. I'd like her to come up now.”

Everyone clapped as Heather stepped to the microphone. A hush fell over the room.

“I was asked to speak tonight and put in context what we're attempting at this reunion. A gathering like this can turn into a lot of different things. We could rehearse all of the old stories, the victories in sports, the romances, the defeats at both, and how the clothing and hairstyles have changed.”

A photo flashed behind her. It was Paul Davidson and her, who had been voted “best dressed.” The crowd hooted and laughed. She made a few more jokes about the lists of “best” or “most-likely” and showed some of the same photos we'd already seen, but it made us laugh again.

“I want to talk about success tonight. Some of you know that I have become successful at speaking and at business and making money, and that I've been able to use that success for what I believe in. Mainly, in fashioning a movement to help young women who are in the early stages of pregnancy decide not to end the lives of their unborn children. And that has led to a work against human trafficking in Africa and the Far East that my husband has spearheaded. And an orphanage in Haiti that we were able to move to this country.”

There was applause throughout the room, louder in some spots than others. Natalie was enraptured. There was no question that Heather had control of the room, and I marveled at that because this was not the same girl I had known. Something had happened. She had a confidence and a presence I'd never seen.

“But I want to talk to you about real success, because it's not measured by external things. We normally compare ourselves to others and judge by outward indicators. Do I have more stuff than her? Do I get paid more than him?

“To be honest, this can become quite cloudy, even in a ministry or a humanitarian work. I can do the same, ticking off a list of babies saved or people who've found freedom. I couldn't see this at first. I was too caught up in the trappings, the wrapping paper of charity work.

“Now, if this sounds more like a graduation speech than something at a reunion, you're right, because I think we're at a bigger crossroads now than when we were eighteen or nineteen. I think this is a perfect time for me to reevaluate and put things in perspective.”

She took a deep breath and motioned toward my side of the room. “Most of you here remember a friend of mind, Billy Allman.”

My face flushed. Natalie looked at me, beaming, as if I were some kind of celebrity just for being mentioned.

“Billy, I want you to come up here.”

There was some applause and a few shouts. “Go get 'em, Billy!”

“Woo, Billy!”

“Yeah!”

Reluctantly I stood and moved toward the front. I could feel the sweat popping. My knees were weak and wobbly, and for once it wasn't because of my diabetes. I stood behind her, but she pulled me close to the microphone and looked up. There were tears in her eyes and I couldn't understand why.

“What are you doing?” I said.

“Just listen,” she whispered.

When the applause faded, I looked out and saw a number of women brushing away tears as well. They must have known something I didn't. They must have known Heather's story better.

“This is success,” Heather said. “Billy Allman is success personified. And let me tell you why.”

She paused. I took the chance. “I want to hear this.”

Everybody laughed and she chuckled.

“First, true success is not knowing you're a success. It's humble. It always gives credit to the others who helped achieve that success. And I know, Billy, that you are grateful for those who have helped you through the years.”

I nodded. “I am.”

“Success is a lot like love, I think,” she continued. “Love does not seek its own good; it seeks the good of others. And in that giving, we receive much more.

“Billy was the best friend I've ever had. The only thing I ever did was save him a seat on the bus and he repaid me countless times. He even held my curlers when I'd take them out.” Laughter. “After high school, he gave me a ride to the beauty school that I didn't want to attend but my parents had other ideas. He came to the jail and drove me home when I needed help. My father told me that Billy even helped tear down the chairs at my wedding so that my father and brothers could get to the reception.”

She looked at me with such love and gratitude and brimming eyes. “But there's something Billy doesn't know. Something he couldn't know.”

She paused again, collecting herself. I just stood there, now not as concerned about what people were thinking as they looked at me, but more concerned about what she was going to say.

“It was a night after he'd bailed me out of jail. One of those down times. My parents were gone. I was staying alone at the house. I'd fallen in with the wrong crowd, and even they had abandoned me because I was out of money. I was at the end of myself. A complete failure at everything. And as young people will sometimes do, I let all of that crash down on me and decided to take my life.

“I had my mother's pills lined out on the bedspread. I had written the note to my parents asking their forgiveness. I picked out the dress I wanted to be buried in. I was ready to end the pain.

“And then the phone rang.” She bit her lower lip and smiled. “I just let it ring. I figured it was one of my mother's friends. I didn't want to talk to anybody. I'd made up my mind.

“It rang and rang and finally stopped. So I picked up the first handful of pills and was about to tip them back when the phone rang again. I don't mind telling you, I cursed whoever it was and went to the kitchen and answered it. And you know who it was?”

“Billy!” Natalie said. Everybody laughed at her, and she put a hand over her mouth and sat back.

Heather wiped away a tear. “That's right. It was Billy. He said . . .” She swallowed hard and imitated my voice. “‘It's Billy Allman, and I was just checking up on you to see how you were doing.'”

Most of the people laughed because it did sound like me. She was always good at impressions. But for the life of me, I couldn't remember that call. I believed her, but I couldn't remember it.

“It wasn't so much what he said that night, but the way he talked to me. He didn't treat me like a failure. He treated me like I was some precious creation of God. And all that religious stuff he talked about—God loving me, having a plan, giving his life—all of that didn't compute at the time, but I heard it, Billy. I heard it loud and clear.”

She looked back at me and took my hand in hers. “I know I hurt you. I know I caused you a fair amount of pain.”

I patted her hand and shook my head. “It was worth it just to hold your curlers.”

