The Improper Life of Bezillia Grove (13 page)

Proper
. Suddenly I pictured myself standing at the tiny stove in his tiny house fixing fried chicken for Sunday supper, his mama and daddy sitting on lawn chairs out in the front yard watching Mister Jackson and waiting for me to call them to the table, which was still covered in that same tattered old cloth with a can full of dead Queen Anne’s lace sitting smack-dab in the middle.

An uncomfortable feeling washed over me, one I felt ashamed to claim as my own. I didn’t want to marry Ruddy Semple, and for no better reason than that he was a poor boy from the middle of nowhere. Maybe there was just too much Grove in me after all and not enough courage to marry someone who couldn’t live in the only world I’d ever known—even if it was a world I often didn’t like. Maybe I was more like my mother than my grandfather or Mrs. Scott or even I had imagined.

“Hey, Bezellia, hey, you in there? Hey, girl, you hear me? I got one more thing to show you.” And Ruddy stood up and drew me toward him in one swift, smooth motion. “We’re gonna take us a little walk, so you better button up that pretty little blouse of yours or you’re gonna be giving those cows something to talk about.”

“Walk?” I asked as I straightened my blouse and pulled the hair out of my face, trying to make sense of where we were headed now.

“Daddy always says that if it ain’t worth walking to, then it ain’t worth seeing. C’mon, it’s worth it, I promise.”

We walked at least a mile with nothing but the croaking of the tree frogs reminding us that we were not alone. Sometimes we’d stop in the middle of the road and Ruddy would lean forward and kiss me lightly on the lips, and then we’d start walking again. The moon was fairly bright, and I could see up ahead where the road curved to the left. Beyond that, there was a glow, some kind of light rising up out of nothing. I asked Ruddy if that was where we were headed, toward that light. Instead of answering, he stopped and kissed me on the lips one more time, a reward for faithfully following him into the night.

As we came to the bend in the road, I could see a big red barn all lit up against the dark sky. White letters mounted just below the roofline read Bradley’s Barn. There were probably two dozen cars parked in the driveway. But other than the frogs still singing their songs, there wasn’t a sound to be heard.

“Is this some kind of bar, Ruddy? Like a honky-tonk? I’m not sure we ought to be going in there. Who’s Bradley anyway?”

“Bezellia Grove, damn, girl, do you even know what a honky-tonk is? All that fancy learning of yours and you don’t know a thing about Owen Bradley or his big red barn, do you?” I just gave him a look like
why should I?
And Ruddy shot me a smart look right back. “Because he’s only one of the greatest record producers ever and that place is full of musicians right now making an album.”

“Country music?” I asked.

“What other kind is there? Lord, it seems that any girl born and raised in Nashville ought to know something about country music. Daddy says it’s our heritage.”

“Not everybody in Nashville picks a guitar, Ruddy,” I said, sounding unkind and defensive. “Besides, my mother always called that hillbilly music. She says it’s not good for the ear.” Truthfully, Mother didn’t listen to much music of any kind, and she certainly never listened to country music. She said she’d had enough of that when she was little. All at once Ruddy’s eyes looked a bit wounded and sad. “I
have
heard of Johnny Cash,” I said, trying to soften my blow.

“Listen, Bezellia, I don’t mean to sound disrespectful, but your mama don’t know what she’s talking about. And Lord, I sure hope you have heard of Johnny Cash, seeing how he lives just on the other side of this big old lake. One of these days, just so you know, I’m gonna have me a whole bunch of gold albums just like Mr. Cash. And I’m gonna live in a big house on the lake too. Maybe even bigger than his.”

I had heard this dream once before, and I imagined I was going to hear it again. I guess no matter who we are or where we’re starting from, we all want something other than what we’ve got. Maybe that’s what keeps us moving forward, but I’m not sure I fully understood that back then, standing in the middle of that country road in the dead of night.

“Wow, what a special occasion this is,” Ruddy said. “Looks like I’m about to teach the city girl a thing or two she’ll never forget.” And then he took me by the hand and once again led me somewhere I’d never been.

We walked right up to a small door cut into the back wall of the barn, not framed with any kind of trim, making it hard to find in the dark. Ruddy tugged on a long wooden handle, cracking the door just wide enough to wedge his body through the opening, and then he pulled me in behind him.

“Is this okay, being here and all?” I whispered, already feeling a bit anxious and out of place.

“Oh, yeah. I sweep the floors and take out the garbage for Mr. Bradley every Monday morning. He doesn’t mind as long as I’m quiet,” Ruddy said and then paused for a moment, “and he doesn’t know that I’m here.” And he put his finger to his mouth, signaling for me to hush.

We felt our way down one dark hallway and then another. I could barely see my hand outstretched in front of me, holding tightly on to Ruddy’s arm. We stopped behind a heavy curtain that was hanging from the ceiling, its other end dragging on the ground. Ruddy pointed to the floor, now signaling for me to sit down. Then he pulled the curtain back just enough to reveal a small group of people, some sitting on stools, some standing, but all of them together forming a circle around a cluster of silver microphones.

One man was crouched behind a set of drums, a couple of others had guitars strapped over their shoulders, and one real skinny man was holding a shiny red guitar plugged into a big black box. There was another man tuning a banjo and a couple of others with violins tucked against their necks. Ruddy said that out here they were playing fiddles, not violins.

“This ain’t some fancy orchestra, Bezellia.”

And in the middle of all these men was one small, beautiful woman with long black hair cascading down her back. She had a dainty little mouth and a dainty little nose. Even her smile was dainty. But her eyes were a bright, piercing blue. She was standing behind a microphone singing the same line to herself, over and over again, like she was trying to find the right note.

