Bygones (26 page)

“It is.”

“Then I accept.”

She started to turn away but he stopped her. “One other thing.”

“What?”

“Would you go out with me next Saturday? We could go to a movie or something.”

“Let me think about it.”

“All right.”

He took a turn at turning away but she kept his hand and stood where she'd been. “I've thought about it.” She smiled. “Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. With my parents' approval.”

“Oh, of course.” As if a parent had approved of him since he'd turned thirteen. “So what do you say we go dance some more?”

Smiling, they returned inside.

The band was blasting out “Good Lovin' ” and the dancers were getting into it. His mom and dad were still on the floor, having a grand old time with their friends the Maholics and Grandma Stella and her date, who'd turned out to be a neat guy after all. Stella and the old dude were dancing the way old people do, looking ridiculous but enjoying it anyway. Randy and Maryann melded into the edge of the crowd and picked up the beat.

When the song ended, Randy heard Lisa's voice over the amplifiers and turned in surprise to see her standing on stage with a microphone.

“Hey, everybody, listen up!” When the crowd noise abated she said, “It's my special night so I get what I want, right? Well, I want my little brother up here—Randy, where are you?” She shaded her eyes and scanned the room. “Randy come up here, will you?”

Randy suffered some friendly nudging while panic sluiced through him.
Jesus, no, not without getting wrecked first!
But everyone was looking at him and there was no way he could slip outside and sneak a hit.

“A lot of you don't know it but my little brother is one of the better drummers around. Matter of fact, he's the best.” She turned to the lead guitar man. “You don't mind if Randy sits in on one, do you, Jay?” And to the crowd, “I've been listening to him pounding his drums in his bedroom since he was three months old—well, that might possibly have been his heels on the wall beside his crib but you know what I mean. He hasn't done a lot of this in public, and he's a little shy about it, so after you hog-tie him and carry him up here, give him a hand, okay?”

Randy, genuinely embarrassed, was being encouraged to go onstage by a throng of his peers who circled him and Maryann.

“Yeah, Randy, do it!”

“Come on, man, hammer those skins!”

Maryann took his hand and said, “Go ahead, Randy, please.”

With his palms sweating, he removed his tuxedo jacket and handed it to her. “Okay, but don't run away.”

The drummer backed off his stool and stood as Randy leaped onto the stage and picked his way around the bass drum and cymbals. They did a little talking about sticks and Randy selected a pair from a quiver hanging on a drum. He straddled the revolving stool, gave the bass drum a few fast thumps, did a riff from high to low across the five drums circling him, tested the height of the cymbals and said to the lead guitar man, “How 'bout a little George Michael? You guys know ‘Faith'?”

“Yo! ‘Faith' we got.” And to the band, “Give him a little ‘Faith,' on his beat.”

Randy gave them a lead-in on the rim and struck into the driving, syncopated beat of the song.

On the dance floor, Michael forgot to start dancing with Bess. She nudged him and he made a halfhearted attempt to do justice to both but the drumming won out. He bobbed absently while watching, entranced, as his son became immersed in the music, his attention shifting from drum to drum, to cymbal to drum, now bending, now reaching, now twirling a stick till it blurred. Some silent signal was exchanged and the band dropped off, giving Randy a solo. His intensity was total, his immersion complete. There were he and the drums and the rhythm running from his brain to his limbs.

Most of the crowd had stopped dancing and stood entranced, clapping to the rhythm. Those who continued dancing did so facing the stage.

At Michael's side Bess said, “He's good, isn't he?”

“My God, when did this happen?”

“It's been happening since he was thirteen. It's the only thing he really cares about.”

“What the hell's he doing working in that nut house?”

“He's scared.”

“Of what? Success?”

“Possibly. More probably of failure.”

“Has he auditioned anywhere?”

“Not that I know of.”

“He's got to, Bess. Tell him he's got to.”

“You tell him.”

The drum solo ended and the band picked up the last verse while on the floor Bess and Michael danced it out, reading messages in each other's eyes.

A roar of applause went up as Randy struck the cymbals for the last time and the song ended. He rested his hands on his thighs, smiled shyly and let the drumsticks slip back into the quiver.

“Good job, Randy,” the band's drummer said, returning to the stage, shaking Randy's hand. “Who did you say you play with again?”

“I don't.”

The drummer stopped cold, stared at Randy a moment and straddling his seat, said, “You ought to get yourself an agent, man.”

“Thanks. Maybe I will.”

On his way back to Maryann, he felt like Charlie Watts. She was smiling, holding his jacket while he slipped it on, then taking his arm, unconsciously resting her breast against it.

