The premise for a book can often appear out of nowhere, random and unconnected to any previous thought or idea. But sometimes the Universe sets up an opportunity for a story to be told ‘way down the road.’ We may not understand at the time just why this needs to be, but I guarantee that a nugget of knowing will reveal itself as to the true motivation soon enough. It’s how the unseen realms work. Right? You bet.

In 2006 I wrote a song called I Knew Your Daddy, Little Girl. It was a true story, prompted by the daughter of a cousin of mine getting in touch with me in the early ’90s completely out of the blue. (That part of the tale is worth a short story itself.) But it was years later after the daughter, Chelle Rose, and I became close that I learned through her retelling of her life as ‘the little girl’ the all too real tragedy of her father’s life. A life that had been only whispered about for far too long in my mother’s large family–one that I had previously never understood as I searched my memory to connect the bits of gossip that flowed to me through the years.

In fact, it unearthed the swampy underbelly of the sordid mess of my cousin’s parentage, unacknowledged and twisted to the point of not knowing just who or what to believe. Through the years my anger surfaced, bit by bit, about how the truth had been covered over, until it finally bubbled up to the surface in the song. This story had to be told. And my way to do that at the time was writing lyrics and a melody, performed with a gutsy delivery in such a way to convey the rawness of what really happened in a story that began with child abuse.

Fast forward to 2023. I was drifting through my imagination one afternoon trying to think of a great title for a new book when it popped in my mind. Of course! The perfect title had already been literally recorded in my brother Barry’s Purple Garage Recording Studio in 2006. I played piano and sang the partially produced demo, and Barry played the rest of the instruments, exceedingly well, I might add. The basic story in the song is true, with some extra drama, to be sure. But to flesh it out properly, I needed a murder (not in the original story). And…I needed to watch it unfold in the eyes of the memories of a little girl.

So here we are. Another adventure into who we are as imperfect human beings, stumbling through life as if it may be our last. I look forward to the journey all the way to the end–an ending I already know–but what happens in between? What twists and turns will lead us to why The Universe set up this book 18 years ago? I can hardly wait to find out. I invite you to join me for the rest of the story of I Knew Your Daddy, Little Girl.

P.S. In 2015, my cousin (the Daddy in the song) called me–again out of the blue–to set the record straight as to why he acted toward me the way he did all those years ago. That confession has died with him. He’s now in the realm of complete understanding and love. Play on, sweet piano man. ❤ Stranger than fiction? Life always is. 😉

Chapter 1   Innocence

Memories. Snatches of smells, sounds, feelins.’ A dog barkin’ in the distance. A hand touchin’ my face. The smell of roses. A scream. It was the scream that woke me up. Did I scream? Or was it somebody else? Then nothin.’ No memory of what happened next.

I was 6 years old. I had never heard agony before. I guess in an earlier time, I would have heard that sound if mama was giving birth at home, but we were city suburb folks. As I remember it now, it was like the sound of a hurt animal. At least that’s how my brain translated it. But now I think I know what–who–it was. It was my cousin.

That was the first summer Mama left me for a week with her oldest brother’s family. They lived in a small town outside Knoxville. For the longest time, I thought it was far, far away, not just 20 miles down the highway. Bein’ shipped way off to another town made the trip every summer seem more special.

It was also in that same year–1956–that the Doyle boy was murdered. That’s what I figured out after I was grown. Little girls don’t get to hear the gory details, not from my mama, anyway. Funny how she thought I wouldn’t hear what happened from the neighbors. But adults forget that children tend to linger longer than necessary when there’s whisperin’ and shushin.’ They know when there’s a story percolatin.’ Kinda’ like they can feel it bubble up from the dirt where it really belongs, buried and forgotten. But the only buryin’ that summer was James Donald Doyle or JD as he was called after he was killed. He was reduced to a couple of initials, poor thing. Jimmy Don one day, then JD the next.

But the thing that’s always bothered me is the way the details got covered over. I would say normally, if the sheriff’s son gets himself murdered, that sheriff is gonna’ be hot on the trail of somebody, even if it’s the wrong person. But JD’s daddy just sorta’ stopped lookin’ altogether. Very puzzlin.’

