Long Black Curl (32 page)

“The question is, what will you do?” Junior asked.

“First I'll find her, then I'll talk to her. Then I'll make it up as I go.”

“That's not much of a plan.”

“You haven't given me much to go on. And you forget, I haven't seen her in a very long time. I'm a different person now; I have to assume she might be, as well.”

“Meaning…?”

“Meaning that I don't know how she'll react when she sees me. She might kiss me, she might take a shot at me.”

“That's your risk,” Bronwyn said.

“Yes, I understand that,” Jeff snapped. “And when this is over, whatever the outcome, I get to stay. Right?”

“Yes,” Bronwyn said.

“That's it? No dramatic pause? No exchange of a surreptitious glance?”

“No. You're back. You're a Tufa again.”

“So … I can sing?”

“Just like before.”

He sat back, sipped his coffee again, then softly:

As I wandered through the townlands,

And the luscious grassy plains,

Who should I meet but a beautiful maid,

At the dawning of the day.

When he finished, he sat silently for a long time. At last he said, “Well, damn.”

“Welcome back,” Junior said.

“I have some things I need to do today,” he said. “Loose ends to tie up before I leave. I'll be in Needsville by tomorrow night, Thursday morning at the latest. Will my parents know I'm coming, or will I need to stay at Peggy's motel?”

“I'm sorry,” Bronwyn said. “Your parents passed away some time ago.”

He said nothing, and kept the emotion off his face. “Well … it has been a while. My brothers and sister?”

“They're still around. They'll be glad to see you.”

“I'm not sure about that. But I have to start somewhere.” He handed them each a business card. “My cell's on here. I'll see you both down South.”

When he was gone, Bronwyn took a bite of her eggs and said, “This is awful.”

“He knows what he's getting into.”

“I mean these eggs.”

Junior scowled at her. “Ha ha. Do you really think he'll be able to stop her?”

“I don't know. We have to trust that Mandalay's right.”

“Yeah. We have to do that a lot, have you noticed?”

“It's the way things are. She's never been wrong.”

“Well, there's that. But Bo-Kate killed Rockhouse. We never thought that could happen, either.”

“That's an even bigger reason to do what Mandalay tells us.”

“So you think she is right?”

“I think she knows more than we do, and so we can't help but be wrong if we second-guess her decisions.”

“That sounds a lot like the way Christians like your husband talk about their God.”

Bronwyn smiled at the irony. “Yeah, it does. Guess a lot of things work in mysterious ways.”

*   *   *

“Hey, man, what're you doing here?” Hector Jacob, leader of the band Meat Raffle, said as Jeff walked into the recording studio. The place smelled of dope and cheap wine, with a slight undertaste of fast-food grease.

“Wanted to see how my favorite band was getting along,” Jeff said. The band was in its second week of recording its third album. Drug use was rampant but not affecting performance, and Hector's tendency to get drunk by three in the afternoon was accommodated by having him record all his vocals first. Jeff nodded at producer William “Little Bill” Paul, the man who had quickly sorted out how to get the most from the band in the least amount of time.

“We're making the grade,” Hector said. “Getting ready to rehearse ‘She's Like a Flower.'”

Jeff knew that one from the band's original demo. He stood before a PRS Custom 24 guitar in its stand and rested his fingertips lightly on the head. “Mind if I play along?”

“Okay with me,” said Johnny Pigsty, the sullen guitarist.

“You play?” Hector said, surprised.

“I've been known to pick a song or two.”

“Sure,” Hector said with a shrug. The rest of the band said nothing, but they all watched as Jeff shrugged the strap over his shoulder and plugged into the amp.

“If you get lost,” Jeff said, “just go to G and wait for me there.”

The drummer counted off, and the band slammed into the song, which was upbeat, cheery, and had an incredibly catchy chorus. Jeff found the chords easily and felt the eyes of the other band members on him, watching with surprise and appreciation.

