Dirty Little Secret by Jennifer Echols
Ms. Parton was a tolerable musician. So were the other two ladies on guitar and mandolin. Best of all, Ms. Parton had the Dolly act down, with lots of self-deprecating humor about breasts and plastic surgery. She made some jokes so off-color that even I thought they might be inappropriate for the families from the sticks enjoying a long lunch before they visited Junior at the state prison. I almost enjoyed the afternoon.
But I couldn’t shake the idea that my dress of the day had been designed as some sick parody of my life, a combination of the costume I used to wear with Julie and the costume I’d donned for my wild senior year of high school. I hadn’t wanted to expose my boobs to this crowd going back for seconds and thirds at the chocolate fountain, but that’s what I’d acted like I’d wanted all year. I’d acted like my goal was to get drunk with Hank Williams, or get stoned with Willie Nelson, or have an older man like Elvis imply he wanted to screw me. This job was a catalog of everything my parents had screamed at me about over the past year. Is that what you want? Because that’s what you’re acting like! It was a mythical series of tasks I had to perform to prove myself before I claimed my prize—except there was no prize. Unlike Hercules, I was not worthy.
And on Saturday, I was assigned to wander the mall again, this time in a band with Johnny Cash.
“Plus his son,” Ms. Lottie said. “Such a cutie-pie.”
I’d noticed Mr. Cash sitting on the couch on my way in. I hadn’t noticed his son. Maybe at the time he’d been bent over, fishing something from his instrument case. Maybe he wasn’t much to look at, or he was way older than me, so my brain hadn’t even registered him, and Ms. Lottie was putting me on.
“You will liiiiiiiiiike him,” she insisted, looking at me pointedly in the mirror and raising one carefully penciled eyebrow above her reading glasses. “I hear he’s a heartbreaker, though, so watch out.”
I scowled at my reflection. As on the first day, she was making me up in the style of the 1950s, all traces erased of the blond, angelic version of me from a year ago, and the current evil version, too. I needed my usual heavy mascara and black hair and black T-shirt to make this heartbreaker take me seriously when I scowled at him and told him where to go. He sounded like a replay of Elvis.
“This is ridiculous,” I told Ms. Lottie. “Johnny Cash’s wife didn’t even play fiddle. She played everything but. What kind of authentic Nashville experience is this?”
“You don’t have to be June Carter Cash. You could be a session musician from Studio B. Trust me, you want to be with the Cashes today.” Ms. Lottie nodded toward the lounge area, where Johnny Cash and his heartbreaker son were tuning their guitars. “A couple of mornings ago, weren’t you wishing for boy trouble? You just found it.”
2
“We’ll see about that,” I grumbled. With my circle skirt sweeping behind me, I spun in Ms. Lottie’s chair and stepped out of her hair-and-makeup alcove. I opened my fiddle case on an abandoned bookcase with a “Romance” sign on top. Better that than “Addiction” or “Family Planning,” which was where my parents thought I was parking my fiddle these days. I ran the bow across the strings, making minor adjustments with the tuning pegs. I didn’t need a tuning fork. I could tune my instrument by ear and I was always right. Other people didn’t believe me, though, and I often spent a whole set of songs gritting my teeth and playing A at a fourth of a step up or down from 440 hertz.
Determined not to let that happen this time, I marched across the bookstore with a smile on my face, which seemed a lot more natural while I was in costume. Mr. Cash and his son sat in chairs on opposite ends of the lounge area, playing their guitars. I would charm them into doing things the way I wanted.
I watched them as I walked closer. Johnny Cash was a man about my dad’s age with his dark hair greased and combed into a pompadour. He wore a dark suit with a white shirt and a bolo tie, which worked fine for Mr. Cash but also wouldn’t have turned heads anywhere in Nashville. People around here were a little eccentric about bolo ties.
Ms. Lottie had coaxed his son’s hair into the same glossy pompadour, but his clothes could have passed for current, too, part of the Buddy Holly aesthetic so popular right now at Vanderbilt. He wore low-top black Chuck Taylors, black jeans folded up a few turns like greasers wore them in the 1950s, and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up above the elbows. The material stretched tight across his chest and biceps. He was big enough to have played football.
