Page 46 of Night Songs

I felt the wild cat clawing at my chest again, desperate to get out.

It was time to set it free.

And I had no idea how.

14lulabelle

1972

TEN YEARS LEFT

That year, we were invited to the Country Music Association Awards at the Ryman. Clayton and I were nominated for a duet from our most recent album about two people who couldn’t help loving one another.

The ceremony would be broadcast on television, so Phoebe and I spent weeks dreaming up my look. We’d long abandoned the child-bride style in favor of an evolving range of color and shape. The silhouettes were loosening from the stiff forms of the ’50s and ’60s. The fabric was beginning to flow. We settled on a long, diaphanous blue chiffon with a jeweled neck that covered my birthmark, and Clayton approved. It was the kind of sheer goddess toga that would have looked beautiful on Hess.

She wasn’t invited to the actual ceremony, but she could come to the reception afterward at the Hermitage Hotel. On the surface, everything was the same, but I knew she could feel me pulling away. As much as I still loved her, I couldn’t shake this feeling that something had broken between us. I had given her a glimpse of the demon child, the me beneath all of the lies and names, because she was the only person I really trusted. And she’d treated that inner part of me like ignorant trash that didn’t know better.

Inside, the Ryman had been transformed into a sleek backdrop for thebroadcast. I waited in my seat as they set up the enormous cameras and figured out the angles, the machinery buzzing something god awful. Clayton was busy roaming the rows and shaking hands with the other stars, while I was instructed to stay put and look pretty. I could feel that wild cat getting agitated. I needed to take a walk. Calm down. But then the orchestra started playing and everyone scurried back to their seats. It was time.

I waited patiently through the other categories and speeches like it was a wedding for someone I didn’t know well. I’d been around a few years and I’d met folks along the way, but Clayton didn’t introduce me much. I was usually sequestered somewhere with Hess when I wasn’t performing. These people were still strangers to me.

When our category finally came around, I clenched my fists and focused hard on the voice of the announcer. He gave a dramatic pause, and then he was saying our names amid a roar of clapping, and Clayton was taking my hand and pulling me out of my seat. I’d told myself I didn’t give a damn if I got some award.

But of course I did.

I floated above the boot-scuffed floor as Clayton led me to the stage by the hand. As we climbed the few steps, I prayed to God I wouldn’t trip on my long, flowy gown. Then we were up behind the podium squinting into the bright lights. I couldn’t see a damn thing.

Clayton stepped in front of me to speak into the microphone and kept hold of my hand, pulling me behind him like I was a child. His tall frame blocked the lights, so that all I could see then was the square of his dark-blue suit. I heard him thank the Country Music Association, and then he was tugging me off the stage. I tried to say a thank-you into the mic, but I was too far away for the sound to register.

It had been so quick, and now it was over. I sat in my seat as the other categories were called, buzzing and empty.

On the off chance we won, I’d rehearsed my speech in my head while I tried to sleep the night before. I debated whether I should thank Hess, or if people would get suspicious. Everyone knew we were best friends. A girlis allowed a best friend. So I decided I would thank all of the Mom Washburn girls together, with Hess in the honorary last spot, and that would be safe. Regardless of what happened between us, I owed my life to her. I also wanted to thank God and the golden place he’d created for music that sent me messages throughout the day. I knew people might think I was strange, but I didn’t care. I was an artist.

None of it mattered now. I’d been blotted out by Clayton. I might as well have stayed in my seat; at least I’d have hung on to a little dignity. I bitterly mused whether he would have been nominated if it weren’t for me. Everyone knew he was washed up. Our audience came to see me sing at our shows, to hear my voice and see what I was wearing. Phoebe had made me a fashion icon of sorts, though I only knew this from reading magazines. I was kept away from the rest of the world and the fans.

The mad cat thrashed around inside me, clawing to get out. I couldn’t sit there burning up with resentment for the rest of my life.

Ten years.

I only had ten fucking years left.

There was no way I was using those to keep some man’s career afloat, as much as I loved him in a complicated way. He’d taken such tender care of me, like the rich, sweet father I’d never had. And I truly believed he loved me as much as he could. But I also knew he’d built a comfy little prison for me with his care. He controlled every aspect of my life so I could never leave or move past him. He had me right where he wanted me.

At the after-party, I fumed. Clayton had no idea, because he was off schmoozing with our award in hand, receiving congratulations and clinking glasses. Hess and I were at a table in the far corner, and I barely spoke to her, focused instead on burning holes into the back of Clayton’s hair-piece.

Hess put a hand on my arm. “Why don’t we just leave? I can tell you’re not having a good time, and we should get on the road anyway.”

Hess and I were supposed to go to the cabin for a few days before thetour started. We’d planned to leave that night so we could wake up in the mountains the next morning.

But I didn’t want to slink off, hiding myself away from the world. Wasting my precious time before I was forced to go back into the studio, to sing his words and spout his principles. Eat his food, wear his clothes, ride in his car, because neither he nor Hess would teach me how to drive.

I was in the mood for destruction.

“I don’t want to leave tonight. I want to celebrate.” I left Hess at the table and asked for a glass of vodka at the bar. The bartender hitched his eyebrows at the request, but I didn’t take the bait. I shot it down like water, the sting of it matching my fury. I asked for another, and he poured.

“A lady after my own heart.” The voice was creamy behind me, smelling of Tom Collins and gardenia. I turned around, and there was Alice Buckley in the flesh. She’d just lost best album of the year. She was another divorced country star like Clayton, and it gave her a haunted patina that I liked.

She signaled the bartender for two more, and he lined them up. Alice and I knocked glasses and downed them. I let out a guttural holler, and that was how I knew I was drunk. The hillbilly was coming out.