When it came time for the instrumental bridge, Hector said, “Take it, Jeff,” and Jeff did. His fingers slid expertly up and down the strings, squeezing high, rapid notes out of the instrument with the skill and dexterity of the best session guitarists. But there was something else, a desperate, plaintive quality that worked perfectly against the overall vibe of the song, adding a depth to the simple party tune that no one expected. When he nodded at Hector to begin the final verse, Jeff saw open mouths all around.

The song crashed to an end, and as the last notes faded, Hector said, “Little Bill, please tell me you were recording that.”

The intercom clicked open. “Sorry, guys, thought it was just a jam session. Damn, Jeff, I had no idea you could do that. Why have you been hiding it?”

Jeff took off the guitar, put it reverently back on the stand, and took a deep, satisfied breath. He wanted to cry, but figured that would be even more difficult to explain. “I just putz around. I'm better at arguing with people than I am at playing.”

“Then you must be the best arguer in the world,” drummer Cap Hathstone said. “Glad you're on our side.”

Jeff smiled. “Thanks for letting me jam, guys. I'll let you get back to work.” He shook hands and slapped high fives all around, turned down an offered joint, then went into the control booth to speak to Little Bill. When the door shut, he said quietly, “You did record it, didn't you?”

“I record everything, you know that.”

“Thanks for not telling them.”

He shrugged. “I want to keep working with the bands you handle. And it wouldn't be fair to put a solo on the actual album that none of them could play.”

“Oh, I wasn't that good.”

“You're telling
me
how to listen to music?”

Jeff chuckled. “Can you send me a copy?”

“Sure.”

“I'll be out of town for a few days. Have to go home for some family business. Just e-mail it, and I'll get it that way.”

“Will do. Where's home, by the way?”

“Tennessee. Up in the Smoky Mountains.”

“Beautiful country.”

“It is that. Haven't been back there in a long time, so I'm really looking forward to it.”

“Well, have a safe trip.”

Jeff left the studio and walked down the crowded sidewalk with a lift in his step, whistling “She's Like a Flower.” He hadn't truly realized how hollow he'd been until now, when that space was once again filled by music.

 

24

The plane ride to Nashville had been uneventful, and the rental car was comfortable and rode smoothly up the interstate. Jeff sang along with Sirius's Bluegrass Junction station and pondered what he'd learned.

Earlier that day, after leaving the Nashville airport, he drove into the city. The enormous BellSouth Building, with its batlike silhouette, dominated the skyline. He merged from I-40 to I-24, then exited and crossed the Cumberland River into downtown.

He found Bo-Kate's office with no trouble. He casually entered the waiting room, where posters of various concert package tours lined the walls. There were all kinds: rap, country, pop, and has-beens. A black secretary with a big Afro sat typing behind the desk. “Yes?” she said coolly when she looked up.

“Is Ms. Wisby in?”

“I'm afraid not. Can I take a message?”

“No, I was just in the neighborhood. Bo-Kate and I grew up together in Needsville, I thought I'd stop by and say hi.”

“Oh, yeah, I can see the resemblance. Same hair and teeth.”

He laughed. “Don't let her know you said that.”

“She checks in a couple of times a day. I can tell her you asked about her.”

“Nah, that's all right. What's her assistant's name? Jerome?”

“No, Nigel. Nigel Hawtrey.”

“Nigel, that's right,” Jeff said, snapping his fingers as if it had been right on the tip of his tongue. “English fella, right?”

“That's him.”

“Is he here?”

“No,” she said with exaggerated seriousness. “Bo-Kate takes him everywhere. A lot of what he does for her isn't covered in the employee handbook, if you know what I mean.”

“Really?”

“But you didn't hear it from me.”

“Hear what?” he said with a grin. He looked around at the office, all gleaming and new. “Looks like she's doing pretty good for herself.” He noticed a framed tour poster on the wall, displaying the face of a young woman with a '60s-style hairdo and extreme eye makeup. “Well, except for that whole thing with Naomi Barden.”

