Page 20 of I Need You

I get the Thanksgiving part, but I’ve never heard of the band. I’m not surprised that I have no idea who the band is. The only music allowed in my house is church approved, nothing mainstream. That didn’t stop me from using the radio on Shelby today. I flipped from station to station as I drove around the college campus and downtown, making my deliveries. One minute I’d be listening to a band with heavy guitar and loud booming voices, the next a soft and sultry voice of a woman would flow through the speakers singing about love and heartbreak. It was a little overwhelming, but I loved all the noise and all the words.

“You don’t get out much, do you?” Bea says, her head tilted to the side.

She looks at me with what I can only guess is a mix of pity and curiosity.

“I uh–I’m only allowed to listen to music my parents approve of,” I admit.

The easy way I admitted this to Bea surprises me. From the moment I met her though, I’ve felt a strange sense of safety with her.

“Oh–well, would you like to hear a Grateful Dead song?” she asks, pulling out her phone.

I nod and she taps on her phone a few times until the soft music that had been coming from the speakers sprinkled around the place changes to a brighter song. It starts with instruments; a keyboard and a guitar, I think. The sound is almost a mix of what I heard from the pop and country stations I listened to earlier. A man's voice comes over the speakers and Bea dances around the shop as she wipes down counters and tables.

“This isn’t my favorite song of theirs, but it’s one of their most popular,” she says as she goes behind the counter to continue her cleaning.

I take a bite of the giant sandwich as I listen to the song. The sandwich is delicious. I was a little worried about the mix of ingredients Bea listed off, but they completely work. I devour half the sandwich as Bea plays more of her favorite music for me. My favorites were from a band called The Beatles. One of theirs is playing now.

“What is this song called, Bea?”

She’s moved onto refilling the mayonnaise and mustard squirt bottles but has been singing along to the song playing. She has a beautiful voice.

“Let it be,” she says, not straying from her task. “It’s probably my favorite song in the whole world. It’s perfect for any emotion. If you’re sad, or happy, or worried. It’s comforting.”

She’s right. The lyrics and the man's voice, raw with emotion, bring a wave of calm to me. I experience more peace than I have in years at church or during prayer.

“Give me your phone,” Bea says, “and I’ll add some music to it. I still can’t believe you’ve never heard of The Beatles.”

I cringe, another embarrassing admission on the tip of my tongue.

“My phone doesn’t have internet,” I tell her, holding up my obviously ancient and basic phone.

“Oh man. Your parents have you on a tight leash, don’t they?”

I look down at the uneaten half of my sandwich.

Bea comes to sit at the table with me. She reaches over and takes my hand in hers.

“Aubrey, I know we just met. And maybe I’m overstepping but–”

She chews on her lip, obviously thinking over what she’s about to say.

“Can I ask why your parents are so strict with you? I mean, you’re nineteen and it seems like your parents are controlling every part of your life.”

I let out a breath louder than I intended and slump in my chair. I struggle to find my words, my explanation. This conversation was never something I worried about preparing for because I had so little interaction with anyone outside the church.

“They–We–We go to Johnson church,” I tell her.

Yes. The church is actually named after Pastor Johnson. I didn’t always think it was strange. He founded it after all. Why not name it after himself? Now, though, telling someone–an outsider–I feel a pang of embarrassment and maybe even shame. I know that most people around here are familiar with the church, and many don’t have kind things to say. Pastor Johnson and my own parents have talked regularly about the sinners fearing God and that’s why they say untrue things about the church. No one ever explained what the untrue things were, and I never asked, but I did start doing my own research a few years ago. That’s how I’ve landed myself here, with a job, listening to“the devil’s music”and eating a delicious sandwich.

When I started looking things up in the books in the library and on the internet, it took me only a week to decide that everything I’d learned from the church and my parents was complete garbage.

I’m finding myself curious about what Bea thinks of the church, though.

“Oh.”

That's all she says at first, but she isn’t able to hide the widening of her eyes and raise of her eyebrows.

“Do–do your parents know you work here?” she questions.

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