Broken Wings (3 page)

“If you’re so nice to them, how come you never had one ask you to marry him?” I asked.

In my heart of hearts, I thought the reason was really me. Most men didn’t want to marry a woman who had a child to raise, and as I grew older, that became more and more a problem. I used to have nightmares in which Mother darling did decide to marry someone, but only if I remained with Grandpa and Grandma. She would come to me in the dark dream and say, “You can’t expect another man to take on the responsibilities of raisin‘ someone else’s child, now can you, Robin? I’m sure you understand.” I’d wake up as she was leaving the house, and for a long moment, I would wonder if it hadn’t happened. The dream was usually that vivid.

“What makes you think no man has asked?”

“You never talked about any,” I said.

“Plenty have, but I can’t pursue a singin‘ career and keep house, can I? And what if he wanted more children, huh? What would I do, hold a baby in my arms and record songs? I don’t need a marriage. I need a break in the business,” she declared.

She looked at me.

“I’m not sayin‘ marriage is bad or nothin’, Robin. It’s right for almost all other women. Someday, I hope you find a good man. It’s just not for me,” she said. “Remember that song I wrote: ‘I’m not the marryin’ kind, so don’t go bendin‘ your knee for me,’ ” she sang.

“I remember. I’m just trying to forget it,” I muttered.

“You’re goin‘ to be sorry you said all those mean things to me, Robin. Someday, you’re goin’ to be lookin‘ at me up on the stage of the Grand Ole Opry and be sorry you ever made fun of me and country music. At least it’s honest; at least it’s from the heart and not like that rap talk or bangin’ and screamin‘ you think’s music.”

I closed my eyes and tried to sleep again. She was quiet and then, as we drew closer to Nashville, she began to get very excited. She found some new radio stations and sang along whenever she could.

I opened my eyes and looked at the beautiful day, one of those days when there are just a few scattered soft puffs of cloud against the aqua blue sky. An air force jet began to trail a line from one horizon toward the other. I imagined I was in it, just sailing toward something blue.

“Oh, I can feel it,” Mother darling cried. “I can feel the changes comin‘, Robin. Can’t you?”

“No,” I said, but I said it sadly. I really wished I could feel what she felt. She was glowing with expectation. Would I ever be that radiant with happiness?

She ignored me because she was concentrating hard now on the directions Cory Lewis had given her to a section called Madison. Either he had left out something or she was confused and I wasn’t much help. Finally, she pulled into a gas station and got better directions. About a half hour or so later, we made a turn down a residential street and came upon Garden Apartments.

“We’re here!” she declared, pulling into the parking area. Cars were parked under carports. She found Cory Lewis’s apartment number and pulled in behind what I imagined was his red pickup truck. For a moment she just sat there, smiling. “We made it,” she said. She took a deep breath and added, “The rest will be easy.”

I raised my eyebrows. Maybe it wasn’t so good to have high hopes and dreams, I thought. Without them, there’s no disappointment, and if there was one thing that described my life, it was disappointment with a capital D.

We got out of the Beetle. She said we should find Cory first and then bring along our things.

“He’ll help,” she told me.

The apartments looked seedy to me. The stucco was stained and discolored after years of rain. On some of the balconies, I saw old furniture, rusted exercise equipment, and sick-looking plants. The walkway through the complex was cracked and chipped and, at one point, gouged, with a chunk of the cement gone. There was a swimming pool, but it was empty and there wasn’t anyone around it. As we passed it, I looked down and saw all sorts of garbage at the bottom, including what looked like a little child’s tricycle.

Cory Lewis’s apartment was on the second floor, number 202. Mother darling, still smiling from ear to ear with excitement and expectation, pushed the buzzer. I didn’t hear anything. She pushed it again.

“Maybe it doesn’t work,” I suggested.

“Oh.” She knocked, but there was still no sound from within. I knocked harder, practically pounding the door.

“Robin!”

“Well, maybe he has the radio on. Doesn’t everyone in Nashville have the radio on?”

