When she made an E chord and ticked the plectrum across the strings, the reverberation through the wood was magical. She sang ?You Are My Flower? and ?Jimmie Brown the Newsboy? and ?The Western Hobo.? But she could hardly concentrate on the words. Her gaze kept sweeping the crowd, the tables, the utility workers at the bar, a group of European bicyclists who came in sweaty and unshaved with backpacks hanging from their shoulders. Where was Pete? He was supposed to meet her at ten P.M., when the kitchen closed and she usually started cleaning tables and preparing to leave.
A man who was alone at a front table kept spinning his hat on his finger while he watched her sing; one side of his face was cut with a grin. He wore exaggerated hillbilly sideburns, cowboy boots, a print shirt that looked ironed on his tanned skin, jeans that were stretched to bursting on his thighs, and a big polished brass belt buckle with the Stars and Bars embossed on it. When she glanced at him, he gave her a wink.
Over the heads of the crowd, she saw Stub answer the phone. Then he replaced it in the cradle and said something to a drink waitress, who walked up to the bandstand and told Vikki, ?Pete said to tell you not to eat dinner, he?s going to the grocery to fix y?all something.?
?He?s going to the grocery at ten o?clock??
?They stay open till eleven. Count your blessings. My old man is watching rented porn at his mother?s house.?
Vikki laid her guitar in its case, fastened the clasps, and locked the case in the storage room. At closing time, Pete still had not shown up. She went to the bar and sat down, her feet hurting, her face stiff from smiling when she didn?t feel like it.
?Pretty fagged out?? a voice beside her said.
It was the cowboy with the Confederate belt buckle. He had not sat down but was standing close enough that she could smell the spearmint and chewing tobacco on his breath. He was holding his hat with both hands, straightening the brim, pushing a dent out of the crown, brushing a spot out of the felt. He put it on his head and took it back off, his attention focusing on Vikki. ?You off?? he said.
?Am I what??
?You need a ride? Every foot of wind out there has got three feet of sand in it.?
Stub compressed a small white towel in his palm and dropped it on the bar in front of the cowboy. ?Last call for alcohol,? he said.
?Include me out.?
?Good, because this is a family-type joint that closes early. Then Vikki helps me clean up. Then I walk her home.?
?Glad to hear it,? the cowboy said. He put a breath mint in his mouth and cracked it between his molars, grinning while he did it.
Stub watched him leave, then set a cup of coffee in front of Vikki. ?Those guys come back?? he asked.
?The ones who claim they?re with the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band??
?You don?t believe they?re the genuine article??
She was too tired to talk about it. She lifted her coffee cup, then replaced it in the saucer without drinking from it. ?I won?t be able to sleep,? she said.
?You want me to walk you home??
?I?m fine. Thanks for your help, Stub.?
He picked up a business card tucked under the register. ?I dug this one out of the box,? he said. He set it in front of her.
She picked it up and looked at the printing ac
ross the face. ?It says ?Nitty Gritty Dirt Band.??
?The guy wrote something on the back. I didn?t read it.?
She turned the card over in her palm. ?It says he loved my singing.?
?Who??
?Jeff Hanna. His name is right there.?
?Who?s Jeff Hanna??
?The guy who founded the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band.?
She walked back to the motel. The stars had come out, and in the west, the bottom of the sky was still lit with a glow that was like a flare burning inside a green vapor. But she could take no comfort in the beauty of the stars and late-summer light on a desert plain. Each time a car or truck passed her, she unconsciously moved away from the asphalt, averting her face, her eyes searching for a sidewalk that led to a building, a driveway to a house, a swale that fronted a filling station.