“No, we’re up in a band or two,” Mason said. “Sit down.”
“Is Larry here?”
“He’s out there somewhere.” Mason pointed at the mob. “But he’ll return.”
“Jimmy gave me this note,” the girl said, and handed the folded paper to Mason.
The Moonlight Gamblers were perfect with the song, and the sixty couples on the dance floor moved imperceptibly in a fluid shuffle to the extended apology. Craig held Marci close. Everyone was being held close. She craned her neck for a while and then gave it up, her son out there somewhere with a woman. Her face was on Craig’s shoulder. “We haven’t danced in ten years,” he said. “Twenty.”
“It’s like a joke,” she said, holding him. Her mind was afloat, and it was a pleasure and a pain. It was as if she could feel the snow falling all over Wyoming and on into South Dakota, where they had gone once on a trip when Larry was a baby, taking a picture of him with the four stone presidents. This snow would be covering them now and on the ground until May, June in the hills, and she felt it falling, keeping them all in this strange room. She was weary of walking the tightrope, and she could feel it in her arms and chest, the wasted energy.
“You’re a good dancer, Craig,” she said.
“Are you going to be okay?” he said.
The question went through her as if someone had opened a door on the storm, and she put her teeth in her lip to stop the tears. What she did then was drop his hand and put her arms up around his neck while they made little steps and the singer sang and her eyes were closed.
Again, the Moonlight Gamblers got a long and steady applause and calls for an encore, and Wendy stood and waited at the edge of the dance floor and found Larry as he escorted his partner back to her table. The young woman had a good hold of his arm.
“Hey,” she said.
“Hey,” he smiled, and turned to her. “You came. I’ll be right back.”
She watched him walk the young woman to her table and wrestle her chair free so she could sit with her friends.
When he came to her, she said, “Your ribs must be healed.”
“I’m good,” he said. “Where’s Wade?”
“Get real,” she said happily. “He’s not interested in music.”
“I should get real,” he said. “But how does one do that? How far from here is it? Is grinning part of it? I’m glad to see you.” He wanted to grab her up and twirl her around, and he shook his head and held the grin.
“What is it?” she said.
“Nothing,” he said. “Let’s get you a coke.” He led her to the bank of folks waiting at the bar, and they were squeezed together for a moment, pushed, and they were laughing, and finally she said, “Let’s just go back and find your folks. I’m good. You can owe me a coke.”
By the time they rejoined the others and found an extra chair, the next band was set. The lights went down and came up on four women in white shirts with string ties, one with long brown hair and a fiddle, and after the calling from the audience had subsided, the lead singer, her dark hair parted right down the middle, opened “Desperado,” with a pure note that held the room still, and it remained still. “Whoa,” said Larry, and Wendy pulled his arm to her and whispered in his ear: “Hey, let her sing. You’re with someone.”
“What?” he said loudly. “What did you say?” The table looked at him, interrupting the song. He stood and pulled Wendy with him to the side of the room under three mounted antelope heads. “I’m serious,” he said in her ear. “What did you say?”