The Other Side of the Song

By Meg Duly

Ten-year-old Missy Brown is surviving poverty and abuse in a drug-infested, Nashville trailer park. Sunlight comes into her life when, on TV, she sees the famous, beautiful country music star, Marty Abby, who sings a song about a mother's love. Missy's mother is a drug-addicted prostitute. The little girl writes to Marty, hoping and praying deep in her hear that her idol will take note and come for her. Her mother is so far gone in her addiction that she pimps her child to get money for her drugs and nearly kills Missy when she doesn't "perform." Her mother goes to jail; and Missy recovers because, and only because, her idol comes to the hospital, at the doctor's request, and sings to her little fan who is in deep coma Missy is placed in a loving foster home but was miserable and terrified of these strangers. She still aches to meet her idol, whose song in the hospital was only a dream to Missy. Will her prayer ever be answered? Will the two worlds ever come together? The world of fame, fortune, and romance on Nashville's country music stage and that of children thrown away by society.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jun 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781641403320

Book preview

1

The Picture

Her mama never got up before noon on Saturdays, if then, but this was still cutting it close. The little girl with the sad large brown eyes looked out the filthy window of the trailer. She was short for her age of ten. She was very thin and pale skinned, which set off her tangle of curly black hair. Those sad eyes were very expectant. She wouldn’t even leave her post to go to the bathroom.

She jumped when she saw the mail truck drive up and stop. It was at the park mailboxes two streets over. She ran out without coat and shoes even though it was a chilly mid-September day in Nashville. She ran across the dirt yard scattered with pebbles and trash that hurt her feet, but it didn’t matter. If her treasure was there and she didn’t get to it right away, it would be stolen out of the communal box. This was used by those residents who couldn’t afford a private box.

The mail lady yelled back at her as she pulled away. Don’t you go stealin’ people’s mail. There’s nothing there for you. You go to jail for that, ya little thief.

Ignoring her, Missy rummaged through the mail, fliers, and catalogs. There it was, a big manila envelope addressed to her with the Abby/Powell logo on it. She could barely believe that it had come on a Saturday and that she had gotten there in time before it was stolen. She rushed back to her trailer, feeling happy for the first time in a long time.

She locked herself in the bathroom and opened her treasure. She pulled out an eight-by-ten photo with her name top left and Love, Marty Abby bottom right. In between sat her idol, the famous country music star, Marty Abby. She sat in a chair with her right arm over the back and held a guitar in her lap with her left hand. She was wearing a sparkly short white dress and white boots. What was most identifying to the little girl was the mass of wavy platinum-blond hair that crowned her face and cascaded over her shoulders.

Missy glanced at the back of the photo and was thrilled to see that Marty had written more to her little fan. Holding the paper almost touching her nose, she painstakingly read down the bold script. The Nashville star talked about what Missy had put in her letter and said that she was also sending her backstage passes for Missy and her parents to her upcoming performance at the Opry. Missy went back into the envelope and pulled out three passes paper-clipped to a note. The writing on the note was too small for her to read.

As she was studying them, she heard her mama snort. This meant she was close to getting up. Missy laid the passes on the back of the toilet and feverishly worked to get the picture safely back in the envelope. She heard her mama’s bed squeaking. She lifted her dress, stuck the envelope into her panties, and smoothed it across her stomach. She heard her mama loping down the few steps from her bed to the trailer bathroom. Missy struggled to pull her dirty sundress down over her treasure because it was too small even for her tiny frame.

Her mother shook the door. Get out! she yelled.

I’m coming. I had to go, Missy lied, smoothing the dress down. She opened the door, and her mother yanked her out so hard it hurt her shoulder.

Get out of my way, stupid. I gotta’ piss a bucket.

Missy, rubbing her shoulder, ran and slid the envelope under the mattress of the couch where she slept and where she also kept her stash of magazines she had stolen from the communal box and even from the drugstore. They all had pictures or articles about Marty Abby. As she did this, she thought about the passes. Once her mother was out and back in her room, Missy ran back into the bathroom. The passes were gone.

2

The Funeral

Marty Abby braced herself on the table in the front hall of her home. The last mourner, Preacher Gordon, had hugged her and left. Powell, her oftentimes singing partner, and her and her late husband’s best friend had shaken the minister’s hand and closed the front door. He turned around and took in a sight that he had found himself taking in more and more often.

