“It’s sounding pretty good, but let’s try it again.” Lulu says.
“Sounding good? I’m missing half of the chords, or more,” I say.
“You really think I’m nailing all the accidentals?” Lulu says of her singing.
Sofía sits patiently, silently, with her clarinet, studying the music: Webern’s “Drei Leider fur Gesang, Es-Klarinette, und Gitarre,” or “Three Songs for Voice, Eb Clarinet, and Guitar.”
Lulu is one of three students who have been invited to open the Evergreen Jazz Band concert next Tuesday night, and we’re trying to see if we can pull together this Webern piece. I’ve been working on it diligently for the last two weeks, but I don’t see how I’ll be able to perfect it in time for the concert, if ever. At first, the guitar part was just impossible to read. In the original manuscript there are jumps between clefs in almost every measure, so I had to rewrite it and then create tablature so I could remember the chord shapes. The chords themselves are not that weird—three- and four-note voicings in fourths that sound nice and jazzy by themselves. But they jump around so much—there’s no key center, and the timing is nearly random—that the part is impossible to memorize.
I look at Sofía. “What do you think? How are you doing?”
“Better than you, probably,” she says with a smile. “I mean, I’m transposing on the fly, since this is written for Eb clarinet, but I probably got more than two thirds of the notes right. You may have noticed that I added a few squawks that weren’t in the music. I hope that’s OK?”
“Your squawks might cover up some of my clams,” I say. “Do you really think this is worth doing, Lulu?”
“I don’t know. Maybe not. But do you seriously think anyone is going to be able to tell the difference between what we just played and what’s written in the score?”
“Mr. Harmon, maybe?” I say.
“Only if he has the music in front of him, which he won’t. Let’s try it again, and don’t worry if you miss some notes, just keep going as best you can.”
We try it again, our fourth attempt today, and when we finish, Sofía and I have a hard time keeping a straight face. I look away from her widening grin, but after a tiny snort escapes from my clenched jaw, we all erupt in fits of laughter.
“If we decide to play it on Tuesday, we’ll have to keep from laughing,” Lulu says. “You could simplify your part, Lucas. We’re getting together again on Monday, right? Can you work on it this weekend?”
“I’m not sure it’ll help, but yeah, I’ll try.”
“OK, let’s try this other thing we talked about it, and maybe come back to the Webern before we split.”
“You didn’t say anything about another piece,” Sofía says. “Is this something you two are doing by yourselves?”
“What do you think?” Lulu asks me. “Can we find something for Sofía to play?”
“Maybe,” I say, “So, what this is . . . I had this idea of playing a couple of fiddle tunes with my guitar retuned according to rules of chance—just rolls of the dice, really.”
“That’s er, intriguing,” Sofía says, raising an eyebrow. “So, what does Lulu do? And what would I do?”
“You could roll the dice?”
“Boring,” Lulu says. “What if we figure out your tuning now, Lucas, or on Monday. If we spend a bunch of time onstage rolling dice and retuning your guitar, people will get annoyed . . . and bored.”
“We could do that now. Figure out the tuning. We could still use dice in the moment to, I don’t know, decide the tempo?”
“But what is Lulu playing?” Sofía asks again.
“We were going to figure that out today.”
“I was thinking I could play chords on the accordion, but . . .”
“Like randomly generated chance chords?” I say, interrupting her.
“Let me finish,” she says, frowning.
“Sorry.”
“What if you write out the chords to whatever tune you’re playing on a large piece of sheet music, and then we have an audience member drip paint on the music, blotting out some of the changes so I won’t know what I’m supposed to play and will either have to improvise or stop playing or something.”
“Brilliant,” I say.
“I could be the one dripping the paint,” Sofía says.
“Would the paint dripping happen while we’re playing or before?” I ask.
“If Sofía does it while you’re retuning your guitar, we could give her some musical thing to do, too. Maybe we should try the retuning scheme now, and see what it sounds like. Then we can think about what we might add.”
“So, how are you going to generate a tuning from a roll of the dice?” Sofía asks me.
