Page 26 of Night Songs

“If something’s too good to be true, it probably is.”

She sounded like the people back home, and while I appreciated her, I’d left the holler’s negativity behind for a reason. I was lifting off the ground, and no one was gonna pull me back.

Late that night, Phoebe whipped us up a pair of simple creamy-green dresses. While she worked, Martha took us aside and, in a rare stretch of talking, coached us on how to conduct ourselves.

“First off, don’t walk in and start giggling.”

I was a little offended. “Martha, we ain’t idiots. I know how to act right—” But she gave me a look, and I knew what she meant. Hess and I had fun with each other. There was a fair amount of giggling. It was a shame we couldn’t just live in our joy, that we had to flatten ourselves to be taken seriously. But that was the reality.

“You’re there for a job. You are an expert in singing, and they need to respect that. You got it?”

We both nodded. Sharing wisdom was an act of love for Martha.

In the hallway outside my bedroom, I passed Tima, who stuck her pinky out. I hooked mine in hers, and we met eyes as we kissed our fists. We didn’t have to say the words.

Whatever it takes.

The next day, Hess and I showed up at the studio polished and serious faced in our dresses like mint ice cream. Randy led us down a hallway lined with rooms of singers performing into microphones, the sound muffled, each square like a scene from a silent movie. A red-nosed old man still belting from the heart, a dimpled boy singing from beneath a cowboy hat one size too large, a young woman shaking with nerves in her braids and gingham shirt.

We finally arrived at our room, where a small band of men sat looking bored. Hess and I explained we played our own guitars, but Randy assured us it was better to haverealmusicians for the recording. Our playing would do just fine at shows, but this had to be on adifferent level. I wasn’t some big-time guitarist, but I thought Hess was pretty good. I felt the emotion of the music more when I could feel it vibrating through my hands, releasing the creature that stayed pent up inside me.

But I didn’t say a word. I was too nervous that any objection would change his mind, and he’d ask us to leave.

Without any instruction, he told us to get on with it and start singing, and that’s what we did. But soon he had to stop and show us how to sing for a recording, as if it was predictable that women wouldn’t know such things. There was a lot of starting and stopping, adjusting and readjusting. When we did sing, it was hard to get to that place where I felt lifted. He treated us more like hotel maids than artists reaching toward the sublime.

Just as I was finally getting into the groove, I looked up, and there was famous country singer Clayton Redd standing in the booth, watching me sing. It was like seeing Jesus in the supermarket. I couldn’t believe it was really him.

I glanced over at Hess, and her eyes widened in acknowledgment. Itried my very hardest for the rest of the track, wanting to impress him. When I finished the song, I searched for him in the booth to gauge his reaction, but he was gone.

After we’d been at it for an hour, Randy said Hess needed a bit of vocal coaching, and he sent her to a room down the hall. He told the band to take a break and get some lunch, and he and I stayed in the booth to work on the arrangements.

I thought, perhaps he did respect my instincts, even if I lacked experience and formal training. I was excited to learn from him and be a part of the process.

Once we were alone, he sat down on a couch against the wall and patted the cushion next to him. I sat on the other side, keeping my distance. He started to ask about where I grew up and what my family was like. I didn’t talk about that with anyone, much less a strange man, and I steered the conversation back toward music. He kept turning it back to me and asking foolish questions about dresses and boys that I didn’t give a damn about. While he talked, he crossed and uncrossed his legs and readjusted his jacket, so that with each movement he moved closer to me on the couch. Eventually, he was practically sitting in my lap.

He had that aging-man smell, the fumes of his rot releasing through the gray stubble on his chin. He might have looked fresh on the outside, but he was going bad on the inside.

When he put his hand on my leg, sweat broke along my hairline where the wig now sat like a weight, holding me down. I thought of the knife I kept in my corset, but I couldn’t go there yet. Instead, I flicked through possible actions and their costs, attempting to find an option where we could keep recording music. I didn’t want to be anyone’s victim. So I searched inside myself for a way to like it. If I claimed the hand on my leg, I’d be in control.

He let his hand slide into the crease between my legs as if gravity had willed it. I went stiff as he slowly moved it up my thigh beneath my dress.I tried to focus on owning that hand, convincing myself thatIwas the one moving it up my leg.

Then he leaned over and whispered with his rotten breath, “I want to see how juicy you are.”

Without another thought, I drew my knife and held it up to his neck. He froze, and I told him in a low, quiet voice, “Take your hand outta my crotch.” He obeyed slowly and placed it in his lap. I could see sweat beading at his temple, and he shook beneath the blade. Good. Now he knew what it felt like.

I removed the knife from his jugular, and he shot up from the couch, fleeing to the other side of the room. There was a dark stain on his pants where he’d pissed himself. When he saw me looking at it, his face flushed in angry shame, and he stormed out.

I sat there for a moment, pretending we still had a chance.

But I had made my choice.

I could feel the vague outline of regret, like a glimpse into a future where I might wish I had done what it took.

That was quickly pushed aside for clean, practical anger.

I stashed the knife in my bra, packed up our guitars, and left. There was no sign of Randy in the hallway. I went from room to room looking for Hess, and with each passing doorway empty of her, I became convinced she was in some secret corner of the building with another hairy hand between her legs. When I finally found her in the kitchen eating a sandwich alone, I couldn’t help feeling angry.

I told her what happened without mentioning the knife, and since she was Hess, she ignored the accusation in my voice. She was solely focused on getting us the hell out of there.