“They’re going to be good, Dad,” Matt said, finishing his meal, placing his plate on the counter.
“And you’re off to Lady Kathleen’s?” his father said.
“Yes, sir. I’ll be back when my homework’s done.”
“Will Mrs. Pullman be home?” Louise Brand asked her son. She asked him every night.
“She will, Mom.”
“He’s got homework, Mother,” Edgar spoke to his wife. He looked at his son. “And he remembers to honor the family name.”
“Whatever that means,” she said.
“It’s as close as we’re getting to the birds and the bees, Mother,” Matt said to her. “And it’s close enough. You’ve raised a good boy who minds his manners.” He went to the door. “And does his trigonometry with his girlfriend. I’ll see you in a while. After the Beatles have eaten.”
When he left, she put her husband’s dinner on the table, a steak and baked potato with a steaming slab of butternut squash. They didn’t speak because they didn’t need to. She hummed a little. A moment later he might say, “Trigonometry,” and they’d smile, two people. The spirited periodic cacophony would close down for the night in fifteen minutes, and the boys, Frank, Mason, Craig, and Jimmy, would stumble into the house for the dinner she’d prepared.
These nights were the very center of her life. Her kitchen brimmed with these boys, how they could fit, all talking, reaching for the platters of food, assembling three-story burgers and buttering the squash. There was an ongoing wrangle about which songs to learn, and it was a real debate because none of the four had any clear favorite; this was all new to them. Jimmy loved Buddy Holly but was open and ready to hear more. They were lined up on the mainstream, some Beatles and the Beach Boys, a few songs, and the Rolling Stones. They were divided about whether to try some Kingston Trio; Mason liked them but knew it was too slow and years old. They trashed bubblegum and the conversation grew loud, Craig mocking “Yummy Yummy Yummy,” and then they joked further, laughing and singing parts of “White Rabbit,” which was not anywhere near their style. “We grow our hair long like Al Price and take drugs!” Frank called. “We change our name to Wyoming Acid Trip.”
“You won’t get the right girls with that move,” Mason said. “Shawnee Despain will go out with you right now and save us the time of learning any music.”
“‘Shawnee’ would be a good title for a song.”
“Not really, she’s attainable. But she is cute.”
“Watch your language at the table.”
“Sorry, but I have it from a good source that she’s been attained.”
“I’m not in it for the girls,” Frank said, and he was hooted down. Craig whined a few lines of “Big Girls Don’t Cry,” and there was an appreciation of the Four Seasons, but it wasn’t their style. After they’d spun through a dozen bands and twenty songs, Jimmy brought them back to the Beach Boys, where there were ten songs they wanted.
“‘Let Him Run Wild,’” Jimmy said. “It’s made for us. It’s got all the stuff.” The table was an empty ruin now, the serving trays decimated, the last roll pulled from the basket. Craig started a rhythmic bom bom bom, the four-four beat of “Let Him Run Wild,” and the boys waited and picked it up, humming and tapping the song, the table rocking faintly as they built and focused. Mason sang the lyric, and Jimmy came along in harmony. Craig rapped his fingertips on the edge of the table, and Frank mouthed the bass line. Louise Brand turned from where she’d cut the pumpkin pie and watched them, how serious they were about the fun they were having.