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  From the tone of Roy’s voice, I couldn’t tell if he was trying to give me a warning or just stating facts. “Well, thank you,” I said, turning to go.

  “Wait. How long you plannin’ to stay?”

  Barring any unforeseen expenses, I knew about how far my much-fingered roll of $20 bills would go. The Manager’s Special of $65 per night came out to two weeks for $910, leaving $90 for food and incidentals, and surely in that time I’d have some paid work singing. A recording contract if Mr. Anglin’s prediction came true. Seeing his dear face in my mind’s eye made a little guilty tremor race up my spine. I needed to get back to my room. “I paid for three nights up front,” I said, turning to go again.

  “Hey!” he called, spinning me on my heel to see those intense blue eyes looking at me. “You sing?”

  I hesitated, then answered, “Yessir. Play and sing. Write all my own material.”

  “Well, well. What’s your name, missy?”

  “Jennifer Anne Clodfelter.”

  “Mighty big name for such a slip of a girl. Anybody ever tell you you’re a dead ringer for Cher?”

  I nodded. By twelve I was constantly compared to the dark, exotic celebrity when she was young, starring in the 1970’s Sonny & Cher Comedy Hour. I was tall and willowy, and my straight blue-black hair fell to my waist. But, where Cher wasn’t exactly well-endowed, I was ample in the bosom department. The other difference between me and Cher was that my eyes were green.

  “So . . . what style of music do you do, Jennifer Anne Clodfelter?”

  I borrowed some confidence from Mac’s words when he handed me my last paycheck. “I’m the next Patsy Cline.”

  “Alrighty.” Roy chuckled. “Then let me guess. You do traditional? Or maybe early country?”

  “Huh?”

  “You said you’re Patsy Cline. But, there’s tons of styles. Got your Nashville sound and your country rock. Then there’s rockabilly, bluegrass, honky-tonk, outlaw, and Bakersfield sound. Cowboy Western and Western swing. Oh!” he clucked his tongue. “About forgot Texas country style, and the new traditionalist, and can’t leave out the contemporary sound, and of course, alternative. Though I don’t cotton to alternative.”

  My heart started racing for fear my ignorance would show. “I’m the old kind of country.”

  “I see. So, you want to be a star?”

  I saw mischief in those blue eyes, and I didn’t know how to answer this question either. At last, I nodded.

  That’s when he began regarding me with amused pity. “If that’s the case, you’ll really want to be here a little longer. Actually,” he paused and drew a long breath, “you’ll want to be here nine years.”

  “Huh?”

  Roy cleared his throat, and it seemed he stood on tiptoes because he rose up at least two inches. “Nashville may be the creative center of the universe if you’re a singer and a songwriter—got all kinds of resources here for learning the industry, lots of places you can sing—but folks don’t call her the nine-year town for nothing. They say it takes nine years to break into the scene, to become an overnight success. I’ve lived here all my life and I love her, but if you’re looking to break into the music business, she can chew you up and spit you out like nobody’s business.”

  I must’ve looked sad or confused because Roy’s face softened, his voice grew smooth as silk, “You got people here?”

  “I’m on my own.” Four simple words—the truth of it stunned me.

  “I got an extra room at my house.”

  “Um . . . thanks. No offense, but I’m fine on my own.”

  “Ain’t trying to rain on your parade, but I’ve seen plenty have to wait tables or worse. Randy Travis was a cook and a dishwasher at the Nashville Palace before he could make it on his music. Seen a good number turn around and head home, too, tail tucked between their legs. You might need a place if—”

  “I said I’m fine.”

  Roy rolled his lips inward, considering. “Independent type, hmm? Well, good luck. But don’t worry if you change your mind.” He drew in a long breath. “If you change your mind, you just come right on back and see Roy. I’m here most evenings after seven. I just figured if you’re new around town, trying to make your way in the country music scene, it’d be good if you had somebody to fall back on.”

