of silence, all that could be heard was ambient music, tuned to a tiresome KUT program of the sort where the DJ, in order to demonstrate his diverse musical acumen, might play a forty-minute timpani soundscape immediately followed by Dessert Helmet covering Hootie, or maybe the Niagara Chickenshits playing their notorious live version of âItâs Dampâ (the one with the Tek-9 tragedy uncensored), segued inharmoniously into any one of the many upsetting ballads Livia couldnât help but associate with the last, hopeless moments of a junior-high-school dance. Livia hated the unpredictability of such programming. She liked her radio to reliably stick to a genre. Psychedelic rock, for instance.
Alva glanced up once and stared at Livia. Livia stared back. She suppressed an urge to stick out her tongue. Alva continued to stare until Livia cowed and looked down at her fingers, which had started to tremble. Her motherâs fingers, crossed tightly in her lap, as was her habit when she wanât permitted to keep them busy operating cigarettes, were perfectly still, though stained red and blue from the Fimo.
By 16:35 the waiting room was mostly empty and had grown quiet. Livia had lost two more stare-downs with Alva. At nine seconds before 17:00, Alva slid her window to the side with a sandy crunch and shouted, âDurant, Charlotte Gue.â
Charlotte, who seldom moved at a pace quicker than could be described as purposeful, leaped.
The door to Dr. Gonzalesâs office opened, and Charlotte disappeared into it as though swept in on a simoom. The door swung shut. Livia found herself alone with Alva and the depressing chirr of Gene Pitney.
A new song took over. It was familiar, tooâthree-chord rhythm guitar, tinny drums, thwippy bass lineâbut Livia couldnât quite place it. Maybe the vocals would help.
Like ye jar of firefliesâ¦
Livia jumped up. She ran to Alvaâs window and tapped urgently. Oh, what a look Alva did beam. But she slid her window aside.
âMiss Alva, would you turn up that song?â
Livia hadnât heard that voice in decades, and never had she noticed the plangent boyishness in it.
⦠love trapped inside of meâ¦
How often she and Archibold had spent a day searching record shops and junk stores and yard sales looking for records by Burtâs band, Ye Moppe Hedds, but never finding anything, even an old 45, its label nearly rubbed away and the grooves worn matte by time and tonearm needles.
Alva stood, steadied herself with a complicated walker whose legs were coated in several generations of medical warningsâbiohazard trefoils, CAUSES DROWSINESS es, photoluminescent quarantine stickersâmade her way to the back of the office, and turned the radio off.
It didnât really matter. Liviaâd heard enough. The entire song came back to her as though she were watching Burt right this minute, his chin decorated with absolutely the sexiest scar in the history of such things, onstage at Wolfordâs, singing and strumming the guitar heâd bought new at Sears, the nightclub stuffed with screaming, sweat-drenched women. Livia, deep in her memory, barely noticed the appearance of Dr. Gonzales, his shrunken, white-coated figure ushering Charlotte out of his office and into the waiting room. Livia barely noticed Charlotteâs blood-test-bandaged arm, her plastic bag of drug samples, her flushed, happy, guilty, erotic radiance.
III
May 2004
In the lobby of the Frito Motel, just off of I-35 in Austin, Justine waited impatiently, all her weight borne by her left leg, behind a man and a tall teenage boy pokily registering for their stay. The two were evidently digging the check-in experience.
Her whole drive down, Justine had been anticipating this very moment, when she would be given a key to a room in which she could live until every credit dollar and every real dollar had been spent. She would rest. Reset. She would research. She would
Alva glanced up once and stared at Livia. Livia stared back. She suppressed an urge to stick out her tongue. Alva continued to stare until Livia cowed and looked down at her fingers, which had started to tremble. Her motherâs fingers, crossed tightly in her lap, as was her habit when she wanât permitted to keep them busy operating cigarettes, were perfectly still, though stained red and blue from the Fimo.
By 16:35 the waiting room was mostly empty and had grown quiet. Livia had lost two more stare-downs with Alva. At nine seconds before 17:00, Alva slid her window to the side with a sandy crunch and shouted, âDurant, Charlotte Gue.â
Charlotte, who seldom moved at a pace quicker than could be described as purposeful, leaped.
The door to Dr. Gonzalesâs office opened, and Charlotte disappeared into it as though swept in on a simoom. The door swung shut. Livia found herself alone with Alva and the depressing chirr of Gene Pitney.
A new song took over. It was familiar, tooâthree-chord rhythm guitar, tinny drums, thwippy bass lineâbut Livia couldnât quite place it. Maybe the vocals would help.
Like ye jar of firefliesâ¦
Livia jumped up. She ran to Alvaâs window and tapped urgently. Oh, what a look Alva did beam. But she slid her window aside.
âMiss Alva, would you turn up that song?â
Livia hadnât heard that voice in decades, and never had she noticed the plangent boyishness in it.
⦠love trapped inside of meâ¦
How often she and Archibold had spent a day searching record shops and junk stores and yard sales looking for records by Burtâs band, Ye Moppe Hedds, but never finding anything, even an old 45, its label nearly rubbed away and the grooves worn matte by time and tonearm needles.
Alva stood, steadied herself with a complicated walker whose legs were coated in several generations of medical warningsâbiohazard trefoils, CAUSES DROWSINESS es, photoluminescent quarantine stickersâmade her way to the back of the office, and turned the radio off.
It didnât really matter. Liviaâd heard enough. The entire song came back to her as though she were watching Burt right this minute, his chin decorated with absolutely the sexiest scar in the history of such things, onstage at Wolfordâs, singing and strumming the guitar heâd bought new at Sears, the nightclub stuffed with screaming, sweat-drenched women. Livia, deep in her memory, barely noticed the appearance of Dr. Gonzales, his shrunken, white-coated figure ushering Charlotte out of his office and into the waiting room. Livia barely noticed Charlotteâs blood-test-bandaged arm, her plastic bag of drug samples, her flushed, happy, guilty, erotic radiance.
III
May 2004
In the lobby of the Frito Motel, just off of I-35 in Austin, Justine waited impatiently, all her weight borne by her left leg, behind a man and a tall teenage boy pokily registering for their stay. The two were evidently digging the check-in experience.
Her whole drive down, Justine had been anticipating this very moment, when she would be given a key to a room in which she could live until every credit dollar and every real dollar had been spent. She would rest. Reset. She would research. She would
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