Page 56 of Night Songs

As Martha and I made our way through the throng into the house, I touched my wig self-consciously. I hadn’t worn it since I went into hibernation. Sometimes it felt like armor, and other times, a weapon. Italwaysgave me confidence. But now I could feel its weight on my neck, the scratch of it against my scalp, the slick cheapness of its strands.

We snaked our way through the house and then out the back to the yard. There was a small fire surrounded by old lawn chairs and a few long-haired boys strumming lazily on guitars.

We sat in empty chairs, and one of the men looked me over.

“Hey, ain’t you that girl who sings with Clayton Redd?”

“Not anymore. My name is Belle. Belle Powers.” I extended my hand for him to shake, but he just went back to strumming.

Another boy added, “My mama’s got all his albums. She likes to play them at Christmas. Makes me wanna blow my brains out.” He made his hand into a pistol and shot himself in the head. They all guffawed.

I still had a lot of anger for Clayton. But some of his music had beenmy music. Or at least, I’d been singing it. And the way these boys were dismissing him, as if they knew what it took to get where he’d gotten. It just pissed me off.

“So what areyournames?” I asked.

They mumbled their names around the circle, and I crossed my arms.

“Huh. Never heard of you.”

I stalked off from the fire to the other side of the yard where a pair of old metal swings sat rusting. I sat down and started pumping my legs. It was like being back in school. Me, all alone on the swings, smarting from someone calling me a demon child. I went higher and higher, getting closer to the stars with each climb.

A man walked over and started swinging next to me. It was dark in this corner of the yard, and I could only see the gleam of his blue eyes and the pearl of his smile as we soared higher together. At the highest point, we both paused and let ourselves fall back to the earth.

I slowed, and then stopped, and he did the same. We were both a little out of breath, and a giggle escaped from my lips. It was the first time I’d laughed since Hess left, and the release felt foreign in my chest. I looked down, dragging my shoes through the dust.

“I hope I’m not intruding.”

His voice was crisp and clear, with an unfamiliar accent that was like cold milk and peanuts in my ears. Different from the people I’d grown up with and met in Nashville. Even Hess, for all of her schooling and proper speaking, still had a bit of sweetgrass in her voice.

“Not at all.” I tried to see what he looked like, but he was still just a glint of eye and teeth in the night.

He reached over and offered his hand. “Tate Larsen.”

I took it, and my hand slid against the thin calluses on his palm. Not like the thick pads of men who’ve worked for years; these were new—rough over smooth.

“Belle. Belle Powers.”

“I know who you are.”

“Yeah, what, ‘Clayton Redd’s girl singer’?”

He smirked. “I saw you sing at Darlene’s when I first got to Nashville in ’67. And when I saw you were playing the Opry the next year, I spent my rent money on a ticket.”

I laughed. “I bet you regretted that.”

He smiled. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat. You have a magical voice, Ms. Powers.”

The way his words reverberated through me made me a little angry. I didn’t need another man telling me I had a great voice. I knew I did. I didn’t need his approval. None of it.

“I should probably get going. It’s late.” I stood up out of my swing.

“If that’s what you need to do.”

“I just… I don’t need you blowing rainbows up my skirt, okay?”

He smirked. “I promise not to compliment your voice again. Scout’s honor.”

I sat back down. “Well, I don’t know about that…” I returned the smirk. It was nice to talk to someone who knew nothing about my real life. “Where you from? I know it ain’t here.”