JD and I weren’t buddies even though he lived right across the street from us ‘cause he was 6 years older than me. But I remember how he played boogie woogie piano. I had just started piano lessons, so anybody who played with their left hand flyin’ was already at the pinnacle of piano-playin’ as far as I was concerned. And JD could fly…high!

He would sit down on the piano bench, look for the peddles–and bein’ an extra short fella’–scooch forward, then his left hand would take off. Just before his right hand joined in, he would look at whoever was watchin’ and smile a big one. Looked like his lips grew twice as big just to make room for that giant smile. Wonder what he looked like just before he was murdered? Guess I’ll never know.

JD’s mama was a big woman. Big as in weight, not tall though. Prob’ly why JD himself was so short. But unlike his mama, Mildred, he was skinny. A skinny, short, piano playin’ fella’ doesn’t generally fare well when it comes to packs of other little boys. Children can be brutal to the runts in their midst. And so it was for poor JD.

Except for his piano playin,’ I’m not sure what I remember about the actual boy, but I do remember the drips and drabs of what became the saga of the Doyle family troubles. It was like watchin’ a slow-movin’ movie right across the street. And since I couldn’t watch every hour of the day and night, I wonder now how much action I missed.

After JD died, I became a kinda’ stand-in kid for Mildred who was alone most of the time. The piano that JD had played stood in the livin’ room untouched, so I decided it needed playin’ once in a while. It was a tall upright piano made of dark oak wood, similar to the look of the old oak desks in our grammar school. Somehow you could see the history of everybody that had touched the wood like an invisible signature. “Jilly sat here.” That’s me, Jilly Marie King. That’s not who I am now. But I’ll get to that later.

Sometimes after school, starting around the 4^th grade, I would tell my mama that I was goin’ visitin,’ and then I would run across the road to see what Mildred was up to. She always had one project or another under construction. Could be makin’ food, or sewin’ curtains, or tendin’ to her flowers. Whatever she was doin’–bein’ the very curious child that I was–I saw Mildred as a wealth of learnin.’ And to me, every lesson was fun. But the cakes…well…took the cake.

Mildred Lou Doyle was an artiste, a true sculptress of elaborate creations ordered by local folks for birthdays and such. Tasty white vanilla and chocolate 2 or 3-layer cakes were the canvas for her art, mainly roses, big and small, and every size in between. Red, yellow, pink, lavender, blue. Any color she could conjure up became roses that were then carefully and strategically arranged on top of swirled to perfection buttercream icing. And I was her very willing student.

She taught me to blend food coloring into a mound of clay-like, sweet marzipan candy until the perfect color saturation was achieved. Sometimes a very picky customer gave her a Happy Birthday napkin or a dessert plate to match back to, but never fear–Mildred was a natural when it came to color. She lived in it…literally.

Her entire kitchen screamed color. Turquoise appliances and red everywhere. Cherries on all the kitchen towels with heaps of brightly colored fruit on the tablecloth covering her white formica kitchen table with red chairs. The countertop was white too and a perfect background for her ceramic fruit covered canisters for flour, sugar, tea, coffee, and a few cute little cherub faced salt n’ pepper shakers that seemed to be there just for fun. I guess she wanted to be able to see the food instead of another pile of fruit or cherries, so her plates were white. It was like she needed all that goin’ on to fill up her life. And when I was there, my young eyes always had somethin’ interesting to look at. Somethin’ to stop my mind from wonderin’ about other things that were prob’ly none of my business.

Anyway, I always felt like I was inside the pages of mama’s big heavy, 3-ring binder, Betty Crocker Cookbook when I was in Mildred’s kitchen. Brightly colored and very detailed pictures of what a final dish or dessert should look like when the recipes magically morphed into real food, fueled my dreams of makin’ a Baked Alaska, or a Lady Baltimore Cake. Heck, I wouldn’t have known a fig if it bit me on the butt, but I knew it was worth findin’ ‘cause it was in the filling of the Lady Baltimore. And although Mama was a great home cook, she stuck with lemon meringue pie or caramel iced chocolate cake. Not very pretty, but tasty all the same. So a short jaunt across the street took me into a world as close to Betty Crocker as I was gonna’ get.

