Paradise (11 page)

Little clouds of gold, iridescent pollen danced around the windows in the Sunday morning light. I hadn’t heard a word the preacher said, but I understood spring and resurrection and new beginnings. I knew the best chance for all our dreams was a fresh start. And I knew that I had to persuade Waylon to give Paradise another shot with the band.

Paradise was right. I wasn’t letting go.

“If y’all would come forward a row at a time,” the preacher announced, “we’ll have the flowerin’ of the cross.”

A wooden cross, taller than my daddy and wrapped tightly in chicken wire, leaned against the pulpit. The first-row folks filed one by one to the cross and tucked a fresh flower into the chicken wire. With each flower tucked—from bluebonnets to azaleas to dogwood blooms, even the occasional pine sprig—the crude cross transformed into a beautiful and brightly colored bouquet. That meant something to me. That something could change if you just kept at it. Stayed the course. Maybe I’d be able to pull off a change in Mother. Maybe she’d eventually see my passion for drumming, and all the work and practice, and believe right along with me.

But I was going to need more success than first chair in the school band and ones at solo and ensemble competition for that to happen. Texapalooza was as critical to me as it was to Waylon. If we could do well there, Mother would have proof in front of her that I was serious. We were serious. The band was more than just a bunch of no-direction slackers headed for trouble.

Our row filed toward the cross. For most folks, this was a reverent and sacred event. For Mother, it was a red carpet.

When I stepped into the aisle, Paradise rolled his shoulders as if a gust of spring wind had just spirited up his shirt. There was no part of me he wasn’t taking in, and he made no attempt to hide that fact. I tried to cover my cleavage with my daffodil. Lacey had a pink tulip tucked behind her ear. If Jesus showed up, he’d sure have his work cut out for him.

I placed my daffodil onto the cross. Waylon watched, and I could tell from the way he raised his eyebrows that he wanted to know if Lacey and I were in trouble. I grinned. Shook my head. When I turned around, Mother glared at me as though I’d just struck some soul-swapping deal with the devil. I laughed to myself at the notion that she might think that Waylon and I were into each other. I could almost see the wheels of worry starting to turn in her head.

With no flower to hold and trying not to hobble in my heels, I put my shoulders back and owned my walk down the aisle.

Paradise cocked that dimpled little grin of his.

When church was over, Dad shook hands and fielded questions about the upcoming major-league baseball season. Even though he played professionally only a short time, Dad was still the local expert and celebrity. His fame gave Mother the opportunity to collect compliments and brag on her dressmaking.

Lacey and I waited in the gravel parking lot by the metal statue of a cowboy kneeling in front of a cross. April was the wrong month for halter dresses, and I shivered in the cool spring air.

“Well, praise the Lord.” Lacey quit rubbing her arms and clasped her hands in front of her like a sweet little church girl. “I do believe the Holy Spirit is upon us.”

Paradise, with the older man beside him, walked toward us. I had never really noticed before, but Paradise had a slight bow in his legs—sort of like the eye of a needle—just enough room to slip a hand between.

“He’s in the band, Lacey.” I tried to stand firm on the gravel, but wasn’t very sure-footed in platform heels. “And it was his Bronco that I drove out last night. You should apologize. You basically peed in front of him.”

The sound of gravel crunching grew louder. Paradise stopped beside me.

“Paisley, meet my grandfather.”

The old man, half the size of Paradise, smiled as he held my hand. “I am Javier Cordova and you are the little drummer girl.”

Lacey snickered.

“Gabriela tells me you are very good.”

“Thank you.” I really didn’t appreciate being referred to as “the little drummer girl,” but it was impossible not to be nice to the man. He had an insulating sweetness about him.

“Gabriela is going to be an accordion king. It is his destiny.”

And with that announcement, he might as well have placed a heavy weighted robe with all the hope and promise that an aging king could possibly have in his offspring on Paradise’s shoulders. Paradise twisted the heel of his boot, grinding the gravel into a powder.

His grandfather continued, “He is the best I’ve ever seen. And I have seen Alejo Durán. We are so proud Gabriela has found a band and can play.” With that he nodded and walked off.

Paradise stared across the parking lot, seemingly over and beyond the tops of the tallest pines. Paradise was hardly different from Waylon. Waylon had the pressure of not being good enough to carry on the family name. Paradise had all the pressure that comes with the expectation to be great. Neither wanted to disappoint.

“Isn’t Gabriela a girl’s name?” Lacey asked out of the blue, oblivious to the weight of his grandfather’s words.

“It’s Colombian. Nothing girl about it.” Paradise reached out and touched the silk bow tying my halter dress together. “I’m guessing the Easter-egg-colored dresses weren’t your idea?”

Lacey stared at me. Her eyes as wide as if she’d just witnessed a miracle.

“I put in an order,” I lied.

“I wasn’t saying I didn’t like it.”

I wobbled in my high heels. “Thanks for bringing your grandfather by. He’s sweet.”

“I wasn’t bringing him by. You were on the way.” Paradise took the keys out of his pocket. His blue Bronco, sparkling from a fresh wash and with the hard top off, was not more than fifteen feet from where we stood. “See you tomorrow at rehearsal.” He took a few slow steps backward before turning around and walking off.

Lacey began waving at Waylon. “Waylon!”

Waylon stomped up with his guitar slung over his shoulder. He looked like a man who’d lost his mojo.

“Waylon, you were awesome.” Lacey loved to hear Waylon play as much as anyone. “You’re the only reason I didn’t fake the flu and stay home this morning.”

Waylon hugged Lacey like she was the best big sister ever. “Paisley, I’ll see you tomorrow at the hangar. I’ll figure out what we’re going to do about a lead singer.”