She scrunched her nose and then the door finally opened and we looked in at a tall, lean man with a thin nose and thin lips. He had what looked like a two- or three-day beard, stiff enough to sand off paint. His light brown hair hung listlessly down the sides of his head to his shoulders, where the split ends curled. Dressed in a black T-shirt with the faded words Bulls Are Always Horny and a pair of jeans, he stood barefoot and looked like he had just woken up. His blue eyes were glassy. I saw he had a small scar just under his right eye. It had tiny spots in it like it had been created with a dinner fork.

“Cory, it’s us!” Mother darling was forced to declare because his face hadn’t recorded any recognition yet.

“Whaa…” He ran his hands over his eyes and blinked. Then he smiled. “I’ll be damned. So it is. Kay Jackson herself,” he cried. “Never thought you’d do it, Kay. We was just thinkin‘ about lookin’ for another singer.”

“You’d better not,” Mother darling said. “I told you I’d be here, and I’m here.”

“Yeah, but you been tellin‘ me that for some time now.” He turned to me. “And this is…”

“Robin Lyn.”

“I like to be called just Robin,” I said quickly.

“Whatever you like, sweet thing. Well, I’m sorry to say the place ain’t exactly in prime condition, Kay. I had the boys here last night playin‘ cards until three in the mornin’. I didn’t get a chance to clean up or fix up the other bedroom yet.”

He stepped back and we gazed in at the small living room. The coffee table was covered with empty beer cans and a pizza box in which two dried pieces remained. There was a bowl with cigarette butts in it and various articles of clothing scattered over the sofa and the two easy chairs, each with thick arms and what looked like holes burned into them by dropped ashes. Pieces of newspaper were scattered about, and I saw what looked like a racetrack form under the table.

“What the place needs badly is a woman’s touch,” he said. Before Mother darling could say it, he flipped his forefinger at her like a pistol and added, “Make a good song.”

She laughed.

“Still the same old Cory. Well,” she said philosophically. “We didn’t expect it would be a picnic right from the start, now did we, Robin?”

“Never that,” I said dryly.

“Why don’t you go back to the car and start getting our things,” she told me. “I’ll help Cory get organized and then maybe he can come out and get the heavier pieces.”

“That’s a good suggestion,” he said. “It’s been a while since I was organized.”

I started away.

“Oh,” he said, looking out the door after me. “I forgot. Welcome to Nashville.”

“Thanks,” I said, and walked on.

I wished I could just keep going and never stop.

If
ever I felt lost or out of place at Grandpa and Grandma’s in Granville, it was nothing compared to how I felt at Cory Lewis’s apartment. At least at my grandparents’ home, I could find space for myself, escape to my own music, into my own little world. Living in this apartment, I knew what bees must feel like in a hive, I thought. Nothing was mine. Nothing was truly private, and everyone’s conversation was buzzing in everyone’s ears whether he or she wanted it or not.

Besides the fact that my room was about one-third as big as the room I had at the farm, the real problem was, there was only one bathroom and because it wasn’t very big either, I had to keep most of my things in my room. I could see that the only time I would have any real privacy was when Mother darling and Cory had to go to the garage owned by Del Thomas, one of the other musicians, to practice and prepare their music. At least for a good part of those days, I would have the apartment to myself, not that there was much to do in it. There was only one television set and Cory wouldn’t pay for any cable or satellite reception, so the set was able to show only local stations pulled out of the air by a rabbit-ear antenna. Some improvement to the life we had, I thought. At least Grandpa had cable and I had my own television set there.

Mother darling saw it in my eyes.

“This is just a temporary residence for us, Robin. As soon as I start makin‘ big money, we’re gonna have a place of our own.”

“By then I’ll be on social security,” I said, and she came as close to slapping me as ever.

“It would help,” she said, standing in front of me with her hands on her hips, “if you would be a little more encouragin‘. I’m doin’ this for both of us.”

“Right,” I said.

Cory watched our little arguments with a wide, stupid grin on his face. Most of the time he wouldn’t say much. He would just shake his head and go, “Robin Lyn.”

“I’m Robin,” I shouted at him. “Not Robin Lyn.”

“Heck, girl, most of the girls I know here got two first names.”

“I’m not from here.”

“Right. You’re from a bigger, more sophisticated town,” he said, and laughed. Mother darling laughed too. It wasn’t long before I felt like it was me against them. She sided with almost anything he said or did.

