Slowly, looking over her shoulder, the girl retreated down the dim hallway.

“You got a pretty girl.”

Alma nodded.

“What’s her name?”

“Tawana Gayle. Call her Gayle.”

Doug sent a searching glance to her, looked away.

“What about you—you got a family?”

He shook his head, began to ask something, but had a mouthful of silence.

“Her father is gone and won’t be back. There’s a man I see sometimes.”

He nodded.

“You been in California?” A nod. “All this time?” Another nod. “You got a job?”

“I’ve been playing in bands, Alma.” He gave a little laugh. “What else have I ever done?”

“I couldn’t say what all you done since I ain’t seen your face in eleven years.”

He absorbed her scorn. “How about you?”

“How about me what?”

“How have you…been doing?”

“All you got to do is look around to see how I been doing.”

He responded with a tight-lipped expression.

“I’ve got by. They ain’t came and took nothing.”

“You haven’t changed.”

“I guess some things don’t show.”

“Alma, look…” She had her queenly look again, head high, nostrils angry, waiting. “I came here…” His voice faltered.

“Why did you come here?”

He couldn’t think of a way to answer. “You’ve got a right to hate me—I know that.”

“Hate? You come back here after eleven years talking about hate?”

“I’m just saying how it is.”

“You don’t know how nothing is. How you know what I feel?”

He raised his arms, let them fall.

She was crying, wiping her cheeks with her fingers.

“Alma…”

“Alma what? You eleven years too late!”

He let out a breath, wiped his palms, leaned back into the couch, let her cry.
Words struggled mutely within him. “Sometimes—the world feels like a bottle we’re in—and the sky just some cotton stuck in the top.”

“What we—the aspirin?”

“What they gone do with us?”

“They don’t tell you that.”

Alma sniffed loudly. “Maybe you a bug—I ain’t.”

“It’s just the way I feel sometimes.”

“Is that what you came back to tell me—that you feel like a bug?”

“No, Alma, it’s just talking. It’s just words—it doesn’t mean anything.”

“Like the way you ain’t called, you ain’t took the trouble to write, to let me know where you was, if you was alive or dead?”

“Alma…”

“I’ve had stray dogs come through my yard I treated better than that!”

“I can’t explain it.”

A soft rumble of thunder rolled across the sky.

A moment passed. “You like something to drink?”

“Yeah—if you got something.” He pulled himself forward.

“Just stay where you at—I’ll get it.”

She brought him some tea, and her own glass, and sat down again.

“You in a band now?”

“Well,” Doug sighed. “Yeah.”

“What that suppose to mean?”

He shrugged. “Maybe I’m not sure where it’s going.”

She observed him. A moment slipped by. “Why not?”

He sighed, considering his response. “Everybody’s real good. It’s good music.” He paused. “Kind of music you hear it, you say that’s good and that’s it. It’s a lot of work learning it.”

“I thought you enjoyed that.”

“I do. I don’t mean it like that. It—occupies your mind. It’s…” He shook his head. “I don’t know.” Pause. “Seems like lately it just left me.”

“What?”

“Whatever it is. It’s not the music. It’s me.”

“You what?”

“Just sitting there bored.”

She studied him. “Everybody get bored sometimes.”

“I don’t mean that. I’m talking about being sick of something. Like I’m just watching myself.”

Alma looked puzzled.

“I don’t know how to explain it.”

“I’m sure it will pass.”

“Probably will.”

A moment of silence. “How long you staying?”

He grimaced. “I don’t know.”

Alma observed him, waited.

“You remember Boyd? The guy that…”

“I remember Boyd.”

“I went to see him—matter of fact, he brought me over here.”
She listened.

“He said something about some studio work.” He made a face. “Old stuff. It’s…Glenroy is who it is.”

“Glenroy?”

He exhaled. “Yeah. I thought all that was dead and gone a long time ago.”

“What you mean, Glenroy?”

“Some studio stuff he did—put down a new rhythm track.”

She seemed amazed.

“The way he holds on to all that…” Doug shook his head. “Like going through somebody’s drawers, seeing what you find.” She watched him. “I listened to the record. It was better than I remembered. But it’s something that ain’t coming back again. None of it is. There won’t never be another one like him.”

“Even if that’s true, you still got the rest of your life to live.”

He smiled wanly.

“Maybe you have to be the one.”

He looked at her—for an instant their eyes touched—he blinked, looked away.

“You going to see your mother’s grave?”

He nodded.

“You know how to find it?”

“I went by the Johnsons…”

She looked at him. Thunder rumbled, closer.

A car pulled up at the curb.

“Where you staying?”

“I’ll figure something out.”

“You had anything to eat?”

He shook his head.

She stood up, leaned to see out the door.

“He gone take you out to Morningstar?”

He turned, looked out the window. “Yeah,” he said and got to his feet.

They stood there.

“I can fix you something. For when you get back. If you want it.”

“Alma—you’re too good for this earth.”

“Don’t say that. Don’t say that to me.”

He lowered his eyes.

“You hungry for anything in particular?”

Footsteps, then Boyd appeared at the door.

“Everything.”

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