Lost in NashVegas Page 2

  I sing through the chorus two or three times, feeling the moment, and then realize I’m not sure how to end and exit. Except for my voice and guitar, the auditorium is silent. I wonder if everyone figured the show was over once the triplets were upright and went home. I open one eye.

  The crowd is staring at me. In an instant, my knees buckle like weak wood, and I lose the peaceful sensation of God’s pleasure. Shoot. I play the last chord and let my vocal fade away as chills replace the warmth. Will there be a snort, a muffled guffaw, and fading tee-hee just like with the triplets?

  Coming up behind me, Jeeter catches me around my shoulders so I can’t leave. He grabs the microphone, wearing a big cheesy grin on his leathery face. “Freedom, Alabama’s own Robin Rae McAfee, everyone. Let’s hear it!”

  The auditorium explodes with applause. Whistles. Cheering. Some people even jump to their feet.

  Bumbling a bow, I whisper to Jeeter, “Can I go now?”

  “I told you, Robin Rae,” he slaps my back. “They love you. Sing another song.”

  He can’t be serious? “Isn’t one enough?”

  His face crinkles into an even wider grin. “If you’re a coward, I suppose so.” He sweeps his arm toward the crowd. They’re settling down as if waiting for more. “You have them eating out of your hand. Might as well go for it.”

  My sweaty little hand?

  Jeeter shoves me toward the mike and heads off, calling over his shoulder, “Sing.”

  My smile feels rather shaky as I stand there, rubbing my hands down the sides of my jeans, riffling through my mental song catalog.

  “Sing something fun,” Jeeter hollers from the wings, his hands cupped around his mouth.

  “Okay, this is a song I wrote a few weeks ago. ‘Your Country Princess.’”

  The beat is chompy and fast as I hit the E string then belt out the lyrics with a strong and clear voice.

  You say you’re working late, again.

  To earn an extra fifty bucks.

  You say we’re gonna have a better life.

  Buy me a diamond ring and you a big Ford truck.

  As the song builds to the chorus, the energy of the crowd gets me going, and I stomp out the rhythm with the heel of my boot.

  Ooo, let me be your Country Princess.

  Plain and beautiful, that’s what life is . . .

  Merry-go-rounds and Christmas lights . . .

  Rocking through the chorus and into the second verse, I relax a little, bravely peeking at the crowd beyond the first row. They’re clapping and swaying, and when I loop back into the chorus, a choir of female voices raises the rafters.

  Ooo, let me be your Country Princess . . .

  A banjo starts plucking, and Paul Whitestone saunters up beside me. Next, a fiddle whines as Granddaddy Lukeman walks my way, his blue eyes snapping as he does a little Pa Ingalls jig. Behind him, Jeeter comes out with his steel guitar, and the triplets, fully recovered, stomp and swirl across the stage.

  We let the music go a round without the words, the players circling and leaning together. My heart soars with the music, rising above the thousand pairs of eyes watching.

  Now this I could do the rest of my life.

  2

  “You did it, Robbie!” Daddy picks me up and swirls me around. “I’m so proud of you.”

  Ricky Holden, my man of six months, tucks his arm around my waist and kisses me on the cheek. “How’s it feel?”

  “I did it for the triplets. But . . .” I grin. “It feels great.” I hope he doesn’t think “Country Princess” is about him. Because it’s not. Really, it’s not.

  Momma’s off to my right, pressing her lips into a straight line. “The Lord knows Robin don’t need encouragement to waste time playing music.” She clucks and fluffs like a mad hen.

  “Simmer down, Bit,” Daddy says, his big hand resting gently on her shoulder.

  I glance up at Ricky. He’s seen Momma, on a few occasions, aflame with moral and/or social injustice, but this is his first opportunity to see steam coming out of her ears.

  “Ten minutes in the Hall don’t make you a star, Robin Rae.” She steams all over me.

  “What? Who said—”

  “We’re going home, Bit.” Daddy gently takes Momma by the arm, an indication her last comment was his last straw. “’Night, Robin. ’Night, Ricky.”

  “’Night, Daddy.” I watch them go.

  “Hey, do you want to grab a bite before the diner closes?” Ricky weaves his fingers through mine. Innocent as it is, it makes me feel like a possession. But I don’t pull away.

