was easy to read.
She was pregnant.
A chill swept her. With a precise motion, she rose, set the test strip on the marble counter and got her robe off the hook on the back of the door. She tied the robe snugly, then leaned toward the mirror, studying her face.
Suddenly her head spun and her legs turned to water. She sank down on the side of the large tub, where she put her head in her hands and cried.
CHAPTER 7
1550 on the Radio Dial
The Hank Williams Sunday Morning Gospel Hour
IN FRONT OF THE BATHROOM MIRROR, WINSTON ran an electric razor over his craggy cheeks. From a small black portable radio on the nearby glass shelf came his own voice.
“Good mornin’, folks, and welcome to the Hank Williams Sunday Mornin’ Gospel Hour.”
He mouthed along with the words. He thought he sounded mighty fine.
“And, yes, Hank Williams, Sr., is still dead, but we’re resurrectin’ some of his gospel tunes for this special show. This program is recorded, meanin’ when you hear this, we’re all doin’ something else, but right this minute our own Felton Ballard is here in the studio to sing for you. Many of you know Felton from the Saturday evenin’ singings over at the First Baptist. He plays these tunes in the original style, just like ol’ Hank sang ’em. We’re mighty proud of Felt. He starts off here with ‘I Saw the Light….’”
Winston hummed along with the tune. Felt sang it well. They had recorded the show back last winter. Miracle of modern life, the way music and voices could be recorded, and then all manner of changes made. Had not been like that back in his day, no, sir. Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, Loretta Lynn—they all went to the station and sang into the microphone before getting recorded.
Winston was not a fan of recording. It hindered him from adding in the clever things that came to his mind when he was listening on a Sunday morning in the bathroom.
“Well, folks, I want to tell you that our Sunday gospel hour today is brought to you thanks to Tinsley’s IGA, the All Church Pastors Association of Valentine and the Burger Barn. And you can hear Felton Ballard playing Hank Williams’s gospel live at the First Methodist Church this Sunday, where a special nine-thirty service is an entire singing service. Everyone’s invited.
“Up next we got ‘Are You Walking and a-Talking with the Lord?’ What a lot of people don’t know is that in his short career the original Hank Williams wrote some fifty gospel songs. Isn’t that right, Felt? You’re somethin’ of an expert on this, I understand.”
Felton answered, “Yes, sir. My wife sometimes sings with me, like Audrey sang with Hank…and Hank recorded a series of gospel albums as Luke the Drifter. I guess they thought it wouldn’t fly with his real name, with all his drinkin’ and carryin’ on.”
“Well, I can recall that he always sang one or more gospel tunes with Little Jimmy Dickens in his Grand Ole Opry appearances. This one is for all of my friends out there who remember the Grand Ole Opry in the old days. Go ahead, Felt.”
The music started, and Winston could sing along with this song, too. He remembered that this one had been a favorite of Coweta’s.
Suddenly he looked around and saw Coweta racing toward him in the garage, where he was tuning up the Ford. Her little black shoes flew over the ground. “Oh, Win! Look at this. Birdy sent it. Can we go? Oh, let’s! Won’t cost us nothin’ to stay with Birdy. Just you and me. Mama can take care of Freddie.”
The yellow playbill floated up before his eyes. Blurry. He had to squint, and then it came in plain: April 1,1951, Robinson Memorial Auditorium, Little Rock…Star! Hank Williams! and His Drifting Cowboys…also Lefty Frizzell…
Coweta’s dark eyes shone like they could, pulling him in. He and she had just come out of a big fight, and he was in that place where he would lasso the moon for her. She knew it, too. That’s how it played out for them again and again. Took them thirty years to see it, and some more to start doing anything to break the cycle.
Somehow, just as she could always work a miracle, she had made the phone call and gotten them tickets. “Yes, I did. Row five. Don’t ask what they cost.” She laughed, and the skirt of her dress swirled as she raced up the stairs to pack.
He shook his head. He never had been one to worry over money. It was her who worried over it.
“Not that time,” she said now, grinning at him right there in their bedroom. “I loved that Hank Williams.”
He never could understand it. “That Hank was so scrawny, he’d blow away in a good wind.”
Coweta smiled. There was a pink glow around her, pretty as could be. She said, “We had us a good time. Remember?”
“Yeah. I remember…we had to drive through five hours of sleet and rain and the windshield wipers actin’ up.”
“Oh, Winston. You never remember the important things. Like you held my hand, and we danced after, all alone. Why don’t you remember that?”
“That was near fifty years ago,” he defended. “I was born before ol’ Hank, and have lived far after him, and I got a lot clutterin’ my brain.” He pointed at the playbill in her hand. “I’ve outlived ever’body on that poster.”
“No, honey, you haven’t.”
“No kiddin’—really?”
“Now, why would I kid about such a thing? Don Helms was in the Drifting Cowboys then, and he is still alive—and playin’, even. He’s younger than you.”
“Isn’t ever’body?” Winston said, a little sadly. Then, “I’ve outlived so many, Coweta. Just so much has happened in my life. I can’t piece it all together half the time.”
“I know, honey.” Her hand came over his, so pale and soft against his leathery skin.
Then he heard her humming. It took him a second to recognize the tune—Hank’s “I’m Going Home.”
“Mis-ter Wins-ton…Mis-ter Wins-ton.”
It was Willie Lee, standing right in front of him.
Why, he was now sitting on his bed. He didn’t remember sitting on the bed.
Willie Lee’s eyes blinked behind his thick glasses. Looking downward, Winston saw Willie Lee’s smaller hand, soft and white, lying on his own.
“I’m okay, buddy. Just caught in some memories.”
“Yes. You are o-kay,” the boy said confidently.
Willie Lee knew these things, so Winston felt reassured.
“Moth-er says we need to go to church ear-ly. It is rain-ning. I will get you-r coat.”
The boy fetched Winston’s blue sport coat from the butler chair and held it up for Winston to slip into. Winston checked himself in the dressing mirror before following the boy from the room. As he went out the door, he paused and glanced around, looking for signs of Coweta.
There were none. She had been gone a long, long time now. As were so many who had made up his life.
Over at her small house, Paris Miller peered out her bedroom window through hard rain pouring from the roof and washing over the glass. It ran in the ditch that divided the yards. Behind her on her boom box, a voice sang out an old country tune. “Please make up your miinnd…”
She was actually contemplating going to the Methodist Church. That was the only church she had ever been able to go into alone. She had gone to the Good Shepherd with a friend, and she liked that they were real friendly, but the thought of being there on her own with them jumping up and running around made her nervous. The Methodists were a quiet bunch. She could slip in, sit in the back and hardly be noticed. She had done that before, enough so that the usher—Leon