Almost Heaven (9 page)

Heather shrugged and cracked her gum.

“Yes, ma'am,” I said.

“You should take a cue from Billy and have more manners,” Mrs. Blanch said.

“Billy's going to be a star,” Heather said. “Mr. Gibson said he's bringing in some bluegrass guy to hear him tomorrow.”

“Is that so?” her mother said. “Well, I'll look forward to hearing you on the Grand Ole Opry.”

Heather turned and winked at me, sticking out her tongue and laughing.

“Billy, how's your mother doing?” Mrs. Blanch said.

“Better than expected, ma'am. Thanks for asking.”

“I saw her at the beauty shop last week. She's doing a good job over there.”

She made small talk until Heather flipped on the radio. I apologized for them having to get their car muddy pulling into our driveway and got out as fast as I could so they wouldn't see the laundry hanging inside our front porch. I thanked them for the ride and Mrs. Blanch said, “It's no problem at all, Billy.”

Then I watched them drive away. Mrs. Blanch seemed to be lecturing her daughter about something she couldn't talk about when I was in the car. I watched them until they topped the hill and their taillights went out of sight.

* * *

At the start of sixth period the next day, Mr. Gibson turned up the volume of the recording I had made and played it through the classroom speakers. He rewound it twice to play specific riffs I'd done on a chorus. Stuff I'd made up that wasn't what Bill Monroe had done. Kids made their way back from lunch and cupped their hands over the window to see who was inside, which always drove Buzz crazy because they left greasy handprints.

The man he'd told me about was with him. Vernon Turley was an associate pastor from a big church in Barboursville. He was chubby with a kind face and a no-nonsense attitude. I knew his last name from his family's group, creatively titled The Turleys. He had branched off and formed his own group that toured area churches. I was in the presence of someone in the music ministry.

“How'd you learn to play like that?” Pastor Turley said after the song ended.

“My dad taught me,” I said. “I pick up stuff here and there.”

“Can you read music?”

I shook my head. “Can't make heads or tails of the notes, but I can look at guitar chords and fit them to the mandolin.”

Buzz chimed in. “Why hasn't Mrs. Heck snagged you?”

“There's not much call for a mandolin in the marching band, I don't think.”

“He's probably right,” Pastor Turley said, scratching his face. It was smooth, and it looked like he was the type of person who had trouble growing any kind of a beard. “I'd like to hear you play.”

Buzz pointed to the mandolin. “Take that on out to the front.”

“I gotta get to gym class,” I said.

Buzz waved me off. “I'll send a note to Coach Hall. It's time to see how you do onstage.”

It wasn't my class out there. It was one filled with kids older than me. Juniors and seniors. Heather was the only one the same age as me, and she was in the front row, acting like she fit in with everybody, which she did.

Buzz was well-known for not sticking with the lesson plan. He took roll quickly, and then, sweeping his hand out like a ringmaster at the big top, he said, “Ladies and gentlemen! How many of you knew that Dogwood High has a musical genius in its midst? That's right, a gen-u-wine hillbilly prodigy walks these halls every day in work boots and denim.”

Everybody looked at me. I hated gym, but I wanted more than anything to be out of that room. Of course, there was no use fighting it once Buzz got his act going.

“Now I have been in and around show business all my life, and I have seen them come and seen them go. But I have never seen fingers as fast on a mandolin as I saw in the control room back there yesterday. I've invited a real musician to judge his talent, and then he's going to speak to you about performing and stage presence. But first, a musical interlude. What do you say?”

The class hooted and cheered. “‘Free Bird'!” somebody shouted.

“It's not going to be that gospel bluegrass crud, is it?” Paul Davidson said. He was the center on the basketball team and could say things to teachers nobody could get away with. If Paul said it, the teachers couldn't wait to get to the break room to talk about it.

“In fact, our guest today does play that gospel bluegrass crud, but it is only the finest gospel bluegrass crud,” Buzz said, making some of the kids laugh.

Buzz had me stand at the podium, and I stared at the floor, looking like a kid who had worn the same shirt and pants to school every day since August, which was not true because I had two identical shirts and pants I switched out. Heather clapped politely and so did a few others, but it was clear this was going to be a tough sell. Pastor Turley stepped out of the control room and folded his arms.

Buzz briskly walked to the control room and started the record, but one of the channels was muted and he couldn't get the song on the speakers. After a couple of minutes I put the mandolin down and went in and showed him. When I passed the front row coming back, Paul stuck out his leg and tripped me. I fell flat on my face with my hands outstretched and the whole room busted loose. Heather glared at Paul and actually helped me up.

“You ready, Billy?” Buzz said into the talkback.

Paul just grinned, his dimples showing.

I nodded and Buzz started the record. He turned the music up loud enough for everybody to hear, but low enough so it wouldn't drown out the mandolin, which can be a problem. It's not the loudest instrument, but I think it's the most beautiful way to interpret a song.

Daddy said the best thing a musician could do was give people a pure experience. Help them feel the music and become part of it. And that's what I did as soon as the needle hit that record. I closed my eyes, and even though I could hear some giggles and mocking from the back of the room, I just shut that out and strummed along with Bill Monroe.

There are a lot of players who talk about being “in the moment” when they perform. When you're fully running inside a song, when it's part of you and you're part of it, you can take chances, try things, and I guess that's the best way to describe what happened. I let my fingers work out what was in my soul. Somebody else who was there might have a different opinion, but for me it was pure joy. I let go of the nerves, I let go of who was watching, I let go of what Buzz and Pastor Turley might think, and I just became a mandolin evangelist. I showed them all why I love that instrument and what I could do with it.

