Return to Oakpin(112)

            It was a minute later that Mr. Brand came back into the garage, saying, “I like a good storm—it’ll keep the traffic down.” Then he closed the door and he knelt on the floor where his son lay. “Jimmy,” he whispered. He felt for a pulse and then stood up. He didn’t know what to do with his arms, and he folded them. Then he knelt again and lifted his son into an embrace, and he sat on the floor that way against the bed.

            • • •

            Inside the Pronghorn, there was news. Bobby Peralta was at their table with a bulletin. “Craig, you guys are up next.” He stood with his hands on the back of Kathleen’s chair.

            “No we’re not, Bob. We’re after the break.” Craig tapped the nine ball in the ashtray and lifted his glass. “We need these good people drunk.”

            “The gang from Sheridan put their car into the fence a mile down the road, and they’re here but shaken up. Somebody’s sprained his wrist, and we’ve got a bruise on the drummer’s forehead you won’t even want to see, and so what about you guys stepping up?”

            “Are they okay?” Kathleen said, looking up at Bobby.

            Seeing her, he said, “Can you come see? They’re in the kitchen, and the drummer’s got this head.”

            “We are good to go,” Frank said. He stood up. “Gentlemen?”

            “Jimmy made a request,” Mason said. “Let’s go play.”

            They took a minute setting up, plugging in, and Craig adjusted the drums and ran a few rounds. When Larry took the Fender out, a few guys stood and came up to the stage to see the classic, and Mason wired up and went to each of his friends and said, “Plenty loud now. I cannot sing.”

            Bobby Peralta made the announcement, thanking this band from Oakpine, Life on Earth, and there was some applause and a call or two. “A garage band,” he added. Larry stood behind Mason on the right, and he could see Wendy at the front of the stage, but it was hard to see back very far under the stage lights, which was just fine with all the men. The drums and the bass rocked into “Help Me, Rhonda,” and in a minute it sounded just like a song, and they forgot themselves and pounded it out without reservation. Larry thought he could see people dancing, and when they stuck the ending, there was a wild clapping and periodic ya-hoos, which sounded strange and distant, and Mason walked to Frank and said, “Was that for us?”

            From his place in the drums, Craig said into his mike, “Our second song is dedicated to the other member of our band, Jimmy Brand, Oakpine High School class of 1970.” Again there was noise, some calling, and the band exchanged glances, and Larry thought, This is just unreal. How long have we been up here in this light? His father started the snare, and Frank nodded to the beat and then gave them aloud the one, two, three. The first word of the song “Let Him Run Wild,” was “When . . .” and Larry heard it and knew he had stepped forward and was singing with Frank. It was way too slow and quiet for this big room, but they didn’t care about that now. It was a song they knew, but when they’d practiced it, they’d all sung together, no one leading, and now they bogged down almost immediately waiting for each other. It was like they were just talking, talking in slow motion. It was very quiet in the room and impossible to tell if it was just falling flat.

            Then Larry saw Wendy’s face and knew it was falling flat. They stalled, and Frank cranked his hand, and the tempo ascended, but the singing was still slow and threatening to fail in each line. Then it did fail, or seemed like it failed: the end of the first verse, which was the part of the song Larry loved, should have had a snap, and it was dry as toast. Larry made a face at Wendy, motioned to her, and hauled her up with a hand onto the stage, and when Frank gave her the microphone, the song went crystal all the way to the back wall, and everybody heard the girl’s voice take an edge and then sing the old warning about what the boy would do to other girls, and the guitars focused at once, explosive and precise, and her voice rang. Larry loved the final verse, the wicked rhyme of “need him” and “freedom,” and they all crushed it together and threw themselves into the chorus urgently one more time. Frank steered them around to do the last verse again, and she followed perfectly. Craig brought it all in for a landing with the drums and in the flaring silence was able to say, “Thank you,” and was going to say it again when the crowd sound came again, the clapping, whistles, and cries in a sharp crescendo.