More laughter. When it subsided, she had regained her composure. “Success is not seen in the circumstances or in the pain or the good feelings. Success, sometimes, is just loving somebody with a love that doesn't come back the way you want it.”

My own emotion crept up on me, and I wished I wasn't there in front of everybody. It felt like I was at my own funeral.

“There was another time when I asked Billy what the purpose of life was or some such thing aimed at getting him to say something that would push me over the edge. Something to tick me off about God or the Bible.”

Again she imitated me. “‘Darlin', life is a song—a long, winding tune that turns minor at times, major at times, but mostly is just running along in the background. Don't question the purpose of things; just sing along.'”

She looked back at me. “Do you remember that?”

I shook my head. “No, but it sure sounds like me.”

“Well, Billy Allman, I've heard about your song that you've been singing. I've watched from a distance and have heard reports of what you've done and how that song continues. And I'm here to say that without the grace of God and your friendship, I would not be here today. And the work that God has called me to wouldn't be going forward. And there are a few people who are thankful you were there at the toughest time of my life.”

She buried her head in her hands, and people clapped and then stood up, and it was just too much to take in. Women and even some of the guys wiped away tears. I gave Heather a hug, and she composed herself and pushed me forward in front of the microphone.

“Come on, Billy,” somebody said. “Say something.”

I smiled. “You all don't know how hard it is for my wife to get me to shut up. Here you are encouraging me.”

“Go ahead, Billy.”

I held on to the podium and looked at Natalie. She pointed to her heart and I got the message. The same one I'd given her.

“When I was a kid working at the radio station, I used to do the overnights. I would sit at the editing block and edit myself to death because I had a bit of a stutter, and I would try and try to make it sound like I could talk. One night the manager left me a note that said three words: ‘Billy. Don't talk.'”

Everybody laughed.

“Well, I didn't follow that advice. I don't think you can call my life a success in the world's terms because all I have is a little station that doesn't go more than ten miles down the road. The Internet has changed that, of course, but we're struggling every month to pay the bills just like some of you.

“But I have to say I agree with how Heather has put it. The Lord gives us all a song to play, and at first we just play it the best we know how and try to work on it and make it better. Most of the time it sounds awful. But there comes a point where we realize it's not really our song to begin with, and if we'll follow the lead of the one who wrote the tune in the first place, we'll come out all right.

“I don't know what most of you have gone through. My guess is, some of it has been pretty rough. And it's an encouragement to know that somebody at some point listened to something I said.”

I looked at Heather and people laughed again.

“May God help you sing whatever song he has put on your heart to sing.”

I stepped back and everybody clapped. Then Heather said, “And with that thought, who would like to hear Billy play that mandolin of his?”

The band they had chosen was setting up behind us. They played a little rock and roll, a little country, and even some bluegrass. The fellow who played keyboard also had a mandolin he brought for when they did a Bruce Hornsby tune, and he said I could borrow it.

I knew this tune by Chris Thile, an instrumental on the mandolin that went fast and had lots of runs but needed a little guitar behind it to make sense. The fellow with long hair who played rhythm guitar said he'd heard it but didn't know the chords. Heather said a few more things while I wrote them down and told the fellow to follow me. He was just a young kid with a lot of talent in his fingers and a pretty good ear.

I played it through kind of slow the first time and called out the chords, and by that time the bass player was hooked up and ready, and the second time I just let it fly, my fingers going up and down the neck of that mandolin. There was something about the crowd, old friends and reborn ones, that made the music sweeter. I didn't think of all the pain in that music once. I just let it go.

Afterward, Natalie came up and hugged me. “I never knew any of that stuff that lady said about you.”

“I didn't know half of it myself,” I said. I looked at my watch. “We'd best be getting you back home, Cinderella.”

We headed for the front door, and Heather caught up. “I hope putting you on the spot like that was okay, Billy.”

“It was a bit of a surprise, but after I got used to it, I sort of enjoyed it. Thank you, Heather.”

“I've already heard from some others what it meant to them. There's something going on in that room. The hurts and disappointments of people have a way of melting when we share them.”

“I keep thinking of the ones who didn't come through the door. They didn't have the chance.”

“You reach out to them, Billy. For any of them who feel like they're not worthy to even come through the door.”

“Maybe that's the song God has given me.”

“I think it is. And you play it well, old friend. You play it well.”

I asked about her husband and she said he was fine. He had stayed with the children they were watching from Haiti. Her life had become something sweet and good, and I thanked God that he had heard my prayers.

When Natalie was buckled in, I looked back at the hotel in the moonlight. Heather was still at the front, watching me pull away in the old truck, looking at me with the kind of love and sadness that makes a song richer.

I took Natalie home, and she was yawning when she walked through the door. I could imagine the story she told her grandmother. It probably took her an hour to get her to sleep.

But that was nothing compared with Callie. She and her friend never did watch the movie. They were sitting in the same spot where I'd left them, a box of tissues between them. After her friend left, I took her place, and she had me tell her about everything that happened. I told her everything I could remember and especially about what Heather had said.

“Is she still pretty?” Callie said. I could tell by her hangdog look that there was something there, and I scooted a little closer and took her in my arms.

“Darlin', she's pretty as a picture. But she doesn't hold a candle to you. I wouldn't trade you for anybody or anything in this world.”

I know it sounds unbelievable for a married couple, but we sat up the whole night and talked and hugged and shared the good and bad. When Callie shook and shivered and the fear returned, I read her the Psalms until I could barely hold my eyes open. And when the sun came up over the mountain behind us, we were still on the couch, holding on to each other and to something bigger than ourselves.