To get back to the makin’ of the cakes…after I got the color just right, Mildred would guide me as I made each delicate marzipan petal in the correct proportions that would produce the perfect rose. You see, each petal formed the rose from the inside out. Made me feel like I actually caused a rose to bloom as it got bigger and bigger with each petal. Then I learned to fill out my little creation with bright green leaves carefully tucked around the big rose juuuh-st right.

Of course, my little roses didn’t make it on the big cakes. But Mildred, in her wisdom, always had a cupcake or two for me to practice on. I thought it was a shame that so much work disappeared in only a few bites when I was done. But that didn’t slow me down as I bit into my rose and that thick buttercream icing. I knew there would always be other cupcakes with endless combinations of colors waitin’ across the street when I took a notion to visit the next time.

I never saw Mildred eat much of anything, but she had plenty of time to figure out how to keep her weight up with Sheriff Doyle being gone so much and JD being her only kid and him gone altogether. But not once during all those days I sat at her kitchen table did she tell me that JD had been adopted. I had heard talk, of course, but mama always told me that JD was gone, so let that question lay unless Mildred decided to talk about it. I liked Mildred and didn’t want the darkness I would sometimes see pass over her face to get stuck there like a mask, so I waited patiently to hear from her mouth about that part of the story. But she kept that tidbit to herself. So, I had to watch the big story unfold from across the street.

Speakin’ of darkness…there was another mighty interesting visitor to the Doyle house. You could see an ugly mask set in like plaster on the face of my Uncle Jib, sorta’ like it would crack if he laughed too much. Come to think of it, when he did laugh it didn’t ring true. Too loud and quickly lost in that scowl again. And I could never figure out why he visited the Doyle house during the day from time to time.

Uncle Jib lived quite a distance down the road and would rarely take the time to come across the street to visit mama who was his sister, for gosh sakes. He’d just pop in and pop out over there when the Sheriff wasn’t home, and nobody said a word–at least that I heard. And if I caught sight of him comin’ out of her house, Mildred always seem to be cryin’ and dryin’ her tears with a wadded up hanky. One of the white ones with red roses she embroidered on the corners. You see, she stayed very busy creating anything to do with roses.

Seems like large families can store up odd shit until it overflows like a stopped up toilet. Trouble is…unless you get rid of what’s causin’ the problem, it will continue to create a mess that has to be cleaned up over and over. And so it was with mama’s family, and by association, the Doyles.

***********

“Jilly!”

“What is it, Henry?”

“Come here a minute. I got my shoelaces all goobered up!”

“O…kay…don’t move! I’m on my way!” slowly rolling the office chair away from the desk.

Goobered up. He’s so funny. If I couldn’t see the humor in our situation…well…don’t go there, Jilly. Not helpful.

Look at him, sittin’ there paralyzed by shoelaces, for heaven’s sake! He’s so happy most of the time, though. When I look into his eyes, I see more than most people do. Growin’ up with an older brother who seemed younger than me was just the way it was. But what happened when he was only 10 years old now somehow covers up the ‘what was.’

I know he thinks I’m sittin’ at my computer conjuring up a character that’s him, his story, his life. And he’s right. How could I not tell that story? So much needless suffering all because of one man. Henry honey, you deserve to be heard, especially now when you can’t string together enough words to make a sentence.

Okay. Henry’s un-goobered now. Let’s see if I can get back into the zone. How many times do I settle down to write only to get interrupted a gazillion times. Oh well, that’s life, our life. Settle yourself, Jilly, and get back at it.

***********

My first visit to Uncle Jib’s house didn’t last very long. After I heard that scream in the middle of the night, I took a good look at my uncle the next morning and screamed myself to go home off and on for a few hours. I didn’t stop cryin’ ‘til Mama pulled into the carport. I don’t remember what happened after that, but by the next summer all was forgotten and I was back there at the end of June.

Mama let me wear a new dress this go-round, and I hung out the car window yellin’ to Darlene, my cousin, “I’m wearin’ a new dress! And it cost ten dollars!” I guess it sounded like a lot of money to me. But how would I know? I was only 7.

And so from then on, every summer I visited Darlene and Duane, and Uncle Jib and Aunt Evie, in the town only 20 miles down the road until the year I turned 12. That year the shit hit the fan and I was never to see any of them again–at least in that house–for many years. But it’s funny how people you thought of as part of the past can suddenly show up outta’ nowhere.