“That was tragic,” she agreed. “But when a girl's got demons, only she can chase 'em out. And she didn't want to.”

Jeff remembered the girl's most successful song, an anthem for her right to keep partying no matter what. The chorus was:

I won't sober up

I won't dry out

I won't make amends

I'll always dance and shout.

“But someone else will come along,” the receptionist said. “Bo-Kate has a knack for knowing who's going to be the next big thing.”

“That's a good knack to have. Wish I had it.”

“Me, too,” the secretary said, smiling at last.

Jeff said, “Can I leave her a note for when she comes back?”

“Sure.” She handed him a notepad, with Wisby Tour Management's logo across the top.

Jeff wrote, “Listen to the mandolin rain and the banjo wind,” signed just his first name, and folded it up. He had no illusions that the secretary would leave it unread, but that was okay. The message would mean nothing to anyone but Bo-Kate, and she wouldn't read it until after he'd dealt with her, one way or the other.

Now as he drove west on Interstate 40 past Cookeville, his adrenaline faded, replaced with the kind of dread only someone doomed to see an old lover can feel. But in his case, it was more than just “old lover”: it was coconspirator and evil genius. What he and Bo-Kate had done in the name of their love now appalled him, and he hardly knew the young man he'd once been, who was capable of such atrocities.

No, that wasn't true. He
did
know him. Because the thing he truly hated to admit to himself was that what they'd done felt
good.
When they'd torn into each other afterwards, biting and clawing and fucking until they both couldn't move, it had been the grandest, biggest thing he'd ever felt. His main worry was that, when he saw Bo-Kate, that feeling would return. He wasn't sure he was strong enough even now to resist it.

*   *   *

It was midafternoon when Jeff topped the hill and saw Needsville in the valley below.

He pulled to the side of the road and sat, trying to calm his physical self as well as his emotions. His heart pounded, sweat trickled down the back of his neck, and his chest tightened. He was astounded at how little the town had changed in the unbelievable years he'd been away. There were some new things: Wires ran down the highway, streetlights gleamed in the winter dimness, and a new convenience store beckoned. But everything else was the same. He felt like there should be horses tied outside the buildings instead of parked cars.

“Remember what year it is, dumb-ass,” he whispered to himself. “And remember why you're here.” He put both shaking hands on the steering wheel, and pulled back onto the highway.

He stopped in front of the Catamount Corner, alongside three other vehicles with out-of-state plates. He got out and went up the steps before he could talk himself out of it.

The lobby was a lot like he remembered it, although the knicknacks for sale were now extraneous decorations, not useful sundries. In the little caf
é
, a couple sat talking in low tones, their eyes not leaving each other. He went to the desk and tapped the bell.

Peggy Goins emerged and said cheerily, “Yes, sir, how may I help?”

“You can help by saying hello, Miss Peggy.”

It took her a moment. “My God. Jefferson Powell.”

“I'm your god? That's flattering.”

She laughed. “I'm sorry, it's just … I mean, I knew you were coming, but to see you there, just standing there like nobody's business…”

“It's a surprise to me, too. You're looking well.”

“I'm feeling great. Especially now that you're here to deal with that girlfriend of yours.”

“She's not my girlfriend, Miss Peggy. She hasn't been for a long time.”

“Well, she's got everyone stirred up here, that's for sure.”

“Any idea where she is?”

“No, I'm afraid not. The last time I saw her, she was standing right there, took a shot at a twelve-year-old girl and then ran off. As far as I know, no one's seen her since.”

“A twelve-year-old girl?”

“Mandalay Harris. She carries the songs.”

“Ah. I suppose I need to talk to her, then. Where does she live?”

“Out across Jury Creek. In a house trailer with her dad and stepmom.”

“Reckon she'll be expecting me?”

“Probably.” She smiled. “It's good to see you, Jeff. Thank you for coming to help. I know it couldn't have been easy after what happened.”

“No, but Bronwyn Hyatt made me an offer I couldn't refuse.”

“She's good at things like that.”