  “Not tonight. We have to work early.” I tug on his hand. “So, did I really do okay?”

  He shrugs. “Yeah, you were all right.”

  “Just all right?” I shuffle around him in a little Cowgirl Boogie ’N Strut.

  He grins. “Maybe even pretty good. Didn’t know you had it in you.”

  “Me, neither. But, I did it for the triplets.” I peel my hand away from his. “Better get my guitar.”

  He follows me to where I left my guitar by the stage curtain. “What’s with your momma and you singing?”

  “I have no idea.” I glance out to the emptying auditorium. “She’s acted funny about me and music ever since Granddaddy Lukeman gave me a guitar for my tenth birthday. Momma exploded like Mount St. Helens, spewing and spitting, changing the whole atmosphere of the room. Me and five other ten-year-olds ran for cover under the trampoline.”

  Ricky laughs. “Sweet Bit, exploding? ”

  “Sweet Bit, nothing. You saw a little of Sour Bit just now, and believe me, there’s plenty more.”

  Just then, Momma runs back across the stage and stops right in front of me. “You’ll be at dinner tomorrow night, right?”

  Daddy ambles up behind her and gently drags her away again, hollering hellos and waving across the auditorium to Bill Hamilton and Mike Greaves.

  “Robin? Dinner?” Momma calls.

  “Yes, dinner,” I say with a sigh.

  Saturday night dinner at Bit McAfee’s is the eleventh commandment. My sister, Eliza, and little brother, Steve, are pardoned from the commandment since they live and breathe out of town, but for me it’s a requirement. I’m suspicious that the eleventh commandment is why Eliza left for college, and Steve got married and joined the Marine Corps.

  “Bring Ricky,” Momma calls from halfway up the aisle.

  Everyone looks around at us. “All right, Momma,” I mumble, snapping the buckles on my case.

  Ricky lifts my face with a touch of his finger. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, just worn out.”

  His very sexy blue eyes survey mine for the truth. “I guess facing your fears and your Momma in one night has to be tough.” He chuckles and bends down for a kiss.

  He thinks he’s joking, but he’s right. I walk with him toward the stage door. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were one and the same.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I shove my hair behind my ears. “Me afraid to sing on stage, Momma afraid for me to sing on stage . . . I don’t know, but something’s not right . . . or missing.”

  He waves to his friend, Mitch Pearce, who’s leaving the Hall. “You’ll figure it out.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Typical Ricky. I try to take the conversation deep, discuss the intimate issues of my heart, and he opts for the baby pool.

  At his truck, he falls against the door and wraps me up. “See you in the morning?” He kisses me like he’s not thinking about work in the morning.

  I rub my hand over his short blond hair. “Bright and early.”

  I bolt upright to the high-pitched beeping of my alarm, my hair flopping over my eyes. Parting the strands, I stare bleary-eyed. Three a.m.

  If the good Lord meant for folks to get up before the crack of dawn, He would’ve made us all roosters and been done with it.

  But, truth be told, it’s not waking at three a.m. that bothers me. It’s the reality of the job itself—stocki
ng shelves at Willaby’s Market & Grocery. Is this the culmination of my twenty-five years? Shelving food for the masses?

  The other day Mrs. Farmington came into the store, saw me blocking down the sardine section, and said in her shrill voice, “Well, Robin McAfee. What in the world?”

  Yeah, that’s what I’d like to know. What in the world?

  After showering, I find that my Willaby’s uniform is on the bedroom floor, wrinkled and soiled. Should’ve done a load of washing last night. I left in such a jittery rush to get to the Music Hall, half hoping for an earthquake or flash flood (regardless of dry skies) to stop the show, I forgot all about my pile of laundry. Gathering an armful of clothes from the floor and making sure it contains two uniform pants and two shirts, I hurry to the stacked washer and dryer tucked into a kitchen corner.

  The washer hesitates when I click the dial to Normal and push Start. Come on, Betsy. I bang the side and the machine lurches.

  “Good going, girl. You’ll be worth my fifty bucks yet.”

  The set came from my landlord, Boon Crawford Jr. “Hate to see you toting your stuff to the Laundromat,” he’d said the afternoon he and Daddy helped me move in.

