Bygones (33 page)

“Yes, I was. But I'm not blaming you. I just think that we . . . that it's . . .” She ran out of words.

“What? A mistake?”

She remembered the condoms. “I don't know. Maybe.”

He stared at her with a hurt look around his eyes and an angry one around his mouth.

“Should I call you?”

“I don't know, Michael. Maybe it's not such a good idea.”

He dropped his chin to his chest and whispered, “Shit.”

She stood across the room, her heart racing with fear because of what he had almost suggested. It was too terrifying to ponder, too impossible to consider, too risky to let it be put into words. They had changed a lot but what assurance was there? What fool would put his hand in the mill wheel after his finger had been cut off?

She said, “Thanks again, Michael,” and he made no reply as she saw herself out and ran from the idea of starting again.

 

WHEN BESS GOT HOME the lights were on all over the house, even in her bedroom. Frowning, she parked in the driveway rather than waste time pulling into the garage, and had barely put foot inside the front door when Randy came charging down two steps at a time from the second story. “Ma, where you been? I thought you'd never get home!”

Terror struck. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing. I got an audition! Grandma's old dude, Gilbert, got me one with this band called The Edge!”

Bess released a breath and let her shoulders slump. “Thank heavens. I thought it was some catastrophe.”

“Turns out old Gilbert used to own the Withrow Ballroom and he knows everybody—bands, agents, club owners. He's been talking to guys about me since Lisa's wedding. Pretty great, huh?”

“That's wonderful, Randy. When's the audition?”

“I don't know yet. The band's playing a gig out in Bismarck, North Dakota, but they're due back tomorrow. I've got to call them sometime in the afternoon. God, where were you, Mom? I've been hangin' around here all night, waiting to tell you.”

“I was with your dad.”

“With Dad?” Randy's ebullience fizzled. “You mean, on business?”

“No, not this time. He cooked dinner for me.”

“
Dad
cooked dinner?”

“Yes. And a very good one at that. Come on upstairs with me and tell me about this band.” She led the way to her bedroom, where the television was on and she could tell Randy had been lying on her bed. He must have been anxious, to have invaded her room. She snagged a robe and went into her bathroom, calling through the door as she changed into it, “So what kind of music does this band play?”

“Rock, basically. A mix of old and new, Gilbert said.”

They went on talking until Bess came out of the bathroom with her face scrubbed, rubbing lotion on it while a headband held her hair out of the way. Randy was sitting on the bed, Indian-fashion, looking out of place in her boudoir, with its pastel stripes and cabbage roses, bishop sleeve curtains and chintz-covered chairs. Bess sat down in one and propped her bare feet on the mattress, crossing her terrycloth robe over her knees.

“Did you know about this?” Randy asked. “I mean, did Grandma tell you?”

“No. It's as much of a surprise to me as it is to you.” From a skirted table Bess took a remote control and lowered the volume of the television, then pulled the band from her hair.

“Old Gilbert . . . can you believe that?” Randy wobbled his head in amazement.

“Yes, I can, the way he dances.”

“And all because I played at that wedding.”

“You see? Just a little courage and look what happens.”

Randy grinned and slapped out a rhythm on his thighs.

“You scared?” his mother asked.

His hands stopped tapping. “Well . . .” He shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so, a little.”

“I was scared when I started my store, too. Turned out good, though.”

Randy sat looking at her. “Yeah, I guess it did.” He fell pensive for some time, then seemed to draw himself from his thoughts. “So what's this between you and the old man?”

“Your dad, you mean.”

“Yeah . . . sorry . . . Dad. What's going on between you two?”

Bess got up and walked to the dresser, where she dropped the headband and fiddled with some bottles and tubes before picking one up and uncapping it. “We're just friends.” She squeezed some skin mask on her finger and put her face close to the mirror while touching selected spots.

“You're a lousy liar, you know that, Mom? You've been to bed with him, haven't you?”

