join in, but I laugh when they mention his five-hundred-dollar suits and fake leather shoes, his jet-black hair, obviously dyed since he’s pushing sixty, and his ridiculous habit of calling every woman “my dear.”
“You sound better than Darla, my dear,” Dennis says, as I get out of the Camaro. He has Fred’s la-di-da voice down perfectly, so I laugh again. Carl still won’t look at me, but he nods good-bye.
When I open the trailer door, Irene and Willie are curled up on the couch, sound asleep in front of the TV. I pick him up and she opens her eyes, mumbles, “He’s good. Never got sick.” She sits up and yawns. “Everything go all right?”
“Just fine,” I whisper, because it feels true now that I have Willie in my arms, his sweet sleeping breath on my neck. He’s only wearing a diaper, but I don’t want to risk waking him; extra blankets will do for tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll have to remind Irene that it’s way too cold in here for Willie to sleep undressed. She should know; she’s the one who turned the air-conditioner knob to sixty as soon as we walked in the trailer. “Peterson pays the utilities,” she said. “Might as well turn this dump into an igloo.”
Irene stumbles into her room as soon as I take Willie to bed. She’s tired, she doesn’t want to talk. I feel the same way, but an hour later I find myself still awake, reviewing everything that happened tonight. It seems like maybe the guys are beginning to accept me, see me as part of the group. And who knows? Fred’s hostility might turn out to be a blessing in disguise—as long as I don’t get fired.
Of course the main thing I’m worrying about is Zeb. I want to believe his showing up has nothing to do with Rick, but I’m finding it hard. Why would he send Zeb here, though, instead of coming himself? It doesn’t make sense.
I’m telling myself that it might be just a coincidence. Maybe Zeb was in Omaha to visit family or do some job, and he wandered into the club like any other customer. Maybe he was just staring at me because he was surprised how different I look. After all, it’s been more than three years since he’s seen me; I’ve changed a lot.
In any case, there’s no point in dwelling on it right now. I say that in my head over and over, as the digital clock next to the bed announces three o’clock, three thirty, four. At 4:10, the guys come in. I hear them talking, but I don’t hear them banging around in the kitchen and I don’t hear the CD player. They’re doing what Irene and I asked, being quieter so we can sleep. Another good sign, I think. Things just might be looking up.
four
I t’s a little over a week later, Sunday, and the guys are leaving for their afternoon concert. Peterson kept his word and advertised the event in the local paper and on the jazz radio station; he expects a good turnout. They all seem excited and a little tense, even Harry, the coolest of the cool. Willie is waving bye to them all and I say, “Good luck.” It’s the best I can do; if anything, I feel I’m being too generous. The last week has been horrible. I can barely remember why I thought things might be getting better.
It started when Fred sent me flowers the day after I froze on stage. It was a huge, expensive arrangement: red roses, white carnations, yellow chrysanthemums inside a large cut-glass vase. He had them delivered at the gig, before the set, while the guys were tuning up. Unfortunately, my hands were shaking a little—I thought they might be from Rick—and I dropped the card. Dennis picked it up and read it aloud to everyone, doing his perfect imitation. “Your talent continues to amaze me, my dear. Keep up the good work and I’ll have you in a studio when you return. All the best, Fred.”
I tried to contain the damage. I stuck the vase in the corner, out of sight; I rattled off something about how ridiculous Fred can be. But it was too late. The grumbling had started about all the promises Fred
“You sound better than Darla, my dear,” Dennis says, as I get out of the Camaro. He has Fred’s la-di-da voice down perfectly, so I laugh again. Carl still won’t look at me, but he nods good-bye.
When I open the trailer door, Irene and Willie are curled up on the couch, sound asleep in front of the TV. I pick him up and she opens her eyes, mumbles, “He’s good. Never got sick.” She sits up and yawns. “Everything go all right?”
“Just fine,” I whisper, because it feels true now that I have Willie in my arms, his sweet sleeping breath on my neck. He’s only wearing a diaper, but I don’t want to risk waking him; extra blankets will do for tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll have to remind Irene that it’s way too cold in here for Willie to sleep undressed. She should know; she’s the one who turned the air-conditioner knob to sixty as soon as we walked in the trailer. “Peterson pays the utilities,” she said. “Might as well turn this dump into an igloo.”
Irene stumbles into her room as soon as I take Willie to bed. She’s tired, she doesn’t want to talk. I feel the same way, but an hour later I find myself still awake, reviewing everything that happened tonight. It seems like maybe the guys are beginning to accept me, see me as part of the group. And who knows? Fred’s hostility might turn out to be a blessing in disguise—as long as I don’t get fired.
Of course the main thing I’m worrying about is Zeb. I want to believe his showing up has nothing to do with Rick, but I’m finding it hard. Why would he send Zeb here, though, instead of coming himself? It doesn’t make sense.
I’m telling myself that it might be just a coincidence. Maybe Zeb was in Omaha to visit family or do some job, and he wandered into the club like any other customer. Maybe he was just staring at me because he was surprised how different I look. After all, it’s been more than three years since he’s seen me; I’ve changed a lot.
In any case, there’s no point in dwelling on it right now. I say that in my head over and over, as the digital clock next to the bed announces three o’clock, three thirty, four. At 4:10, the guys come in. I hear them talking, but I don’t hear them banging around in the kitchen and I don’t hear the CD player. They’re doing what Irene and I asked, being quieter so we can sleep. Another good sign, I think. Things just might be looking up.
four
I t’s a little over a week later, Sunday, and the guys are leaving for their afternoon concert. Peterson kept his word and advertised the event in the local paper and on the jazz radio station; he expects a good turnout. They all seem excited and a little tense, even Harry, the coolest of the cool. Willie is waving bye to them all and I say, “Good luck.” It’s the best I can do; if anything, I feel I’m being too generous. The last week has been horrible. I can barely remember why I thought things might be getting better.
It started when Fred sent me flowers the day after I froze on stage. It was a huge, expensive arrangement: red roses, white carnations, yellow chrysanthemums inside a large cut-glass vase. He had them delivered at the gig, before the set, while the guys were tuning up. Unfortunately, my hands were shaking a little—I thought they might be from Rick—and I dropped the card. Dennis picked it up and read it aloud to everyone, doing his perfect imitation. “Your talent continues to amaze me, my dear. Keep up the good work and I’ll have you in a studio when you return. All the best, Fred.”
I tried to contain the damage. I stuck the vase in the corner, out of sight; I rattled off something about how ridiculous Fred can be. But it was too late. The grumbling had started about all the promises Fred
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