Thirty-Nine

When Mooney realized where our seats were—top row, upper balcony, on the aisle—he gave me a long look. “Thought you had a friend,” he said.

I scooted into the row, leaving him to follow. The other man, Mooney’s choice from DEA, a hawk-nosed, unsmiling type, sank into the aisle seat with a grunt.

The steep angle made our seats seem so high that I felt like I might need an oxygen mask, feared that if I fell, I’d slide straight down to the orchestra pit. But when the houselights dimmed, the movement and the music and the spotlights melded in a way they hadn’t from the fourth row. The stage looked like a jeweled miniature, the showpiece of a museum collection.

I glanced at my watch and hoped the dismal warm-up band—a two-girl, two-boy, no-harmony disaster—would keep to its allotted half hour. I doubted anyone would beg for an encore. I was right.

Dee entered to a roar like thunder, in her shimmery white tux, rhinestone earrings dangling to her shoulders. She muttered a brief thank you, tapped her high-heeled foot, yelled “six, seven, eight” over the crowd’s salute, and opened with “Steel Guitar.”

I closed my eyes and remembered how it felt to be part of the music. I play alone now. I never tried another group after Lorraine died, after Cal left. The only group thing I do now is volleyball, and when the game’s just right, when every player is in sync, when the ball floats over the net in sweet slow-motion, and you know just where you’re going to hit it, and just how the opposing player will respond, there’s a touch of the magic.

But volleyball’s a cheap trick compared to playing behind somebody like Dee, next to Cal, hearing your own sound join other sounds, become something better, something greater. I remembered moments of perfect silence at a song’s end, followed by the longing for one more verse, one more chorus, five more minutes of that close, aching harmony, soul to soul, like sex, like sorcery.

For an instant of pure hatred, I wished I could somehow prove that Dee had killed Lorraine. She’d have done it, if Lorraine had stood in her way. Not provided the pills, not urged the drink. But walked away, walked away from what might have been pure gesture, pure drama, on Lorraine’s part. I love you. If you leave me, I will kill myself. I swear I will. I could almost hear the words in Lorraine’s clear, soft voice.

I considered my years of guilt—over Lorraine, over Cal. I’d misunderstood Lorraine; I’d driven Cal away. That’s what I’d thought. But Dee had taken Lorraine. Dee had taken Cal. Taken everything she ever wanted.

She started to sing again, and the hatred faded like summer mist. Dee was right. I couldn’t tell the singer from the song.

I glanced at Mooney to see if Dee’s witchcraft had touched him. He was staring at his wristwatch, on the job. The DEA man on the aisle, I swear, was wearing earplugs.

Freddie on drums, Ron on lead guitar, the keyboard man, a new skinny bass, all faded into the background as Dee took hold of the audience and sang. I might have searched her face for signs of turmoil if I could have seen it without opera glasses. I was glad I didn’t have any. I knew what I’d see. The same look Cal had on his face when he played. Dee alone with her music.

The crowd was ecstatic—diehard fans, the old Boston bar crowd, welcoming their big-time star home. They gave her an ovation after every number. I tried to join in and found I could barely clap my hands together with a hollow echo.

She didn’t say anything between songs, just dropped her dark head until the music started up again, pumping new life into her, as if she were a doll, a puppet energized by the songs.

“There’s a train every day, leaving either way,” she sang. I wondered if she’d chosen her set for me, or for Davey. Most likely Jimmy Ranger had lined up the songs he considered the most solidly commercial. Anything else was sentimental crap, I reminded myself. Dee was an industry, not a simple country girl singing the blues.

She owned that stage; it was her real estate. She strutted and sang, danced when the music moved her. From the balcony, she was the most beautiful woman imaginable. She’d have to be, with that voice. Only during the applause did she let go of the illusion, and in between the seventh and eighth songs, after a muttered “thank you,” she said clearly, “This one’s for Davey.”

It was “For Tonight.” She’d been singing for forty-five minutes. I elbowed Mooney. It was time for us to go.