“I came up with a system that should work. We do six rolls of two dice, one for each guitar string. The first roll selects the string number, and the second determines how the strings are retuned. For odd numbers, if the second roll is a one, I tune down one half step; if it’s a three, I tune down two half steps; and if it’s a five, I tune down three half steps. For all the even numbers, I’ll tune the string up a half step, since the string tension makes it difficult to tune up much farther than that.”
“What happens if there are duplicate numbers,” Sofía asks, “Like, what if the first die is always a four? Do you keep retuning the same string?”
“I think I take whatever the first roll is.”
“So, not all the strings would get retuned, necessarily.”
“I don’t know.”
“Let’s try it,” Lulu says.
I dig the dice out of my backpack. The first roll is one and six, so I tune my first string up a half step to F. The second roll is six and five, so I tune the sixth string down three half steps to Db. The next roll is five and three, so the fifth string gets tuned down two half steps to G. The fourth roll is five and two, so I do nothing, since I’ve already retuned my fifth string, and the fifth roll is six and six, so, once again, no retuning. The final roll is three and two, so I tune my third string up a half step to Ab. The complete tuning is Db G D Ab B F. A strum through all the strings produces a dissonant mess.
“That’s kind of brilliant, actually,” Lulu says. “You’ve got two major triads a tritone apart: G and Db.”
“And the two bottom strings are each a minor ninth below the third and fourth strings,” Sofía says. “Weird.”
I start playing the fiddle tune “Blackberry Blossom,” fingering the strings the way I would if I were in standard tuning. It produces a jagged string of eighth notes that almost makes sense, in a sort of polytonal modern jazz way.
“That’s wacky,” Sofía says.
“I like it,” Lulu says.
“Let me try the B part.”
The second part is simpler, starting with an arpeggio through open strings followed by two quarter notes. This one-measure phrase is repeated three times, answered by a different phrase each time, with a typical fiddle tune ending. The original arpeggio is E minor, but it’s now an E7b9, making the part more conventional, but with all tension, no resolution.
“The first part is cooler,” Lulu says. “Less predictable. Do you like that tuning? Should we try another? Or is there another tune you want to try?”
“I was going to try ‘Soldier’s Joy’.”
I play through the fiddle tune in the new tuning; it’s another long, jagged string of eighth notes, which I play with key-of-C fingering.
“I like the first tune better,” Lulu says. “This one just sounds like a bunch of goofy guitar licks. You should try another tuning, though, just for kicks.”
We run through another round of dice throwing, but the tuning that results isn’t nearly as interesting: the top three strings are each tuned up a half step and the bottom three left untouched.
“Maybe it’s better not to rely on the roll of the dice in the moment,” Lulu says. “We could end up with a boring tuning. Why don’t we just use the first one.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “I’ll write out a chord chart for you.”
“Got any paint?” Sofía asks with a smile.
“No, but um . . . what can we use instead?”
“Do you have any change in your pockets?” Lulu asks me.
“Some. Why?”
“Drop whatever change you have on the page and it’ll cover up some things. That might work.”
After writing the chords out on a sheet of notebook paper, I fish a handful of coins out of my pocket and drop them onto the chart, which I’ve placed in the middle of the small table we’re perched around. Some of the coins skitter away and roll off the table onto the ground, but most remain on the table. Unfortunately, they haven’t covered up any of the chord names.
“Uh, yeah, that’s not going to work,” Lulu says. “Maybe I should just play the normal chords, since your part is so weird now.”
After tuning my guitar back to the first chance tuning, Lulu and I play through “Blackberry Blossom” a couple of times. It sounds cool, but it gets more monotonous the more the phrases repeat, and after a second time through the tune, the jagged melody has become predictable and annoying. The first time you hear it, it sounds cool and goofy, discordant and surprising, but after a while, with no variation, it becomes tiresome. The problem is the lack of rhythmic variety: a long string of unaccented eighth notes accompanied by Lulu’s oompah accordion.
“It needs something,” Lulu says.
“Sustained notes?” Sofía suggests. “It’s all tick-a-tick-a-tick-a.”
“Can we come up with a clarinet part? Lulu asks. “What if . . . ?” She starts to say something but freezes, her eyes moving around the room, as if searching for an idea written on the walls. “Give me a minute.”
I start to noodle on the guitar in the weird tuning while Lulu is thinking, but she turns her head to me, perturbed.
