Run, Rose, Run(8)

She stopped on the C7 and let the notes hang in the air. “You know what? I think I’m going to play a song you’ve never heard before,” she said. “A song so new I’ve never sung it for anyone else.” She strummed G, then E minor, then a D. “No one’s going to mistake me for Maybelle Carter on this thing, but I can play the chords all right. And that’s what I hear you need—just three chords and the truth?”

Someone in the back gave a whoop, but whether it was because of what she’d said or because a billiard ball had just gone spinning into a pocket, she couldn’t tell.

“Anyway, I guess I should stop talking and start singing, huh?” She smiled nervously as she gave the body of the guitar a jaunty little slap. She knew how to do this. She was ready. She just had to relax.

The fingers on her left hand found their positions. Tapping her foot on the worn floor, she began to pick out the intro. She fumbled once, stopped, began again. And then, when her fingers felt steady, she started to sing.

Is it easy?

No it ain’t



Her voice wavered and fear tightened her throat. Dear God, don’t let me blow it, she thought.

Can I fix it?

No I cain’t



She sounded so tentative, and nerves gave her voice a thin, quivering vibrato.

But I sure ain’t gonna take it lyin’ down.



Somewhere in the room, a beer bottle fell to the floor and smashed.

Will I make it?

Maybe so



Closing her eyes against the hot light, AnnieLee imagined she was far away and long ago from the Cat’s Paw Saloon, when she was a kid who’d sing to her teddy bear with a hairbrush microphone. Back then, she’d imagined a huge, awed crowd hanging on her every note. Now she pictured the opposite: one lone teddy bear, half drunk on Miller Lite, not even bothering to listen.

The thought made her feel ten times better, and when it came time for the chorus, her voice came out stronger. It growled, then hollered, then implored.

Gotta woman up and take it like a man



She could feel the crowd’s new attention. Her fingers flew over the strings, and by verse number two she was belting out the song at the top of her lungs. She sang for joy, and she sang as if her life depended on it.

Because, she knew, it did.





Chapter

7



You sure weren’t lying when you told me you could sing,” Billy said as he poured a round of shots for a rowdy table in the back.

AnnieLee took a sip of her club soda and then pressed the cool glass to her burning cheeks. Her heart still hadn’t stopped pounding, and the sound of the audience cheering and clapping echoed in her ears.

“I don’t lie,” she said, brushing her damp bangs away from her forehead. Sure, she might break a law or two, or fail to answer certain pointed questions, but she always told the truth unless she absolutely couldn’t. Her stepdad had been a cheat and a liar, and she never wanted to be anything like him.

“So maybe you’ll let me come back sometime?” she asked Billy.

He waited a beat, and then he gave a single nod. “I reckon maybe I will,” he said.

“Well, I’d be honored,” AnnieLee said. She’d played just four of her own songs and then, figuring she shouldn’t wear out her new Nashville welcome, she’d tucked that old bar guitar under her arm and headed offstage. That was when the Cat’s Paw regulars started stomping their feet on the floor, and Billy began waving madly at her from over by the beer taps, shouting, “Stay up there, girl! Go on!”

For a moment she’d stood there, frozen in the bright light, truly doubting this moment was real. She’d imagined a night like this for so long that suddenly she was afraid she’d conjured it up, straight out of her wild and grandiose imagination. Maybe she was dreaming as she slept on a park bench somewhere. Or maybe she’d flipped that big, dumb semi into a ditch, and the Cat’s Paw Saloon was just a hospital bed hallucination no realer than a young girl’s secret, most heartfelt wish.

“Is it easy?” someone shouted. “No it ain’t!”

Those six simple words had broken the spell and brought AnnieLee back to herself. She’d sat down on the rickety stage chair again. And then, with sweat beading on her upper lip and trickling down her neck, she’d had to confess that she couldn’t play any more originals.

“I’ve been traveling a bit lately,” she said, “and so I’m kinda rusty on my back catalog.” She laughed. “But I could play you an oldie but a goodie—something I didn’t write.”

She’d just started to strum the chords to the old hymn “I’ll Fly Away” when someone in the back said, “Play your songs again!”

And so, not knowing what else to do, she had—one right after the other. And everyone seemed to like them even better the second time around. Some people even sang along with the choruses.

Now, perched comfortably on a barstool, AnnieLee wasn’t sure if she was glad her set was over or if she wanted to run back onstage and do it all over again.

Billy held out a menu to her, but she waved it away. She couldn’t very well admit that she didn’t have enough money to pay for dinner. She wanted to be remembered for her performance, not her poverty. Besides, she had granola bars and gorp in her backpack, so she wasn’t going to starve.