  “I can always do laundry at Momma and Daddy’s,” I answered.

  That’s when Daddy raised his eyebrows and stuck out his chin. “If you’re gonna move out and be independent, might as well go all the way.”

  Who’d have thought a washer and dryer would symbolize my emancipation?

  Standing at the time clock at Willaby’s, I punch in and follow my nose to the coffee machine. French vanilla. Ricky and the rest of the stock crew are waiting for me as my nose leads me around the back hall corner. They whoop and holler when they see me, scaring me right into the box baler.

  “Way to go, Robin!”

  “You were hotter than bare feet on blacktop last night.”

  “Girl, you can sing.”

  “Did you write those songs? They were good.”

  “Stop, y’all. Stop,” I demand, stirring too much sugar into my coffee.

  They chatter about the Freedom Sing while refilling their cups, snickering a little about Elvira, Elmira, and Eldora until I tell them to hush up.

  We have a lot of stock to work up today, so the crew starts hauling pallets of groceries out to the main floor. When the last crew member disappears, Ricky lures me behind the baler and with a wicked grin nuzzles my neck. “So, maybe you’ve got a little bit of fame after all.” His breath is hot on my neck.

  “How-do, now you get it?” I press my hands on his chest. “Too little, too late.”

  “Robin!” Mr. Chancy’s voice booms down the hall.

  My heart catapults into my throat. “Here, sir.” Ricky grabs at me with his octopus hands as I pop out from behind the baler with a whispered, “Stop!”

  Mr. Chancy’s right there. He narrows his eyes and stands with his hands on his hips, his belly dangling over his belt like a soft wad of dough. “Just because you were a hit last night doesn’t give you cause to goof off today.”

  “No, sir. Wasn’t planning on it.”

  He turns on his heel. “Holden, get to work,” he says without looking back.

  Ricky sticks his head out, waits until the coast is clear, then grabs me for a little more necking.

  “Ricky, come on! We’re on the clock.” I squirm, trying to get away, trying not to giggle. His kisses tickle.

  He brushes my hair away from my shoulders. “Hair like the fall leaves—red, gold, and brown.” He holds me tight and props his chin on my head.

  I can’t breathe. “Rick, please, we have work to do,” I mutter into his chest. “Chancy’s already been on my case several times this month. I’m, like, the worst Willaby’s employee ever.”

  Ricky laughs low. “You’re not. Remember Wes Duvall? Lazy son of a gun.”

  “Wes Duvall?” I break away from Ricky. “I’m one rung above Wes Duvall? How hideous. I don’t want to bumble around on the job, meandering through life.”

  He walks toward the swinging doors. “Then do something about it.”

  Sure, Robin, just do something about it. Simple, right? Ricky is swimming in the shallow end of my emotional pool again. If he really thought about what he said . . .

  He watches as I slip my green apron over my head. “I love you, Robin.”

  Now he wants to get deep. “I know.”

  His blue eyes snap. “That’s it? Would it kill you to say you love me too?”

  “Yeah, probably.” I grin and shove through the doors so that Ricky tumbles forward. He swerves to the left as I go right, pausing to pull my little black song notebook and pen from my apron pocket. What was it he said earlier? Hair the color of fall leaves? I jot it down, thinking it might make a great first line to a chorus.

  “Robin, let’s go.” Chancy bellows at me from the end of the aisle.

  “Yes sir.” Tucking my notebook away, I head for my aisle. Over the PA system, the country radio station is playing a Sugarland hit. I belt out the lyrics with Jennifer Nettles. “Gotta be more than this . . .”

  Late in the afternoon, I park beside my trailer in the shade of the elm. Bone tired, I cut the engine and sit for a second. Mr. Chancy caught up with me as I clocked out and spent an hour giving me the stockperson’s pep talk, reminding me that if I want a Willaby’s career, I gotta step it up.

  After a Chancy talking-to, a girl needs an RC Cola and a Moon Pie, maybe some fried chicken, and a little guitar picking outside under the tree. Though I’ve missed most of the early May day, what remains is still lovely and perfumed with the sweet scent of budding corn and freshly mown grass.