“OK, what if, after one time through the tune, Sofía, you play some sort of pop song melody on the clarinet, like maybe whatever you heard on the radio just before you left for the concert?”
“That would bring the chance thing back,” I say, “which was the whole idea in the first place. We wouldn’t know what tune she was going to play.”
“Or we could know beforehand, but it would still be determined by chance. Do you have a radio, Sofía?”
“Yeah, my roommates listen to KAOS all the time. Drives me crazy.”
“Perfect. So, you turn on KAOS before you leave for the concert, and whatever is on, you play that.”
“KAOS is probably the last place you would go to listen to pop songs,” I say.
“True, but I can find an AM station or something, if KAOS is doing its usual freeform thing,” Sofía says.
“Could we try something now?” Lulu asks. “Anything you’ve heard on the radio lately?”
“Oh, jeez, I’m not exactly a pop music person,” Sofía says. “Maybe this isn’t such a great idea.”
“What if . . . I have a Gershwin songbook with me,” I say. “You could open that to a random page and play whatever is there.”
“That would be easier,” she says. I fish the songbook out of my backpack and hand it to her. She lets it fall open on the table. The song “But Not for Me” stares up at us.
“I don’t know this one,” Sofía says.
“It’s perfect,” I say. “I mean, if we’re looking for a pop song. It’s got a beautiful simple melody.”
“Should I play it in the key it’s written in? Or transpose?” she asks. “It’s in Eb, so it’ll sound in Db on my clarinet.”
“We’re in G. Well, I am. Lucas’s guitar part isn’t really in any key,” Lulu says. “But G and Db, those are the two triads in the tuning. Let’s try it.”
“There’s a pickup of three quarter notes, and the fiddle tune starts on the downbeat, right?” Sofía says. “Should I come in right at the top?”
“Maybe play it rubato,” Lulu says. “Come in wherever it feels right.”
We play “Blackberry Blossom” once through with Sofía’s clarinet floating sedately above the jagged guitar lines and wheezing chords on the accordion, which Lulu has somehow made sound out of tune. It’s not predictable anymore, sounding like what you might hear standing in a hallway with practice rooms on each side.
“That’s better,” Lulu says, “But, uh, let me think.”
I don’t really know what she’s going for. My idea was to use John Cage’s chance music techniques to create music based on fiddle tunes, or rather on the physical act of playing a fiddle tune on the guitar. If we’re using chance techniques, then whatever happens, whether it’s boring or chaotic, disturbing or placid, shouldn’t matter. But Lulu is using the dice and chance techniques to inspire arrangement ideas, and is judging the success of each one by how they sound. I have no idea what criteria she’s using, but I defer to her, since it’s her spot on the show.
“What if the clarinet comes in the second time through the tune?” she says to Sofía, “and the third time, I’ll try singing the lyrics, or some of the lyrics.”
“Should we phrase the melody together?” Sofía asks. “I’ve been ignoring the beat. I’m not sure how we would sync up.”
“I’ll follow you . . . or not. I don’t know.”
“Can we try it from where Sofía comes in?” I ask.
“Let’s do it from the beginning to see how it flows,” Lulu says.
When Lulu comes in with the first line, “They’re writing songs of love, but not for me,” she pitches her voice at the top of her range, an octave higher than Sofía’s clarinet. The sound is startling, but it strikes me as funny, and I flub a few notes as I try to keep from laughing. When Lulu sings the next line, she drops her voice to the bottom of her range, delivering “a lucky star’s above, but not for me” with a croaking, froggy rasp. Sofía laughs and has to stop, but Lulu continues undaunted. Singing has taken her attention away from the accordion, and her chording is erratic, which makes the whole thing even more disjointed, and kind of charming. It also takes the focus off my guitar part, which is good.
“Well, that’s a sound,” I say when we finish.
“I think we’re onto something,” Lulu says. I envy her confidence. She’s able to guide the piece based on something she’s hearing in her head, but also happy to leave some things to chance.
“So, the intention was for me to play a song chosen randomly,” Sofía says. “Should I stick with ‘But Not for Me’ or pick a song at random on Tuesday night?”
