Xylophone (4 page)

bothered in the least. There were no signs of

impatience, no shouts or foot-stomping.

Dare hustled to the back bathroom to relieve

himself, dab the sweat from his face, and comb his

hair. After grabbing a bottle of water from the

kitchen cooler, he returned to the stage and sat on

the edge, legs dangling. He wanted to let Jonah

Day ogle him. If, that is, Jonah was so inclined.

Seemed he was, although he didn’t watch

Dare steadily and confidently, the way guys in bars

watched and sent signals to each other. Jonah

chatted with his grandmother and whatever

acquaintances wandered up to their table. Between

conversations, he idly scanned the crowd.

His gaze kept flicking over to the stage.

Dare was sure of that. Jonah’s eyes were

large and bright. It was impossible to miss each

directed flash of green.
Go lights
, Dare thought

with a private smile. Should he proceed?

Within another few minutes, the band

regrouped on stage and resumed playing. Jonah

and his grandmother stayed. Dare was inexplicably

pleased.

The “Pennsylvania Polka,” then a schottische.

“I’ve

Got

a

Wife

at

Home”

and

the

“Liechtensteiner

Polka.” A

waltz,

another

schottische.

Jonah and GG danced, talked for a while with

an older couple, danced some more. Once again

Dare was the one doing the watching, and the more

he watched, the more intrigued he became. Jonah

wasn’t like any of the other men he knew. Dare

wanted to find out what lay beneath that polite,

doting-grandson veneer. Maybe he needed to. The

keenness of his curiosity rather surprised him, but

he couldn’t seem to quell it.

Any effort to become acquainted with Jonah

Day might not pan out. Dare once again told

himself he could be setting his sights on a yawn-

worthy straight dude, maybe one who had a

clarinet fetish. Jonah’s glances, which kept

coming, could’ve carried admiration for Dare’s

musicianship, not his manhood.

How could he find out once and for all?

Should he ask Jonah out for a drink? A milkshake?

By the second break, Junior’s wife and Bob’s

sister were in the kitchen, setting up a small buffet

for the band. Dare had no choice but to hang out,

nibble on some wings, and shoot the breeze.
Don’t

leave
, he kept thinking to Jonah.
We’re not done

with each other yet.

The third and last set, like the first two, went

smoothly enough, although Dare had lost his desire

to move to the music. At first he feared Jonah and

his grandmother had left. But no, they’d simply

moved to a different part of the pavilion.

Finally, the set concluded with “In Heaven

There Is No Beer” and Bob’s solo performance of

the “Accordion Waltz.”

Before he even returned to the kitchen to

disassemble and case his clarinet, Dare blew off

the stage and headed for Jonah’s table. GG

immediately beamed at him, and it must have been

her reaction that made Jonah turn. His smile was

more reserved than hers as he rose from his chair.

“Hi,” he said, shaking hands with Dare.

“Thanks for coming over.”

GG gazed up at them, bright-eyed and alert.

She didn’t seem all that old—probably hadn’t

hit seventy yet—and, in spite of her apparent love

of flamboyant clothing and jewelry, wasn’t overly

made-up like a lot of her female contemporaries.

Back in the day, she could’ve been a hippie. Or

did she predate that era? In any case, Dare

immediately got the impression she was sharp,

real
sharp.

“Jonah,” she said, “aren’t you going to

introduce me?”

An impish expression crossed his face, giving

it a whole new dimension. “No. I’m going to

ignore you. You got enough attention today.”

GG dug her red-orange fingernails into her

grandson’s wrist… but not hard. “You know what

a harridan I can be.”

Jonah removed her hand. “I suppose I
would

know if I understood the word.”

This must’ve been how they interacted—

playfully, with good-natured sarcasm. Dare’s

assumption was right; GG was no dummy. And the

young man with the emerald eyes definitely had

some hidden facets.

“Mr. Boothe,” Jonah said, “this is—”

“You don’t
really
go by ‘Mr. Boothe,’ do

you?” GG broke in, looking up at Dare. Her eyes

were a lighter, more piercing version of Jonah’s.

“That’s not how Bobby introduced you.”

Sighing, Jonah muttered, “I’ll just let her take

over,” and sank back into his chair.

Smiling, Dare offered his hand. “I’m Daren.

Clarinetist Ordinaire. Pleased to meet you.”

GG not only took his hand, she placed her

other one over it. “Gina Gonzalez Martinsek.

Grandmother Extraordinaire.”

“Don’t lie to the man,” Jonah told her.

She ignored him. “The pleasure is mine,

Daren. And you underestimate yourself.”

Dare could’ve sworn her eyes sparkled for

emphasis.

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” GG said, rising

from the table, “I need to take care of more

pressing business.”

“You left your spackle in the car,” Jonah said

to GG’s back as she walked away.

GG turned. “Thank you, but my bladder

doesn’t need spackle. A sling, maybe.”

Dare chuckled as he sat at the table. He had to

make his move before GG returned. “I hope I’m

not being too forward, but I wanted to ask you—”

“I’m glad you came over,” Jonah said,

lowering his voice, growing more somber. “I

wanted to ask you too.”

Dare stalled out. The words he had planned

to say were still lodged in his throat, that whole

stupid spiel about polka bands in the area, how he

wanted to familiarize himself with the best ones.

Dumbly he stared at Jonah, who was slipping on

his suit coat.

“Oh,” he said finally. “You mean you wanted

to ask
me
out?”

