The boy has his first recording session for RCA in Nashville. It’s a far cry from the sessions at Sun with Sam, where it was all about the feel, not money, not making a hit. Now he’s under a whole new kind of pressure, both nervous and in a foul mood. He works best when it’s about the music, not the market. I understand that.
I’m there for moral support. When he comes out of the studio, I can tell by his slumped shoulders and pout that he’s tired and deflated. He tells me they’ve only just got the material and he’s annoyed they haven’t had time to prepare or get a feel for it. The light’s gone right out of his eyes. He worries this is what it’ll be like from now on with RCA.
Still, he manages to lay down a few tracks before the session ends late that evening, Heartbreak Hotel among them, which goes on to become his first nationwide hit.
“See?” I say later, applauding him. “Even when you’re cut up and in a mood, you’re good.”
He just sighs, downcast and silent as we drive back to Memphis.
I decide I’m going to be the best support system I can be tonight. Back at the house, I draw him a bath, massage his shoulders, and read to him, switching between all the different voices in As I Lay Dying until we’re both confused and he finally dozes off with his head in my lap.
“I need you here,” he mumbles before sleep. “You gotta come to New York with me for the second session.”
“Alright, baby. I’ll be there,” I whisper, stroking his hair.
I promise I’ll be there for his first national television appearance too, on January 28th. His wellbeing is my wellbeing, I think. I can’t ever just leave him stranded. If it comes to it, I can always go back and forth from Pennsylvania. It’s only a train ride away.
***
We’re back in Nashville for meetings about the New York sessions. The boy’s in with the RCA executives. I’m waiting in the hallway when the Colonel appears, cigar in hand.
“Miss…” He pauses, having forgotten my name.
“Birdie,” I say.
“Right. Birdie.” He lights his cigar. “You’re here a lot.”
“I am?”
“Why’s that?”
I meet his eyes. “Because he needs me.”
The Colonel studies me, calculating, cold. “He needs a lot of things. Doesn’t mean they’re all good for him.”
“I’m not bad for him,” I say, keeping my voice steady.
“That remains to be seen.” He exhales smoke, deliberately in my direction. “But I’ll tell you what I do know, when you’re around, he’s calmer. Focused. Gets through sessions without falling apart. That’s useful to me.”
“I’m not here to be useful to you.”
He laughs. “No. But you are anyway.” He taps ash onto the floor. “So here’s how this works: you keep him calm, I’ll tolerate you. You help me manage my investment. The second you become a distraction, the second you cost me money or time or headlines…”
He doesn’t finish. Doesn’t need to.
“Understood,” I say.
He walks away without another word.
I stand there, hands shaking slightly. I’ve just been warned. I’m allowed to stay as long as I’m useful. The moment I’m not, I’m gone.
And the worst part? I don’t even resent it. I just want to keep the boy safe, keep him whole. If that means playing nice with Colonel Parker, so be it.
***
The tickets arrive three days later.
For New York. Second RCA session in January. Return train ticket, first class from Bryn Mawr.
I stare at it. The Colonel’s accepting me, not because he likes me, but because I’m useful. I’m part of the machinery now.
I should feel trapped. But mostly I just feel relieved. I get to stay in his orbit.
I pack a small case, dresses for New York, warmer coat, good shoes. Miss Mary watches me from the doorway.
“You’re going again,” she says. Not a question.
“I am.”
“What about college?”
“I’ll sort it out. It’s only a train ride back to Pennsylvania.”
She’s quiet for a moment. Then: “You know you’re allowed to have your own life, don’t you, Birdie? You’re allowed to choose yourself sometimes.”
“I know,” I say. I don’t want to talk about it any more. I just want to be there for the boy.
But as I finish packing, her words echo: You’re allowed to choose yourself sometimes.
I know. I just don’t want to.
My World of Interiors 