“I don’t know. I guess just do whatever you want,” Lulu says. “If you start playing a different song, I’ll figure something out.”
“So, what do you think about the Webern?” I ask as Lulu pulls out of the campus parking lot. “Can we pull it off?” The three of us are headed to Willowberry, Lulu and I for a potluck dinner, Sofía for a rehearsal with Alma, who also has a slot at the Tuesday-night concert. We’re stuffed onto the bench seat of Lulu’s beat-up pickup truck, Sofía in the middle, my guitar wedged between my legs.
“What do you mean by ‘pull it off’?” Lulu asks.
“Well, I know I won’t be able to play the guitar part, and you both said you weren’t exactly nailing your parts. Is there any point in doing it if we don’t have at least some chance of playing it right?”
“But what does ‘playing it right’ mean?” Lulu asks. I don’t know how to respond to this, though the question might have been rhetorical.
“From the normal point of view, it’s important to play the music as written, if you can,” Lulu continues. “Especially if anyone who knows the piece is listening. But who’s familiar with Webern’s Opus 18? Anyone you know?”
“Of course not.”
“I’m sure Webern intended his pieces to be approached like any other serious composition, but I don’t see why you have to. There’s a violin part in one of Charles Ives’s orchestral pieces that’s supposed to be so difficult that nobody can play it. But Ives apparently said that what he was after was the sound of a string section trying to play the part.”
“So, you’re saying that’s what we should do with the Webern? That trying to play it is the same as playing it right?”
“Not the same, but yes, the aural effect could be the same.”
“I’m not sure I agree,” Sofía says.
“What I’m saying is that we could get the same general sound Webern wanted even if we’re not playing it as written. We have a recording, right? We know what it’s supposed to sound like. If we try to grok the overall vibe, and tape ourselves playing it, we’ll be able to hear if it’s similar.”
“I guess we could give it a try,” Sofía says.
“I’ll bring my tape recorder on Monday,” Lulu says. “If we don’t like it, then we won’t play it on Tuesday. Maybe I’ll sing something by myself with the accordion. I’ve been working on a version of ‘D’Oreste d’Ajace.”
“Huh?” I say.
“You know, Mozart? Idomeneo?”
“Sorry, I don’t meneo,” I say, to which Sofía responds by nudging me a little too hard in the ribs.
“Is everyone vegetarian?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Charlie says. “Though not always voluntarily.”
“We don’t cook meat at Willowberry,” says Alma. “So, if you want to eat meat, you have to go out.”
“Brown Derby, here we come,” Charlie says, laughing.
After filling my plate from the large platters on the kitchen table I find a seat on the davenport in the living room and drain a tall glass of fresh apple juice. Sid’s short woodchopping lesson before dinner has left me hot and sweaty.
We arrived in time for Sofía to run through the songs she’s playing with Alma on Tuesday: “Was That the Human Thing to Do?” and “Shout, Sister, Shout,” a couple of swing-era vocal trios with Alma singing the melody and Jenny and Angelica harmonizing. Andrew and Gabe are playing guitar and bass in the makeshift band and they stay for dinner, along with Sid and Charlie and a few people I don’t know. Jenny joins me on the couch, and Alma, Angelica, and Gabe find places to sit nearby.
“Do you eat dinner like this every Friday night?” I ask Jenny, between forkfuls of garlicky green beans. I’ve been here a couple of times since the Dylan show, but mostly for rehearsals with Angelica’s band. The intervening month has been busy. In addition to schoolwork and rehearsals with Lulu and Angelica, I’ve been getting together regularly with Sally and Walt, sometimes playing fiddle and sometimes guitar. I also have three weekly guitar students who keep me busy between lessons learning whatever they want me to teach them.
Jenny and I often have lunch on campus during the week and she’s been a regular at the Sunday night square dances, but we’ve yet to spend another night together. The weather has been awful, and my lack of transportation and busy schedule makes it difficult to get back and forth from Willowberry to school when I need to. Jenny has been eager to hang out whenever we can, but she’s offered no direct invitation for an overnight stay until now.
“No, but it seemed like a good idea, since everyone was going to be here,” Jenny says. “We invited a few more people, too. They should be here later.”
