“Shady,” Orlando says from behind me, making me jump. “It’s about to start. We’re third on the list,” he says, rocking on his heels. “Look, our drinks are ready. Let’s go.” His eyes are bright and happy, his cheeks slightly flushed. His excitement is contagious, and I find myself smiling, despite my nerves. Maybe this won’t be so bad.
We push back through the crowd and find Sarah shooting eye daggers at a couple trying to take the chairs she’s saving for us, our instruments piled on the table around her. She’s wound up so tight I wish I’d ordered her decaf coffee. “This has to go well,” she says as she takes her drink from me.
“It’s going to be fine,” Orlando says. “Chill out, Sarah.”
“Shady, you’ve got to stay focused. You can’t doze off or go into a daze or whatever you’ve been doing lately. Please,” Sarah adds.
Weirdly, it’s the “please” that pisses me off. “You can play without me if you want,” I say, crossing my arms. “If I’m not a good enough musician for you.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Sarah says, panic in her eyes. “I just—”
A bearded man who was handing out coffee a few minutes ago jumps onto the stage. “Hey, everybody, welcome to the Main Street Café Open Mic Night,” he says. Sarah shakes her head and turns away, wringing her hands. Orlando gives me a sympathetic look and throws an arm over my shoulders. The emcee prattles on for five minutes, introducing the judges, reminding us about the recording studio prize. The other musicians around us lean forward eagerly.
My anger at Sarah was sudden and sharp, but now it’s a knife without a mark. It’s just poking at my insides, needling me. Sarah’s got no faith in me, that’s what it all comes down to. Maybe if I can stay focused tonight, I’ll prove her wrong.
The first two performances go by in a blur, and then Orlando’s tugging my sleeve and pulling me onstage. So much for keeping my head in the game. I raise my fiddle and look out over the crowd, praying my hands don’t sweat all the way through this damn song. Orlando’s family yells his name and whoops from somewhere to the right of the stage, earning an enormous grin from Orlando.
Sarah starts playing, and I wait for my cue. When Cedar catches my eye from the crowd, I almost miss it, but then I plunge into the song right on time, closing my eyes in relief. We sound good.
I relax into the song, letting our instruments and our voices fill me up, up, up. This might not be exactly the music I want to play, but it’s worth it to see Sarah’s head bobbing over her banjo in a beautiful imitation of Gillian Welch’s puppet-on-a-string style. The sight makes me forget her annoyance and my anger. The way she lets go when she plays is gorgeous—focused, intense, but free; she becomes more music than girl.
When we finish, the crowd applauds loudly, and a few people whistle. Thank God—Sarah was dreading the polite applause some performers get at these open mics. She says it’s worse than being booed.
When she jumps off the stage, she’s still high on the music—smiling wide enough to show the little gap between her front teeth she always tries to hide. She even gives Orlando and me one of her rare hugs, leaving me with the lingering fragrance of vanilla in my nose. “You both were amazing,” she says. “I think we could win this.”
When Cedar and Rose take the stage, the room goes quiet again. Rose’s banjo catches my eye. It’s small and vintage-looking, without a resonator. I bet it’s at least a hundred years old. I glance at Sarah to see her reaction. If the hours she’s dragged me through music stores looking at banjos are any indication, she can probably name that banjo’s year and maker. But she’s only got eyes for Rose, and I can’t tell if her expression is love, hate, or some combination of the two. A stab of jealousy goes through me, but then Cedar and Rose begin playing and I forget about Sarah.
The notes are quick and sharp and bright, the melody cheerful as springtime. Yet as Rose’s fingers dance over the strings, the hairs on my arms stand on end and my whole body goes cold.
They’re playing a song as familiar to me as the rhythm of my breath, the beat of my heart. I think it must be carried along in my bloodstream, singing through every artery and vein.
“Shady Grove,” the song that gave me my name.
They’re playing it fast, the tempo quicker than how Daddy played it, but the heart of the song’s still there. And then Cedar begins to sing, his tenor voice ringing out through the room.
Shady Grove, my little love
Shady Grove, I say
Shady Grove, my little love
I’m bound to go away.
Daddy named me after this song, a hundreds-year-old Appalachian ballad with a thousand variations, though he had Doc Watson’s in mind when he decided to call me Shady Grove. He said he knew that’s who I was the moment I opened my pretty brown eyes and screamed at the world like my heart was breaking. Of course, now everybody calls me Shady, and most people don’t know why.
Daddy sang me to sleep with this song and sometimes he woke me up with it, too. But as the song says, he was bound to go away. Yet here he is again, calling to me, doing everything he can to reach me, even from the grave. What’s he trying to tell me?
Cedar’s voice draws me in, while Rose’s fingers dance over the banjo strings like a spider’s legs, spinning a spell that catches me whole. Wrapped up in their song, I can’t do anything but listen and breathe and try to keep the tears from my eyes.
But they’re already spilling down my cheeks.
Maybe my daddy wants me to know his fiddle’s still out there somewhere, waiting for me to play it. Maybe he’s been listening to me play in the woods the last few weeks and knows I’m ready now. The thought sends a shiver up my spine.
I feel a gentle pressure on my arm. I’m surprised to see Jesse’s beside me, wearing his worried eyes. He must have come to find me because of the song, because he knew I’d need him. A sob is building in my chest, so I lean in to him and bury my face in his shoulder. I’m so grateful my brother came tonight, and that he’s here with me for this. Jesse puts an arm around me and holds me close until the song ends. I wonder if the memory of Daddy’s voice cuts through him as sharp as it does through me.
Most of all, I wonder what this song means, what Daddy’s trying to tell me. Is he reminding me of who I am or warning me about something still to come?
Five
Cedar smiles his cowboy smile and tips his hat, heading off the stage like he didn’t just rip a hole in my chest. Rose follows close behind, not even glancing at the cheering audience.
I give Jesse a hug to thank him and head to the bathroom, pushing my way through the packed, noisy crowd. Someone onstage has started singing “Wagon Wheel,” which ought to make me smug as hell, but all I can think about is putting a bathroom stall door between me and everyone else.
I let myself into the only empty stall and lean against the door with my face in my hands, my mind heaving. It’s only a song, I say to myself. It’s not even uncommon. It’s in every bluegrass player’s repertoire. It’s half a miracle I haven’t heard it played before now.
But my skin is still tingling, pricked with chill bumps that won’t leave.