  The trailer’s front door sticks again, so I hip-butt it open and step inside. My foot squishes into the worn shag carpet, and water floods my shoe.

  “What in the world—”

  Glistening water covers the trailer floor, and I can hear a gushing noise coming from the kitchen.

  Splash. Squish. Splash. Squish. I make my way across the small pond on my trailer floor. What the Sam Hill happened? Then, “My songs!”

  Splish-splashing down the hall to my room, I pray for dry carpet. Oh, relief. The flood waters haven’t spread this far . . . yet. Dropping to my knees, I fish around for my cardboard box of song notebooks. Finding it tucked up against the wall, I pull it out and toss it on my bed, then splish-splash back to the kitchen and snatch up the portable phone.

  “Crawford Realty.”

  “I’m flooded, Boon.”

  “What happened?”

  “The washer, I think.” I shove the washer-dryer stack aside. Sure enough, a broken hose spurts water in my face. “Hurry.”

  “I’m on my way, Robin.”

  I cut off the valve and dial Daddy next. “Help.”

  When Boon walks in with his toolbox a few minutes later, he splashes through the puddles, grinning like a kid after a good thunderstorm. Meanwhile, I’m on my hands and knees mopping up the mess with towels.

  “Robin, I didn’t know you could sing like that.” He drops his toolbox on the kitchen counter. “That song about Rosalie was something. I haven’t thought of her in a long time.”

  “Well, we all have our little hidden talents.”

  Boon laughs. “Not me. What you see is what you get.”

  Wringing the towels out in the sink, I glance over my shoulder at him. “Something to be said for ‘what you see is what you get.’”

  “Do you like what you see, Robin?”

  “What?” I drop the towel to the floor.

  “Do you like what you see?” Boon props himself against the counter, crossing his arms.

  Is he teasing or fishing? Lean and wiry, Boon’s a decent-looking fellow, though his backside can’t hold up his breeches. His dark hair is always clean and trimmed, his round brown eyes always laughing, and his smile reflects the sweetness in his heart. But he’s more like a brother than a lover.

  “Yeah, I like what I see, Boon. You’re going to make some girl very happy.”


  His cheeks glow. “Can’t blame a guy for trying, Robin.” He fusses with the toolbox latches.

  “No, guess not.”

  I go back to mopping with towels while Boon assesses the damage to the trailer with a hammer in his right hand. Yeah, a hammer. I don’t know why.

  “I don’t think this place is worth fixing up,” he says.

  “What?” I wring out another water-soaked towel in the sink. “Boon, you got to be kidding.”

  He shakes his head and props his hands on his narrow hips. “The water damage is too much, Robin. Look at this.” He hops up and down, and the old floor sways underneath him. A musty odor rises from the carpet.

  “Well, stop jumping. I don’t go around jumping.”

  He waves the hammer at me. “Look here, girl, you can’t spray perfume on a skunk and call it a kitty.” He lifts his nose, sniffing. “Yep, Dad will want to junk the place, count on it.”

  “Junk the place? Boon, where am I suppose to live?”

  “Home, I guess.”

  “I can’t move home.” He’s plumb off his rocker. “Don’t y’all have another trailer I can rent?” After all, Boon is partly responsible for this problem. He sold me that no-good washer-dryer combo. I should’ve been suspicious when he said, “Only costs fifty bucks. Runs like a top too.”

  Boon tosses the hammer into the toolbox with a clank. “Naw, Dad keeps all our properties rented out and making money.”

  “Robin Rae . . .” Daddy calls from the front door. “What’s going on?”

  “Noah’s flood,” I answer. Boon laughs.

  “Look at all this water.” Daddy strolls into the kitchen. The hem of his blue work pants are stuck into the top of his laced boots.

  Boon gives him the lowdown, and when he says “move out,” Daddy looks at me.

  “I just painted your old room and polished the floor. It’d make your momma’s day.” His gray eyes scrunch up when he smiles. Laugh lines run from the corners of his eyes down the sides of his cheeks.

  “By all means, let’s make Momma’s day.” I cross my arms and fall back against the refrigerator.

  “Only temporarily, Robin.”

  “Temporarily,” Boon echoes absently, then adds, “I believe Marie Blackwell is getting married in six months, and her place will be open.”