Xylophone (10 page)

clip-on, Daren.”

“Just make sure it’s straight, will you?”

“What’d you do? Sprain your hand while you

were beating off last night? I heard you groaning.

Must’ve been a good one.”

“I couldn’t’ve beat off if I’d been using Brent

Corrigan’s hand.” Dare figured he must’ve been

groaning in dismay or frustration as he flipped

from side to side and thought about Jonah. Carver,

of course, being the coat tree he was, wouldn’t be

able to distinguish one kind of groan from another

if they all crawled up his ass with descriptions of

themselves.

After fixing Dare’s tie, the coat tree futzed

with his bathrobe, looking down at himself as he

smoothed his hands from lapels to sash. Carver did

that sort of thing a lot, as if checking his physique

to make sure his workouts were yielding results.

“What’s wrong?” he asked. “Is it that guy you

started seeing?”

“Yes, if you must know.” Peevishly, Dare

adjusted the waistband of his red pants—a lot less

fun than stroking oneself through a layer of velour.

“It isn’t that I
must
know. Actually, I’d rather

have a cup of coffee than find out.”

“Then go fucking get one,” Dare snapped.

Jesus. Why couldn’t he once, just once, confide in

his brother without encountering indifference or

snide remarks or a condescending lecture?

Instead of proceeding toward the kitchen,

Carver kept studying Dare, then sank into the

nearest chair. “What’s going on between the two of

you? I thought you only got together to exchange

notes about therapy or something.”

He actually seemed interested, but Dare was

still leery of his brother’s motives. “We’ve been

exchanging more than notes. And I
don’t
mean

bodily fluids. But maybe we want to. That’s the

problem. Or rather, I don’t want it to become a

problem.”

Carver gave him a blank stare. “What the hell

are you talking about?”

“I don’t want us to be attracted to each

other!”

The stare gave way to a puzzled blink.

“Why?”

“Because…
you
know!”

“No, I don’t.” Now Carver stared at him as if

he, Dare, were deranged. “Are you talking about

some taboo I’m not aware of? Is there, like, a rule

in the Universal Victims’ Handbook that says if

you’ve ever been groped by a perv, you can’t

touch anyone else who’s ever been groped by a

perv?”

“There is no Universal Victims’ Handbook,

Carver.” Dare didn’t realize what an utterly idiotic

statement that was until it had fallen from his

mouth. He
did
realize he wasn’t too sharp today.

“Then what’s the problem? You’re consenting

adults.”

Sighing, Dare put his hands on his hips. The

ill-fitting red pants slipped an inch. “Fuck if I

know.”

Carver got up. “That’s the most sensible thing

you’ve said all morning.”

THREE bands were playing at the Birches, a

supper club with an attached hall. Maybe Jonah

and GG wouldn’t make it today; maybe this was

farther than they were used to traveling for their

dance outings.

Dare could only hope… even though he still

hadn’t come up with an adequate answer to

Carver’s looming question:
“Why?”

His mouthpiece clattered to the floor as he

tried to swivel it onto the cork-sheathed neck of

the clarinet. “Shit.” He scooped it up, checked the

reed for any damage, and worked the mouthpiece

into place.

Today they had to do their preparations in a

storage room behind the hall. It was stuffed with

folding banquet tables, stacked chairs, and a

shelving unit brimming with tablecloths, vases, and

decorations. The Polka Doodles were on first. Bob

had persuaded the second band, whose name Dare

had already forgotten, not to start bringing in their

equipment until the Doodles started playing.

Cluster-fuck prevention, Dare assumed.

Max, Junior, and Ernie were setting things up

on stage.

Bob sauntered over, Lucille hanging on him

like a gaudy piece of armor. “Something bothering

you today?”

“Nothing I can’t handle.”

“Just don’t get your fingers confused.”

“Don’t worry.” Dare smiled. “I’m a

professional.”

At least Bob didn’t sneer at that, just uttered a

single
ha
. “Oh, by the way, I want to talk to you

after our set about a duet idea I have.”

Junior stuck his head into the room. “You

guys ready?”

They were on.

Dare didn’t have time to think once they

started playing, and not thinking was, for him, often

a good thing. He didn’t even make a point of

scanning the audience. Then GG danced past the

low stage. Dare’s eyes sprang in her direction as if

they’d been programmed.

Jonah wasn’t her partner. Instead, a tall,

elegant, older man with silver waves of hair

smiled into her face as he led her around the floor.

Now Dare did scan the audience, but only for

a few seconds. He didn’t want to start obsessing

again. Besides, he told himself, the place was too

crowded to spot anyone, and a visual search

would only be distracting.

