Twelve Stories

Rusty Barnes

Celia loved Murray like Mama loved Daddy in an old country song, hey hey good lookin’, like thunder paired with lightning in a sweet ballad of rain. She smiled through the times when he and his woman-crazy band mates poured beer down the necks and breasts of hapless coeds in porn-flick jeans and sheer blouses, just smiled. She knew at the end of the night he would come home with her and they would kick open the door to the bedroom and he would make it all right, better than all right, the way he always did. She meant to live life in the best way she knew how, which was Friday night dressing up and getting down, a denim miniskirt, hose and cowboy boots and sloe gin fizzes, and her man playing gigs in bars for poor money and fun.

Last night, at the Pig ‘N Whistle on Route 15, she sat at the bar as usual after temping at the security firm—the only place that had consistent work—waiting for his band, Stir Crazy, to break. The music was supposed to be classic rock and country covers for the forty-something crowd, which Murray secretly made fun of, but the lead singer and guitarist, Rick, had started sneaking in his crummy power-chord originals recently, and the sad thing was no one but Celia seemed to care. The women in the crowd raised their tubby arms in salute anyway, and went crazy when Rick swiveled his hips and made rock-star faces at them. She wanted them all to die horrible deaths, especially when one flashed her boobs at Murray, who smirked until he looked over at her where she sat waiting for him. The woman had to be thirty-five, at least. She was a bottle-blonde in a sneaky, well-done way, with furtive, tiny eyes that looked at Murray as if to measure the size of his wallet.

Murray rested his hand on the small of Celia’s back at the break, drank his water while she smoked her last cigarette. “God. So many Zeppelin. Pink fricking Floyd and Toby Keith and Bob Seger.”

“Who is that woman?” Celia wished she’d caught more of Murray’s gigs lately. She’d been so busy with work and too tired to go out.

“I mean, what is Rick thinking? That’s Jackie—Rick’s mother-in-law, if you can believe it.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Man. If I have to play Black Dog one more time I’m going to puke.” His fingers moved against her spine as if he were still playing, but his eyes were everywhere in the room at once.

“She must be a slut,” Celia said. “To do that.” Celia snapped a look over her shoulder again, put her hand protectively down the back of Murray’s jeans pocket. Jackie was ordering a drink, waving a ten in the bartender’s face, her shirt so loose Celia could see the side of her breast as she raised her arm.

“She likes to have a good time, I guess.” Murray winked.

Celia moved for her cigarette and tipped over her beer bottle into the ashtray, but Murray caught it and set it upright before much had spilled. She could see the foam dripping down his hand and onto his cowboy boots. The sides were caked with polish. She’d never seen him polish those boots.

“She’s one of our biggest supporters. She paid Rick five-hundred bucks for us to play her cousin’s wedding last week. You know how often that happens?”

“You want to tell me something?”

He stuck his hands in his pockets and stared past her. “I don’t have anything to admit to you.”

Celia wanted to feel rage, but the way Murray stood there rocking back and forth on his boot heels made her want to just pull him to her and hold on.

“I have to finish the set, Celia.” Murray left her standing at the bar and walked backstage. Celia threw her empty pack of cigarettes at him, watched as it struck him in the back of the leg, but he didn’t look back until he picked up his guitar, and then his eyes roamed the crowd. She watched for Jackie, for more boob-flashing and for what Murray would do, but he kept his eyes down and hair in his face, fingers plunking, his foot tapping. She couldn’t find Jackie in the crowd.

When she went home halfway through the set, she felt certain he would be home when the gig was done. They would talk this out. She poured herself a Jack and Coke, and poked at the power button on his practice amplifier. It crackled as it kicked on, and she pulled at the biggest string on the Fender fretless. Celia watched the string vibrate until it stopped. She meant to sit up and wait for him, but her head was too drink-heavy for the things she wanted to say. She unplugged the guitar and took it with her to bed, laid it beside her on top of the comforter. She would wake when he took it from the bed to make room for himself. They would talk about boob-flashing Jackie and he would slip himself behind her and wrap his arm between her breasts and breathe his cigarette breath into her neck. It would be better than fine.

When she woke, one hand searching, she didn’t immediately wonder. Then her eyes adjusted and she swung her legs over the side of the bed. She saw the depressed spot in the carpet where his amp had been, the Fender fretless bass, the open closet, the missing duffel. She walked naked into the living room, where all his things were packed by the front door.

Murray slept on the sofa in his clothes, one hand tucked up under the pillow. She shook him awake, roughly. “What the fuck are you doing leaving me?”

His eyes focused and became soft. “I didn’t want to disturb you. We’re playing three sets in Toledo, at seven.”

“You liar.” Celia wanted to believe him.

“Call the place when it’s open. Fucking call them.” His eyes traveled down her breasts, and she was suddenly aware of herself. She went into the bedroom for a robe and came back, prepared to ask him about Jackie.

“Okay,” Celia said, her voice cracking.

He sat on the couch, a Coke in his hand, big solid Murray whom she loved, his bass-player hands tracing the bumps of her spine. “Don’t you trust me?”

Early-morning stars gleamed outside the window and something, lightning maybe, flickered in the distance. Celia wished for certain knowledge, for Jackie to break a leg or die suddenly of a wasting disease. She wished for a revelation about her life with Murray. I saw the light.

“Yes,” she said, and trembled as she smiled.

_______________

Rusty Barnes is the editor and cofounder of Night Train and maintains a blogazine as well, called Fried Chicken and Coffee. His work has appeared in many places, most recently Barn Owl Review, Post Road and Red Rock Review.