“I’m here to tell ya gal to lay offa my man
.
I’m hear to tell ya gal to lay offa my man.”

A gray-headed man was in another room behind a large plate-glass window. He was seated in front of a desk covered with all sorts of knobs and lights, and the minute he positioned the microphone in front of his mouth, all the musicians in the other room grew silent. He directed everyone to stand by. Ruddy kissed the back of my neck while the man with the red guitar counted with his fingers. One, two, three. Music immediately filled the room, and the little woman with the brilliant blue eyes stood up straight and tall in front of her microphone and thrust her chest slightly forward.

She started singing about some floozy who had been spending too much time with her husband and then bragging too much about their affair. She called her nothing but trash and promised if she didn’t stop “a lovin’” her man, then she would have no choice but to come looking for her. Yes, that tiny little woman was going to punch that tramp right in the face and take her to a place she called “fist city.” And to tell the truth, she sang those lyrics with such power and emotion that I actually believed she could do it too.

“Who is that?” I whispered.

“That’s Mr. Bradley behind the glass.”

“No, I mean who’s singing?”

“That’s Loretta Lynn. You never heard of her either? She grew up poorer than dirt, lived up in the hills of Kentucky somewhere. Now look at her. Just proves anybody can do anything,” Ruddy said with a smile, obviously referring to his own big dreams for the future.

I’d heard Loretta Lynn’s name and seen some pictures of her in the newspaper from time to time, always outfitted in some fancy gown that had too many sequins and too many ruffles on it, at least that’s what Mother said. But I’d never heard her sing. And now, sitting on the floor of that barn, hearing her rich, twangy voice, I felt like I was listening to some wise old sage or prophet. I just wished my own mother would listen to her sing, would find her on the radio, maybe even find the courage to go looking for Mrs. Hunt and take her on a little trip to “fist city.”

After Mrs. Lynn sang the last note, everyone stayed real still and quiet until Mr. Bradley nodded his head. He turned a knob on his desk and then pulled the microphone right up close to his mouth.

“That was great, everybody, but I’d like to hear the second verse one more time. And, Loretta, hold that last note just a beat or two longer.”

I wanted to jump up and clap right out loud, but Ruddy grabbed my hands and led me back through the darkened hallways and out the barn door.

“Why’d we have to go? That was incredible! Her voice is so beautiful, absolutely beautiful. I’ve never heard anything like it.”

“Well, I think you better take a look at that sky for one thing, Bezellia. I got to get you home.”

The horizon was turning a light shade of black, almost starting to look blue along the edge. It wouldn’t be long till Mister Jackson would be sounding his alarm, informing everyone, including my grandparents, that night had come and gone.

“Come on!” Ruddy said as he grabbed my hand and started running. We couldn’t help but laugh and sing as we barreled our way headlong into the morning, straight to Ruddy’s pickup truck. His voice was so unexpectedly rich and strong. It was as if that sound coming from his mouth scooped us right up and carried us along, leaving us both feeling daring and bold. By the time I got to my grandparents’ house and reached for the screen door, I was nothing less than brave and fearless, ready to tell my grandmother that Ruddy Semple was a good man, that she had sold him short, that I probably had too. And I had a funny feeling that Loretta Lynn would be standing right there beside me.

Nana and Pop were already sitting at the kitchen table, each one holding a mug of coffee. Nana rubbed her finger across the rim of her mug, and even I could see that her eyes looked more wet and confused than worried or angry.

“Sit down, Bezellia,” my grandfather said, still refusing to look directly at me. I was suddenly afraid to sit anywhere, somehow knowing that, once I did, they were going to tell me something I did not want to hear. So I just stood by the table, stiff and straight, not even willing to bend my knees.

“Honey,” my grandfather said as he reached for my hand, “you need to sit down,” and then he used what strength he had left to drag me into the chair next to his. “There’s been an accident. At your house.”

“What do you mean an accident? What happened? Is Adelaide hurt? Is she okay?”

I wanted my grandfather to talk faster, and I wanted him to hush. I wanted to be back on the beach, in Ruddy’s arms, drifting off to sleep. I wanted to be at Grove Hill, playing with Adelaide and Baby Stella down by the creek, helping Maizelle roll out biscuits and string green beans. I wanted to be kissing Tommy Blanton behind the coatrack. I wanted to be sitting with Samuel by the swimming pool. I wanted to be painting my toenails on Cornelia’s bed. Please, I screamed, let me be any place but right here. But nobody heard me.

“Bezellia, your daddy fell down the stairs, sometime after he come home from the hospital last night. Apparently nobody heard him fall. Maizelle done found him this morning.” My grandfather stopped and choked back some tears. “I’m sorry, sweetie. There was nothing that could be done. Broke his neck. Never woke up—”

“Nathaniel’s on his way to get you,” Nana interrupted. “We’ll come on later. We got to take care of a few things here first. Your mother won’t talk to no one. Won’t come out of her room. Your uncle Thad thought it might be good if you come on right away. Of course, if I know my daughter, she’s probably done gone and drowned herself in a bottle of gin. Cain’t say that I blame her this time, though.”

I sat there not saying one word, just drifting in and out of that still, muggy kitchen. My father was dead. I heard my grandfather say it, and yet all I could think about was my mother. I scooted my chair back from the table and looked my grandmother squarely in the eyes.

“That’s just it, Nana. You don’t know Mother. You don’t know her at all.”