  Back in my room, I sat on the bed, Roy’s words hanging over me like a dark cloud. Chew you up and spit you out, and Folks don’t call her the nine-year town for nothing. Just like that, a dark cloud moved over me. This spirit of despair was something I often felt, and it had a Siamese twin who drove me to do really rash and stupid things. That was how I’d made my worst mistake to date, acting on blind impulse. And now impulses to bolt from Music City were gathering forces. I knew despair was the worst thing, the killer that blinded you to possibilities, and so I clenched my teeth, closed my eyes, and forced myself to go back all those years to a little scene that happened on the stretch of linoleum between the music room and the gym.

  “Really, Jennifer, you have a gift you need to share with this world.” It was between classes, and Mr. Anglin whispered in this intense voice, his small mouth barely moving against my ear. “Promise me you’ll get these demos to Nashville.” I recalled that his hands clenched into fists, even after I gave him my word that I’d do it. Mr. Anglin often reminded me he’d heard thousands of singers in his job of music teacher at the high school and choir director at the church, but I was the only one who’d ever moved him to tears. My songs and the way I sang them pierced his heart.

  Speaking of hearts, Mr. Anglin had been well-loved, and his memorial service in April of my junior year had been a large affair involving the entire staff and a good number of the nine hundred students from Fannin County High, as well as a huge flock of people from the church. The odd thing was that Mr. Anglin’s burial, prior to the service, was private. Mr. Anglin was a bachelor and had been an only child with no living parents, so there was no family to have requested this.

  No family I could confess to . . .

  After the service, when everyone was in the fellowship hall drinking coffee and eating cakes brought by dozens of church ladies, I walked out to the cemetery to see his stone. I put my hand over my heart and said, “I’m sorry. I had no idea you’d take it so hard. Please forgive me.” I walked around Mr. Anglin’s new home. He loved flowers, and toward the fringes of the graveyard, there was soft purple wisteria dripping from tree limbs. There were flowers near the graves, too, and I’m not talking about artificial arrangements poked down into stone vases. There were daffodils and dandelions in pretty shades of yellow, and a line of white irises. When a jot of blue caught my eye, right at the edge of where the dirt had been disturbed for Mr. Anglin’s casket, I let out a little, “Hah!” and bent to pluck the tiny stem of a forget-me-not. I turned to Mr. Anglin’s headstone again, and with tears in my eyes I said, “I won’t forget you, ever. I promise I’ll take the demos to Nashville.” But even with this graveside declaration, I’d continued on the path of that heedless decision that put him there in the first place.

  Here it was six years later, and I was only just beginning to honor my promise. I felt the slick brochures from Roy Durden and looked down at the bold words: The Country Music Hall of Fame & Museum. “I might be in the Hall of Fame one day,” I said out loud, picturing myself with all those legends and pressing my free hand over my heart to feel a trembling hopefulness deep inside that moved outward making all of me shake. Then it was like I had this knowing, this sense that what I was imagining I could actually achieve. I hopped up, splashed cold water on my face, and took the elevator downstairs again.

  2

  As I stepped outside, my eyes were drawn to the tallest building, the most familiar, what I would come to think of as my compass as I settled into my city. Later I’d hear the BellSouth building referred to as the “Batman Building” and would discover that no matter where you were in the downtown area or where you came into Nashville—interstates, Hillsboro Road, or any
of the old Pikes that lead into downtown, almost every view showed this iconic building on the skyline. That night, to see the spires in a clear sky amid a bunch of twinkling stars made me feel bold.

  I stood in the parking lot, a map in one hand and my guitar case in the other. Deep in the front pocket of my blue jeans was my hotel key card and a twenty, the rest of the cash hidden in a Tampax box in my room.

  There was a steady stream of cars on Division Street, and I looked down at the map, imagining all the streets as arteries and veins leading to the heart of a city pulsing with excitement. As I was leaving, Roy reminded me to be careful, that any city was dangerous for a single girl. But oddly, I had no fear. I’d begun to feel as if—I don’t know how to put it—I had some kind of immunity to danger, to anything that might thwart my destiny. Anyway, I fancied myself a strong person, and if there were risks that went along with achieving my dream, they were worth taking.