“You brought your guitar, right?” Alma asks me.
“I did.” I assume I’ll be spending the night with Jenny, so I tucked a change of underwear and socks in my guitar case, along with a book I’m reading for book group. Jenny hadn’t specifically said anything about sleeping together when she invited me to dinner, but she did ask if there was anywhere I needed to be Saturday morning. I have nothing planned other than reading and practicing, which I can do anywhere, so if the weather keeps me here, I’ll be fine—better than fine.
“Great,” Alma says. “Glinda and Dieter are coming. You know, from Quantum Repair?”
“Cool. I don’t know them,” I say. “But I certainly know who they are.”
“That’s where we met,” Jenny says, shifting her body closer to mine. “At the concert on the first day of school.” She smiles, as if Glinda and Dieter are somehow significant to us.
The jam takes place in the living room. Dieter and Glinda, along with a couple of other people, showed up soon after we finished eating. There’s an upright piano against one wall, and Gabe has brought his bass in from the barn. With a glut of guitars—me, Andrew, Glinda, and another guy I don’t know, Ethan, who plays decent rhythm but not much else—we run through a handful of old country and bluegrass songs. Dieter is playing mandolin, and after a lull, Glinda suggests he play an instrumental. He looks around at the group and says, “Does anyone know any fiddle tunes?” I suggest “Salt Creek,” and he responds by launching right into the melody, without waiting to see if anyone else knows it. Glinda jumps in on rhythm, and Gabe and I follow. I struggle with the tempo when it’s my turn to play the melody, but manage to make it through the tune without embarrassing myself. Andrew also takes a solo, though he doesn’t know the melody; he just improvises on the pentatonic scale, with a few blues licks thrown in. We take the tune around the circle a couple of times, Dieter improvising fluidly on the melody his second time through, and after Andrew’s second solo, Dieter tells me to play the melody, to which he adds a harmony, bringing the tune to an end. Afterward, amid the post-song prattle, he turns to me and says, “nice job.”
A little later, during a lull between songs, Dieter asks if I play any other fiddle tunes. I suggest “Soldier’s Joy,” and he kicks the tune off at a more comfortable tempo. Afterward, he says to me, “That’s Clarence’s version, right?”
“Clarence White? Yeah, I think so. A friend showed it to me.”
“Nice. Do you have that Kentucky Colonels tape that’s going around? Bradley probably made you a copy.”
“Uh, no. Kentucky Colonels?”
“Yeah. Clarence’s bluegrass band. Their records are hard to find, but there are some live tapes floating around. You should ask Bradley about it.” (Bradley is Mr. Emerson.)
“I will. The only tape I have of Clarence is from the Muleskinner show.”
“That’s a good one. You’ve seen the video?”
“Just when it was on TV last year.”
“We’ve got a copy up at school. You should come by and watch it some time.” Dieter, it turns out, is employed by Evergreen, part-time in the recording studio and part-time in the computer lab.
“There he goes again, indoctrinating these poor kids into the Gospel of Clarence,” Glinda says, smiling.
“Better than some other gospels I know,” Dieter says.
The repertoire soon moves away from bluegrass. After Ethan sings “Teach Your Children,” Glinda, Alma, and Jenny suggest various Neil Young and Joni Mitchell songs. I know few of them, and begin to lose interest. I have trouble following the chord changes to “Old Man” (Ethan has moved to the piano and doesn’t seem to know the chords either, but that doesn’t stop him from pounding away insistently), so I shake my head “no” when Glinda nods at me to take a solo.
Jenny asks Glinda if she’ll sing one of her original songs, “Over the Mountain,” and I take the opportunity to use the bathroom. When I return, I settle into an empty spot on the sofa, leaving my guitar in its case. When Glinda finishes her song, Jenny comes over and perches on the arm of the couch next to me, looping her arm around my shoulders, pulling me close, and resting her head atop mine.
“Are you tired?” she asks.
“A little.”
