Ed Gorman - The Day The Music Died

She didn’t say much after we left the Surf Ballroom that night, Pamela Forrest.

Which meant one of three things. (1) She didn’t like Buddy Holly nearly as much as I did. (2) She was worried ‘bout the long trip back to Black River Falls on the wintry roads of February 3, 1958. (3) She was thinking about Stu Grant, the wealthy young man she’d been in love with since ninth grade, the only problem being that I’d been in love with her since fourth grade.

Or maybe it was my ragtop that made her silent. She knew how much I prized my 1951 red Ford convertible with the custom skirts, the louvered hood and the special weave top. The trouble was, despite the custom convertible top, the Ford could get pretty cold when the night winds blew across the dead Iowa cornfields, and the head-winds were enough to push the car into the next lane every once in a while. There was a bad snowstorm around the area of the ballroom. It took us forty-five minutes to drive out of it.

I had the noisy heater on full tilt and as a consequence I had to turn the radio way up to be heard over the heater. I was playing the rock and roll station out of Oklahoma City, Koma: 100eajjj clear-channel watts of pure pleasure. Gene Vincent was on now, and there was the promise of Little Richard’s new song within the half hour. We had a three-and-a-half hour drive ahead of us, so I was going to need all the rock and roll I could get.

“You think we could change the station?” the lovely Pamela Forrest finally said.

“The station?”

“Please. That stuff’s giving me a headache.”

“Gee, then tonight must have been terrible for you. You should’ve said something.”

“I knew how much it meant to you, McCain, seeing Buddy Holly and those other people. I didn’t want to spoil it for you.”

“Then you didn’t even like Holly?”

She sighed. “Don’t take this the wrong way, McCain, but I still like Perry Como better.” Then, “And Stu’s teaching me about opera. That’s what he listens to all the time. That, and classical music.”

“Good ole Stu.”

“I told you, didn’t I, that he was nominated for Outstanding Young Lawyer of the Year, didn’t I?”

“Yeah, I dimly recall you mentioning it six or seven thousand times.”

“That doesn’t mean you’re not a good lawyer, McCain.”

“I’ll try and remember that.”

“Or that you won’t be a judge someday yourself.”

“Who said he was going to be a judge?”

“Well, how’s he ever going to get on the Supreme Court if he isn’t a judge first?”

Good old Stu. Modesty had never been a problem for him.

I couldn’t take talking about Stu’s plan to become the Supreme Ruler of the Known Universe anymore, so I changed the station. I couldn’t find Perry Como for her. But I did find Jerry Vale and some other crooners. This seemed to satisfy her. She snuggled up on her side of the car, her astonishingly lovely legs up on the seat and covered with her long, brown coat. She stared out the window.

Despite a full moon, there wasn’t much to see. After a snowfall like the one we’d had the past two days, rural Iowa in the moonlight looks like the surface of an alien world-long, white, empty stretches of land where the wind stirs up dust devils of chill snow every once in a while. The only signs of life are the distant lights of snug little farmhouses tucked in windbreaks of oak trees or jack pine. Every once in a while, there’d be what they call a hamlet, a block or so of darkened buildings, usually a co-op and a general store and a gas station. There might be a tavern open, Johnny Cash brooding and lonely and dangerous in the prairie night. Then darkness again as you hit the highway, the hamlet suddenly vanished, like a dream on waking.

“You aren’t, you know, expecting anything are you tonight, McCain?”

“Nah.”

“Because I was very careful not to mislead you.”

“I know.”

“It’s nothing personal.”

“Sure, it’s personal,” I said. “But it’s not personal personal.”

She laughed. “Boy, you say some strange things sometimes.”

After about forty miles, the heater started to do some good. I wished I could do some good. I’d tried several conversation starters but none of them had worked.

She’d mutter something in return, then go back to staring out the window.

I said, “So if you don’t like rock and roll, why’d you go tonight?”

I guess you pretty much know the answer I wanted. The one where she’d say, “Because I just wanted to be alone with you, McCain.”

Instead, she said, “Because I owe you for helping me move.”

“Oh.”

“That was hard work.”

“Oh.”

“So I just figured I should pay you back.”

Two weeks ago, on very short notice, she’d had the chance to move into an apartment in the old Belding mansion. The apartment had a fireplace, veranda and large living room. She Needed help.

I offered my services and those of Leonard Dubois, Leonard being one of my legal clients. I got him a bench parole for his earnest attempt to become a burglar and he’s been grateful ever since. Not grateful enough to pay me, of course, so I figured I might as well get some work out of him. We spent all day Saturday and half a day Sunday getting Pamela moved in. It didn’t rain half as much as predicted. Both days when we finished, I asked Leonard to empty his pockets. He only stole stuff on Saturday. I guess by Sunday he’d learned his lesson. Maybe this is what rehabilitation means.

About halfway home, Pamela put her feet on the floor and her head against the back of the seat and went to sleep. She snored, but not loudly, and sometimes she whistled when she snored, like a teakettle. It was cute and it made me sentimental about her and when I get sentimental about her, I get scared because then I realize that I’m probably going to be in love with her the rest of my life. It’s hard to figure, why I’m in love with her, I mean. Her grandfather’s wealth had been lost in the Depression. Her parents were forced to live in the Knolls for several years, but they always drove their shiny eight-year-old Packard and always managed to get themselves invited to country club dos. And there was Pamela, beautiful little yearning eight-year-old Pamela, too good for us in the Knolls but not good enough for the rich kids. And I guess I kind of felt sorry for her or something because one day I woke up and I was in love with her and it was like an incurable disease there was no cure for.

She started talking in her sleep. It was very earnest, the talk, but I had no idea what she was saying. And then she was awake. For a moment, she looked disoriented, lost. Then, she said, “Oh” and sat back again and stared out the window.

“You were dreaming.”

“Yes.”

“You were talking, too.”

“Yes, I remember. To my mom. I was telling her that we were rich again. She used to tell me what it was like to walk downtown on Saturday morning with Granddad, how big and handsome he was.

She said he was nice, too, always giving people money when he felt they deserved it. He’d been poor when he was a kid. She said it was really neat, walking down the street with him and people smiling at them and tipping their hats and stuff like that.” Then her voice got teary. “I’d just like to be able to tell her before she dies that we’re rich again. I love her so much.” Her mother had a heart condition. The prognosis wasn’t good.