I mustered up a compliment. He needed one. “Lacey’s right, Waylon. You’re awesome. After Texapalooza, everyone will know it too.” We stood for a minute, and I thought about hugging him. But it was Waylon, and I still remembered when he told everyone in third grade that I ate dog food like popcorn. So no hugging. I gave him a sympathy rub on his arm.

Mother snuck up and pointed at him with her patent-leather clutch bag. “Well, Waylon, isn’t there a big Slider tour bus you should be on?” She kept flipping the gold-and-rhinestone clasp on the bag.
Snip-snap. Snip-snap.

I moved my hand off his arm. Waylon left.

“Paisley, there better not be anything more to what I just saw,” Mother threatened.

A sudden blast of accordion music filled the parking lot. Paradise, his hat off and his hair blowing in the rush of wind, left the parking lot in the key of G.

Little did Mother know, Waylon was the least of her worries.

CAL’S LYRIC JOURNAL

GRASS CLIPPIN’ THINKIN’

You ever mowed grass? I’m bettin’ you haven’t.

It’ll screw with your mind

Hearin’ a Snapper whine

Doin’ yard-mowin’ time

Grass clippin’. Mind trippin’.

I worked three days this week mowin’ yards after school

The sun beat down

I’d make another round

Grass clippin’. Mind trippin’.

I see you checkin’ out Gabe, your eyes don’t lie

What’s so damn great

About a beefed-up guy?

Grass clippin’. Mind trippin’.

I grabbed a cold drink, sat down, tried to think

Don’t we want the same things?

He gets the heat.

I get the sweet.

Grass clippin’. Mind trippin’.

13

THE HOLDUP

Come Monday, Uncle L. V. was kicked back in a lawn chair on his patio, soaking up some late afternoon sun. He had his feet propped up on a cooler and a gallon tub of Blue Bell Homemade vanilla in his lap. He raised one foot, pulled a bottle of Shiner Bock from the cooler, and popped the cap off with his teeth.

I sat down on the cooler and held out a paper plate with a piece from our Easter cake on it. “I brought you an ear, but it doesn’t look like you need any more carbs.”

“All things in moderation, Paisley. Includin’ moderation.” L. V. leaned forward and lifted the plastic wrap. “Bet she spent all day dying that coconut pink.” He took the spoon from his ice cream and cut the bunny ear in half. He dropped it in the ice cream tub.

I watched him chew. His door-knocker mustache had a life of its own; it reminded me of a little furry gerbil. “I also put some honey-glazed ham and peas in your refrigerator. I didn’t think you’d be here. That rain Saturday night keep you from flying?”

L. V. swallowed a big bite of cake and ice cream, then washed it down with the beer. “Flyin’ in the rain’s easy. It’s the takin’ off and landin’ in it that gets complicated.” He leaned back, flipped his ponytail over the chair, and closed his eyes. “Paisley, there are old pilots. There are bold pilots. But there ain’t any old bold pilots.”

The high-pitched squeal from Cal’s Gibson guitar floated toward us. I took note of Waylon’s old Camaro and Levi’s truck parked behind the hangar. No sign of Paradise’s Bronco.

L. V. opened one eye. “I guess that worried look means y’all ain’t makin’ Texapalooza?”

“We’ve got to make it.” I walked to the edge of the patio, looked toward the blacktop road. “It’s the biggest high school band showcase anywhere, but it’s eighteen and under. Levi and our new lead singer are probably both eighteen.” I turned back to L. V. “This is our shot. Waylon’s paid the entrance fee. Do or die.”

“So other than my sister”—L. V. took another swig of beer—“what’s the hold up?”

Coming in the distance, up the long drive to L. V.’s house, the distinctive sound of Carlos Vives filled the afternoon. The baby blue Bronco, still topless, rolled to a stop between the house and the hangar. Paradise put his hat on his head and stepped out. He smiled at me as he threw on a flannel shirt.

“Oh Lord, Paisley.” L. V. shook his head—half laughing, half beer-sipping. “You’ve got yourself a problem.”

Paradise walked up and shook hands with L. V. “Gabriela Grenados.”

“L. V., this would be our lead singer.” I kept the introduction short, hoping L. V. wouldn’t read anything more into it than he already had. “And he plays the accordion.”

L. V. planted a hard stare on Paradise, giving him the once-over from the tip of Paradise’s snip-toe boots, to the rips in his jeans, to the small gold loops in each ear. L. V. took a swig of his beer, then asked, “Zydeco or
vallenato
?”

Paradise smiled, but I don’t think L. V. noticed his dimple.

I could’ve dropped a dime in it.

“
Vallenato
,” Paradise said and stretched an even bigger grin. “My grandfather’s a Colombian accordion king.”

“Then you wear his hats and leave mine alone.”

Paradise kept his chin up. “Yes, sir.”

L. V. pointed his beer at him. “I’m guessing your family’s got something to do with that new coffee-roasting plant being built in Jessup County.”

“We import coffee.” Paradise fidgeted with his leather bracelet. “My father didn’t want his coffee beans to have to travel so far from the port in Houston, so we moved here from Paradise.”

“Son.” L. V. chuckled and smoothed his mustache with his thumb and index finger. “I’ve been all over this state. You didn’t move from Paradise. You moved to it.”

As much as Mother loathed Prosper County, Uncle L. V. loved it. He’d been all over the world, but he always came home as if home was the place that strengthened him. I started walking toward the hangar before L. V. schooled us on East Texas history and before he could ask what in the heck Paradise was doing in his house with me. “We’ve got a lot of work to do and not so much daylight.”