Return to Oakpin(115)

            “What they will say about Jimmy,” Mason said to the old man, now seeing that the red and blue tie was an old union   tie, AFL-CIO, a tie from 1953 or 54, when foremen wore ties to work on Mondays, “was that he had leverage. And his work will last. He was clear and fair as a reviewer of all of the arts, and his own writing will last.”

            “I know it,” Mr. Brand said. He said the three words, and Mason saw the older man’s eyes flush with tears. Now Mason put his hand on Edgar Brand’s upper arm. After a moment Edgar said, “I’m good, Mason. Thank you for your remarks.”

            The old world phrase made Mason smile.

            “I’m glad you’re here, back in town. Now, get some food.”

            “I’ll find it, I’m sure.”

            The sofa and every chair in the living room were full of an older generation, friends of the Brands, and a face or two was familiar to Mason. Craig and Marci were in the kitchen doorway talking to Mrs. Brand, the story of the snowy day at the bar in Gillette coming out in episodes. “We got rushed, a little because one band drove off the road.”

            “Before that,” Marci said, “the girls’ band knocked everybody flat. They were heartbreakers.”

            “Women?” Mrs. Brand said. “The whole band?”

            “Exactly,” Craig said. “They were good. They’d probably studied music in school.”

            “It doesn’t seem fair, does it, dear?” Marci said to her husband.

            “Then we played, two complete songs, and we didn’t stop, and we didn’t fall down, and I was feeling pretty good about that. I mean it,” Craig said. “Jimmy would have been proud.”

            Mrs. Brand’s face was rosy in the warm room, braced and smiling. She reached for her husband’s sleeve and pulled him over.

            “So then,” Craig went on, “some characters from Lander . . .”

            “Wearing red suspenders and yellow shirts . . .” Mason added.

            “About half the bands had costumes.” Frank had come up. “Mrs. Brand, I’m already into the zucchini brownies, and they are prizewinners.” He held up his last bite and then spoke, chewing. “What we should have done is got some sequined outfits, something. We looked too normal.”

            “That’s stretching it,” Mason told him.

            The group shifted as neighbors and friends slipped into the kitchen, where Mrs. Brand’s table brimmed with steaming dishes and two sliced hams.

            “Get a plate, Mason,” Mrs. Brand told him. Kathleen was back and hugged Mrs. Brand. “This place smells wonderful,” she told her.

            “But suspenders were just the start.” Craig handed Marci his glass and held his hands before him, as if to level the conversation to new seriousness. “They set up and strummed a little intro, like bing, a bing-bing, and then, are you ready for this?”

            “Finish the story, big boy,” Marci nudged him.

            “Mrs. Brand, and this is the truth before these witnesses: two kids bounce onto the stage . . .”

            “Suspenders, shirts . . .” Frank added.

            “Little kids, like ten years old,” Craig said.

            “They were seven, tops,” Frank said. “Here.” He handed Mason a bottle of his new lager.

            “One of these kids runs around and climbs into the big drum kit, and you couldn’t even see him, just the sticks waving up there.”