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“What makes you think no man has asked?”

“You never talked about any,” I said.

“Plenty have, but I can’t pursue a singin‘ career and keep house, can I? And what if he wanted more children, huh? What would I do, hold a baby in my arms and record songs? I don’t need a marriage. I need a break in the business,” she declared.

She looked at me.

“I’m not sayin‘ marriage is bad or nothin’, Robin. It’s right for almost all other women. Someday, I hope you find a good man. It’s just not for me,” she said. “Remember that song I wrote: ‘I’m not the marryin’ kind, so don’t go bendin‘ your knee for me,’ ” she sang.

“I remember. I’m just trying to forget it,” I muttered.

“You’re goin‘ to be sorry you said all those mean things to me, Robin. Someday, you’re goin’ to be lookin‘ at me up on the stage of the Grand Ole Opry and be sorry you ever made fun of me and country music. At least it’s honest; at least it’s from the heart and not like that rap talk or bangin’ and screamin‘ you think’s music.”

I closed my eyes and tried to sleep again. She was quiet and then, as we drew closer to Nashville, she began to get very excited. She found some new radio stations and sang along whenever she could.

I opened my eyes and looked at the beautiful day, one of those days when there are just a few scattered soft puffs of cloud against the aqua blue sky. An air force jet began to trail a line from one horizon toward the other. I imagined I was in it, just sailing toward something blue.

“Oh, I can feel it,” Mother darling cried. “I can feel the changes comin‘, Robin. Can’t you?”

“No,” I said, but I said it sadly. I really wished I could feel what she felt. She was glowing with expectation. Would I ever be that radiant with happiness?

She ignored me because she was concentrating hard now on the directions Cory Lewis had given her to a section called Madison. Either he had left out something or she was confused and I wasn’t much help. Finally, she pulled into a gas station and got better directions. About a half hour or so later, we made a turn down a residential street and came upon Garden Apartments.

“We’re here!” she declared, pulling into the parking area. Cars were parked under carports. She found Cory Lewis’s apartment number and pulled in behind what I imagined was his red pickup truck. For a moment she just sat there, smiling. “We made it,” she said. She took a deep breath and added, “The rest will be easy.”

I raised my eyebrows. Maybe it wasn’t so good to have high hopes and dreams, I thought. Without them, there’s no disappointment, and if there was one thing that described my life, it was disappointment with a capital D.

We got out of the Beetle. She said we should find Cory first and then bring along our things.

“He’ll help,” she told me.

The apartments looked seedy to me. The stucco was stained and discolored after years of rain. On some of the balconies, I saw old furniture, rusted exercise equipment, and sick-looking plants. The walkway through the complex was cracked and chipped and, at one point, gouged, with a chunk of the cement gone. There was a swimming pool, but it was empty and there wasn’t anyone around it. As we passed it, I looked down and saw all sorts of garbage at the bottom, including what looked like a little child’s tricycle.

Cory Lewis’s apartment was on the second floor, number 202. Mother darling, still smiling from ear to ear with excitement and expectation, pushed the buzzer. I didn’t hear anything. She pushed it again.

“Maybe it doesn’t work,” I suggested.

“Oh.” She knocked, but there was still no sound from within. I knocked harder, practically pounding the door.

“Robin!”

“Well, maybe he has the radio on. Doesn’t everyone in Nashville have the radio on?”

She scrunched her nose and then the door finally opened and we looked in at a tall, lean man with a thin nose and thin lips. He had what looked like a two- or three-day beard, stiff enough to sand off paint. His light brown hair hung listlessly down the sides of his head to his shoulders, where the split ends curled. Dressed in a black T-shirt with the faded words Bulls Are Always Horny and a pair of jeans, he stood barefoot and looked like he had just woken up. His blue eyes were glassy. I saw he had a small scar just under his right eye. It had tiny spots in it like it had been created with a dinner fork.

“Cory, it’s us!” Mother darling was forced to declare because his face hadn’t recorded any recognition yet.

“Whaa…” He ran his hands over his eyes and blinked. Then he smiled. “I’ll be damned. So it is. Kay Jackson herself,” he cried. “Never thought you’d do it, Kay. We was just thinkin‘ about lookin’ for another singer.”

“You’d better not,” Mother darling said. “I told you I’d be here, and I’m here.”

“Yeah, but you been tellin‘ me that for some time now.” He tu

rned to me. “And this is…”

“Robin Lyn.”

“I like to be called just Robin,” I said quickly.