Steven Womack: Way Past Dead

Somebody behind me cheered. Rebecca turned her head in our direction. “You tell ’em, baby! ’Bout damn time, ain’t it?”

More clapping.

“What I’d like to do for you tonight is the title song off the new CD. It’s called ‘Way Past Dead.’ I hope you like it.”

She cleared her throat and nodded to Slim. Slim played an intro, then Rebecca began singing. As she did, Ray and the other fellow joined in, strumming with Slim and doing a real low backup harmony on her. The song was a mournful tune, part classic folk, part Patsy Cline, about a man trying to hold on to his love, and the woman in his life trying to tell him it was over and not knowing how. It was bittersweet from the get-go, and if I’d been a little more stressed-out or had a few more beers in me, I’d have probably choked up myself.

She sang each verse of the song brilliantly, followed by the chorus that tied it all together:

You ask me now

If our love still breathes …

If our love still grows ,

Like the springtime leaves .

But my heart

Is filled with dread .

My love for you

Is way past dead.…

My love for you, darling ,

Is way past dead.…

As the last notes of her voice and Slim’s guitar faded away, there were about two heartbeats of the deepest silence I’d ever seen in a crowded room. Then the whole place exploded once again in standing ovation. Rebecca Gibson sat motionless, her head down, as the cheering continued. Then, as the applause ebbed, she raised her head, and I could see that her eyes were wet. She stared straight at Slim, and as the yelling faded out she whispered into the microphone: “I’m sorry, baby. I really am.”

Slim’s eyes were dark, intense, his jaw locked so hard the outline cast a shadow on his cheek. Whatever had happened to them, I thought, had resulted in more pain than anyone should have to bear, and was now irrevocable.

Then the other guy did a song, and I caught his name: Dwight Parmenter. Then Slim again, then Ray, and round and round and round, until the next thing I knew, it was two in the morning and I was driving up Hillsboro Road to the freeway on my way back to East Nashville. At the last second, I turned and headed out to the other side of town. The key to Marsha’s apartment sat in my pocket like a chunk of lead. If I couldn’t have her next to me, then maybe by sleeping in her bed, I could feel her next to me.

It was nearly nine when I came to, my head groggy and heavy. I had to get home fast, change clothes, then get out to my office, grab that videotape, and head to the insurance company. Somehow, though, the energy just wasn’t there. I dawdled in the shower, made a cup of coffee, made up the bed, straightened up a little, brushed my teeth-the usual. I tried my luck at cellular-phone roulette, with the same frustrating results as before. I felt like a puppy who’d been yanked from his momma.

Marsha doesn’t subscribe to the morning newspaper-she’s usually at work before it arrives-so I sat at her kitchen table with a towel wrapped around me and coffee in front of me, then flicked on the television. The last segment of Today was just wrapping up, and then a local newsperson came on with a quick roundup of Nashville news, headlined, of course, by the hostage situation at the morgue.

It was right after that when I learned that the sweet-voiced, high-cheeked, long and lanky ex-Mrs. Slim Gibson had been found murdered early that morning, beaten to death in the bedroom of her apartment. After last night’s appearance at the Bluebird, she really had become the late Rebecca Gibson.

Even though I’d never met Rebecca Gibson, certainly didn’t know her, and her death had not touched me personally, I found myself shocked at her murder. Maybe it was her being Slim’s ex-wife. Maybe it was that I’d seen her perform and had heard that sweet voice, now silenced for good.

The morning rush hour had ended by the time I got moving, and there was still another hour or so before the lunchtime rush hour began its slow segue into the evening rush hour. You want to get anywhere in this city, you’ve got about a forty-five-minute window three times a day to go for it. Then you’re screwed. The Big Apple’s got nothing on Music City, gridlock-wise.

For once, my parking fees were paid up, so I was able to slide into a space in the lot across Seventh Avenue from my office. I didn’t know how long I was going to be able to keep the place; cranky old Mr. Morris had raised my rent seventy-five a month after the fire in my office last year. Hell, it wasn’t my fault some joker burned my car and my office in the same day, but try telling that to Morris. Rat bastard …

At least he’d let me stay, though. At first he wasn’t even going to do that. Just to be on the safe side, I avoided him as much as possible. So when I took the steps up to the front door two at a time, I peered through the dirty glass first to make sure he wasn’t there.

In a few seconds, I’m bouncing up the two flights of stairs to my office, trying to stay focused on what comes first. I wanted to try Marsha first, but I needed to call Phil Anderson over at the insurance company to make arrangements to deliver the videotape. I ought to stop by Slim and Ray’s office down the hall as well, just to offer my condolences and make sure they were okay.

Then the thought struck me: does one offer condolences upon the death of an ex-spouse? Life is so complicated these days. I decided that, uncomfortable or not, I’d offer my sympathies. So I turned right at the top of the flight of stairs, away from my office, and walked down to Slim and Ray’s office. The door was locked and there was no reply to my knock.

In my office, there was still a stack of mail on my desk unopened from yesterday. None were checks, though; I could tell that, and I couldn’t bear to open the rest. I’d spent the last month or so, including my expenses on the trip to Louisville, living off the plastic shark. A couple of windowed envelopes in the pile meant the shark had come for his vigorish, and I didn’t have the juice to pay him.

Christ Almighty, I thought, I’m starting to sound like a dick. And I don’t mean private eye.…

I thumbed through my Rolodex, located Phil Anderson’s number, then dialed it on the speakerphone.

“Tennessee Workmen’s Protective Association,” a young woman’s voice answered.

Yeah, right, I thought. Protection, my keister.

“Phil Anderson,” I said.

“Please hold.”

This is why I finally bought a cheap speakerphone. Being on hold gives me a cramp in the neck, among other places.

“Fraud services,” another telephone voice answered. “Phil Anderson, please. Harry Denton calling.” Another round of hold, then Phil’s deep voice laced with southern Mississippi twang answered. I didn’t know much about Phil, beyond the fact that he grew up in the Delta, went to Ole Miss, got into the insurance business, moved to Nashville, and hates the Vanderbilt Commodores with a passion bordering on the pathological.

“Hey, bo-wee,” he practically yelled into the phone.

“Jew have any luck?”

Jew, I thought? What Jew? Then I realized that in the two weeks since I’d last spoken with Phil, I’d forgotten how to listen to him. It is, after all, an acquired skill.

“Yeah,” I said. “I think you’re going to be real pleased. I’ve got a little movie to show you.”

“Hot day-um,” he said, then: “Hey, where you at, boy? You sound like you at the bottom of a fish tay-unk!”

I picked up the handset and held it to my ear. “Cheap speakerphone,” I explained.

“Well, hail-far, I believe I’d take ’at sucker back and get me the next model up.”