“Randy, that's none of your business!” She slammed down the tube.

“I can see in that mirror and you're blushing.”

She glared at his reflection. “It's still none of your business, and I'm appalled at your lack of manners.”

“Okay! Okay!” He threw back his hands and clambered off the bed. “I just don't understand you, that's all. First you divorce him, and then you decorate his place, and now . . .” He gestured lamely as his words died.

She turned to face him. “And now, you will kindly give me the same respect I give you in personal matters. I've never asked about your sex life, and I don't expect you to ask about mine, okay? We're both adults. We both know the risks and rewards of certain choices we might make. Let's leave it at that.”

He stared at her, torn by ambivalence about his father, one facet of him leavened by the possibility of her getting back together with him permanently; the other facet curdled by the idea of having to make peace with Michael at last.

“You know what, Mom?” Randy said, just before leaving the room, “You were never this touchy about Keith.”

She studied the empty doorway when he was gone, realizing he was right. She dropped down and sat on the edge of the bed with her inner wrists together between her knees, trying to make sense of things. In time she flopped to her back, arms outflung, wondering what the outcome of tonight would be. She was being protective of herself because she was scared. That's why she had walked out on Michael, and why she had snapped at Randy. The risk of becoming involved was so great—hell, what was she saying? She was already involved again with Michael; to think anything else was self-delusion.
They
were involved, and more than likely falling in love again, and what was the logical conclusion of falling in love if not marriage?

Bess rolled to her side, drew up her knees, crossed her bare feet and closed her eyes.

I, Bess, take thee, Michael, for better or for worse, till death do us part.

They had believed it once and look what their gullibility had cost. All the anguish of breaking up a family, a home, joint finances, two hearts. The idea of risking it again seemed immensely foolhardly.

* * *

The audition was scheduled for Monday afternoon at two, at a club called Stonewings. The band had their equipment set up for their evening gig and were working on balancing sound when Randy walked in with a pair of drumsticks in his hand. The place was dark but for the stage, lit by canister lights from a ceiling strip. One guitarist was repeating into a mike, “Check, one, two,” while another squatted at the rear of the stage, peering at the orange screen of an electronic guitar tuner.

Randy approached out of the darkness. “Hullo,” he said, reaching the rim of light.

All sound ceased. The lead guitarist looked over, an emaciated man who resembled Jesus Christ as depicted on Catholic holy cards. He held a royal blue Fender Stratocaster with a burning cigarette stuck behind the strings near the tuning pegs. “Hey, guys,” he said, “our man is here. You Curran?”

“That's right.” Randy reached up, extending his hand. “Randy.”

The man pushed his guitar against his belly and leaned over it to shake hands. “Pike Watson,” he said, then turned to introduce the bassist. “Danny Scarfelli.”

The keyboard man came over and shook hands, too. “Tom Little.”

The rhythm guitarist followed suit. “Mitch Yost.”

There was a sound-and-light man, too, moving around in the shadows, adjusting canisters from a stepladder.

Watson told Randy, “That's Lee out there, doing lights.” He shaded his eyes and called, “Yo, Lee!”

Out of the darkness came a voice like a bastard file on babbitt. “Hey!”

“This is Randy Curran.”

“Let's hear his stuff!” came the reply.

While the others drifted back to tuning and balancing, Watson asked Randy, “So what do you know?”

Randy's gesture flipped his drumsticks once, like windshield washers. “Anything. You name it—something with a shuffle beat or straight rock—doesn't matter.”

“Okay, how about a little of ‘Blue Suede Shoes'?”

“Great.”

He had expected the simplest of songs, something everybody knew as well as they knew every nick and scratch on their own instruments. Simple songs were the best gauge of true talent.

