They could now hear a thumping from the house that resolved itself into a muffled drumbeat, the slow rhythm of a song. “‘Help me, Rhonda,’” Jimmy Brand said. “He’s got the drum kit out.”
“Let’s face it,” Larry said, “my father is a drummer. He is drumming night and day. He hasn’t drummed since I was a kid, and now this fall he shows his true colors. The hardware store has been some kind of twenty-year cover-up.” He took Jimmy Brand’s arm, but Jimmy stood and walked easily toward the house. “That is a great song,” Jimmy said. “But as long as I’ve lived and as far as I’ve traveled, I’ve never met a woman named Rhonda.”
“We’ve got one in my class,” Larry said.
“Well, talk to her for me,” Jimmy said. He was happy. “Look at me walk. This party has started.”
The house was rich with the smell of a savory roast and the promised early turkey and something nutty and laden with butter; the air was loaded. Larry did have to help Jimmy up the stairs, and Jimmy measured each one. Halfway up, Jimmy could feel each step double and then double again. It was as if he were giving blood. At the top he stood in the bright kitchen, every counter full of dishes and carafes, and his eyes clouded in a way that made it seem simple just to fall back down. He was gone for a moment, unable to speak, the breath he needed badly only seeping in. Marci came suddenly to him as he started to fall, wiping her hands on her apron, but Larry caught him, and then with a sweeping lift he was in the overstuffed chair in the den, the fire in the grate another hallucination. He heard his name and felt Kathleen’s hand on his forehead; he knew her hand. He knew to gather a big breath and hold it for three seconds. Then quietly, he came back.
“Hello,” he said. “I wanted an entrance.”
“And some ice water,” Marci said, handing him a blue wineglass full of cold water. She kissed his cheek. “I’m so glad you could come up. Is this going to be too much?”
“No, not now. We’re here. I can tell there’s a turkey in the late stages of being roasted somewhere in this house, and your mushrooms sautéing in butter and garlic have revived me. And the music!” The drumming had continued, not always steadily, and now Jimmy could hear two men singing with it. From time to time a guitar rushed in, quit, rushed in.
“Craig!” Marci called. “Let it rest, dear. Jimmy’s here.”
“Send him in,” Mason called. “We need that electric guitar.” There was a flurry of drumming and a cymbal clash closer, and the two men, Craig and Mason, ambled in from the back, each with a drink, and greeted Jimmy, taking his hand. “Larry, my boy,” Craig said, “there’s a hole the size of your ten-year-old foot in my snare drum. What do you say to that?”
“That’s no problem for duct tape,” the young man said. He was spreading a cracker with cheese. “Plus: seven years ago? I think I’m innocent by now.”
“You can get your innocence back?” Kathleen said to him.
“Oh yes, ma’am. I’ve read about it.”
“Show me those books,” she laughed. She had a glass of wine and settled onto the huge shaggy couch. The coffee table was the scarred walnut top of the stationmaster’s desk from the old depot, and it was spread with glass dishes of olives and pickles and cheese on toothpicks and two open bottles of wine.
Mason sat down next to Kathleen. “What you’ve got with a drum set lying around the house is a classic case of the attractive nuisance. A ten-year-old is required to kick a hole in at least one of the drums. It’s like gravity. It is unstoppable. I’m surprised he didn’t jump in with both feet.”
“Mason,” Jimmy said, and reached to take Mason’s hand.