“Yes.” Jonah tugged at his shirt cuffs.

“Nothing formal, just someplace casual. I suppose

you don’t have your phone on you.”

Dare shook his head. Bob strictly forbade

cell phones on stage.

Jonah reached into his pocket, pulled out a

thin leather wallet, and extracted a business card.

“Here’s all my contact information. Just call or e-

mail when you have a chance, and we’ll set

something up.”

“Oh. Okay. Thanks.” Dare was still at a loss.

The invitation didn’t compute. He hadn’t expected

Jonah to be the pursuer. “Yeah, it’ll be easier to

talk when I’m not on the clock.”

“Definitely.” Jonah leaned closer. He smelled

of a cologne Dare recognized but couldn’t identify,

a pleasantly heady, moderately expensive one. “I

figured you might be wondering about my

connection to Dr. Battaglia.”

A cold squall blew through the center of

Dare, making his breath go shallow. “What?” he

whispered.

Jonah might not have heard, but it didn’t

matter. GG had returned. Dare didn’t have another

chance to be alone with Jonah Day and find out

why this unremarkable young man had awakened

the barely-sleeping dragon of Dare’s past.

Chapter Four

FUCKING great
.

Carver, Dare’s twenty-nine-year-old brother

and only sibling, was stretched out on the couch

with his iPad centered over his face.

In spite of the fact they barely tolerated each

other, this living arrangement was preferable to

sharing a cramped apartment with a near-stranger.

Besides, it was a great location. Dare occasionally

performed in Milwaukee and Chicago and other,

smaller cities in the area, and Waterford was

pretty much smack in the middle of the cluster.

He threw his keys on the hall table with

obvious vexation and more carefully set his

clarinet beneath it. “I thought you were going to an

art fair or something with whatshisname, the guy

who owns the gallery.” After pulling off his shoes,

he went into the living room.

“Mart.”

“Okay, art mart.”

Grudgingly, as if it were an imposition,

Carver sat up. “No. His
name
is Mart.” He

squinted at Dare. “What the hell are you wearing?”

“My band outfit.” Dare dropped into one of

the recliners and pulled off his tie. Jonah Day’s

business card, still buried in the shallows of his

pants pocket, gave his hip a gentle poke.
I will not

be ignored, pal.
The reminder further abraded his

mood. “I had it on when I left this morning. You

must’ve seen…. Oh, that’s right. You were still in

bed.” Dare pushed back and stared at his white-

socked feet, hands linked over his belly.

Carver continued to study him. His torso

seemed to be balanced on the tips of Dare’s toes.

“Didn’t it go well?”

“It went great.”

“So why do you seem so pissy?”

And

why

do
you
seem like such a

supercilious

dickhead?
Carver still hadn’t

explained why he hadn’t gone out.

Instead of answering, Dare closed his eyes.

His friends and coworkers generally thought it was

the coolest thing in the world to have a queer

sibling—theoretically, a confidant, cheerleader,

and comrade-in-arms all bundled into one

supportive package. But Carver Hamilton Boothe,

he of the MBA and macho manner and Spanish

Modern aesthetic (or whatever the hell it was),

had precious little in common with, or sympathy

for, guys who gave away their gayness as soon as

they opened their mouths or stepped into a

shopping mall.

Carver was about as straight as a homo could

be without engaging in hetero sex.

Thank God
, Dare thought at least once a

week,
he’d never set foot in the Sugar Bowl
.

“Well?” Carver said. “What’s the problem?”

Dare sighed. Carver, all too familiar with his

brother’s moods, would keep picking until he got

an answer. And maybe it would help to talk. “I met

someone, a guy about my age who takes his

grandmother out dancing every week. I guess he

recognized me, but I don’t know from where. He

wants to get together and talk about… something

having to do with Dr. Battaglia.”

“Your shrink?” Carver looked as baffled as

Dare felt.

“Former shrink. Maybe his, too, for all I

know. He didn’t have a chance to explain.”

“So are you going to meet up with him?”

“I don’t know.” Dare covered his face.

“Goddammit, why won’t that shit go away and stay

away?”

Carver rose from the sectional and slid his

iPad onto the coffee table. “Because it’s your lot.

It ’s
been
your lot ever since you invited the

attention of a pervert. And you should keep that in

mind while you’re doing whatever it is you do at

that club—”

A spring of rage snapped Dare forward and

up, making him nearly trip over the footrest.

Without a shred of reasonable thought he pitched

himself at his brother, pitched himself at Carver

the way he should’ve pitched himself at Howard

Pankin in that cluttered backroom echoing with

xylophone notes and sick desire and the slithering

rustle of soiled hands over smooth, clean skin.

“Hey,
hey
, settle down!” Carver grabbed his

wrists.

For a moment their locked arms pumped in all

directions, jointed braces in a mechanism run

amok. The word
invited
kept striking like a flint,

reigniting Dare’s fury. His jaw hurt from being

clenched. “You cold, ignorant—”

With a surge of gym-acquired strength,

Carver flung Dare onto the couch, sat on his legs,

and pinned down his arms. “Chill. Okay?” He

must’ve guessed a knee to the groin would’ve been

Dare’s next move; little brother didn’t have much

of a repertoire when it came to fighting. “I

misspoke. I’m sorry.”

“The fuck you are.” Dare bucked to throw

him off.

It wasn’t necessary. Still gathering his breath,