Somebody Everybody Listens To (25 page)

I pulled into Ricky Dean's parking lot, and at first I didn't even see the ambulance. No flashing lights. No wailing siren. Just a quiet sign that something was terribly wrong.

RICKY'S TOW TRUCK SAT QUIETLY IN THE DARKNESS, and I slung Goggy's car in right next to it and switched off the ignition. That “Badonkadonk” song was stuck in my head. It'd been playing on the radio, but I was so lost in happy thoughts I hadn't minded it. Now the tune made me want to punch something. Everything is
fine
, I told myself, even though ambulances don't usually show up for no reason. “Fine,” I whispered, and got out of the car.

I noticed Ricky hadn't bothered to turn on the outside security lights. The small crowd of onlookers would've defi nitely set off the motion sensors if he had. I recognized several of them: the old lady from next door who complained daily about the tow truck's noisy muffler; a couple of scrawny stray boys on beat-up bikes; a just-married couple from up the street (the faded tissue-paper wedding bells were still tied to their mailbox) with three kids in tow; and the window-tinting guy from two doors down.

The shop's garage doors were shut tight, as was the main entry, so it was impossible to see what was going on inside. I could've easily pushed the door open or, if it was locked, used my key. After all, I worked here, lived here. I was entitled, but I stood perfectly still, as if the slightest movement might send me and Ricky careening over a cliff. A cop car pulled in beside the ambulance. The driver's-side door swung open, and a police officer the size of Charlie Daniels got out. He tugged at his gun belt in that Marshal Matt Dillon-like way (
Gunsmoke
reruns, I suspected) and strode over to us, cleared his throat importantly, and glanced around. “Uh, anybody here know the next of kin?” he asked.

The window tinter nudged me. “I work here,” I said.

“All right then, come on,” he replied, and I followed him, reluctantly. I could hear voices on the other side of the door, low and whispering.
Fine. Fine. Fine.

“You knew this man personally?” the officer confirmed.

“Knew?” I repeated.

“Come on,” he said, and pushed the door open then closed it behind us.

“She the next of kin?” The paramedic whispered to the officer in that gravelly low voice, the one reserved for hospitals and funeral parlors. I stared at the stark white sheet draped over the stretcher, waited for it to rise and fall with Ricky's breathing, but it was still.

“She works here,” the police officer replied.

“I'm sorry to say,” the paramedic began, “well . . . he was already gone when we got here, ma'am. I suspect a heart attack or maybe a stroke, it's hard to say. He called the ambulance himself. He was in that chair over there. We tried to shock him, but . . .” His voice trailed off, and he shook his head.

The buzzing sound was back. I glanced at the fluorescent light hanging from the ceiling, but the noise was coming from inside my head. “The Ballad of Curtis Loew,” that was the song Ricky had hummed.
When? Five hours ago? Yes. Five hours seems about right. He was standing right over there by the sink.
I glanced at his Dale Earnhardt coffee mug. Just this morning I'd rinsed it out for him, turned it upside down, and left it draining on a paper towel, all ready for tomorrow. The officer was saying something. “What?” I asked, and blinked up at him.

“Do you think you could make a positive identification?”

I nodded, and watched the paramedic lean over the stretcher. Ever so gently, he lifted the sheet.

“It's him,” I whispered without looking.

“If you'd rather not do this, it's okay,” the officer said.

I glanced at Ricky's face. His skin was pale blue, and it looked so cool, so out of place here in this sweltering room. “It's Ricky Dean,” I said, and wiped a glob of sweat from my temple.

“Do you think you could find the names of his loved ones?” the officer asked.

“I think so.” I was trembling now. Hard as I tried, I couldn't hide it.

“Maybe you should sit down a minute,” the paramedic suggested. I glanced at my desk chair, the one Ricky had died in, and shook my head.

“I'll get you the number. Just a minute,” I said, and tugged open the file cabinet. The folder was jammed with papers. Personal stuff was mixed in with business. I hadn't had a chance to clean this one out yet. Now it didn't matter, I realized, and glanced over at the stretcher again. Shanay's number was scratched onto the inside of the folder. Surely she would know how to reach Ricky's son, his ex-wife, his brother.

The Redneck Rider gleamed under the shop lights as if to remind me that the parts in that car alone were worth a fortune, not to mention all the other valuable things—petty cash, expensive tools, supplies. Maybe calling a jobless alcoholic wasn't such a good idea. I kept digging.

Roy Dean's number was near the back, on a receipt from the Cracker Barrel. “His brother,” I said, and gave it to the officer.

“Good. You've been a big help, young lady.”

“We're taking the body to St. Thomas Hospital,” said the paramedic. He handed me a business card. “The information's all right here.”

I clutched the card, watched them fling open the garage door, back the beeping ambulance into the shop then hoist Ricky inside. Just like that, Ricky was leaving the Auto Den for the very last time. I glanced around, as if to take it all in for him—the dusty windows, greasy floors, the shot glasses (left over from his drinking days), and tools and spare parts, the old desk and rickety file cabinet. It wasn't much in the scheme of things, but he'd loved it all just the same.

When the ambulance was gone, the officer shut the door again, and even though I couldn't see them, I knew the neighbors were drifting back to their sitcoms and La-Z-Boys, their lives still intact. “Is there someplace I could drive you?” the officer asked.

“I live here,” I said, and my heart spasmed with dread. I could feel him studying me. “My room's right over here. See,” I said, and pushed the door open. My Emmylou Harris poster hung on the wall, and she stared at us with those sad brown eyes.