As I approached, Mr. Cash never looked up. There was no reason for him to. The lounge area was always busy at this time of the afternoon with musicians milling back and forth between the couches and Ms. Lottie’s area. A 1950s fiddle player coming closer shouldn’t have been an unusual sight.
But his son looked up. I was watching them, listening to the cacophony as they played two different songs in two different keys. I saw the exact moment when Cash Jr. realized someone was making a beeline for him. His dark eyes widened at me, his stare so unabashed and his expression so intent, as if reading my face, that I felt myself blushing in response.
And then he grinned at me. His eyes sparkled. The corners of his mouth lifted through a day’s worth of dark stubble, which didn’t quite jibe with the pompadour. He definitely was only a few years older than me, and so handsome that I wished for the millionth time I’d never cut my blond hair off and dyed it black. Then I remembered I was wearing my red ponytail wig, which was even worse.
Now I knew what Ms. Lottie had meant when she said he was a heartbreaker. And he hadn’t spoken one word to me yet.
I hadn’t bothered to impress anyone in a full year, but I found myself doing it now. I stopped in front of the sofa and called above Mr. Cash’s continuing guitar notes, “Hello, I’m June Carter Cash,” in imitation of the way the real deal used to say, “Hello, I’m Johnny Cash,” at the beginning of his television variety show in the early 1970s. My parents had the complete set of DVDs.
“She didn’t play fiddle,” the son said, never taking his eyes off me as he stood. “You’re definitely not her.” His words were innocent enough, but his knowing tone of voice told me he got the joke that I was married to his father, and he himself was my son. And he didn’t like it.
By now his dad was standing, too. His dad said, “I’m Darren Hardiman and this is my son, Sam,” at the same time Sam said, “I’m Sam Hardiman and this is my father, Darren.” They both heard each other as they started talking, glared sideways at each other, and finished their sentences a little louder. I hadn’t been around boys and their fathers that much, but these two were easy to read, their expressions open like cartoon parodies of themselves, as if they were thoroughly tired of each other and didn’t care anymore if they stepped on each other’s toes.
Their interaction was even more fascinating to watch because they looked so much alike. They were dressed differently, and Sam’s face was softer and more youthful despite his five o’clock shadow. But their pointed looks at each other were the same. Their dark, piercing eyes were the same. They were both tall and fit, and they stood exactly the same way, with one hand balancing the body of their guitars, the other hand never leaving the neck.
They both held out a hand for me to shake. Whichever hand I chose first, I was bound to piss off one of them. I should have taken Mr. Hardiman’s hand, since he was in charge, but I took Sam’s and was rewarded with an even broader grin, his eyes crinkling with the pleasure of one-upping his dad.
“What’s your real name?” he asked, squeezing my hand briefly in his warm palm.
I turned to his dad, shook his hand, and gave my fake name. “Bailey Wright.” Bailey was my real name. Wright was my granddad’s last name, my mom’s maiden name, and my middle name. It was close enough to the truth. My granddad had gotten me this job on the condition that I introduce myself using his last name rather than mine, which ought to keep the curious from drawing links between the loser sister and Julie once her career started to heat up. I was still mortified and angry that my family wanted to keep me hid
Besides, I’d thought my parents had turned on me a year ago, but their first betrayal was naming me Bailey Mayfield at birth. Who gave their child a ridiculous, singsong name? They’d never honestly wanted me to bloom into a country sensation with a name like that. I was glad to get rid of it.
“Pleasure,” Mr. Hardiman said, not quite getting the whole word out of his mouth before he dropped my hand and bent his head to his guitar again.
But Sam still watched me. “Bailey Wright.” He puzzled through it. “Are you related to Mr. Wright who makes guitars?”
“Yyyeah,” I admitted, simultaneously thinking I shouldn’t have. If he knew who my granddad was, maybe he would figure out who my sister was, too. But I doubted my granddad went around offering Julie’s story to anyone who wandered into his shop. And it sounded like Sam knew of my granddad only in passing. “He’s my grandfather,” I said.