She was a lovely lady even in all black or maybe even especially in all black. Her head was bowed, and the platinum hair covered her head and her face. He could tell, however, by the movement of her shoulders that she was finally letting herself cry. He put his arm around her shoulders and led her into the den, away from the dining room where the reception had been and the caterers were cleaning up.

He sat her down on the sofa, next to their other dear friend, Amos. Amos was the newest of the three country music superstars. He had quickly stepped into the close circle of friends so that, like Powell, he was more family than friend to Marty. Terry, Amos’s latest girlfriend, feeling terribly awkward and out of the loop, was busying herself cleaning ashtrays and getting in the way of the caterers.

Powell sat down on Marty’s other side. It had been a long, hard month. Marty’s husband, Robin, had died on Monday after over a year of illness. There had been three weeks of hospice, all the arrangements, the viewing, the funeral this morning, and finally, this reception. Marty had been the tower of strength, standing tall and comforting others. Now all the strength had drained, and she laid her head back, eyes closed, and tear tracks down her cheeks. Her two dearest friends on either side of her, though glad she could finally let go, had no idea how to help. They too felt both professional and personal grief. Robin was Powell’s closest friend and was all three stars’ agent. Robin had made all three of them megastars.

Powell asked Marty if she wanted to be alone. Her immediate no in that famous husky voice let him know that this was her biggest fear.

Okay, babe, we’re here and will stay here, but you do need to rest.

Marty turned her head toward him and smiled in gratitude. I don’t think I can sleep. I’m weary to the bone but as wide-awake as a cat. What about our concerts? she asked, realizing the world wasn’t going to stop because she was hurt.

Amos and I have talked. He is going to take the upcoming concerts for the next few weeks and the USO tour. We’ve already got publicity working on it.

Powell had stepped in as Robin’s condition grew worse and quietly, but very effectively, done his job as agent, not just for himself, Marty, and Amos, but for all of Robin’s other clients.

Powell went on, "Anyway, you remember my day job that Mom wanted me to keep for when I failed at showbiz?" He had emphasized when. The other two chuckled at a shared private joke. Well, I need to spend more time there. Problems are compounding.

He looked at Marty hopefully. Ms. Abby, I need your help. How about some time spent in the work-a-day world?

She looked at him, a little surprised but clearly considering his offer.

It would be so good for you, Amos chimed in. It would take your mind off . . . off . . . well, off stuff. He was feeling like he said too much.

Marty looked back and forth between the two and said, This some kind of a conspiracy?

Yes, answered Powell without hesitation. Now what’s your answer?

I’m not sure how I can help. You know I have no talents in that area, she said.

No, I don’t know that, and neither do you until you try, was his very quick response.

Marty studied her friend and singing partner. Yes, he was tall, dark, and handsome, and all that stuff, but so were nine out of ten of the other country singers she knew. She loved his signature blond hair, but that had to do with something other than just his looks. What attracted her most about her old friend was the way he smiled with both his mouth and his eyes. She had such powerful chemistry with him on stage. Robin had seen it and immediately put the two solo acts together. They had rocketed to the top of the charts. As they worked together, many of their fans wondered and even wished that chemistry had grown beyond the stage. Had Robin also thought that? The gossip magazines had assumed it was so, and it played a part in his very public alcoholism that would have destroyed their marriage if it hadn’t destroyed his health first.

Amos was still talking. Get you out of this mausoleum. He immediately regretted this choice of words. I-I’m sorry. My big mouth.

Marty patted his hand to excuse him, but he wasn’t wrong. She looked at Robin’s empty desk. She thought of his empty chair opposite hers in the dining room. She thought of the empty bed. Even though they hadn’t slept together for a long time because of his drinking and then his illness, he was close by, and she did love him. Her idea of getting out of this mausoleum was to do more tours, move into a quiet apartment, get a beach house. It really wasn’t to take on totally different work. Still, she was very creative and could make stuff happen that others didn’t even think of. She came back to the matter at hand. She was completely aware of the problems Powell was talking about.

Whether or not I can be of help in the way you think, I do have something to offer.

