The High Notes: A Novel(8)

“You’re a bitch, just like your mother,” he said fiercely, as he set down his empty beer bottle with a bang on the table. “Watch out you don’t end up like her, dead in a bar fight in some shit town somewhere.” She could have said the same to him, but didn’t.

Iris was a profoundly kind person, the lyrics of her songs reeked of it, she had turned out to be honest and moral, hardworking, and a good person, in spite of everything she’d seen with him, and all the slimy characters she’d met with him, and since. None of it had touched her. Her integrity had remained intact. He never had any. He was a user to the core. He saw her as an opportunity and someone he could take advantage of. He wanted her to become a star, so he could cash in on her big-time then. He stood up and looked down at her, sitting at the small restaurant table. “Don’t come whining to me if you need something or get into trouble. You think you don’t need a father, well I don’t need a daughter who’s ungrateful for everything I’ve done for her. You’re on your own,” he said, turned his back on her, and walked out of the restaurant without looking back. But she knew only too well that she had always been on her own with him. It was a terrible feeling having him walk out on her. She was still young and she did need a father, just not one like him. He was the one person who should have protected her, and instead he wanted to exploit her more than anyone else and already had.

She bussed her cup and saucer, threw away his empty beer bottle, wiped off the table with a damp rag, and went back to work. She wondered if she’d ever see him again. Maybe not, now that she wouldn’t give him a free hand with the money she made. He was entirely capable of abandoning her completely if she served no purpose for him. She had to take care of herself. She always had. Nothing had really changed.





Chapter 3





Iris didn’t hear from her father again before she left on tour. She thought of trying to call him, but decided not to. He could hold a grudge longer than anyone she knew, and she was sure he was still furious at her. She had no one to say goodbye to when she left Las Vegas. She gave up the small room she’d rented, put one suitcase and a couple of boxes in a storage unit, and left a box of fragile items and small, sentimental things with her landlady. Las Vegas was the closest thing she had to home now. She hadn’t been back to Texas in years, and had no one there.

You could still hear the remnants of her soft drawl. It wasn’t strong, but it was there, except when she sang. She accentuated it on the country songs, but there was no Texas twang in the rest of what she sang. Her father’s accent was still strong.

Several of Glen Hendrix’s tours left on the same day. They met at a garage, and she jumped in a stretch van with a young woman with jet-black hair, and four men, and all their equipment. The others were a featured act, the woman was the singer, and the men her band. One of the men was going to drive. There were four other groups leaving the same day. The tours were better organized than Billy Weston’s had been, and the performers were a little older and more experienced than the kids Billy Weston trapped into contracts. And the performers on Hendrix’s tours were slightly better paid. And her father wouldn’t be getting her checks now. She was hoping to save some money.

They were heading north that day. It was eight in the morning and they had an eleven-hundred-mile drive ahead of them, an estimated eighteen hours. The four men were going to take turns driving, and they expected to arrive in Seattle around two A.M. the following morning, check into the hotel, sleep for a few hours, and then go to the venue to set up and rehearse, and play a concert that night. In all, three bands would be playing, with Iris as the opening act. The woman with the black hair had brought bags of snacks with her for all of them, and they had a cooler full of sodas. She smiled at the woman as they hopped into the van, and took the middle row of seats.

“Hi, I’m Pattie Dixon.” She had long shining jet-black hair and was wearing heavy eye makeup, even at eight A.M., but she had a sweet face and a gorgeous smile. She had the faintest trace of a Southern accent and said she was from Mississippi. As they drove onto the freeway, she told Iris she had been touring for twelve years. All Iris could think of was that she hoped she wouldn’t still be touring seven years from now, but she was in for the next five, like a prison sentence. Pattie said that she was thirty, she had a seven-year-old son living in Mississippi with her mother, who took care of him, and she supported them both. “It’s either this or work at the convenience store where my mama lives. The only thing I know how to do is sing,” she said with her dazzling smile, and Iris smiled.

“Yeah, me too. I’ve been singing in bars since I was twelve.”

“I’m lucky my mama takes care of my boy. I’d be screwed otherwise, I don’t have anyone else to leave him with. His dad took off before he was born. He was a drummer in a band I was touring with. We never got married. He’s a big deal in Nashville now. He’s never seen our kid. So here we are,” she said, glancing at the scenery as they reached the open road. “Where do you live when you’re not on tour?” she asked Iris, who paused, thinking about it.

“Nowhere, actually. My stuff’s in a storage unit in Vegas and with my landlady. I’ve been floating all my life. I’m not sure where I’d live if I had the choice. We lived in Austin for almost nine months when I was a kid. I liked it, and California looks pretty good, but I’ve only been in and out on tour.”