“No shit!” Sam exclaimed. “He made both of ours.” He nodded to his father’s guitar, then showed me his own, with “Wright” inlaid in a light wood on the head. It wasn’t my granddad’s top-of-the-line model, but it was definitely more expensive than a mass-produced instrument, lovingly constructed for someone who took music seriously. Sam added, “My mother doesn’t understand.”
“Mothers and wives usually don’t.” My granddad told stories about customers canceling their orders for pricey handmade instruments when their women found out and protested—sometimes violently.
“Bailey Wright.” Sam ran his eyes down my outfit. “Well, that explains some things.”
What it explained, I wasn’t sure. The fact that I was a teenage fiddle player? Yeah, only someone who’d grown up in a bluegrass family would suffer this cruel fate. The fact that I was dressed like a cult member?
He prompted his dad, “Bailey is related to Mr. Wright, the guitar guy.”
“Well, how about that,” Mr. Hardiman said noncommittally. And he was right. In Denver or Honolulu, he might have been astonished if he’d met the musician granddaughter of the man who made his guitar, but not in Nashville.
So much for my attempt at impressing them. In a last-ditch effort, I said brightly, “I’m already tuned. Do you want to tune to me?”
Mr. Hardiman’s brows went way up. He didn’t try to disguise the fact that I was out of line. It was his band. I should have tuned to him, or waited for him to say otherwise. He took a breath to tell me so.
Sam broke in, “She has perfect pitch, Dad.” He turned to me and asked, “Don’t you?”
I was so surprised Sam had guessed something private about me that I just stood there with my mouth wide open. I pictured myself wearing this expression. At least Ms. Lottie had painted my lips impeccably in classic red like a model on a 1957 cover of Vogue.
“You were making a face on your way over,” he explained. Turning back to his dad, he said, “We must be a little off. We’re torturing her.”
“Not as bad as Hank Williams on Thursday,” I assured them. “Yodeling.”
They both nodded sympathetically. “Oh,” Sam said. His dad echoed, “The yodeling.”
“Well, why don’t you start us off?” Mr. Hardiman asked me, nodding to my fiddle. He was back in charge.
Obediently I played a long, low E and let them tune their guitars to it. I felt relieved and strangely giddy that I was getting what I wanted for once. It wouldn’t last, though. Guitars slowly unwound and went flat. In two hours I’d be gathering up the gumption to face off with Mr. Hardiman again.
But for now, I was good. Mr. Hardiman headed through the glass door that had been fitted into the storefront of the ex-Borders. Following him, Sam held the door wide open for me while backing against it so I could squeeze by him and his guitar. This was no big deal. Men held doors open for women in Nashville. They were rude if they didn’t. His dad would have done it if Sam hadn’t.
What set my heart racing was the way his chocolate eyes followed me as I passed him in the doorway, my bare forearm brushing against his. He gave me the smallest smile, soft-looking lips contrasting with the older look he was trying to pull off. The term handsome devil came up in country songs a lot. Now I understood why.
He fell into step beside me as we trailed his dad up the wide corridor. He said quietly, as if he didn’t want his dad to hear, “I would kill for perfect pitch.” In his voice I heard admiration of me, and a mournful longing.
“No, you wouldn’t,” I assured him. “If you had it, you’d wish you didn’t. It’s more trouble than it’s worth.” Life in a tribute band would be so much easier if I didn’t mind Hank Williams’s yodeling—or if, like Mr. Crabtree, I couldn’t hear when the song went south.
“That’s exactly what all of you say,” Sam told me as we parted ways and parked ourselves on either side of Mr. Hardiman, who’d stopped in front of Banana Republic.
“ ‘Five Feet High and Rising,’ ” Mr. Hardiman said, which made me smile despite myself. That song had special meaning to Nashville musicians. A few years ago we got seventeen inches of rain in two days and the Cumberland River swelled to flood the Grand Ole Opry. I expected Mr. Hardiman to add that the song was in B-flat, the key in which Johnny Cash had recorded it. He didn’t. He just started with a strum of major one on his guitar. Sam matched him on the first beat, and I jumped in with the melody. Mr. Hardiman must have taken me at my word—or, rather, taken Sam at his—that I had perfect pitch. Only a very experienced or very jaded musician would accept that fact without teasing or questioning. He’d been around the block a few more times than his son or even Dolly or Hank or Willie or Elvis.