When I was done, the kids in the room responded. A lot of them clapped, and when I opened my eyes, Heather was smiling bigger than I'd ever seen her. She looked genuinely happy. I'm not saying everybody was converted. Certainly Paul didn't throw away his Styx records. But there was a certain respect he gave me later as he walked down the hall and nodded. He'd never so much as made the distinction between me and a bug on the sidewalk.

The truth was, I could play even better. I wasn't holding back, but you can only do so much with one song to show your musical skills.

Buzz talked with Pastor Turley in the control room, and then he wrote me a note and told me to come back after the last period. I told him I had to catch the bus, but he said it was important. I flew down the hall to gym class, and Coach Hall was fit to be tied that anybody would be late, but the note calmed him.

When the bell rang after seventh period, I went back to Buzz's room. The kids from the play were milling around and Heather was talking and laughing with some friends. Something inside me hurt when I saw that. The people talked about their lines or the upcoming game or a dance or a party at somebody else's house. You don't know how lonely you are until you hear people with normal lives talk about theirs. Maybe that's why I've kept away from crowds.

I stayed as long as I could, but I knew the bus wouldn't wait, so I headed for the hall. I met Buzz as I turned the corner, and he handed me a record and said I could keep it. I thanked him and kept moving.

“Wait; don't go,” he said.

“The bus is leaving.”

“I want you to stay while we practice. I have something for you to do.”

“I need to get home.”

“You have a job?”

“No, it's just that Mama expects me to be home when she gets there.”

He put a hand on my shoulder. “This is important, Billy. I want you to listen to this record in the control room. Play along with the songs and record it. I'll get you a ride home. Does anybody in the play live near you?”

I mentioned Heather, but as soon as I did, I remembered her mother talking with her as they drove away.

“Good, I'll ask her,” Buzz said, glancing at the clock. “Now get in the control room. You'll have at least an hour, hour and a half tops, to record.”

“All of it?” I said.

He rubbed his chin. “Just start the record and hit the recorder and see what happens.”

I studied the picture on the album. There were five men in striped suits standing next to a hay wagon. The title of the record was
I Saw the Light
, and the men were holding their instruments and smiling really big. I never figured out why they were out in the barnyard for the picture, but looking later at all the other album covers, it was clear they had exhausted their range of locations.

The man in the middle of the cover was the only one who wasn't holding an instrument. He was large, and the stripes made him look like the statue outside of a Big Boy restaurant.

“That's Pastor Turley, isn't it?”

“Billy, most every weekend he and his group are out on the road playing and singing.”

“What's that got to do with me?”

“They lost their mandolin player a few months ago. He's interested in you but wants to see how you react to their music. Do you think you can give it a shot?”

I looked at the list of songs. It was a pretty standard set. I knew all of them but one and figured that was an original.

“I can try,” I said.

He closed the door and I got out the mandolin and began. The truth was, if I could have chosen anything in the world to do after school, that's what I would have done. When I got home each day, I would usually find something to eat and get out the two Realistic recorders I had repaired. Recording on the Wollensak sounded a lot better.

The record he gave me wasn't well produced. They'd found some cut-rate studio where the first good take got slapped on the record. But truth be told, the musicians weren't that bad. “I Saw the Light” was the first song, and it was mainly a banjo tune. I found the runs right away and figured out what they were doing with the chorus and turnaround. It wasn't rocket science.

I got lost in those songs and was on the last one, “Mother Left Me Her Bible,” when everybody returned from the auditorium. Buzz took Heather aside, and she glanced at the control room and shook her head like she was really sorry about something.

He came in as the reel flapped. He had his jacket and briefcase in hand. “You ready to head out?”

I put the reel in a box and handed it to him. “All done. There's some good tunes on here.”

He slipped it in the briefcase, and we walked to the teachers' parking lot, which looked out on the river and the old covered bridge. He drove a little VW bug that chugged to life like a lawn mower engine.

“I appreciate you doing what you're doing,” I said.

“How did you feel about your performance?” he said. “You looked pretty comfortable up there.”

I shrugged. “I guess it was all right. I was nervous at first, but then when the music took over, I was okay. I could have been better with a little more practice.”

Buzz smiled. “Do you think you could do that in front of a bigger crowd? say, a few hundred people?”

“If I can do it in front of people who hate the music I'm playing, I guess I could do it for just about anybody.”

He flicked on the radio and tuned it to the local country-and-western station, WDGW. There was a Don Williams song on and Buzz said he liked the man's music.

“There's something so smooth and clean about his recordings,” I said. “The voice lays into his songs just right.”

The signal got stronger and he pointed out the antenna. “I know the manager of that station. He actually hired another one of our students to work there.”

It was a white metal building that looked like it could have been a sausage factory or a warehouse. I'd been past there a hundred times and never really noticed the antenna. He flipped to another station and we listened to Kenny Rogers's scratchy voice. I gave Buzz directions, and as we passed neighbors' houses, I got that bad feeling when you know somebody from the outside is going to look in at your life.

Buzz parked next to the road because our driveway was a mud hole. Mom's car was in the grass by the back door. I took him around back because of all the laundry still hanging up on the front porch.

“Where have you been, Billy?” Mama said. “I was worried sick.”

“Mama, this is Bu—uh, Mr. Gibson. He's one of my teachers.”

Mama wiped her hands on her apron and shook his hand. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Gibson. Is there something wrong?”

“Not at all,” Buzz said. “I kept your son after school working on a project. Do you mind if I come in and talk about it?”

“Not at all,” Mama said, backing up the cinder blocks. “Can I get you something to drink? All we have is Diet Shasta.”

“Love it,” Buzz said.

Mama got him a glass bottle and he sat at the kitchen table. I'd never noticed how many cracks in the walls there were, how the linoleum was turned up in the corners, and how the wood was rotted around the doorjamb until somebody new sat in the house.

“Can you stay for supper?” Mama said, cracking open the bottle.