3

Victor Golley

The door to the filthy trailer banged open. Marilyn Brown jumped and hid what she had been looking at behind her back. She had been a pretty woman before the ravages of drugs and alcohol. Now her greasy hair showed two inches of bleach and eight of graying dark roots. A dirty yellow housecoat hid a pudgy, sagging body. A cigarette hung from thin colorless lips. Dark circles under her eyes and blotches around her nose and mouth spoke of her growing addictions.

Through the door, Missy Brown was pushed into the trailer by Victor Golley, a greasy fat man who stunk of beer, cigar smoke, and body odor. Missy was whimpering, bent over, walking with her knees together, and holding her stomach.

You teach this little shit how to treat a john. They don’t like screaming and kicking. He didn’t pay me, and I ain’t paying you. He walked out and shot back over his shoulder, I mean it, Marilyn, you straighten the stupid little shit out, or it’s over. I got a reputation for good tricks.

Victor had been Marilyn’s pimp until she had deteriorated to the point that he would have to pay a john to take her. Seeing the inevitable, Marilyn had, without a second thought, turned her ten-year-old mistake into her biggest financial boon ever. There were lots of pedophiles out there, and they paid a lot for ten-year-old girls. Missy had been beaten and threatened enough with burning or cutting her fingers off for her to not tell and to do what she was told.

Missy had one sanctuary in her life. Mrs. Fragali lived down the way. She cared for the child but never reported the abuse she knew was happening. There was a lot of prostitution and drugs in the park, and everyone had some connection to Victor. Everyone feared him more than the abuse or, for that matter, the police. If he caught you keeping more than he allowed or talking to a cop, a relative might meet with a fatal accident, and you might lose a finger or a toe.

Mrs. Fragali wasn’t affectionate, but she would let Missy come in and watch TV or look at her magazines. She tried to teach her how to get along. Mostly, she would tell her to pray and said over and over that God answered prayers. She didn’t think she really believed that herself, but she wanted to give the pretty little child something. Missy did believe it, and she did pray. She prayed for a new mom. It was in Mrs. Fragali’s trailer that she saw Marty Abby on TV for the first time. Her beautiful voice poured out a song about a mother’s love. Mrs. Fragali had given her paper and an envelope and helped her write to the star.

When the door to the trailer slammed, Marilyn slapped Missy. You just cost me a lot of money.

He hurt me, Mama. He hurt me, the child sobbed.

Oh, shut up, stupid. And, by the way, who did you steal this from? She brought out what she had been holding behind her back. It was the picture of Marty Abby.

With wide eyes, the child reached for it. It’s mine; it’s mine.

I told you to stop stealing. I’m sick of the damn cops showing up. The only reason I didn’t let them take you is you used to be worth more here than in juvie, she said, holding the picture just out of reach.

Give me my picture.

Oh, you want it, do you? Well, this is for the money you cost me. She laughed, curled her lip, and tore the picture three times.

Missy, enraged, brought both fists down on Marilyn’s back. Her mother turned and backhanded her with a fist so hard that Missy crashed into the cabinets headfirst. Dazed and seeing double, Missy sank to the floor.

Her mother jerked her up and said, Get out the door. Here’s the bus. I ain’t having no damn social workers come around anymore either.

With lips curled, she shoved a notebook into the girl’s hands; and as the bus door opened right in front of their trailer, Marilyn shoved her out the door.

Missy stumbled and her mother bellowed, Get up and get on the bus, you shit. She slammed the door, so she didn’t see the blood on the back of Missy’s dress.

The child stood up and stumbled toward the two or three buses she was seeing. She vomited down the front of her dress and at some point, lost her shoes. As she climbed on the bus, she heard the driver talking to her but couldn’t understand what he was saying. The girls on the front row scrambled out of her way, and she fell into that seat. She vomited again. She kept hearing people talking loudly but still couldn’t understand them. Her mom’s threats were about her being late as well as missing school altogether, so that was all she was concentrating on even though she wasn’t really sure where she was.

She saw the familiar school building coming up, and she stood up, swaying back and forth, and fell through the door even before the bus stopped. She fell on the curb but got up and headed for her class. She could hear the bus driver, who must be following her, yelling loudly. He was asking something.

A girl yelled out, Missy Brown!

She stumbled up the stairs, through the doors, and immediately to the right, into her classroom. She turned to her left and followed the wall to her desk, which was in the far back corner. As she dropped into her seat, the room was spinning. Her teacher, Mrs. Steepleton, was writing on the front blackboard and didn’t notice her even though the children who saw her were yelling her name.

