Free Days of Little Texas by R. A. Nelson

the curtain at the side of the stage. Pull off my suit coat and hang it over a chair. Sit down heavy as a stump.
    Miss Wanda Joy comes huffing around the curtain, jerking it back. She fixes her eyes on me, and I can’t help it; I have to look away. I can feel how mad she is just looking at her legs, the way she is standing, the way her arms hang. I have never let her down like this before. Not on stage. Not once.
    “What is going on?” she says, teeth in her voice.
    “I’m sorry, I just can’t go on tonight,” I say, looking down. “I’m just not feeling right. I—I can’t do it. I’ll be better at the next service.”
    She slaps a hot hand up against my forehead. “Are you ill?”
    “No, ma’am.”
    She takes her hand away. “Then what is it? What could
possibly
cause you to leave the stage like that? You do realize this is our largest congregation of the season?”
    “I know, I
know
. I’m sorry, but I don’t know what to tell you.”
    “One last time—are you going to get up and speak or not?”
    “No, ma’am. I’m not. I
can’t
.”
    Miss Wanda Joy takes a long breath and lets it back out slow.
    “I will never forget this.”
    She turns and leaves. I watch out the corner of my eye as she takes her place in the same chair as before. I hang my head and listen to Sugar Tom apologize to the congregation. Folks are starting to trickle off. Miss Wanda Joy turns her head sharply away from the people, refusing to watch them leave.

“Reckon it’s tuna and jerky for supper,” Certain Certain says, his torn-up lip curling. He glances at Miss Wanda Joy. “I don’t know what got into you, boy, but if you need to rent yourself a new backside after she gets done chewing on it, just call me. I got plenty extra.”
    I sit on the half-dark stage listening to people talk through the canvas as they head out to their cars.
    “But he was so
good
last time.”
    “Wonder is he all right?”
    No
, I think.
He’s not. He’s all wrong, and I don’t know if he’ll ever be all right again
.
    Sugar Tom vanishes into the motor home to smoke. The volunteers grumble and cuss breaking down the tent. Miss Wanda Joy circles like a turkey buzzard, waiting for them to leave.
    When everything is packed away and the last car is gone, Certain Certain squeezes my shoulder.
    “Good luck.”
    He leaves me sitting on an upturned trash barrel with the drop cord hanging from a speaker box post. The light doesn’t help, just makes the dark closing in around me that much worse. At last Miss Wanda Joy comes in for a landing.
    “I have
never
been so embarrassed in my
whole life
,” she says, face broiling red.
    “Said I’m sorry.”
    “You are supposed to be a
professional
. How would you feel if you attended a music concert, and the band refused to play because they just didn’t
feel
like it?”
    That’s different
, I think. A band always has its instruments.
    “But nobody pays to see me,” I say.
    Miss Wanda Joy pulls her fingers through her hair so hard, I’m afraid she’s going to snatch herself bald-headed. She gets in my face.
    “Pay you,
pay you!
They pay you when the show is
over
!”
    Never mind that’s not what I said. Her words bounce off the drive-in movie screen like the voice of God.
    “They pay you when you are
worth
being paid! They payyou when you give them what they have come to
expect
. They come expecting something
spectacular
. They come expecting
miracles
. Miracles performed by an anointed son of the
Lord
. That. Is. What. You. Give. Them.” She jabs me in the chest on every word. “And. You. Let. Them.
Down
.”
    Forgive me, Lord, but I want to hit her so bad. I do
.
    White foam has collected in the corners of her mouth. I have to wipe spit off my cheek. Miss Wanda Joy steps away from me, arms crossed, shaking her head. Her breathing sounds like she’s been hoeing a garden. She breathes that way a little while, not looking at me.
    Finally she turns to face me again and tucks some loose hair