Song of the Chimney Sweep Read online

  Table of Contents

  Betty, 17 years old

  Melody

  Tabs and Blanks Podcast

  Tabs and Blanks Podcast

  Tabs and Blanks Podcast

  Melody

  Betty, 17 years old

  Betty, 17 years old

  Tabs and Blanks Podcast

  Melody

  Tabs and BlanksPodcast

  Betty, 18 years old

  Betty, 18 years old

  Tabs and Blanks Podcast

  Melody

  Betty, 18 years old

  Betty, 19 years old

  Betty, 19 years old

  Tabs and Blanks Podcast

  Melody

  Betty, 23 years old

  Betty, 23 years old

  Tabs and Blanks Podcast

  Betty, 24 years old

  Betty, 25 years old

  Tabs and Blanks Podcast

  Melody

  Tabs and Blanks Podcast

  Melody

  Betty, 32 years old

  Betty, 32 years old

  Tabs and Blanks Podcast

  Melody

  Betty, 33 years old

  Betty, 41 years old

  Betty, 43 years old

  Tabs and Blanks Podcast

  Melody

  Betty, 49 years old

  Tabs and Blanks Podcast

  Melody

  Tabs and Blanks Podcast

  Melody

  Tabs and Blanks Podcast

  Melody

  Tabs and Blanks Podcast

  Melody

  Betty, 19 years old

  Melody

  Tabs and Blanks Podcast

  Melody

  Melody

  Melody

  Betty, 18 years old

  Tabs and Blanks Podcast

  Melody

  Acknowledgements

  Author Bio

  Book Club Questions

  © 2022 Tamatha Cain

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, in part, in any form, without the permission of the publisher.

  Orange Blossom Publishing

  Maitland, Florida

  www.orangeblossombooks.com

  [email protected]

  First Edition: August 2022

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2022905263

  Edited by: Arielle Haughee

  Formatted by: Autumn Skye

  Cover design: Sanja Mosic

  Lyrics used by permission:

  BLUE SKY

  Words and Music by DICKEY BETTS

  Copyright © 1972 (Renewed) UNICHAPPELL MUSIC, INC. and FORREST RICHARD BETTS MUSIC

  All Rights Administered by UNICHAPPELL MUSIC, INC.

  All Rights Reserved

  Used By Permission of ALFRED MUSIC

  CARRY ON WAYWARD SON

  Words and Music by Kerry Livgren

  Copyright © 1976 EMI Blackwood Music Inc.

  Copyright Renewed

  All Rights Administered by Sony Music Publishing (US) LLC, 424 Church Street, Suite 1200, Nashville, TN

  37219

  International Copyright Secured All Rights Reserved

  Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard LLC

  Print ISBN: 978-1-949935-38-7

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-949935-39-4

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  She’s a road that leads away from home

  And she’s the only way back

  She’s a home fire lit by wild fire

  She’s the ember on a match

  -Dominicus Owens

  Betty,

  17 years old

  January 1969

  The country road that led into town was dark and close and winding, like the stuck-in-your-head refrain of some misremembered old song. It rolled through the farmlands and the blue-ink marshes, a secret passage, with walls made of palmetto bushes and pine trees, maidenhair ferns and bald cypress trees. Their branches lifted on the tailwinds of cars rolling by, and the forest inhaled, then crooned a sweet harmony along with the song of the night.

  From the middle of the cramped back seat, Betty Langdon’s eyes fixed on the glare of the radio dial. The deep blur of the forest and the crunchy-slick rhythm of the tires rolling on asphalt brought to mind a childhood memory of a night like this one, when she’d also worn her favorite dress and felt the lure of freedom, riding shotgun in her daddy’s shiny little blue car. She wished she could remember what kind of car it was, but she still watched for shiny little blue cars and peered at the drivers, hoping to find him behind the wheel.

  Betty’s best friend Junie sat to her left, staring at the cigarette between her fingers with a faraway, determined look in her eyes. Junie’s brother Fred tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, casually driving with the heel of his hand.

  “Who are these fool people, spraying fake snow on their windows?” Fred slowed the car and rolled the window down, then set his elbow out the door. “Who do they think they’re fooling? Santa Claus?” Fresh air rushed in, bringing blessed relief from the smell of Fred’s Old Spice aftershave. The girls patted their hair back in place.

  “You know that’s got to be some man’s idea. I wouldn’t want to wash that mess off every dang year,” Junie said. The other girls nodded.

  Betty’s cousin Loreen sat up front, gazing at the little houses and their strings of multicolored bulbs. “The lights are pretty down here, though. When I get married, I’m gonna have the nicest Christmas lights in the neighborhood, I mean to tell you,” she said.

  “Lights aren’t cheap, Loreen,” Junie replied. She tapped her cigarette out the window and the ash flicked away. Loreen raised her chin. She’d have lights like that, and better. No doubt about it.

  Betty wished she’d gotten a window seat so Junie could have shared the cigarette with the others without passing it across her lap over and over. Some leg room would have been nice, too. She was the tallest, after all. But she hadn’t said anything at the house when Junie dispatched them into assigned seats. Warm air blew crosswise through the car, balmy even for a north Florida winter night, and she checked the foam roller holding her bangs above her forehead. The abiding atmosphere of stored humidity and remnant heat emanated from the depths of the forest on either side of the road, biting back at the feeble chill.

