I tumble in through the front door. Barbara and Dr Rahn Johnson are not sleeping in.
“Starla, did you walk home?”
“Your car! Fuck. I left it.” I slap my hand over my mouth before I swear again. If I swear, she’ll swear louder and meaner. Barbara begins to ream me out. Each time the word “fuck” comes out of her mouth it’s more muffled. She never cares about swearing, except when a date is over. Dr Rahn Johnson dashes into the kitchen, smiling and waving.
“I’ll drive you to your car, dear,” says Rahn.
Dear, I think. Play it cool, Rahn, or she’ll show you the exit so fast … Barbara notices the “dear” too. She leans away from him as she accepts the ride, her round hip resting on the counter top.
“When I was a new doctor,” he continues, “I worked the overnights, like new doctors do. And I’d leave the hospital so tired, I probably would have left my own head behind if it wasn’t attached to my shoulders.”
Barbara is faux composed. She’s not listening to Rahn, I can tell. She’s mitigating her pending blow-up at me.
“Shoulder bone connected to the neck bone. Neck bone connected to the head bone,” Rahn sings, tapping the kitchen counter top. This gets Barbara’s attention.
“Fats Waller, ‘Dem Dry Bones,’” Barbara says, snapping her fingers.
“Impressive,” says Rahn. “Try this: ‘Dinah, is there anyone finer, in the state of Carolina.’”
“‘Every night, why do I shake and fright … right!’” squeals Barbara. “The Delta Rhythm Boys? The Mills Brothers? Am I right? Whose song is it? Tell me.”
“The Mills Brothers.”
“I knew it!”
“I don’t want to set the world on fire.” Rahn takes up my mother’s hand. His croon is sweet, like he’s sung his way into women’s hearts before. She allows him to pull her close. The two of them bleed through their amorous silhouettes. Barbara’s frosted blonde hair fuzzes into a halo. The whole room seems to be floating, actually.
“I just want to set a flame in your heart,” I say. “I just want to set a flame in your heart. I just want to set a flame …”
“Your daughter knows The Ink Spots!” Rahn shakes his head in disbelief. “What teenager knows early doo-wop bands?”
“Ha! Starla knows too much,” Barbara gloats. “She hears something once and she’ll remember it for the rest of her life. Real brainiac, my daughter. She thinks herself crazy.”
“I’m not a teenager.”
“They might have played right here in Crystal Beach,” Rahn says.
“Probably. Along with Jelly Roll Morton. Cecil Gant. Roy ‘Little Jazz’ Eldridge. You name it.”
“I didn’t know you were such a jazz aficionado, Barbara.”
“Not bad for a white lady, huh?”
“Not bad for your age,” Rahn corrects her. “Those bands are more than a bit before your time.”
“Local librarian, here. I can name every big band that played Crystal Beach. You should see the record collection we’ve got. Original twelve-inch vinyl just sitting in the stacks. It’s up to me to play them. No one bothers to sign them out anymore.” “We’ll sign them out.” Rahn kisses her cheek. “We’ll have an old-fashioned date night listening to records.” “I just want to start a flame in your heart. I just want to start a flame,” I echo. Barbara and Rahn glance at me with identical “get lost” looks.
“Give me the keys, Starla. And go to bed. You’re delirious.”