Conway Twitty was more popular in my Granny’s house than Elvis. His records had a permanent spot on the Hi-Fi, a 5000 lb monstrosity I remember moving once and then vowing never to do again.
“Louisiana Woman, Mississippi Man,” sung by Loretta Lynn & Conway Twitty, was one of her favorites. That era of steel guitars and a swinging beat will be forever ingrained in my psyche, and every now and again, it makes an appearance in my storytelling.
Here’s an excerpt from my debut novel The Devil’s Road, coming out January 2027:
Heather’s Daddy always said there’s no such thing as good luck. Anything worth having was worth earning, and by earning, he meant stealing. The only thing he appreciated more than money was a good grift. Since he was a young man, he’d had the ability to talk others into providing everything that he needed in order to maintain a relatively easy life. His scheme of choice was “The Mississippi Man,” named after a Conway Twitty and Loretta Lynn song. Just like Conway convinces Loretta to swim across the wide, muddy Mississippi River, despite the gators lurking beneath the surface, Heather’s Daddy could sweet-talk most women into almost anything.
When Heather was nine, she and her Daddy were living in a condominium overlooking Lake Hamilton in Hot Springs, Arkansas. He spent most days at the horse races, leaving her alone in their rented apartment. Now, a nine-year-old little girl fending for herself alone all day may sound like bad judgment, and no doubt it was, but a little over a decade later, she longs for those days of what felt like endless adventures. However, not every memory is rosy.
Most nights, he didn't get home until after dark. Heather was asleep one evening after he got back, a half-eaten peanut butter sandwich sitting in her lap as “My Three Sons” played on the television in the background. Ice clinking in a couple of glasses woke her, but she stayed put on the couch, one eye open, pretending to sleep. He wasn’t alone. She could hear a second voice coming from the kitchen, a lady’s voice. She quietly tossed off her blanket and tiptoed to the doorway to listen. Her father was whispering, and she couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. So, she leaned in around the frame to take a peek.
The lady was pressed up against the counter, and Daddy’s hand was around her throat. She leaned in a bit further to see her father’s face. He was smiling. The muscles on his forearms were bulging as he squeezed. Whatever he was whispering in that lady's ear was something she must not have liked the sound of.
“Let loose of me,” the woman said as she tried to wriggle free. Heather’s Daddy grabbed the lady’s wrist and rolled her arm over, exposing the soft part of her forearm. Then he picked up the cigarette lying on the edge of the linoleum counter.
“I’d stop jerking around if I were you,” he said as the lit cherry hovered over the crook of her arm. “Keep wiggling like that, and you might get yourself hurt.” Heather wasn’t sure if she actually said something out loud or not, but they both turned and looked at her, startled. Daddy thumped the cigarette into the sink and pulled the woman in close. He put one hand on the small of her back and ran his fingers through her hair with the other. Then he pressed his lips to the lady’s wishbone, at least that’s what he called it. It’s that space where the collarbone and neck connect, leaving a little depression just above the breast. “I’m sorry, darlin’. Sometimes I just get a little too hot.”
That night, he sang “Hush Little Baby” to Heather as he tucked her in, like everything she just saw was some sort of mirage. When she woke again, the sun was still down. Sitting on the edge of her bed was the lady.
“Hey there, little one,” the lady said as Heather opened her eyes. “Your Daddy told me you were just as pretty as a picture. He wasn’t lying, was he?” Then the lady ran the back of her cold hand along Heather’s cheek. It was good that she was kind to Heather, because they would be living together in that apartment for the next six months, quite a bit longer than most places. It wasn’t till much later that Heather figured out that her Daddy was milking these women for money. He never had a job, but they never went without.
Now, standing in a truck stop bathroom applying makeup in front of a cloudy mirror, Heather purses her lips to spread on her bright red lipstick. That lady with the cigarette burns taught her how to do that. Heather thought it was something that people only did in the movies.