  An impulse to go toward what was called Music Row kicked in and I took a left and started up a slight hill, going along beside a brick wall, passing several large buildings. There were no other pedestrians, and I realized this part of town was quiet in the way a business section is after dark, and I was just about to make a U-turn when up ahead I glimpsed what appeared to be a bunch of people dancing naked in the moonlight. I went closer and saw that it was nine bronze men and women, each more than twice life-sized, up on a piece of limestone in the middle of a traffic roundabout where Division Street meets Seventeenth Avenue. A female at the pinnacle held a tambourine aloft. I stood and stared, scarcely breathing. Was this the controversial sculpture called “Musica” I’d been hearing about? I thought it very tasteful, full of a deep creative energy that captured the spirit of inspiration perfectly.

  At last, I turned my head and saw a little park to one side with another statue, this one of a man sitting at a piano. Curious, I made my way over to read the sign. Owen Bradley had been a record producer, architect of the “Nashville Sound,” and a man who helped create Music Row. He’d produced songs for many great country music artists, from Patsy Cline to Ernest Tubb. I had that feeling of walking inside of a dream as I sat down beside Mr. Bradley’s erect figure on the piano bench to drape my arm over his shoulder. I looked at his face. Depths of wisdom seemed to lie behind those eyes that stared out unblinkingly toward Music Square, that fertile field of record labels and recording studios.

  “Anything you want to say to me?” I said in a playful voice before kissing his cheek, then hopping up. Something made me pause at one of the large stones around the edge of the brick courtyard. I bent over to read what it said by moonlight: “You’ve Never Been This Far Before”—Conway Twitty.

  “You’re darn right,” I called to Mr. Bradley. “But here I am, and ain’t nothing gonna stop me now.”

  This crazy dialogue made me remember where I actually needed to be: up on a stage. Since no record label or studio would be open for business on a Thursday night at 9:30, I looked at my map and decided to follow Demonbreun Street from the roundabout until I came to Fifth Avenue, which would take me to Broadway, to the honky-tonks. The nightlife.

  Gradually the dark storefronts gave way to lit windows of restaurants and nightclubs. When I reached the corner of Fifth and Broadway, I paused, glancing in one direction at a humongous building that said Nashville Convention Center, and in the other direction to what looked like a gigantic street party. Six lanes wide, Broadway was full of people. Streams of folks were going in and out of doorways, clustering around storefronts, drinking, talking, eating, smoking, and laughing. Twinkling lights wound around tree branches put me in mind of Christmas, and from where I stood I could see a horse-drawn carriage and two statues of Elvis Presley.

  Stars were in my eyes as I headed into the thick of it, passing various businesses: Cadillac Ranch, Whiskey Bent Saloon, Jimmy Buffet’s Margaritaville, Wanna B’s Karaoke, Rippy’s Ribs, Big River Grille, Robert’s Western World, and one I knew I’d have to visit: the Ernest Tubb Record Shop. Nothing had prepared me for the energy I saw and felt in every square foot. This place was worlds away from the life I knew of quiet hills, trees, and rivers. I’d come from a mountain town peopled with working folk whose idea of nightlife was a jug of whiskey and a poker game in a back room. Quickly, I reminded myself not to let the shadows cast by the past follow me to Music City. Music City . . . now I understood. A name so perfect for this place pulsing with melody and harmony and soul!

  It was a pleasant temperature, and I wandered a while soaking it all in. Finally, I set my Washburn down to rest my arm, leaned back against a solid brick wall, and waited to see where I might go first, what called to me. After a good ten minutes, I walked a ways and stood at the doorway of a place, which judging from the crowd, was very popular. It was one of those rowdy honky-tonks you hear about in a million country songs—a line of folks at the bar holding foaming beers, crowds wearing cowboy hats and boots and moving to a band.

  I remained just outside, feeling a bit uncertain of how to do what I’d come to do. Everybody looked so relaxed. Hipster girls with chic hair and lots of jewelry and fancy jeans, the guys with that confident swagger, that backslapping good-ol’-boy ease. I felt a little frumpy and out of it until I put my hand in my pocket to kind of huddle into myself and touched my guitar pick. And that was when I stood up tall, the siren call of the stage loud and clear. I needed to feel the love of the crowd inside. I needed to feel the music filling every cell as I sang.

