Page 9 of Night Songs

The girl was about my age, with glossy brown hair curled like a magazine ad and a prim pink cardigan set. But these elements didn’t seem a part of her. Her tall, strong body radiated a divine energy, like a goddess masquerading as a teenage girl.

In my silence, she studied me back. I imagined the dirt child she must see, and I took a step away so she couldn’t get a whiff. I reached up to smooth the wild, wavy tangle of my hair.

Her gaze made its way down to the ground, where she stared at my bare feet. In my haste to sniff out the music, I had forgotten my shoes. I expected to see judgment when her eyes met mine again, but I still saw only curiosity. It released the sound in my throat.

“I heard the music. From next door.”

She looked over at the boarded-up house with a frown. “The Clarks’ old place? But that’s been condemned for months.”

“No, um, on the other side.”

“The Haskins?”

“Yes, they’re my cousins. I’ve been staying with them.”

She nodded, seeming to accept it. “Well, then, I apologize for disturbing you.” There was something so elegant about her speech. The way she polished each syllable and strung them together like pearls.

“No, I… I love music.”

She exhaled. “That’s a relief.” Her mouth curled slightly. “If I may ask, what did you think of the song?”

“Truth is I couldn’t hear it very well, so I came over to get a better listen. What song is it?”

“It’s mine. I wrote it myself.”

I’d never met anyone else who wrote songs. “It reminds me of something all coiled up. Like a snake, maybe.”

The girl took further stock of me. “What’s your name?”

“Lulabelle.” I scrambled to remember the rest of the name I had crafted on the ride to Nashville. “LulabellePowers.”

Her mouth curled into a full smile, and she put her hand out. “Hess Walker.” I shook her solid, golden hand, and it felt like gripping a rock warmed by the sun. “Would you like to come in?” she asked, and I nodded without thinking.

She met me at the front door, and I walked carefully into the house. In the well-furnished front room, there were new-looking instruments scattered around and records stacked on shelves. So many treasures in one place.

“Is this all yours?”

“Oh, no. Most of these belong to Mom. Though I think that’s Martha’s bass,” she said, pointing at an amber guitar leaned against the wall.

I looked at her questioningly.

“Martha’s one of my roommates. This is a boardinghouse.”

“Is it run by your mama?”

“Oh, ha! No. Mom owns the place, but she doesn’t have children.Everyone just calls her that. She opened her house a few years ago to give unmarried women performers a place to stay. She used to sing and play fiddle in a duo with her husband, but he passed.”

I felt like I’d stumbled into some kind of dream. Who knew such a place could exist?

Hess led me back to her bedroom, which was just as beautiful as the rest of the house, with its matching floral coverlet and wallpaper and a closet full of candy-colored dresses.

While Hess tuned a gleaming blonde guitar, I waited patiently near the wall so as not to smudge anything.

“Okay, are you ready? I need your honest opinion.”

I nodded, afraid I would say the wrong thing and all of this would turn to vapor.

She started the coiled-up tune I’d heard through the window. It was real tight, so that it felt like you were twisting through a narrow passage but still getting lost somehow. It conjured up how trapped I’d felt back home and in the shed, but now it was at a safe distance, allowing me to study it. A few words appeared in my head: