Bounty(26)

“Have fun insulating,” I called to him as he walked back in with more stuff and I was walking back to my bedroom.

Apparently reaching the end of his ability to be a decent human being, Deke said nothing.



* * * * *



I stood in one of the two convenience stores that somehow the small town of Carnal seemed to be able to keep alive and stared, grinning at the cover of Twang magazine.

Lacey was on the front. Just Lacey against a gray background, though standing at her right foot was a male peacock, its tail fanned out behind Lace in full glory.

Her stance was wide. Her short but shapely legs oiled. A tiny dress made entirely of a peacock array of sequins barely covering her petite body. Her hair teased high just at the top, falling stick straight down the back. Her hands on her hips like she was Wonder Woman.

At the bottom, next to her silver-sandal-stiletto, it declared,

Lacey Town

Paints Her Tour Peacock

Oh yeah, I was sure she was, seeing as Peacock, the title to her latest album as well as her current tour, went platinum the day it released, the tour sold out in ten countries.

I yanked the magazine out of its rack and flipped through until I saw the article.

More pictures of Lacey, posed as well as mid-dance move, mouth open, mic curled around her cheek onstage.

Also one of her with her dad, Terrence Town, drummer and half of the decades-long partnership of songwriters of the still-touring (except in its fifth incarnation), multi-platinum R&B group, Heaven’s Gate.

I flipped the page and drew in a sharp breath.

And another photo, with me, after one of my shows five years earlier, our arms around each other, smiling big at the camera, my dad standing close and looking proud, the caption reading, With longtime friend, acclaimed rock balladeer, Justice Lonesome, and her father, the recently sadly passed legend, Johnny Lonesome, two of the strong line of Lonesomes spawned by the late, great, mythical rock god, Jerry Lonesome.

I remembered that show. It’d been in Louisville. A smallish venue but a hometown crowd. One of two sold-out, back-to-back nights. The best vibe I’d felt in my life, and there had been some good ones, before and after. But none better.

On top of the world yet sinking down in the mire.

I stared at my father, looking so proud.

Uncle Jimmy and Aunt Tammy both had careers. They were good, still toured, cut records, put themselves out there, made beautiful music that was appreciated by many, ticket sales strong, venues not arenas but nothing to sneeze at.

Neither were as good as Dad. Dad’s career rivaled Grandpa Jerry’s. Everyone said that. Even Grandpa Jerry before he died, and when he did, he said it with pride.

To the end, Dad was the closing act at festivals, teeming crowds as far as the eye could see shouting the words to his songs back at him. He rocked football stadiums, not arenas, never anything less after he hit with his first album.

Dad did nothing but soar.

Uncle Jimmy and Aunt Tammy also both had kids, but none of them had inherited what they needed to carry on the legacy. My cousin Rudy had tried, and failed, and let it make him bitter which led him off the deep end, so even Aunt Tammy didn’t see her son anymore. But he’d expected the name Lonesome (which he’d taken on, his father’s name was actually Smith—he was still a Lonesome though), would pave his way.

It hadn’t.

That life didn’t accept imposters or anyone riding coattails. You might ride for a while, but you had to demonstrate you were the genuine article and had staying power or it’d cut you out so fast, you’d wonder if it was a dream you ever got in.

Dad had been beside himself with happiness I’d entered the life.

He’d been devastated I’d decided to leave it behind.

But he’d let me leave. He’d seen the life chew people up and spit them out, his nephew not being the first, or the last, and after all that had gone down on my tour, he didn’t want to see that happen to me.

I had it, though. That’s what he said. What the critics said. What the folks who bought my album said. What Grandad said, and that was the good thing.

Granddad got to see me do it before he died.

And I didn’t end it until after he was gone.

I closed the magazine, grabbed the rest of them and went up to the cashier with them, my can of WD-40 and my bag of bite-size Baby Ruth bars (the latter the real reason I’d come in, perfect for nighttime munching while reading in bed and not requiring fridge, stove or microwave).

The cashier gave me a look when she saw the magazines.

“Lacey Town fan?” she asked.

“Big time,” I answered.

Her next look took in my clothes. It registered surprise, for Lacey was not rock or folk or alternative, she was R&B, like her dad, but the cashier said no more and stuffed my purchases in a plastic bag.