Page 57 of Night Songs

He relaxed back into his swing. “Minnesota. What about you?”

“The mountains.”

“An authentic country girl. Rare these days.”

“And I still got all my teeth, can you believe it?” I bared my fake teeth in an unsettling grin, and he laughed.

I heard Martha calling my name, and I saw that most of the party had congregated around the fire in a big jagged circle. Tate and I stood up and joined everyone, separating to sit with our respective friends.

A man in his thirties with a guitar slung across his middle introduced himself as Don and welcomed everyone to his home. Half the circle were clutching guitars or basses, and there were handheld percussion instruments scattered throughout. I even saw someone with spoons.

Don played the first chords of an old Bob Wills tune, and a couple guitars joined in. Another man with a russet beard started to sing, and his sound was coarse against the sweet melody, like stubble rubbing against my face.

I saw Tate across the circle, lit up now by the flames. He was beautiful in the way teen boys were beautiful, with a tenderness beneath a serious, rough exterior. His hair was thick and shaggy to his chin, and his beard was more neat than some of the others.

I leaned over and whispered to Martha, “Do you know that guy? The one with the old Gibson?”

She searched for him in a sea of men clutching Gibsons. “Oh, Tate. Yeah. Fine voice. Good player.Amazingsongwriter.” I loved that this is what Martha thought of first—his qualities as a musician. “He’s written a few songs for big artists.”

“Is he married or…”

“No, he’s single.” She looked concerned. “I don’t know, Lou. He’s kind of a heartbreaker.”

I thought,Yes.

Across the circle, I heard a familiar tune start up. Tate was strumming the first bars of the old murder ballad I played that time at the Opry.

He was staring right at me, daring me to sing. I accepted the challenge.

There was a woman in town who sang so sweet

Her beauty was beyond compare

But one day a bright specter she did meet

There aft she was no longer fair

I could feel the rough edge of something new in my voice catching as the song slid out of my throat. The pain of the last few months had added depth to my sound.

But the words themselves, they had come before I ever met Hess, and it felt good to sing something without a trace of her.

There was an honesty in singing about my curse this way, in front of all these people. A morbid acceptance. I remembered how lifted I felt when I performed it at the Opry.

She ranted and raved and ran over town

Chased by somethin’ not seen

She ran so far that she came to a cliff

And it chased her over to free’n

Later, when we walked en masse back to our cars in the early-morning light, there came a clear, crisp voice behind my ear, “Come back to my place.”

“No.”

“Then come tomorrow.”

“Itistomorrow.”