Page 34 of Night Songs
Overhead, the announcer intoned, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the stage: the grand dame of country, our hometown sweetheart, our lady in black,Heeeeeess Walker!”
She stuck out her tongue at me before plastering on a smile and walking out onstage.
The crowd screamed for her, and she waved back at them like a good-natured beauty queen.
As she launched into her set, I thought about what Clayton had said about my mother valuing freedom above all else. With each new fact I learned about her, I tried to color in her image a bit more. But it was hard to piece such disparate, sometimes abstract impressions of a person into a cohesive picture—the result was more Frankenstein’s monster than mother.
It was easier to imagine her as different people, as I had as a child.
This new mother was a person who followed their own desires no matter the consequences. Who couldn’t be tied down. I wondered what it was like for such a person to be a mother. Could they ever be happy? Or did it only trap them?
Out onstage, I heard Hess break off a verse and tilt her head away from the mic, gasping for breath. The back of her suit was drenched in sweat, and her hair was matted to her forehead. I waited for someone from the crew to rush on to help, but no one moved.
Without a thought, I ran out to her and put a hand on her arm to support her. I whispered, “Are you okay?” in her ear, and she nodded weakly.
“Are you sick? Should I call 911?”
She shook her head and whispered, “No. It’s just a hot flash.”
I only knew what menopause was from watchingFried Green Tomatoeswith Shelli, but I understood enough. It had something to do with hormones, and it could make you feel hot and sort of crazy.
“I just need a moment.” She picked up the water bottle by her feet and chugged.
I looked out on the crowd staring at us, some in confusion, others in concern. I heard a few boos echo through the mass, and I figured I should say something.
“Hi, everyone.” The boom of my voice through the mic made me jump.
The people continued to stare, and the boos increased in volume.
“My name is Rhea…” I had to say something they would actually care about. “And Belle Powers was my mother.”
At the mention of her name, the crowd broke into a roar. I glanced over at Hess, who was still red-faced and catching her breath. I needed to kill more time.
“Hess asked me to come out and help her sing one of Belle’s songs. My favorite from early in her career, called ‘Pretty Little Lady.’?”
The crowd roared again.
“Will you get us started?” I asked them.
They screeched in response, and it was like communicating with an enormous sentient being who spoke only in guttural excitement.
I turned back toward the band, who began to play the song, and Ithrust the microphone toward the crowd, praying they knew the words. They screamed:
When we met, you called me pretty little lady
You loved how I fit in your palm
At the church, they called me pretty little lady
In my sweet little white gown
I heard Hess chuckle next to me, and I whispered, “Are you all right now? Can you sing?”
She straightened. “Yes, I’m good. Let’s do this.”
She pulled the microphone back and began to sing with the crowd:
In the kitch’n, you called me pretty little lady