Missy saw her principal, Mrs. Allen, rush into the room followed by the bus driver. She yelled some question to Mrs. Steepleton that had her name in it. The teacher turned and pointed, freezing in horror when she saw the child. Missy saw Mrs. Allen running toward her but in slow motion. She and the bus driver went from color to black-and-white. The spinning room went black, and the three images of Mrs. Allen’s face was the last thing Missy saw.

4

The Song

Marty picked up the phone without hesitation. Her unlisted number was so closely guarded by the few friends and associates who had it that she never feared prank or sales calls.

Well, hello, Dr. Davis.

Her famous husky voice was so sexy to the doctor. How are you doing, Marty?

Oh, I’m coming along.

It’s a long process, isn’t it?

Yes, it is painfully slow, but how are you, Doctor?

Not well, I’m afraid.

Oh no, what’s wrong?

I’m not a magician.

A what?

A magician. Marty, I need your magic. I’ve run out of all my tricks.

My magic?

Do you remember the little boy who responded to your singing?

Yes, yes.

Well, I have a little girl that . . . well . . . I don’t think she wants to wake up.

Is this that little one caught up in that horrible prostitution thing at that trailer park?

Yep, that’s the one.

I’ll be right there.

Marty had often volunteered at the Vanderbilt Children’s Hospital. She was singing one of her most-asked-for cowboy songs when her voice carried down the hall and into the room of a little boy brain-damaged in a car accident. The nurse with him saw him respond. He woke out of a coma soon thereafter and, though minimal, made greater progress than anyone had expected.

She put on her white boots and a white Western-style blouse with fringe around the yoke and down the sleeves. She fixed her hair, and the transformation was complete.

Dr. Martin Davis was waiting for her at the emergency room desk. If he was pressed by anyone but his wife, he would have to admit that he had a crush on the beautiful country music star. As they walked to the room, he explained the details of the case, some of which the news media didn’t know. The child had been molested and needed surgery. She was probably in shock prior to the blow from her mother, which because the trailer door had swung back open after Victor left, the bus driver had witnessed. He had also seen the mother shove the girl out the door. She had scraped her knees and was vomiting. By the time she got on the bus, there was vomit on the front of her dress, blood on the back from the sexual abuse, and blood on the front from the broken jaw her mother gave her. Both eyes were black, and there was a goose egg rising on her left temple. She had probably broken her arm falling out of the bus.

The driver, wanting to get her away from her mother, drove her quickly to school. His police report would put Marilyn Brown in jail for assault and battery, and severe physical child abuse. The rape exam matched DNA with a known pedophile, now in jail, awaiting trial without bond. Unfortunately, the infamous Victor Golley, whom the pedophile testified was the pimp, had disappeared into the shadows. Arrest warrants went out for him all over the country, and people were constantly contributing to the reward money to capture him.

Tears were streaming down Marty’s face as they reached the child’s room. Missy Brown was a tiny figure in a big hospital bed. Her head was bandaged, and her left arm was in a cast. Both her eyes were closed and had turned a yellowish blue. Her jaw was still swollen.

Marty took off her jacket and sat by the bed in the chair the doctor brought in for her. Martin Davis crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall behind her. Marty lifted the child’s right hand to her lips and kissed it. She closed her eyes and prayed. She pushed back her emotions, cleared her throat, and began to sing two children’s songs, Jesus Loves Me, the Twenty-Third Psalm, and a lullaby. Then for some reason Marty didn’t even know, especially considering the monster of a mother Missy had, Marty sang a song that Powell had written for her entitled, A Mother’s Love.

Somewhere deep, deep within the sad darkness that was Missy Brown, something stirred. It wasn’t that the child heard something; it was that she sensed a warmth. It wasn’t a memory; it was more a sense of familiarity. And somewhere within all that was the smallest beginning of a desire to wake up.

Marty jumped. She moved her fingers, she said, turning to the crowd of hospital staff who had gathered behind her to hear her sing.

Dr. Davis leapt forward and checked the machine with wires running under the bandages on Missy’s head and under the covers. His look was expectant. He put his stethoscope in his ears and listened to her heart. The smile he gave to Marty told everyone in the room everything they wanted to know.

5