The Wishbones by Tom Perrotta

he needed was some understanding, a little encouragement, a few kind words. Most of the guys in the band were sympathetic, especially Buzzy and Dave. Ianwas okay too, though Stan hadn't been able to take him seriously for a long time now, ever since he'd learned that his real name was Frank. “Ian” was a stage name, borrowed from the lead singer in Jethro Tull. It was the kind of thing you didn't want to know about a grown man you thought of as a friend.
    The problem was Artie. A decent manager would have patted him on the back and tried to help him through the mess. But Artie wasn't like that—Stan understood that now. Artie was a shark, the kind of guy who'd risk his life crossing a busy highway just for the chance to kick you while you were down.

    Phil's widow had stopped crying by the time Dave shook her hand and told her how sorry he was. She introduced herself as Rose Cardini.
    “Cardini?” he said. “Phil's last name was Cardini?” She looked amused. “What did you think it was?” “Hart,” he replied, feeling foolish as soon as he said it. “Back when he started out, most of the Italian performers changed their names to sound more American. That's how you got Dean Martin, Tony Bennett, people like that.” “Not Sinatra, though.”
    “That's true,” she said. “Sinatra was the exception.” On the boom box, “You've Got a Friend” segued into “Danny Boy,” and Mrs. Cardini seemed to lose track of the conversation. Her blue eyes clouded over; she craned her neck as though looking past Dave to a taller person standing behind him. Softly at first, but then with more confidence, she began humming along with her husband's voice, effortlessly harmonizing. After just a few bars, though, she stopped. The alertness returned to her face. “We were married for fifty-two years,” she said, gazing in wonder at her own hands. “Can you imagine that?”
    Dave shook his head; he couldn't.
    “On long car trips, we used to sing to pass the time. ‘Danny Boy’ was one of our favorites.”
    “It's a great song.”
    “He seemed so healthy,” she said. “I thought we had a few more years.”
    At the Other end of the line, Dave held out his hand to Joey Franco. They'd known each other since they were kids without ever really being friends. Joey had gone to Catholic grammar school and was already deep into drugs by the time he arrived at Harding High.
    “I'm sorry,” said Dave.
    Before the words were out of his mouth, Joey's arms were around him, squeezing hard. Dave grunted in surprise, surrendering to the embrace.
    “Dave,” said Joey.
    “Joey,” said Dave.
    Dave had always tried to keep his distance from Joey—it was as much his bad skin as the fact that he'd been a junkie— but it felt okay to hug him inside the funeral home. Joey was sobbing now, the muscles in his back jumping beneath the fabric of his suit.
    “Dave,” he said again.
    “Joey.”
    “Believe me,” Artie said, when the Wishbones had reassembled on the lawn outside the funeral home, “the Heartstring Orchestra is history.”
    “Not necessarily,” said Ian. “All they need is a new front man.”
    “Where they gonna find another seventy-year-old front man?”
    “Why does he have to be seventy?” Buzzy inquired.
    “Because they're a concept band.”
    “Concept?” said Ian. “What concept is that?”
    Artie stared at him like he was an idiot. “Whaddaya mean, what concept?”
    “Whaddaya mean, what do I mean?” Ian shot back. “I asked what concept.”
    “They're a bunch of old guys,” Artie explained. “That's the fucking concept.”
    “What about Joey?” Dave asked.
    “What about him?”
    “He's our age.”
    “That's right,” said Artie. “And if Stan doesn't get his shit together, maybe Joey wouldn't mind a chance to play with some guys who don't belong to the American Association of Fucking Retired People.”
    “That's a good organization,” Buzzy told him. “Don't knock the AARP.”
    “Mel's a