For my part, I couldn’t see where he was so connected and important in the music business. If he knew so many influential people, why was he living like this and why didn’t he have another singer, one with more experience or fame than Mother darling? I couldn’t believe how much hope and faith my mother was putting in him. From what I could see, he didn’t even seem as successful as the musicians Mother darling played with back in Granville. It was as if she was blind or just didn’t want to see. I actually felt sorry for her, but it wouldn’t be long before I would feel sorrier for myself.

In fact, I felt sorry for her the very first night there. Cory called his two other band members and told them to come over, supposedly to talk about their music and hear Mother darling sing and play her guitar. She got as nervous as a hen. It was as if she was already auditioning to play the Grand Ole Opry.

“What songs should I choose? Which ones do I do best?” she asked, more of herself than to me as she flitted about the small apartment, going from the room she was sharing with Cory to the bathroom and back, barely concerned at all about my room and how I was adjusting to this.

She paused once to say, “Oh, you have a view of the street from here. That’s more interestin‘. We’re lookin’ out on the courtyard.”

“Right. I’ll spend my time watching cars go by,” I said.

“There’s nothin‘ to stop you from fixin’ this room up any way you want,” she said. “Cory said that would be just fine. He was only usin‘ it to store things and occasionally let someone sleep over when he had too much to drink or somethin’. I’m not sure what shirt to wear. I’ve got that one that sparkles like the Electric Horseman. Bet that would be good, huh?”

I didn’t answer. I just continued to take my things out of my suitcase and put them in the drawers of the rickety, old, chipped, and faded dresser. After I cleaned out the spilled tobacco and gum and other junk, that is. The closet was crowded with Cory’s clothing, cartons of sheet music, six pairs of old boots, and a guitar with broken strings.

“Where am I supposed to hang things?” I asked.

“Oh, hell,” Cory said, overhearing me. He rushed in, scooped up clothes, lifted them off the rack, and threw them in the far left corner of the room. “Don’t matter if this stuff’s hangin‘ or not. The closet is yours completely, Robin Lyn,” he said with an exaggerated stage bow.

“Robin,” I said sharply, and he laughed. He had already opened a bottle of beer. It seemed he didn’t move without one in his hand. I noticed a tattoo on his right forearm. It was a picture of a heart split in two with tears dripping from it and the words My Heart Cries for You underneath. He saw me staring at it.

“You can read it better like this,” he said, turning his arm so I’d have a better view.

“Why would you put that on your arm?” I asked, grimacing.

“Oh, didn’t your mother…”

“Sister,” Mother darling corrected from the bathroom where she was fixing her hair. He laughed.

“Sister, I mean, tell you I once had a song on the charts called ‘Broken Heart’?”

“No, she left out that little detail,” I said.

“Kay Jackson. You never told her the important guy you’re working with?”

“Oh yes, she told me that,” I said. He sucked on his beer bottle and then smiled.

“You want to see the rest of the song?”

I didn’t, but I could see it was important to him.

“Sure.”

He opened his shirt and there were two lines tattooed on his chest with that broken heart between them.

Each time it beats a beat, My heart will cry for you.

He took his shirt off completely and showed me his back, where there were two more lines tattooed.

Each time I see your face, My heart will cry for you.

He turned back to me, undid his jeans, and lowered them and his briefs almost to his private place. Another two lines were on his abdomen.

When I see your hand in someone else’s hand, My heart will cry for you.

Then he turned around and dropped his pants and briefs to his knees. There across his buttocks was tattooed:

Until the very end of time, My heart will cry for you.

He pulled up his clothes and turned around to sing some more of his song.

“So take me back and hold me tight and never let me go.

Please mend a heart that’s torn in two, A heart that loves you so.“

He laughed.

“I couldn’t get the whole first verse on me. Well, what’cha think?”

For a moment I had to convince myself I had seen what I had seen.

“What I was thinkin‘,” he continued, gulping some more of his beer and not waiting for me to respond, “is I might have the woman I love tattooed with the rest of it. Then, whenever we stood naked together, we would have the whole song between us. Huh?”