***********

When I was little, Mama and Daddy loved to watch The Hit Parade on TV. They would sing along with Gisele MacKenzie and Snooky Lanson and hold me on one lap or another while I clapped. By the time I was 10, that show was replaced by Flatt and Scruggs with some Perry Como thrown in. Perry was boring and except for Earl Scruggs lightning-fast banjo pickin,’ I didn’t care for bluegrass. But what I did like was Rock N’ Roll.

Mama would take me and my brother and sister to the Tooty Fruity hamburger joint, or the big public swimming pool near the Alcoa aluminum plant and give me change to play the juke box. Neil Sedaka’s “Calendar Girl” or “Breaking Up Is Hard To Do” or “Runaway” by Del Shannon. I can still taste the chocolate malts and smell the chlorine when I think of those tunes.

The last time I visited my cousins was the summer of 1962. Mama and Aunt Evie decided to meet at the big Alcoa pool, then I would go on from there and save Mama havin’ a trip of 20 miles each way with the 2 younger kids. Duane drove my aunt and Darlene to meet us and we all spent a couple hours of fun in the sun while the mamas talked.

Darlene kept an eye on Tricia and Teeter Tot—Tot for short, as my brother Thomas was called–while Duane watched me dive off the high diving board. I was showin’ off my new 2-piece bathing suit that I was sure made me look much older than 12. I can still picture the way Duane looked when I paddled over to him after an especially good dive. He was cute but always looked like he was dodgin’ a lightnin’ strike. Kinda’ skittish, lookin’ over his shoulder all the time.

 “I’m gonna’ kill Daddy before I leave town.” He just threw it out there kinda’ like an afterthought.

“You’re lyin’ Duane. Leave town? You’re not gonna’ leave town or kill your daddy either. Why do you say stuff like that? If your Mama heard you, she’ll kill you!”

“Be quiet, little girl. You don’t know nothin’ about life. You think you do, but you don’t.”

“Well, I know more than you think I do. And quit callin’ me a little girl. I’m not so little anymore.”

Duane looked at me and said, “Yeah, I noticed that.” Then looked away real quick.

“Hey Duane…are you still playin’ piano in that Rock N’ Roll band? I heard you playin’ that upright in y’all’s basement last year. Me and Darlene played it too. Why don’t you and me play a duet when we get to your house? Or you play and I’ll sing. I could be in your band. I’m pretty good.”

“I’ve heard you. You’re good alright, but too young. We don’t want girls in the band anyway. They’re trouble with a capital T. Besides, we’re gonna’ travel around. You can’t do that.”

“I will someday! Yes, I will. You wait n’ see!”

“Listen, Jilly. Stop askin’ questions. I’m eighteen now. I could get into trouble hangin’ around with you. And your daddy would kill me for sure.”

“Mama told you to watch me when I go into the deep end of the pool. I’ll tell if you don’t.”

It was then that it dawned on me why Duane was always tryin’ to get rid of me. He was afraid of how he felt about me, his first cousin. And me bein’ the flirt that I was made things much worse during that summer. But it would be over 50 years until he confessed it. And I was not the person who heard that confession.

That was the last summer I saw him until almost 10 years later. And by that time, I was nothin’ like the pesky little girl that followed him around those summers at his house. I was a young woman who had been livin’ in New York City and snagged a major recording contract. My love of Rock N’ Roll had morphed into an edgy sort of Rockabilly sound. And I was ridin’ high after my first single had hit the Hot Country Singles Chart on Billboard.

It’s funny how the past seems to time fly by when you’re decades away from a memory. And most memories become what you want them to be. Either very bad, or absolute fantasy until they hardly resemble what really happened. But Duane’s smile 10 years later is burned in my memory ‘cause it was the first time I saw him genuinely smile. But what was underneath that smile, deep down inside him, hadn’t gone away. And I was so full of my 21-year-old self that I couldn’t see it–at least on that night. How I acted toward him was downright unfair and stupid. And such was much of my growin’ up. As Rhett Butler said about Scarlett O’Hara in Gone With The Wind, “You think you’re still the cutest little thing in shoe leather,” or somethin’ close to that. And as I sit here now relivin’ that portion of my life, I will admit to still owning Rhett’s sentiment. A woman’s vanity does not necessarily die along with her body.

End of Excerpt