Page 31 of Never Flinch

Chapter 5

1

At quarter past nine the next morning, Holly is going over the Corrections Department’s daily list of bail jumpers. There are usually four or five; today there’s an even dozen.Spring fever, she thinks, and as if the thought had summoned her, Barbara Robinson blows in, almost literally. She doesn’t knock, just barges into Holly’s office and plops down in the client’s chair. The look of her—eyes too wide, zero makeup, clothes wrinkled as if she slept in them—is alarming.

Holly pushes her laptop aside. “Barbara? What’s wrong?”

Barbara laughs and shakes her head. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong. If I’m dreaming, don’t wake me up.”

Holly thinks she understands. She’s both glad and concerned. “Did you meet someone? Maybe… I don’t know… spend the night?”

“Not the way you mean, although it was late for sure. I got to bed around three, woke up at eight, put on the same clothes. Had to come over and tell you everything.Jeromehas met somebody, did you know that?”

“Yes. Georgia Nickerson. He introduced us. Nice young woman.”

“And you know those tickets I won, calling into the Morning Circus on K-POP?”

“Yes. Sista Bessie’s first show at the Mingo.”

“I can give them to Jerome. He can take Georgia.We’regoing as Sista Bessie’s guests. Only her real name is Betty Brady.”

With that, Barbara spills everything, starting with her out-of-the-blue call from Sista Bessie. Her trip out to Sam’s Club. The people she met (some names she remembers, most she doesn’t). The singing, most of all that.

“It was past one when they finally finished up… or tried to. Tones Kelly, her tour manager, pointed at his watch and said, ‘Time to call it a night, kids,’ so most of the band… they call themselves the Bam Band, did I tell you that?”

“Yes, Barbara.”

“They started to put their instruments down, but then the keyboard guy started a riff on his organ that was just too good. For the next eight minutes they sang ‘What’d I Say,’ with the Dixie Crystals doing the backing vocals. They grooved on it. No other word. I don’t know if you know that song—”

“I do, actually.” Holly knew it long before Barbara Robinson was born.

“It was so great! She was two-stepping with Red Jones, the sax player. And then Betty starts waving tome! She’s yelling, ‘Get on up here, girl!’ in that big strong voice of hers. So I went up… I felt like I was dreaming it all… and the Crystals pulled me in, andI sang with them!Do you believe it?”

“Of course I do,” Holly says. She’s full of happiness for her friend. This is an excellent way to start the day. Certainly better than looking for slow-moving bail jumpers she can scoop up.

“Then we went out to the Waffle House, because they’re open twenty-four/seven. Everyone! Holly, you should have seen Sista—Betty, I mean Betty—you should have seen hereat! Eggs, bacon, sausage, hash browns scattered and smothered… and awaffle, too! She’s big, but if I ate that much, I’dexplode! I guess singing must burn a lot of calories. Isatwith her, Holly! I ate scrambled eggs with Sista Bessie and her agent!”

Holly smiles her widest smile, in large part because it was Holly that Barb chose to tell all this wonderfulness. “But did you sign her book?”

“I did, but that’s not the important part. There are two rhymed poems in my book, mostly because of Olivia Kingsbury. As a mentorshe could be tough. She insisted that I write some stuff that rhymed. At least two. She said it was good discipline for a young poet.

“Early on, when I was getting to know her, we read a poem by Vachel Lindsay called ‘The Congo.’ It’s racist as hell, but it has a swinging beat.” Barbara thumps her feet to demonstrate. “So I wrote a poem called ‘Lowtown Jazz’ to sort of, I don’t know, tell the other side of the story. It’s not rap, but almost. It rhymes all over the place.”

Holly nods. “I love that one.”

“Betty said she did, too. Holly…she wants to set it to music and record it!”

Holly just stares at her for a moment, mouth open. Then she begins to laugh and clap her hands. “That’swhy she wanted to get together with you!”

Barbara looks a little crestfallen. “You think?”

“No, I mean because you’re you, Barbara. Your poems are a part of who you are, and they’re so good.”

“Anyway, we’re going to the show at the Mingo as Betty’s guests, and I can go back to rehearsals any time I want. She said my friend could come with me, and that’s you.”

“Great, I’d love that,” Holly says, with no idea that she won’t be in Buckeye City for the next little while, or even in the state. “So tell me what you wrote in her book.”

Barbara looks astounded. “I can’t remember. I was so excited.”

---