  Betty, Junie, and two friends had pressed into Junie’s brother’s faded blue Chrysler Imperial to ride down to a saloon on the Westside to see a local band called The One Percent. Fred had used his last full army paycheck to buy this car after his tour and discharge, and Junie considered it her private taxicab. Junie could always convince them to go along with things they’d never conceive of on their own. Even if they did have crazy ideas and wishes and plans, none of them would have the nerve to say it out loud. Except for Junie. Junie would say it out loud. She’d say anything out loud.

  Last week, she’d told Betty and their friends that she’d die—DIE—if they didn’t come with her to West Tavern, which was practically right smack in the middle of Shanty Town, to see this band. She was going to leave that tavern with one of those musicians, too, but they had to swear to keep that from Georgie, and did they understand? She didn’t want the bother of finding a new date to prom this late in the game. It had been a whole year since she’d warned him he’d have to wear a ros
e-pink cumberbund and bowtie so they could match.

  Betty didn’t want to think that far ahead. An anxious knot had been vibrating in the pit of Betty’s stomach since it dawned on her there were only ten days left of Christmas break. How did senior year plod along endlessly while the break had practically flown? Sadie reached across her friends’ laps and wagged her fingers. Junie pulled two more long drags before passing the cigarette between them. Sadie pulled a little and coughed, blowing the smoke up to let it suck out the window but missed, and the smoke blew back into the car. Betty coughed. Sadie passed the cigarette back to Junie.

  “Almost there,” Junie said. “Fred, just turn right up here, then it’s just up a little ways.” Her brother pulled his elbow from its resting place in the open window and adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. The road ahead was dark as the sky deepened to a blueish black.

  “There’d better be some single men in there,” Junie said. She pulled a fleck of tobacco from her lip and flicked it away. It landed in Betty’s lap. Betty carefully picked it off and rubbed it between her fingers till it was dry enough to drop on the floorboard. She smoothed out the skirt of her new dress, inspecting for a stain.

  “Since when do you need them to be single, Junie?” Sadie said. She reached over Betty to poke Junie in the belly.

  Junie pulled the band from her ponytail and shook her head. Her hair swung into a silky curtain, just like a Prell commercial. Her voice went low. “I have not stopped thinking about that guitar player at the Willow Branch Park jam Sunday,” she said. Betty gave a puzzled smile while the other girls groaned in agreement.

  “The hippie?” Betty said. She’d never known Junie to look twice at a boy with long hair.

  “Yes,” Junie drawled, sucking on the cigarette and blowing smoke out through a whistle. The tip of her tongue appeared and lingered in the center of her top lip.

  “That band had a negro drummer,” Fred mumbled. “Y’all see that?” He thrummed a phantom beat on the steering wheel.

  None of them answered. They side-eyed each other and wriggled in their seats. Of course they’d seen him, with his bear-tooth necklace and tank top, muscles on display as his arms flew over the drum set. The hippie had hugged his neck and called him something exotic, sounded like ‘JayMo.’ How could they forget? Betty imagined the other girls remembering it the same way. What a band.

  Betty looked up and caught Fred’s eyes in the rear-view mirror. “I don’t have no problem with that,” he said. “No, sir. I don’t have that hang up no more.” He looked back out at the darkness and the narrowing road. Betty watched the back of his head. His buzz cut was growing out, and his wiry gold hair hung long around his ears, almost covering the top of a still-angry battle scar high on the side of his neck.

  Fred pulled up to the curb and let the girls out in front of the saloon door. “I’ll be back in an hour and a half. You hear me, Junie?” He said his sister’s name, but he looked at Betty. Betty replied with a helpless shrug as she pulled the foam roller out of her bangs.

  “Aww, come on, Fred. How about two hours, huh?” Junie said. She bent to look through the window. “Give you more time to find you some trouble…”

  He looked past her to other girls who were looking expectantly back at him. His plans were taking him to a different club, to a meeting not far from the naval base. “Well, all right. Two hours. But I might come back early, so you girls be good in there.” He gave the building a cursory once-over, evidently decided it looked decent enough, and pulled away from the curb. He drove off before they could answer, his tail lights disappearing around the bend.

  The girls fussed with their dresses and patted their hair. But Fred needn’t worry about Betty, she looked forward to the music. Tracking down romance was not on her agenda. The thought of trying to make conversation with some smoky Westsider made her want to wait for her friends in the car. Small talk didn’t come naturally, and flirting was as foreign as New York City.

  Junie puckered crimson lips around the damp end of the cigarette and took one last drag before dropping it to the gravel. Betty stepped out and covered the smoldering butt, crushing it under the toe of her shoe. The hot end went out with a weak sizzle as it found the damp between the stones. Lifting her foot, Betty checked the sole for damage. She’d bought the already-scuffed red shoes in secret for fifty cents last week at the church rummage sale, stuffing them to the bottom of her tote bag before her mother saw from across the room, where she loudly presided over the baked-goods table. Betty loved them, and she especially loved how they looked with the dress she’d sewn herself from a bolt of blue calico with tiny red cherries, also from the rummage sale.