  I started to walk through the doorway, but a man held out his arm like a gate. “Hold on just a minute there. Gotta pay the cover charge.”

  I peered inside and didn’t see any covers in the whole place. For a moment my mind went blank, then something I can only call my stage presence took over, and I said, “Well, covers or not, I’d really like to sing tonight.”

  He eyed me like I was out of my mind. “This ain’t no karaoke lounge.”

  “Um, I know. Of course it’s not. Who’s that?” I nodded toward the stage.

  “That’s our house band.”

  “Can I sing when they take a break?”

  He squinted his eyes at me. “I don’t know what planet you come from, but like I said, we ain’t no karaoke bar. There’s some places around here, on certain nights, you might could sing, but you can’t just wander in here and say, ‘I’d like to sing.’ ” The last four words he said in a high voice that made me cringe.

  “Please. I promise. Mr. Anglin said Nashville would die when they heard me, and I’ve got this song I wrote called—”

  “What is it you don’t understand? Do you know how many desperate gals come to Nashville thinking they’re God’s gift to country music? Think they got the voice that’ll make them a star?” He guffawed and slapped his thigh. “I’ll tell you what happens to most of ’em. Most of ’em end up dancing at the gentlemen’s clubs. Yep, they’re the reason there’s a half-dozen of those bars down next to the interstate! All them females who didn’t make it in country music still got to put food in their stomachs.” Sizing me up, he smiled like a hungry wolf. “You look like you got the right equipment to make some good money dancing.” He reached out toward me with his beefy hand.

  “Don’t touch me!” I backed away, tripping over my own feet. I can’t say I was shocked at the disrespect in his eyes. I’d witnessed this in scenes from my former life, and as if to prove it, from the back room of my subconscious I heard a slight knocking sound. I clenched my teeth, terrified I was fixing to be the involuntary audience of some sleazy little documentary from my past. But something inside me snapped, and this surge of anger eclipsed the memory so that the film just beginning to roll in my head went mercifully blank.

  When I got down the sidewalk a ways, I could feel tears of fury just under the surface, but I willed them away, thinking, I will sing tonight! I’m here and no leering man with slimy paws is gonna stop me again.

  Before I knew it, I was at the entrance to a place that said World Famous Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge. I
stood and let the beat of the drums and the bass guitar wash over me, restore me. Finally I craned my neck to peer into the main room. Like all the others, the place was packed. I noticed a picture of Willie Nelson with a paper beneath it that said he got his first songwriting job after singing at Tootsie’s. A thrill raced through me! I fancied I could actually feel the presence of greatness, and I was glad to see there was a woman at the entrance. She was skinny, perched up on a stool with her legs crossed, wearing a red gingham blouse and hair much too black and shiny for her age. I pointed to the poster. “Do you know Willie?”

  “Not personally.” She smiled with yellow teeth. “Feel like I do, though, the way he sits there looking at me all the time.”

  “Does a person have to buy covers to come in here?”

  She had a smoker’s husky laugh. “Nope. Don’t gotta buy covers to come into Tootsie’s.”

  “Do y’all let regular folks sing here?”

  “Sometimes, but not tonight.”

  She looked like one of those world-weary women who’ve seen it all, glittery blue eye shadow and black lines drawn in for her eyebrows. But she had a warm smile, and I decided to take my chances that she’d be kind. “Do you know anywhere I can sing tonight?”

  “Hmm . . . let me think,” she said, her silver chandelier earrings swinging as she tilted her head. “Believe it’s open jam night at the Station Inn.”

  “At a hotel?”

  “The Station Inn’s a bar on Twelfth Avenue, darlin’.” She made a gesture over one sharp shoulder. “That a way. In the Gulch.”

  “Can I walk there?”

  “I reckon. Twelfth Avenue’s right off Broadway.”

  I thanked her and left, quickly passing half a dozen more nightclubs, feeling drunk just listening to all that music streaming out of their doorways, some sounding sad, with sweet, plaintive fiddle notes, and some lively, with a beat you couldn’t help moving some body part along with.