The Wishbones by Tom Perrotta Page B

Viewing hours are from six to eight.”
    “Were the Wishbones here?”
    The old man cleared his throat with a violence that made Stan cringe. “The who?”
    “The Wishbones. The band that plays after you at the showcase. I'm the drummer.”
    “You guys really call yourselves the Wishbones?”
    “Yeah.”
    Walter whistled through his teeth, as though a pretty girl had just walked by. “Where'd you find a stupid name like that?”
    Stan didn't answer. He'd always thought the Wishbones was a perfectly good name for a band. Walter reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. It was painful to watch him extract one and guide it to his lips. Stan had to look away when Walter brought out his lighter. He didn't turn back until he smelled the smoke.
    “Your friends left about an hour ago,” Walter reported.
    “Figures.” Stan shook his head. “I'm having one of those days, I'd forget my dick if it wasn't screwed on.”
    Walter coughed out a dry chuckle. “My age, I'd be grateful for a day like that.”
    A sudden image struck Stan like a wave of nausea. Susie drinking champagne in a fancy restaurant. Black dress, bare shoulders. Happy Birthday. He made a noise.
    “You okay?” Walter asked.
    “Not really. Mind if I sit down?”
    He felt a little better once he unhooked his cummerbund. He hated the frigging thing, the way it squeezed all the air out of him. Walter sat beside him, thoughtfully gumming his cigarette.
    “This must be a tough time for you,” Stan observed.
    “How so?”
    “You know.” He pulled the cummerbund out from under his jacket and laid it on the steps. “This thing with Phil. It must have been awful for you.”
    Walter worked his cigarette like a baby sucking a bottle. “Phil was an old man. Everybody's got to go sometime.”
    “Still, watching a friend die in front of you like that …”
    “We had our differences,” Walter said curtly.
    “What kind of differences?”
    “Creative.” Walter ejected the cigarette from between his lips. It landed on the sidewalk in a small shower of sparks. “I thought the band was starting to get a little stale.”
    “How long were you together?”
    “Too fucking long. Thirty-three years I took orders from that sonofabitch. I finally feel like I can breathe again.”
    Stan didn't bother to pretend he was shocked. He'd been a musician long enough to know how it could come to this. There were nights when he'd lain awake writing Artie's obituary in loving detail, nights when he'd imagined committing murder.
    “Can you do me a favor?” Walter asked.
    “What's that?”
    “Help me find my car.”
    “Whaddaya mean, find your car?”
    Walter gestured at the world spread out in front of them. His voice was small now, a little bit frightened.
    “It's around here somewhere,” he said.

IT'S YOUR WEDDING
     
    “I think I'm going to ask Tammi to be my Maid of Honor,” Julie told him on their way to the mall on Saturday morning. “I'm just worried that Margaret's going to be upset.”
    “She'll still be in the wedding, right?”
    “Of course. But you know how she is. Any little thing could set her off. And the last thing we need is a disgruntled bridesmaid.”
    She shook her head as though exasperated, but Dave wasn't fooled. He could see how happy she was to be talking about the wedding. Her face glowed with it; she spoke in a bright girlish voice he hadn't heard for a long time. It was gratifying to know that he could be responsible for such a major improvement in her mood, though it made him wonder if he hadn't been equally responsible for the mild depression that had plagued her for the past couple of years. He'd blamed it on the fact that she'd been unable to find a public school teaching job, despite her degree in Elementary Ed, and instead seemed resigned to a career in customer service.But maybe that was only part of her problem, and maybe not even the most important part.
    “Do what you want,” he told her. “It's your