“You even look like George Michael,” she said, still smiling proudly. “But I suppose all the girls tell you that.”

“Now if I could only sing like him.”

“You don't have to sing. You can play drums. You're really good, Randy.”

None of the applause counted as much as her approval. “Thanks,” he said, and wondered if it would still feel like this after twenty-five years of performing—the way Watts had been performing with the Stones all these years—the rush, the exhilaration, the high!

Suddenly his mother was there, kissing his cheek. “Sounds much better in a club than coming up the stairs.” And his father, clapping his shoulder and squeezing hard, with a glint of immense pride in his smile.

“You've got to get out of that nut house, Randy. You're too good to squander all that talent.”

If he moved, Randy knew, even half-moved toward his Dad he'd be in his arms and this stellar moment would be complete. But how could he do that with Maryann looking on? And his mother? And half the wedding guests? And Lisa coming at him with a big smile on her face, trailed by Mark? Then she was there and the moment was lost.

Jamming in somebody's basement had never been like this. By the time his praises had been sung by everyone who knew him and some who didn't, he still felt like a zinging neon comet and thought if he didn't smoke some grass to celebrate, he'd never have another chance to get the high-on-high. Christ, it'd be wild!

He looked around and Maryann was gone.

“Where's Maryann?” he asked.

“She went to the ladies' room. Said she'd be right back.”

“Listen, Lisa, I'm kind of warm. I gotta go outside and cool off some, okay?”

Lisa mock-punched his arm. “Yeah, sure, little bro. And thanks again for playing.”

He slumped his shoulders, gave her a crooked smile and saluted himself away.

“Any time.”

Outside, he returned to the shadows at the far end of the veranda. The earth still smelled musty, and the runnels were still running, and the thump of the drums could be registered through the soles of his shoes. He packed his bat, lit it, took the hit and held it deep in his lungs, his eyes closed, blocking out the stars and the cars and the naked trees. It didn't take long. By the time he left the veranda he believed he
was
Charlie Watts.

He went inside to find Maryann. She was sitting at a table with her parents and some of her aunts and uncles.

“Hey, Maryann,” he said, “let's dance.”

Her eyes were like ice picks as she turned and took a chunk out of him. “No, thank you.”

If he hadn't been stoned he might have done the sensible thing and backed off. Instead, he gripped her arm. “Hey, what do you mean?”

She jerked her arm free. “I think you know what I mean.”

“What'd I do?”

Everyone at the table was watching. Maryann looked as if she hated him as she jumped to her feet. He smiled blearily at the group and mumbled, “Sorry . . .” then followed her out into the hall. They stood at the top of the elegant stairway down which they'd walked together such a short time earlier.

“I don't hang around with potheads, Randy,” she said.

“Hey, wait, I don't—”

“Don't lie. I came outside looking for you and I saw you and I know what was in that little pipe! You can find your own way home, and as far as Saturday night goes, it's off. Go smoke your pot and be a loser. I don't care.”

She picked up her skirts, turned and hurried away.

 

BESS AND MICHAEL RECLINED in the backseat of the limousine, a faint sense of motion scuttling up from the trunk and massaging the backs of their heads through the supple leather. Michael was laughing, deep in his throat. His eyes were closed.

“What are you laughing about?”

“This car feels like a Ferris wheel.”

She rolled her head to look at him. “Michael, you're drunk.”

“Yes, I am. First time for months and it feels spectacular. How 'bout you?” He rolled his head to look at her.

“A little, maybe.”

“How does it feel?”

She faced upward again, closed her eyes and laughed deep in her throat. They enjoyed some silence, and the purring, easy-chair ride, the subtle euphoria created by the dancing and drinking and the presence of each other. In time, he spoke.

“You know what?”

“What?”

“I don't feel much like a grandpa.”

“You don't dance much like a grandpa.”

“Do you feel like a grandma?”

“Mm-mm.”

“I don't remember
my
grandpa and grandma dancing like that when I was young.”

“Me either. Mine raised irises and built birdhouses.”

“Hey, Bess, come here.” He clamped her wrist, tipped her his way and put an arm around her.

“Just what do you think you're doing, Michael Curran?”

“I'm feelin'
good!”
he said, exaggerating an accent. “And I'm feelin'
baaad!”

She laughed, rolling her face against his lapel. “This is ridiculous. You and I are divorced. What are we doing snuggling in the backseat of a limo?”

“We bein'
bad!
And it feel so good we gonna keep right on doin' it!” He leaned forward and asked the driver, “How much time have we got?”