  Looking up from the pulverized paper and tobacco at her feet, Betty started to follow her friends to the saloon doors.

  Then she stopped.

  A sound came from somewhere down the sidewalk. The other girls sauntered into the saloon, the cheers of an already rowdy crowd pouring out the doors along with the sound of guitar sound checks. As the doors closed behind them, the sound from down the road rose again. Voices. Voices singing.

  The dark asphalt road glowed with puddled yellow light. Betty strolled to the nearest light pole and stopped, listening. Her head bobbed along with the music; the harmony buzzing through her belly. She walked to the next light pole, stopped again, one hand against the humid wood. “My Girl”. She loved that song—the harmony so sweet, it brought a craving to her tongue. She swallowed hard.

  She looked back toward the saloon, then forward again toward the sound. It was coming from one of the small shotgun houses on the other side of the street. It wasn’t a record. People were singing. No instruments, only voices. A cappella. Like the hymn mama suggested last week at choir practice, mostly to put that haughty organist Vera in her place. Betty leaned toward the source of the sound, then pulled back, anchored to the post.

  Whoa, whoa, whoa…they improvised, somehow, in harmony. The voices sang on about all that honey and those envious bees. Tantalizing. Her mind filled in the trumpet hit. She set her jaw tight and tilted her head, then stepped out toward the next light pole. She stopped between posts, pressed her clutch against the front of her skirt, clenched her knees together with a shudder. Her shoulders swayed to the rhythm, a rhythm snapped by fingers on a porch across the street.

  There were figures. Five men on the porch, singing and snapping The Temptations song. Her mother didn’t even like their name, let alone their music.

  But her mother wasn’t here.

  Betty couldn’t turn away.

  Her eyes adjusted to the light of a single bulb and the glowing tips of cigarettes fluttering like fireflies. A man stood in each corner of the tiny, weathered porch, each singing their parts, their heads tilted toward each other as they found the harmony. Against the front door frame, a tall, narrow man leaned on his shoulder while he crooned the melody. The bare bulb shone down like a spotlight between them. Betty closed her eyes and imagined herself part of an audience, like on The Ed Sullivan Show. Her shoulders rocked as she swayed.

  The melody trickled down and stopped, giving way to a melodic hum.

  “Live, from the porch on Edison Avenue!”

  Her eyes flew open. They’d seen her. She froze.

  “Hey, that’s all right now! We love an audience. Don’t we, boys?”

  The harmonizing stopped and they chimed in agreement.

  “Sure we do!”

  “Yes, indeed!”

  “Any requests?”

  The tall one came down the stairs and stood across the street. His eyes glinted golden brown in the yellow moonlight and a wave of black hair swooped up from his smooth brown forehead. He wore a collared shirt with short sleeves tucked into pegged trousers. She looked at the ground, but her eyes found the grass at his feet. His shoes were wingtips, brown and polished to a high shine. She focused on them, studied them, to keep from looking up at him. B
ut she didn’t walk away.

  “You’re not lost, are you, ma’am?” he said. His voice was warm and smoky.

  “No,” she said. It came out dry and squeaky. She coughed and touched a knuckle to the tip of her nose. “No, I’m not. I’m out here, down there, with my friends. To hear a band, at the West Tavern, yonder.” She raised her chin and the golden light highlighted the flush on her smooth, pale cheeks.

  “Is that right?” he said. “Because, and pardon me if I’m mistaken, but it looks to me like you’re down here. Listening to us,” he tilted his head toward the porch and smiled, a crooked grin, exposing the brilliant whiteness of his teeth behind his wide, full mouth. She bit her own bottom lip.

  “Well, I guess I was.”

  “And?”

  “And? And what?”

  “And what did you think? Seems you are the audience tonight, a private concert for Her Royal Highness, if you will. So, Princess…” he placed his hand over his heart, gave a courtly half-bow, “what did you think?”

  The air hummed between them, across the dim street. Only a few yards, but it seemed miles. She stepped out onto the blacktop and he did the same, meeting her in the middle, where two yellow puddles of light overlapped. Silver moths flung themselves at dusty street lights, helpless against the irresistible pull.

  “I absolutely loved it. And thank you for the fine concert,” she said. A flash of something, a bit of boldness let loose by the fear of losing time, cast about inside her head. Beads of perspiration formed at her temples. She snapped her purse open to fish out a handkerchief, and the purse fell from her flustered hands, landing with a soft thud at their feet. A handful of change spilled onto the asphalt, rolling around them in slow motion. One bright penny found a smooth spot and spun itself silly as they watched, both crouching down as if watching a tiny circus. The penny spent itself and finally lay down on the asphalt between them.

  He helped her collect her things—a comb, the foam hair roller, her one precious Revlon lipstick, Cherries in the Snow. She glanced up at him, embarrassed for him to see her private things, but he handled them naturally, as if they were his own. Then they collected her coins. He picked up the shiny penny last and held it up to her, between his thumb and forefinger.