She stands up and, without saying anything, walks toward the door that leads upstairs. As she opens it, she turns and smiles at me. I understand that I am to follow her, and after taking some dirty dishes into the kitchen, I do. There are five rooms on the second floor, two at each end of a long hallway and three along the side, one of which is a bathroom. The only other open door is behind me, so I turn and walk back to the room at the end of the hallway, where I find Jenny perched on the edge of the bed. The room is cozy, though a little chilly, and homey, as if Jenny has lived here for years, although I know she just moved in a couple of months ago. An Indian bedspread hangs from the middle of the room, pinned at each corner to the ceiling, muting the light from the center light fixture. The top of a large chest of drawers is covered with painted wooden boxes, unlit candles, jewelry, small jars, and half-used incense sticks. Clothes are strewn over the half-open closet door and a chair that sits in front of a small desk covered with books, framed photos, notebooks, and a couple of old coffee mugs filled with pencils and pens. The sweet smell of vanilla and cinnamon emanates from the desktop.
“I was afraid you weren’t going to come up.”
“I took some dishes into the kitchen.”
“Cleaning up after yourself. You’re sweet.”
I sit next to her on the double bed. She turns toward me and kisses me tenderly on the lips, moving a hand onto my leg. Her lips are warm and soft, and the kiss is long, wet, and debilitating. She strokes my leg and I move my hand to her stomach, slipping it under her worn denim shirt. My hand rises slowly up her tummy, and I discover that she’s not wearing a bra. As my hand surrounds one of her full, round breasts, her nipple stiffens. She pulls away, gets up from the bed, and walks to the door, closing it quietly.
“Are you cold?” she asks.
“A bit.” The house is damp and drafty; the heat from the living-room wood stove doesn’t reach Jenny’s bedroom. She unzips her jeans, dropping them to the floor where she stands, and walks back to the bed, pulling back the covers—a thick wool blanket and an old, frayed quilt. I stand up and remove my jeans. She gets into bed still wearing her shirt, panties, and socks, and I follow her example, climbing into the opposite side of the bed wearing underwear, wool socks, a t-shirt, and a long-sleeve flannel shirt. She reaches for my shirt buttons as I get into bed, and unbuttons the top one. I help her, and soon she’s lifting my flannel shirt over my head, and with it, my t-shirt. She slides down under the covers and as I do the same, she lowers her mouth to my chest, gently biting a nipple and sliding her hand beneath my shorts. She starts stroking me vigorously. At first, my senses are overwhelmed, but both actions soon become painful. The rapid movement of her dry hand makes me sore; I’m in no danger of a precoital accident.
“Not yet,” I whisper, pulling her hand away from my groin. I unbutton her shirt and kiss her again. She returns the kiss with more force than I expect, and when I free her breast, I lower my mouth to it. She arches her back and moans, and I move to the other breast, sliding my hand down her stomach and beneath her underwear. When my hand moves over her thick, curly hair, she pulls me on top of her, opening her legs and pushing her hips up to meet me. She rocks up and down slowly, the thin cotton of her underwear moving against mine. I reach underneath her and, as she lifts herself off the bed, I slide her underwear down her legs. She does the same to me, sliding her hands over my butt. There’s nothing separating us now, and after she wriggles her underwear down and off her legs, we move together with more insistence. She moves her hand down between our hips and, although I’m not wearing a condom, she pushes me inside her, emitting a quick, sharp cry and then a sob and a guttural moan that sounds more like an expression of pain than pleasure. I kiss her face and taste salty tears on her cheeks. I roll off, saying, “I’m sorry, I should get a condom.” I start to get up from the bed, but she continues crying quietly.
“No, no, it’s OK.” She says.
Clearly it’s not OK, so I stay on the bed and move back toward her, leaning on my elbow next to her, waiting. She cries to herself for a minute, her head tucked against her shoulder, one hand over her eyes. Then she turns her back to me and curls her legs up to her chest. She stops crying and the room is still, nearly silent. The wind rattling through a damaged window—like faint echoes of foolish words—is the only sound I hear.
A muffled laugh from downstairs breaks the stillness. I touch her shoulder and say, “Jenny? Darlin’, are you OK? We don’t have to . . .” She chokes on a sob and then rolls over to face me, her hands crossed over her bare breasts.
“I’m sorry, it’s my fault. It’s not you. I want to, I just . . . I’m sorry.” She looks up at me as if she’s about to tell me something unbearably sad, but says nothing. There are tears in her eyes, and her cheeks are red and inflamed, as if from a rash.