The trap set was simple, five pieces—bass, snare, a floor tom, two ride toms and assorted cymbals, one, of course, a high hat. Randy settled himself behind them, found the foot pedals of the bass and a ride, rattled a quick riff across the skins and adjusted the height of a cymbal. He put both sticks in his left hand, drew the stool an inch forward, tested the distance again, looked up and said, “All set. I'll count it out, give you three for nothing and then we'll go into it on four.”

Pike Watson blew smoke toward the ceiling, replaced the cigarette next to a tuning peg and replied, “Beat me, Sticks.”

Randy tapped out the pickup beat on the rim of the snare and the band struck into the song with Watson singing lead.

For Randy, playing was therapy. Playing was forgetting anyone else existed. Playing was living in total harmony with two sticks of wood and a set of percussion instruments over which he seemed to have some sort of mystic control. It felt to Randy as if they put out sound at the command of his mere thought waves rather than his hands and feet. When the song ended, Randy was surprised, having little recall of playing it, measure-for-measure. It seemed, instead, to have played him.

He pinched the cymbals quiet, rested his hands on his thighs and looked up.

Pike Watson appeared pleased. “You got your chops down, man.”

Randy smiled.

“How about another one?”

They played a little twelve-bar blues, then three more, typical musicians who, like the alcoholic, can never stop with just one.

“Nice licks,” Scarfelli offered when they broke.

“Thanks.”

Watson asked, “Do you sing?”

“A little.”

“Harmony?”

“Yeah.”

“Lead?”

“If you want.”

“Well, shit, man, let's hear you.”

Randy asked for the new Elton John hit, “The Club at the End of the Street,” and although the band hadn't worked it up they ad-libbed expertly.

When the song ended, Watson asked, “Who have you played with?”

“Nobody. This is my first audition.”

Watson raised one eyebrow, rubbed his beard and glanced at the others.

“What have you got for drums?”

“A full set of Pearls, rototoms and all.”

“You must be into heavy metal.”

“Some.”

“We don't do much of that.”

“I'm versatile.”

“A lot of the club stages are smaller than this. Any objection to leaving a few of your Pearls at home?”

“No.”

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“Planning on it?”

“No.”

“Got any kids?” Randy grinned and Watson added, “Well, hell, you never know anymore.”

“No kids.”

“So you can travel?”

“Yes.”

“No other jobs?”

Randy chuckled and scratched the back of his head. “If you can call it that. I pack nuts in a warehouse.” The whole band laughed. “If you guys take me on I'll be kissing that job good-bye.”

“What have you got for wheels?”

“That's no problem.” It was, but he'd face it if and when.

“You union?”

“No, but I will be if you say so.”

“Whoever we hire will have to sit in on about six solid days of practices 'cause our drummer's leaving at the end of the week.”

“No problem. I can blow off that pistachio palace in one phone call.”

Pike Watson consulted the others with a glance, returned his gaze to Randy and said, “Okay, listen . . . we'll let you know, okay?”

“Okay.” Randy lifted his hands, let them fall to his thighs, backed off the stool and shook hands all around. “Thanks for letting me sit in. You guys are great. I'd sell my left nut to play with you.”

He left them laughing and stepped out into the midafternoon sun, longing for a hit of something to relax the tension. He tipped back at the waist, closed his eyes and sucked in half the blue sky; he jived toward his car, rapping out a rhythm against his thighs with one palm and the paired sticks. Sweet, the very sweetest—playing with real musicians. Hope pressed up against his throat and made his head buzz. He thought about spending the rest of his life playing music instead of weighing and packing nuts. The comparison was ludicrous. But it was a long shot; he realized that. The Edge had undoubtedly auditioned other guys with plenty of experience, guys who'd played with well-known bands from around the Twin Cities or beyond. What were his chances of competing with them?

He unlocked his car, slid in and rolled down the windows. No air-conditioning, so the interior was like a sauna, the vinyl seatcovers radiant, even through his jeans. Somewhere under the seat he'd left a fast-food container with part of an uneaten bun, and it smelled as yeasty as working beer.