Page 30 of Never Flinch

“Fanwise, right back atcha, girl. Then maybe you’d just as soon skip the rehearsal. It’s been a long time for me, and like I say, we goan be piss poor at first. We got two weeks and a little more to get right.”

“No, I’ll be there!” Barbara feels like a girl in a dream. “What time?”

“We’ll start around seven, I s’pose, and prob’ly go late. You wouldn’t want to stay for all of it, but there’ll be food.”

Like hell I won’t, Barbara thinks. She finds her feet again. “Sista… Betty… Ms. Brady… this isn’t a joke? A prank call?”

“Honey,” Betty Brady says, again with that rich chuckle, “it’s as real as can be. You come on out to that Sam’s Club. Tones and Henrietta—she’s my agent—will have your name.”

4

When Barbara pulls her Prius into the parking lot of the defunct Sam’s Club out by the airport that evening, she feels a pang of anticipationthat’s mixed with fear. She has a fair amount of self-confidence, but it’s still hard for her to believe she hasn’t been pranked. How likely is it that a famous person would callher, just because she’s written a slim (128 pages) book of poems? She can see a couple of Ryder trucks parked near the building, and she supposes those are filled with musical equipment, so yes, Sista Bessie is probably here, but when she approaches the man sitting by the door and smoking a cigarette, what are the chances he’ll say,Never heard of you, lady, get lost? Barbara thinks the chances are pretty good.

Still, she’s not without courage (she thinks her friend Holly has more of that), so gets out of her car and walks to the man sitting on the plastic milk crate. He stands up and gives her a grin. “You’re the one she wants to see, I’m thinking. She said young, Black, and female. Barbara Robinson?”

“Yes,” Barbara says, relieved. She shakes the man’s outstretched hand.

“Anthony Kelly, but everyone calls me Tones. I’m Betty’s tour manager. Pleased to meet you.”

“I’m in a daze,” Barbara says.

He laughs. “Don’t be. We’re just regular people. Come on inside.”

It’s a big space full of echoes. There are a few men and women rolling equipment around; a few more lean against the walls, talking. An elderly, thin-faced woman—Sista Bessie’s dresser, Barbara assumes—is rolling a rack of glittery costumes to where the cash registers used to be.

Betty Brady—Sista Bessie—is up front by herself, slinging a guitar over one shoulder. The case, battered and covered with stickers, is open at her feet. Dressed in mom jeans and a sleeveless top that strains to hold in truly mighty bazooms, she could be almost any streetcorner busker. Barbara is immediately struck by how broad-shouldered she is. How indubitablythere.

“Let me introduce you,” Tones says.

“No, not yet. Please.” Barbara can hardly speak above a whisper. “I think she’s going to play. I’d like to… you know…”

A white woman with a deeply lined face, a yacht of a nose, and too much rouge on her cheeks joins them. “You want to hear her sing. I understand.”

Betty is tuning up, or trying to. One of the roadies approaches. Betty gives him the guitar and says, “You do it, Acey. By the time I found out I was no good at this part, I was too rich to quit.”

The over-rouged woman says, “I’m Henrietta Ramer, Betty’s agent. I don’t guess you’re the only reason Bets wanted to kick things off in this town, but I think you were a big part of it. She loves-loves-lovesthat book of poems. Has read it half to death. I think she has an idea about one of them. You might like it, you might not.”

The roadie hands the Gibson back. Betty slings it and sings “A Change Is Gonna Come,” strumming each chord just once. Tones and Henrietta wander off, Tones to confer with an old Black man uncasing a saxophone, Henrietta to talk to the old lady who brought the costumes. They’ve heard it all before, but when Betty soars to the top of her range, Barbara gets goosebumpy from the nape of her neck to the small of her back.

Two more roadies wheel in a beat-up piano, and almost before it’s stopped moving, Betty begins to pound out “Aunt Hagar’s Blues.” She plays standing up, shaking her bluejeaned butt, getting a rough growl into that otherwise smooth, one-of-a-kind voice. The Black man with the sax claps along and sways his skinny hips. People are walking around, talking, laughing, but Betty ignores them. She’s totally into it, tuning her voice the way the roadie tuned her guitar.

Sista goes back to the Gibson. A skinny longhair, Barbara assumes her sound guy, puts a mic stand in front of her and plugs into a power strip. He also plugs in her guitar. Sista doesn’t even seem to notice; she’s singing gospel now. Amps are put in place. Sound monitors. A few musicians start to wander in, carrying their instruments. The old guy steps up beside her and honks his alto horn.

Sista Bessie pauses mid-verse of “Live A-Humble” to say “Yo, Red, you old son of a gun.”

Red yo’s her right back, then joins her singing: “Watch the sun, see how steady he run, don’t let it catch you with your work undone.” Barbara gets the goosebumps all over again. She thinks they’re perfect, but perfection is still building.

One by one other members of the band assemble behind her. Two of the three Dixie Crystals come in. One has her hair in Bantu knots,the other an Afro as gray as fog. They see Betty, scream, and rush to her. Sista hugs each in turn and says something about Ray Charles that makes them yell with laughter. Betty hands her guitar off, not looking, just assuming some roadie will take it. The three women put their heads together. They murmur, then launch into an electrifying version of Thelma Houston’s “Don’t Leave Me This Way” that ends with Red honking away all by himself. They all laugh and Betty bumps him with her bazooms and almost knocks him down. There’s more laughter and applause.

Betty starts to say something to one of the Crystals, then catches sight of Barbara. She puts one hand to her chest, then rushes forward, high-stepping over a few electrical cords. “You came!” she says, and takes Barbara’s hands. In her state of heightened acuity, Barbara can feel the calluses on the fingertips of Betty’s left hand, the one she uses to make the guitar chords.

“I came,” Barbara croaks. She clears her throat and tries again. “I came.”

“I’ve got a little dressing room in back. Your book is there. If you want to go—pretty girl like you might have a date—I can get it now for you to sign. But if you want to hang out a bit…”

“I do,” Barbara says. “Want to hang out, I mean. I can hardly believe I’m here.” What she says next just spills out. “You’re so goddam talented!”

“So are you, honey. So are you.”

---