“As much as you want, sir.”

“Then keep driving till I tell you to head back to Stillwater. Drive to Hudson! Drive to Eau Claire! Hell, drive to Chicago if you want to!”

“Whatever you say, sir.” The driver laughed and faced full front again.

“Now where were we?” Michael settled back and reclaimed Bess, nestling her close.

“You were drunk and being foolish.”

“Oh, that's right.” He threw up his arms and started singing a chorus of “Good Lovin',” adding a few hip thrusts for good measure.

“. . . gimme that good, good lovin' . . .”

She tried to pull away but he was too quick. “Oh no you don't. You're staying right here. We gotta talk about this now.”

“Talk about what?” She couldn't resist smiling.

“This. Our firstborn, all married up and off someplace to spend her wedding night, and you and me only months away from becoming grandparents, dancin' our butts off while our secondborn plays the drums. I think there's some significance here.”

“You do?”

“I think so but I haven't figured it out yet.”

She settled beneath his arm and decided to enjoy being there. He kept on singing “Good Lovin' ” very softly, mumbling the words so they barely moved his lips. Pretty soon she was mumbling softly in counterpoint.

He'd mumble, “Good lovin' . . .”

And she'd mumble, “Gimme that mmm-mmm-mmm . . .”

“Good lovin' . . .”

“Mm-mm-mm mm-mm-mmm-mmm . . .”

“Mm-mmm . . .”

“Mm-mm mm-mm-mm-mmm-mmm . . .”

He tapped out the drum rhythm on his left thigh and her right arm, then found her free hand and fit his fingers between hers, closed them and bent their elbows in lazy unison. She could feel his heartbeat beneath her jaw, could hear his humming resonate beneath her ear, could smell the diluted remnants of his cologne mingled with smoke on his jacket.

So quietly the sound of her own breathing nearly covered it up, he sang: “Good lovin' . . .”

“Mm-mm-mm mm-mm-mmm-mmm . . .”

Then nothing. Only the two of them, reclining on his half of the seat, holding hands and fitting their thumbs together and feeling and smelling one another while their arms wagged slowly down and up, and down and up . . .

He didn't say a word, just leaned forward, curled his hand around her far arm and kissed her. Her lips opened and his tongue came inside while she thought of the dozens of arguments she ought to voice. Instead she kissed him back, the leather seat soft against her head, his breath warm against her cheek, his taste as familiar as that of chocolate, or strawberry, or any of the flavors she had relished often in her life. And, my, it felt good. It was the familiarity of that first step on the dance floor magnified a thousandfold. It was each of them fitting into the right niche, melding to the right place, tasting the right way.

They kept it friendly, passionless almost, engaging themselves solely in the pleasure one mouth can give another.

When he drew away she kept her eyes closed, murmuring, “Mmm . . .”

He studied her face for a long moment, then reclined, removing his arm from around her, though she remained snug against his side with her cheek on his sleeve. They rode along in silence, thinking about what they'd just done, neither of them surprised it had happened, only wondering what it portended. Michael reached over and touched a button, lowering his window a couple of inches. The cool night air whisked in, scented by fertile fields and moisture. It threaded across their hair, their lips, bringing a near taste of thawing earth.

Bess interrupted their idyll as if rebutting thoughts they'd both been having. “The trouble is,” she said quietly, “you fit in so remarkably well.”

“I do, don't I?”

“Mother loves you. All the shirttail family thinks I was crazy to get rid of you in the first place. Lisa would sell her soul to get us back together. Randy's even coming around little by little. And Barb and Don—it felt like slipping into an old, comfortable easy chair to be with them again.”

“Boy, didn't it.”

“Isn't it strange, how we both gave them up? I thought you were probably seeing them all along.”

“I thought
you
were.”

“With the possible exception of Heather down at the store, I really don't have any friends anymore. I seem to have forsaken them since we got divorced—don't ask me why.”

“That's not healthy.”

“I know.”

“Why do you suppose you did that?”

“Because when you're divorced you always end up feeling like the odd man out. Everyone else has a partner to be with and there you are trailing along like a kid sister.”

“I thought you had that boyfriend.”

“Keith? Mmmm . . . no, Keith wasn't one I took around and introduced to many people. When I did, most of them looked at me funny and got me in a corner and whispered, ‘What in the world are you doing with
him?' ”

“How long did you go with him?”

“Three years.”

They rode awhile before Michael asked, “Did you sleep with him?”

