Her Wild Oats (21 page)

They found the pig racing area and sat down on hard wooden benches placed around a small race track, and each picked a different-numbered pig to bet on—if you picked the right pig to win you got a little prize. Since it was Fourth of July the prizes were red, white, and blue–striped pencils with pig-shaped erasers—either that or a finger puppet that looked like a little pig wearing a straw hat.

Oats bet on number four, Eddie bet on seven, and Melody bet on two. A man in overalls came out and shot off a cap pistol and the pigs began racing around the track while everyone yelled for their pigs to win. Oats looked over at Melody in the midst of all this commotion and she was standing really still with her hands clasped together under her chin. She had her eyes closed tight and she seemed to be whispering a prayer to Jesus to make her pig come in first.

Oats didn’t have the kind of relationship with Jesus that Melody apparently did; that seemed pretty clear by now. But from what he’d absorbed from rolling around the world to the extent that he had, not to mention hanging out with Reverend Walter Little in Clear Lake, he did have the sense that you’re supposed to save the fervent prayers for big-ticket items like world peace or your tour manager getting over his stroke, not which pig wins a race. Still, he didn’t think he should bring this issue up with Melody.

Instead, he looked over her head at Eddie, who returned the look with a question mark in his eyes, and Oats just shrugged. Eddie shrugged back, shook his head, and turned back to the matter at hand—yelling for pig number seven.

Then, wouldn’t you know it, Pig Number Two came in first! Melody was so excited that she started jumping up and down and screaming her head off, thanking Jesus from the bottom of her heart. A lady in a red, white, and blue apron came around and handed Melody her prize, and they bet on another race.

Once again Melody prayed as hard as could be, and once again her pig came in first. It was just about time to place bets for the third race when Oats felt his cell phone buzz in his pocket—Gary G. saying he’d better get his butt over to the stage because sound check was starting in a few minutes.

“Hey, gang,” he announced, “I gotta go. But you all can stay here and watch more pig races if you want.”

“Nah, I’ve had enough,” Eddie said quickly. “I’ll go with you, dude.” Everyone else decided they’d had enough pig racing too, and they all got up and left together. As they started off toward the stage area Melody sidled up and linked her arm through Oats’. Her face was flushed with the excitement of victory, talking a mile a minute about not much of anything and bouncing up and down so her fringe wiggled around in this really cute, wild way.

It felt good walking around the fair with a girl, even if she was dressed in full-tilt baton-twirler drag; even if she loved Jesus more than she would ever love him.

The Show Must Go On

16

Arizona watched the tense dance between Bobby Lee and Sarah Jean. It was clear to her, a veteran people-watcher, that whatever degree of tension might be in force there was attraction as well. She thought Bobby Lee was fascinating and fun and enjoyed flirting with him, but she was beginning to like Sarah Jean, too. There was no way she was going to get in the middle of whatever was going on between those two.

As Bobby Lee busied himself tuning up and chatting with his bandmates, Sarah Jean wandered over to the one small, high dressing-room window and quietly stared outside. Arizona walked over and touched her arm.

“You OK?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Sarah Jean replied, blinking away a tear. “It’s just a lot, sometimes.”

“I know.”

“My baby boy has turned into a young man in a couple of weeks. I can’t believe the transformation, and I wonder if he wouldn’t have rather had a summer on the tire swing over the lake back home, doing nothing like kids are supposed to in the summertime. It’s so hard to know what you might be doing wrong as a parent, you know?”

“Not really…”

“You don’t have any kids?”

“Not yet. I am married; maybe was married. I’m actually not exactly sure about that. We hadn’t gotten around to even thinking about kids, which I guess is a good thing since it looks like we might not stay together,” Arizona said. “But I have a niece and a nephew and I look at my sister and honestly I don’t know how she does it.”

“The absolute worst is when you hear your mother coming out of your own mouth.” Sarah Jean laughed. “I can’t believe the things I hear myself saying to the boys sometimes. It’s a straight shot from my mom—sometimes even my grandmother—to my mouth without bothering to spend any time in my brain.”

“Was your mother strict with you?”