The song was made up of ones, fours, and fives like so many others. But the key kept changing higher, B-flat to D-flat to E-flat to F, reflecting the water rising to flood the farm where Johnny Cash grew up. It also had the characteristic Cash boom-chucka rhythm like a train chugging down the tracks, lots of fun to play after so many sad country ballads this week. Best of all, Mr. Hardiman and Sam were good at this. Mr. Hardiman sang in a deep, strong voice that matched Cash’s nicely, and he and his son both had their guitar licks down pat.
The song featured a slow beat, as if Mr. Hardiman was testing me with an easy pace first. I must have passed, because next he announced “Hey, Porter,” and both guitars jumped right in with the speeding freight-train beat. I handled the fiddle harmony fine. The challenge came during the solo section in the middle. A fast song like this could easily wreck a fiddle solo.
I might have become a lot of things in the past year. A failure. A bitch. A bad sister. I was not, however, rusty. As I pulled off the solo, first Sam and then Mr. Hardiman looked up at me in surprise.
With the smallest nod, Mr. Hardiman indicated that Sam should take a solo next. In general, playing fiddle was harder than guitar. I didn’t have frets as anchors to tell me where my fingers should go. But fiddle solos were easier than guitar solos. At least I had a bow. All Sam had was one pick to enunciate every note of a lightning-fast improvisation. As I played my staccato accompaniment quietly to stay out of his way, I watched his hands in awe. I’m sure my face mirrored the expressions of so many non-musicians I’d played in front of over the years. Their wide-eyed question: How’d you get so good? The answer: You start when you’re five. In Sam I’d met my match.
He knew it, too. About halfway through, he looked up at me again and grinned.
Another small nod from Mr. Hardiman told us he didn’t want his turn at a solo. We moved on to the next verse of the song. But I still focused on Sam. He reminded me of a boy I’d met a long time ago at a bluegrass festival. Those days were full of cocky children trying to one-up me. This particular boy had been kind and friendly. We’d gotten assigned to the same impromptu band. And when I’d garnered louder applause for my solo than he got for his, he didn’t stick out his tongue at me. He smiled at me like he’d run into an old friend. I’d looked for him at every festival since, but I’d never seen him again.
My sigh at the end of
“Why didn’t you take a solo?” Sam asked his father quietly.
“You two were busy impressing each other,” Mr. Hardiman grumbled.
Sam leaned around his father’s back to see if I’d overheard. When he saw I had, his eyes widened in horror. Then, with a little shake of his head, he was back to normal, brushing it off. He crossed behind his father to talk softly to me. “Been at this long?” he asked with a knowing smile.
“A week,” I said, pretending I thought he meant the job rather than the fiddle in general. “But we haven’t been playing this fast.”
“You like it fast?” He was flirting with me, but he blinked at me innocently. He never would have admitted to the double entendre if I’d called him on it. He was testing me, like his dad had, but deliciously.
“Yeah,” I said, “I like it fast.”
“Remember you asked for it,” he whispered. He crossed behind his father again to resume his place. “Dad,” he said. “ ‘Cocaine Blues.’ ”
“Yep” was all his father said before launching the song. This time when we ended, my bowing arm was sore, something I hadn’t felt since I was a young player with no stamina. Sweat crawled down my face and pooled in my subtle 1950s cleavage.
“Let’s walk up to Macy’s and grace those folks with our presence,” Mr. Hardiman said. He took off in that direction without waiting for us.
I didn’t want to look like a groupie, but when Sam didn’t follow his father immediately, I waited with him. Grinning, he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it out to me. He’d noticed my unattractive sheen.
“Hey, that’s period,” I joked. The only people I’d seen using handkerchiefs, other than actors in old movies, were elderly bluegrass musicians who smelled funny.