“I want you to . . .” she starts.
“What?”
She moves her hand down my stomach, grabbing me roughly, but gentler than before. She lowers her mouth and takes me in, moving slowly until I’m close to coming. As I start, she moves her mouth away and takes me in her hand until I twist and shudder against her. When I’m done, she slips out of bed, awkwardly pulling on a robe hanging from the closet door, and leaves the room.
I lie stunned. I don’t know what just happened. Was I too rough? Did I accelerate things too quickly? I should have had a condom ready. But I was surprised that we got so far, so fast. And she was the one who had . . . The last part was nice, but . . . Why do I feel so bad?
She comes back into the room, closing the door behind her. She walks to the bed, but something has changed. It’s like I’m not here. She takes a clean pair of underwear and t-shirt from the chest of drawers, drops her robe to the floor, dons the clean clothes, and slips back into bed before finally looking at me.
“Are you OK?” she asks. A well of sadness sits heavily behind her eyes. I wish she would tell me what it is, but she’s distant now. If there was a moment when she might have explained what just happened, it has passed.
“I’m fine. I’m sorry I made you cry. I . . . are you OK?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry, sweetie. I just . . . Sometimes I just get overwhelmed . . . I don’t know.”
“Have I done something wrong?”
“No, no. But . . . you know, Ezra left, and before that, there was the thing with Tracy, and I . . . I just don’t know what I’m doing sometimes. It just gets so hard to care so much . . . and I get all . . . ”
She doesn’t finish the thought.
“What happened with you and Tracy?”
“Oh, not now. I’ll tell you, but not now. Let’s just . . .”
“Do you want me to go?”
“No, no, of course not. I want you to stay. I want you to spend the night, hold me, keep me warm.”
“I can do that.” She smiles for the first time since . . .
I lift my arm and she moves beneath it, resting her head on my chest. Her breathing slows and we lie in silence for a few minutes. Then she says, “Are your parents still together?”
“No. I mean, my parents split up when I was six, but my dad and stepmom are together. Why?”
“Do you like her? Your stepmom?”
“Yeah, more or less. More now that I don’t live at home. I was so ready to get out of there all last year that I was probably a jerk most of the time, to everybody. I just didn’t want to be there anymore. My mom can be kind of strict, especially when she gets busy with work, but she has to put up with my dad. That ain’t easy.”
“Why?”
“He’s got a temper and he yells a lot, sometimes completely out of the blue. You never know what will set him off. She gives as good as she gets, but . . . well, they can really go at it.”
“That must be tough for you.”
“I guess. I don’t know. Aren’t all parents like that?”
“Mmm.”
“What about you?”
“My parents split up when I was ten. You know I grew up in Moscow, Idaho, right?”
“I do now.”
“My mom’s still there, in Moscow, but my dad moved to Seattle after they split. I’d visit him in the summer, go live with him for a month or two. That’s why Alma and I are so close. I spent more time at her house than his on those trips.”
“Did your mom ever remarry?”
“Yeah.” I can feel her heart beating faster and stronger against my chest. She doesn’t say anything for a while.
“My stepdad is a jerk, a heavy drinker and a ladies’ man, or so he fancies himself. He’s a dean at the university in Moscow. He doesn’t live with my mom anymore, though technically they’re still married. I think he and my mom were having an affair and my real dad found out about it. My stepdad started coming around soon after my dad left.”
We hear the downstairs door open, the music momentarily louder, and footsteps ascend the stairs. Then a quiet knock on the door.
“Lucas?” It’s Angelica. Jenny laughs quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Sorry to bother you, but Lulu is driving back to campus. Do you want a ride?”
I look at Jenny and she shakes her head.
“No, I’m going to stay here. Thanks for checking.”
“Of course. See ya.”
“Bye, Angelica,” Jenny says.
“Bye, sweetie,” Angelica says, laughing. “You treat my friend right, now, you hear?”
“I will.”
“Oh, I know you will. I’ll see you Sunday.” We hear Angelica giggle to herself as she goes back down the stairs.
Jenny snuggles into my shoulder and says, with a smile, “You called me ‘darlin’.”