“Nope, just the opposite. I was an adored only child. My parents owned a nightclub, the same place where we all live now—but before that they spent a lot of time on the road. I was treated more like a little grown-up. I don’t remember there being too many rules or anything. Well, there were rules but it was more like band rules than family rules.”

“Not sure what you mean…” Arizona said.

“I guess if my family had a motto, it was ‘the show must go on,’ and family was a subset of that. Being a team player, taking turns on solos, listening with big ears, were qualities that assumed more importance than stuff like homework or Scouts or any of the regular things most kids do. The gigs were the most important thing—practicing music took precedence over schoolwork. I went to school, but it was just assumed I would do well so I’d have more time for music. We all call each other by our first names because that’s what people in bands do, you know; you don’t call out ‘take it, Dad’ but ‘take it, Johnny’ when you’re throwing the old man a fiddle solo, right? And there was a lot of teasing and practical jokes.

“We stayed up late and slept in. I could never believe my girlfriends’ early bedtimes, especially on the weekends, or the fact that many of them had never set foot inside a bar or sung into a microphone. And then when we went to parties there would be mostly all musicians there, so they would inevitably turn into jams.”

“That sounds like a great way to grow up to me. I would have loved to have some of that when I was a teenager.”

“Well, some of it was a little strange. I couldn’t believe the first couple of parties I went to in high school. I’d show up with my guitar and party songbook and the other kids looked at me like I was nuts. They’d be dancing to the radio and I’d be wandering around hoping for someone to jam with. It never seemed like a real party to me without the old Martin and a sing-along. They must have thought I was just a hick—it took me a while to get used to teen mating rituals.”

“That’s actually pretty funny,” said Arizona. “I could see that as a movie scene—the country girl shows up at a trendy party with her guitar and everyone else is dropping E and dancing to disco.”

“It got better after I started my own band and started playing around a little, of course. But I still think a party’s a flop if it doesn’t end in a jam.

“Anyway, when I got pregnant I swore my kid was going to get to have more of a regular childhood—school, friends, bedtimes, Scouts, the works. Then I ended up with this little boy genius who couldn’t stay away from the harmonica, and it seemed cruel to put a lid on it, you know? So basically I’m repeating history whether I like it or not.”

“Oats is an amazing kid. Is his little brother much like him?”

“Not at all. Hank Wilson has a totally different temperament. He’s less complicated and more fun-loving. Oats has always been so focused on his music that he can be pretty intense. He’s a perfectionist. Hank Wilson is more of a trickster. He’s got some talent too, but he’s not as driven. Of course…” Sarah Jean stopped herself there.

“What?”

“Kids are all so different,” Sarah Jean said quickly. “You just never know who you’re going to get. Oats and Hank Wilson were both so themselves from the get-go. It’s remarkable, really.”

“I know what you mean. That’s true of my sister’s kids, too.”

“My boys are both amazing people. I don’t feel like I can really take any credit for that.”

Arizona glanced over at Bobby Lee. He was looking down at his guitar and laughing at something Billy had just whispered to him. He tossed his head back in a way that looked oddly familiar, then looked down again. She suddenly had a wild thought, but decided to keep it to herself.

Sarah Jean looked at her. “What?”

“Oh, I was just wondering where your husband is in all this. He must be an amazing person, too,” Arizona said.

“He’s great, one of those rock-steady-whatever-it-is-we-can-work-it-out types. He’s a wonderful dad, a total sweetheart, and a kick-ass drummer.”

“You’re a lucky woman.”

“Yeah…yeah, I guess I am.” She was quiet for a moment.

“Tell me about you,” Sarah Jean said. “What was your family like?”

Arizona always had trouble explaining about her family—her parents, Trip and Julie, who had given birth to her on a Greyhound bus just over the state line; her mother’s vague and endearing hippie style, the sweet veneer covering up a mind so creative and brilliant that once she finally settled down she’d made a killing in the organic baby food industry—her father, meanwhile, becoming a renowned producer of the kind of new age music popular with health spas and massage therapists the world over.

Then there was her sister…

“Let me guess,” said Sarah Jean. “Is her name California? New Jersey? Utah?”

