I did need to get it out. I’d been holding in the horror of it all since Tuesday.
Four Days Earlier
Home
Memphis, Tennessee
Tuesday, August 12, 1969
Livy was right. The world was changing. Even though I was headed back to my conservative college in a few weeks, the last thing I wanted was to be ignorant about the goings-on in the country. If Ron’s life depended on it, even more reason to listen to the rest of the records.
Disobeying my father was a necessity.
I was going to hell anyway. At last count, I was breaking six of the ten commandments on a regular basis. One, I wasn’t honoring God; I was often mad at him. Two, I still idolized the Beatles, and now Crosby, Stills & Nash. Three, I lied—a lot. Four, I did not honor my earthly father. Mama yes, Dad no. Five, I sometimes cussed and on occasion took the Lord’s name in vain. And six, I coveted Livy Foster’s face, hair, and body more than anything in the entire universe.
I might as well listen to rock music.
Like last time, I pulled the record player from the top shelf, stretched the power cord underneath my closet door, and turned off the light. There was just enough light from the space underneath the door to see what I was doing.
As my eyes strained to adjust to the darkness, I pulled the Jimi Hendrix record from the stack. Like last time, I cracked the cover open and pressed my nose inside the fold, inhaling its new-album aroma. Music was as much a part of me as the blood running through my veins. It was my sustenance, vital to my organs. I needed it like I needed water and was beginning to realize I’d die if I couldn’t have it.
As soon as I heard the first chords of the first song, “Purple Haze,” I knew I was in for a ride. Jimi’s sound was different than anything I’d ever heard.
The bass guitar thumped through my body, even at low volume. “Purple haze,” Jimi sang. From the first note, I fell in love with his voice. I’d never known the definition ofsexyuntil that moment.
When the tempo changed, picking up speed, I jumped up from the floor, whirling like a dervish. Swinging and twisting like a kite’s tail in the wind, I was at Livy’s house again—seventeen years old—dancing my feet off.
Beads of perspiration had gathered on my temples. Holding up my ponytail, I twisted it into a tight bun. It was scorching hot inside my closet. Ask me if I cared.
At the end of the first side, a song called “Foxy Lady” began. By then I knew the nuances in Jimi’s voice. He was delicate in places and robust in others, and the variations in his guitar chords sounded downright mesmerizing.
Halfway through the song his words dragged, sounding thick and low. At first, I thought it was a technique he used, but then the music stopped completely.The power’s gone out,I thought. Yet the light peeking underneath the door assured me I was wrong.
Swoosh, swoosh.I heard house shoes shuffling on the hardwood. I froze, scared out of my mind. My heart thumped out of control. Before I had time to hide behind my dresses, the closet door flew open.
The light from the bedroom illuminated the imposing six-feet, four-inch figure with hands shoved inside his bathrobe pockets. “Is something wrong with your bed, Suzannah?” the imposing figure asked.
“No sir.” My pulse roared inside my eardrums, nearly drowning the sound of my own voice. How had he heard the music? I had the volume turned down low, and he was downstairs sleeping. The floor must have creaked while I was dancing.Dammit. I am such an idiot.
“Then why are you in your closet?”
“Sir?” I asked, desperate to delay the inevitable, my arms wrapped tightly around my knees.
Dad raised his voice, slowly enunciating each word. “I said, Why are you in your closet?”
That familiar pang of fear I’d tried so desperately to forget over the last three years bubbled up like a geyser, strangling my throat and tying my tongue. I felt dizzy.
“I asked you a question, Suzannah.” Dad crossed his arms in front of him.
With every limb quaking, I answered with a terrified stammer. “I didn’t want to disturb you and Mama.”
“What would be disturbing?” Without warning, he flicked on the light.
My eyes ached from the sudden brightness. I shielded them with my hand.
“Sounds like you’ve decided to bring rock and roll into our home again.Withoutmy permission.”
“It’s not the Beatles” was all I knew to say.
