Living in the Woods in a Tree: Remembering Blaze Foley

Chapter 54: Meeting Persephone

213 54 Meeting Persephone Jealousy is a tenacious sickness. It chokes this grief like a cancer, eating through these belated declarations of regret. The journey back to Texas was intended to heal us, but my need to claim Blaze’s devotion as mine alone is only causing me more heartache. His return has reassured me that I can love and be loved, and my enlightened response to that is to hoard his affection as proof. Tonight I’m on my way to meet Mandy Mercier, the singer/songwriter who was with Blaze for a time in the early ’80s. “Blaze fell in serious love with Mandy,” Lost John had told me, grinning at the memory. “An old flame of hers came back to town and Blaze wanted to convince her not to see him. So he borrowed three bucks from me to buy her a drink.” “Really,” I replied, busily arranging my face in that feigned interest I instinctively don for any conversation about Blaze’s love life. Lost John chortled with glee. Blaze had lain down in the street, calling back to Mandy on the sidewalk, “See how much I love you?” A car came along, slowed down, and drove around him. A second car did the same. The third car stopped, and two cops got out and handcuffed Blaze. “He was still yelling, ‘See how much I love you!’ when they pushed him into the cop car and drove away,” Lost John finished, sending them off with a wave of his hand. “That’s funny,” I answered, praying he wouldn’t notice how tight my smile was. Lost John shook his head. “Son-of-a-bitch still owes me three bucks.” That smile remains pasted on my face when I enter Momo’s, a funky bar in downtown Austin where Mandy is performing tonight. The upstairs is empty when we greet each other about an hour before her gig is to begin. 214 | Living in the Woods in a Tree: Remembering Blaze Foley Dark-haired, hazel-eyed Mandy is a petite waif, not at all the kick-ass country mama I pictured her to be. In a blue silk suit that shows off her cleavage and hourglass curves, she wears boots, lots of bracelets, and bright lipstick, cherry-red. “So,” she asks right off the bat. “Are you the ‘Picture Cards Can’t Picture You’ girl?” “No, that was Helen,” I tell her matter-of-fact, then dare to add, “I’m the ‘If I Could Only Fly’ girl.” Mandy closes her eyes, pops them open, and grabs my arm. “Oh, right!” she exclaims. “Kevin told me about you. I had no idea you existed. None! That Blaze was ever married. Come on!” She shakes her head. “I heard he had a fiancée in Houston that he wrote all those incredible love songs for. But he rarely mentioned her. He was so formal.” “His romantic code.” I nod. “I know.” We stare at each other, intrigued to find this bit of Foley lore corroborated. Mandy shrugs. “I don’t think Blaze ever wrote a song about me.” Awed by her lack of possessiveness, I say, “None of us could have loved him enough—” “No,” she counters. “But a lot of us tried!” Mandy’s giggle is an infectious burst that wrinkles her nose. She, too, has arrived in her fifties a single woman, and her past love affairs with several country music legends have inspired original songs like “Wild Dreams of the Shy Boys.” “So many men, so few commitments,” she comments blithely. We sit down at a table. At her request I bring out pictures of the tree house and the broom-jump trip. She gazes at them a long moment. “I can tell you meant a lot more to Blaze than I did,” she murmurs. “Are you kidding?” I reply. “I’ve been so jealous of you.” Her nose creases. “I’d have been of you, except who knew you existed?” She sobers. “All I knew about the girl in Houston was that it was a pretty wild time. I always assumed he wrote ‘I Should Have Been Home With You’ for her.” I shake my head. “That was written in a little apartment on Castle Hill in ’76.” Mandy puts her face in her hands. “Then all those love songs are to you.” A thrill of joy shoots through me. Funny how it takes another woman to verify the heart of a man. Meeting...