“Nope, Shelley. I know, seems odd, doesn’t it? She was born at Stinson Beach, so…shells, I guess. Shelley got married really young, right out of high school. It was one of those things where everyone said it was crazy; it wouldn’t last—especially when she got pregnant at nineteen. But you know what? Shelley and the Colonel are one of those couples who seem destined to be together, really and truly. They are so crazy about each other, and their two kids, it’s almost disgusting. But she’s a great mom and her babies are so adorable, it’s hard to say it was a mistake.”

“What is someone as bright as you doing here working a cash register in a tourist trap?” Sarah Jean asked. “You must know that makes absolutely no sense to any of us, right?”

“Well, it’s good, honest work,” Arizona said quietly. “I’ve met some nice people. These women are the salt of the earth and very bright and incredibly strong…”

“I’m not saying you don’t do honorable work, Arizona,” Sarah Jean replied. “I’ve had my share of just-a-jobs too. But there’s something about you…you have so many skills, talents, and gifts. You seem out of place here.”

Arizona felt herself tear up and decided not to fight it. Big fat tears rolled down her cheeks, messing up her mascara.

“It’s OK,” Sarah Jean said. “Take your time.”

“My husband’s having an affair with a Jew for Jesus,” she said, between huge, gulping sobs, “and it’s killing me.”

“Oh, honey…”

“I mean, if she were a Buddhist or something…”

“Yeah, Buddhists seem gentler.” Sarah Jean smiled.

“At least he wouldn’t be draining my bank account, and there wouldn’t be bumper stickers.”

“Ah.”

“Stupid ones—you wouldn’t believe…”

“I’ll bet.”

“The worst part is, he talks to her exactly the way he talked to me when we met. In fact, when we met he had another girlfriend. It should have been a warning bell, you know? But I was so…so…infatuated, so in love with the idea of him being crazy about me. And now he’s crazy about someone else. Do you call that fair?”

“No way. Not if it involves bumper stickers, especially,” Sarah Jean said.

“I don’t know what to do. That’s why I’m working at Murphy’s. I stopped in there almost two weeks ago for some licorice and couldn’t leave, so they finally offered me a job. Then the band rolled in…”

“What do you want to do?”

“A big part of me wants to go back to the way things were; just wants this woman to drop off the face of the earth and stop fucking with my life. Then there’s another part of me that thinks, ‘what am I doing with this loser anyway?’”

“What does your husband have to say about all this?”

“We’ve never talked about it.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Nope. I found some definitive evidence and just left. He doesn’t know where I am.” She was quiet for a minute or two. “What do you think I should do?” she said, finally.

“What I think might surprise you.”

“That’s OK. I’m out of ideas myself, as you can see.”

“I think…I think the answers to these things aren’t always clear. Sometimes taking action is the only way, sometimes just letting things be… All I know is that people make mistakes, and some of them are doozies. A marriage that can accommodate a doozy-level mistake or two can be a terrific marriage. In fact, I’d venture to say that everyone in a marriage should be allowed two things: one big secret, and one huge mistake.”

“Um…”

“Of course if he were abusive or pathological it would be a different story, but you’re describing a guy who fell into something and maybe feels, you know, life is too short and why can’t I enjoy the ride, have my cake and eat it too? I’m not saying that’s a good thing, but maybe—just maybe—you could see yourself in that position. Maybe it’s at least understandable?”

“It’s very hard for me to understand,” Arizona said stiffly. She wondered if she should mention the gun on the bedside table and the threatening note she’d found in Jerry’s briefcase, but for some reason she stopped herself.

“Of course it is, of course. But be totally honest with yourself for a minute. Can you look me in the eye and say that you could never make the same mistake?”

“Well…” Arizona wondered if Sarah Jean had any idea what she had allowed to happen just yesterday with Dickie in the back of the tour bus. She hoped that Sarah Jean’s question was hypothetical and not based on any real information, but it hit close to home in an uncomfortable way.

“Of course I can’t say that. No, I couldn’t say that,” she said softly.

“That doesn’t mean it’s easy, or that it feels good, or even that you shouldn’t leave him. But I think it’s important for us imperfect humans to be able to see these things from the other’s point of view. Who is the other woman? Do you know her?”