“How old are you?” the officer asked.

“Nineteen this October.”

He took off his cap and scratched his head. “Okay. Well, you lock up tonight. I'm off my shift in a couple hours, but I'll make sure my replacement keeps an eye on things. You don't hesitate to call if there's trouble. This isn't exactly the best neighborhood, and there's a lot of valuable things in here. People aren't always nice at times like this.”

“I know. I'll take care of it,” I said.

After the officer left, I bolted all the doors, checked the locks on the windows, and set the alarm. For the night, I was locked in tight, but tomorrow would surely bring something different. Something I wasn't ready for. To keep my mind occupied, I grabbed a broom and swept till my arms ached. I soaked up the oil spills with paper towels, and wiped down every surface with all the elbow grease I could muster. Anybody peeking through the windows would've thought I was scouring a crime scene instead of staving off hard-boiled insanity.

When exhaustion finally claimed me, I sat down on the stool next to the Redneck Rider and stared at it for a long while. It was a masterpiece, like one of those priceless paintings a great artist does right before he dies, a reminder of what the world will be missing from now on. I willed myself not to cry. What was the point anyway? Crying never did anybody any good, but then I noticed Ricky's gray coveralls. They waited on a hook by the door, and somehow, even without Ricky in them, they still held his shape.

 

It was around three A.M. when I pulled myself together,
sort of
. I stopped crying at least, went back to my room, and switched on the air conditioner. There was no way I could sleep, though, not tonight. The mold stains were still on the ceiling and driving me crazy suddenly, so I went to find the bottle of Tilex, dragged a ladder into the room, climbed to the top rung, then got all light-headed and had to come back down again. It was weird being here and knowing Ricky wasn't coming back, not tomorrow, not ever. All this time there'd been a safety net under me; now it was gone.

I switched off the light and stretched out on the sofa. “He said I'll love you 'til I die,” I sang into the darkness. It was George Jones's biggest hit ever, the comeback record from 1982 and redemption in a way after all those missed concerts and lawsuits and divorces. “No-Show Jones,” they'd called him back then. I sang the song over and over, a tribute to Ricky, a lullaby for me.

 

The funeral was on Saturday in a little town forty miles south of Nashville. Ricky's ex-wife made all the arrangements. The funeral home was elegant, a large Victorian house that'd been converted to suit the needs of an undertaker. The lawn was perfectly manicured with thick boxwoods and well-tended roses.

Becky was a sturdy woman in her forties, pretty with short highlighted hair and perfectly manicured nails and
lots
of gold jewelry. She wore a black sleeveless sundress, and I could see she was cold in the artificial blast of air-conditioning. Chill bumps stood up on her plump arms. The service was already twenty minutes behind schedule, and the room had shifted from woefully quiet to restless and talkative. Finally, the preacher stood up.

“We had a little problem with the singer this morning. She called to say she had car trouble. She's coming all the way from Pulaski, so I don't know if she'll make it in time, but if she doesn't, that's just the Lord's plan.” He gripped the sides of the podium and took a deep breath.

“We all knew Ricky Dean had a wild side,” he began. The crowd laughed, and I could tell they were sitting up a little straighter. The truth has a way of getting people's attention. “He wrecked a good many cars, had more than a few barroom brawls, and a time or two, he went to jail for the night. You can attest to that, can't you, Becky?” Ricky's ex-wife nodded and dabbed her eyes with a wad of tissues. “But a few years ago, Ricky came to me. It was right after his heart attack, and he said to me, ‘Brother George, I want to change. How exactly does God go about making that happen?' ” The crowd laughed again, and the preacher smiled wryly and waited for them to stop. “I said to him, I says, ‘Ricky Dean, you the one that's got to change yourself. The good Lord just cheers you on.' And the good Lord did cheer him on. We all did, didn't we?”

Ricky's son, Dale, sat next to his mother. He was a tall man, not much older than me, but with serious, dark eyes and thinning hair. He couldn't have been more than twenty-two or -three, but already he had a shiny spot the size of a saucer on the back of his head. Dale put his arm around his mother and patted her gently.

“These last few years Ricky lived a good life. He did kind things for lots of folks. You wouldn't believe all the stories I've heard about just today. And there's a hot rod sitting out there in the parking lot that looks like something out of a magazine. You like that car, don't you, Roy?” the preacher asked. Ricky's brother grimaced and nodded. “See, I believe that the Lord uses the good and the bad in us. Ricky's wild side made him humble. It made him take kindness on people in their times of need. It kept him from judging the mistakes and weaknesses and addictions of others. ‘Judge not, lest ye be judged.'” The preacher looked at Becky hard then, and she sobbed a little then stifled herself.

“So I guess Ricky's leaving this earth too early can teach us something about ourselves. How can God use the frailties in you? How are you exactly the way God meant for you to be? And how does he want you to change for the greater good? It's the question Ricky leaves all of us with today, but God is cheering us on,” the minister said.

We stood and sang “Amazing Grace.” The words were printed on the program, but I didn't need them. Thanks to all my years at Starling Methodist, I knew the hymn by heart. When the song ended, Brother George went to the podium again. “Looks like Mrs. Allister isn't gonna make it. She planned to sing Ricky's favorite hymn, “I'll Fly Away.” Anybody else wanna give it a try?” he asked, and glanced around the room. I thought about raising my hand, but I'd had a hard enough time getting through “Amazing Grace.” “I'll Fly Away” would've put me over the edge.