She gave him a mock slap on the arm and put distance between them. “Michael Curran, what business is it of yours?”

“Sorry.”

Away from him, she felt chilled. She snuggled back against his arm and said, “Close the window, will you? It's cold.”

The window made a whirr and thump and the chill breeze disappeared.

“Yes,” Bess said after some time. “I slept with Keith. But never at home and never overnight so the kids would know.”

It took some time before Michael said, “You want to know something funny? I'm jealous.”

“Oh, that's rich.
You're
jealous?”

“I knew you'd say that.”

“When I found out about Darla I wanted to scratch her eyes out, and yours, too.”

“You should have. Maybe things would have ended up differently.”

They spent time with their private thoughts before Bess told Michael, “My mother asked me if we were holding hands in church today and I lied.”

“You
lied?
But you never lie!”

“I know but I did this time.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. Yes, I do.” She pondered a while and admitted, “No, I don't. Why were we?” She tilted her head to look up at him.

“It seemed like the right thing to do. It was a sentimental moment.”

“But it had nothing to do with renewing vows, did it?”

“No.”

Bess felt simultaneously relieved and disappointed.

Soon, she yawned and snuggled against his arm once more.

“Tired?”

“Mmm . . . it's catching up at last.”

Michael raised his voice and told the driver, “You can head back to Stillwater now.”

“Very good, sir.”

On the way Bess fell asleep. Michael stared out the window at the blur of snowless, grassless land lit by the perimeter of the headlights. The wheels dipped into a low spot in the road and Michael swayed in his seat, Bess along with him, her weight heavy against his arm.

When they reached the house on Third Avenue, he touched her face.

“Hey, Bess, we're home.”

She had trouble lifting her head, as much trouble opening her eyes.

“Oh . . . mmm . . . Michael . . . ?”

“You're home.”

She forced herself upright as the driver opened the door on Michael's side. He stepped out and offered his hand, helping her out. The driver stood beside the open trunk.

“Shall I help you carry the gifts inside, sir?”

“I'd appreciate that.”

Bess led the way, unlocking the door, turning on a hall light and a table lamp in the family room. The two men carried the gifts inside and stacked them in the family room on the floor and the sofa. The front door stood wide open. Michael followed the driver to it and said, “Thanks for your help. I'll be out in just a minute.”

He closed the door and slowly walked the length of the hall to the family room, where he stopped with the sofa and a long table separating him from Bess, who stood among the packages.

Michael's glance swept the room.

“The house looks nice. I like what you've done with this room.”

“Thanks.”

“Nice colors.” His glance returned to her. “I never was much good with colors.”

She took two precariously perched boxes off the sofa and put them on the floor.

“Are you coming over tomorrow?”

“Am I invited?”

“Well, of course you are. You're Lisa's father, and she'll want you here when she opens her gifts.”

“Then I'll be here. What time?”

“Two o'clock. There was food left over so don't eat lunch.”

“You need any help? You want me to come early?”

“No, all I have to do is make coffee but thanks for offering. Just be here at two.”

“It's a deal.”

A lull fell. They weren't sure if Randy was home or not. If so, he was down in his room asleep. From outside came the faint note of the limousine engine. Inside, the room was dim, the window coverings drawn high, the night beyond the sliding glass door absorbing much of the light cast by the single burning lamp. Michael's tie was in his pocket, his collar button open, his cummerbund a splash of color as he stood on the opposite side of the furniture from Bess, with his hands in his pockets.

“Walk me to the door,” he said.

She came around the sofa at a pace suggesting reluctance to see the evening end. Their arms slipped around each other as they sauntered, hip-to-hip, to the door.

Reaching it, he said, “I had fun.”

“So did I.”

She turned to face him. He linked his hands on her spine and rested his hips lightly against hers.

“Well . . . congratulations, Mom.” He gave a smile of boyish allure.

She returned it, accompanied by a throaty chuckle. “Congratulations, Dad. We got us a son-in-law, didn't we?”

“A good one, I think.”

“Mm-hmm.”

Would they or wouldn't they? The questions glimmered between them as they stood together with every outward sign indicating they wanted to, and every inward voice warning it was unwise: that once in the limousine had been dangerous enough. He ignored the voice, dipped his head and kissed her, open-mouthed, tasting her fully and without restraint. Where his tongue went, hers followed, into all the familiar sleek caverns they'd learned during long-ago kisses. She tasted as he remembered, felt the same, the contours of her lips, teeth and tongue as familiar as during the uncountable kisses of their younger years. Their lips grew wet and he could tell by her breathing she was as turned on as he.