GG danced with the same man through every

song. Unless Jonah was serving as their chauffeur

or chaperon, which Dare highly doubted, he wasn’t

there. Maybe he’d never show up at a Polka

Doodles performance again.

Even when the set ended, Dare didn’t have

time to think. He had to hustle their equipment off

the stage so the next band could set up.

“Did GG find a boyfriend or something?” he

asked Bob as soon as they were alone at the van.

“She

didn’t
just
find him,” Bob said.

“They’ve known each other for years, but he lives

out of state. Can’t get here too often.” He went

around to the open side-door and shoved some

stuff around. “But I think he’s in the process of

moving. They’re getting married pretty soon. ’Bout

time Hal made an honest woman out of her.”

“No shit?”

“No shit, Sherman.” Bob joined Dare at the

back of the van and leaned toward him. “And get

this. She told Rosie she’s been having the kid take

her out dancing so she can ‘stay in shape’.”

“That

makes

sense.

Dancing’s

good

exercise.” Rose was Bob’s wife; Dare knew that

much. What he didn’t grasp was the reason for

Bob’s lowered voice and suggestive look.

Bob frowned at him. “Christ, you really

aren’t
all here today.” He held his upturned fists at

hip level and executed a few maladroit thrusts.

Dare nearly snorted his tonsils through his

nose. He fell against the door, snickering until his

abs began to ache and his eyes filled with tears.

“Don’t ever do that again, man. I beg you.”

Sheepishly, Bob grinned. “Hey, if you

weren’t so friggin’ dense, I wouldn’t’ve had to do

it in the first place.”

“She’s really that… active?”

Bob turned up his eyes and shook his head.

“The woman’s sixty-eight, not ninety-eight.

Jesus….”

Dare still had trouble wrapping his twenty-

six-year-old mind around it.

“Oh, hey, let’s park our asses for a minute

and discuss my idea. You want something to drink?

I’ll get a pitcher and bring it out to one of those

picnic tables. It’s too loud inside.”

Grateful for the diversion, Dare headed

toward a small, barebones pavilion with a

corrugated tin roof. He didn’t want to go home and

start brooding about never seeing Jonah again,

regardless of the fact he had no reason to brood.

Since last night, he hadn’t
wanted
to see Jonah

again.

Before he had a chance to give that

contradiction much thought, Bob trundled in his

direction with a pitcher of beer and two plastic

cups.

“Okay,” Bob said, setting down their

refreshment. He expertly poured a cupful for each

of them. “Here’s what I got in mind.” As he sat

across from Dare, the picnic table tilted under his

weight like a teeter-totter.

Dare steadied both sloshing cups. “Damn,

Bob, maybe
you
should take up dancing to slim

down. You nearly launched me into next week.”

“Shut up, smartass.” Bob took a long swallow

of brew, voiced a satisfied
ahhh
, and wiped the

foam from his upper lip. “Now, how about we put

a glock and clarinet duet in our program? I listened

to these old hand-crank street organs playing the

‘Clarinet Polka’ on YouTube, and that’s what got

me thinking,
Hell yeah, me and the kid could do

that!
” Enthusiasm made him lean forward. “We

could either play the whole thing together—it’s

only about two minutes long—or go back and forth

like we do on ‘Fascination’.”

Dare felt sick. “I… I don’t think I can.”

Bob leaned back, as if the words had given

him a shove. “Why? I know the tempo’s a little

fast, but I’m sure you can keep up.” He chuckled.

“Prob’ly better than I can. So if we divvied up the

sections like we do for—”

“You don’t understand.” Elbow on table,

Dare anxiously rubbed his forehead—back and

forth, back and forth, mindlessly—until Bob

reached over and grabbed his wrist.

“Hey. What’s up?” He was serious now, no

kidding around.

“I can’t play a duet with the glock. I can’t. It

reminds me of…. When I was a kid, there was a

xylophone at this resale shop.” The ugly story

came spilling out.

Again, Dare withheld the sordid details. But

he made it fairly clear why the sounds produced by

that family of instruments were anathema to him,

why they made him quake with revulsion as cold

sweat beaded on his skin.

Bob listened, stunned, arm upraised and hand

curled over his mouth. “Oh my God,” he

whispered.

“Don’t ask me any questions. I don’t want to

get into it. Let’s just leave it at that.”

“Are you aware that JoJo…?”

“Yes. That’s kind of why we’ve been seeing

each other. To talk about it. How do
you
know

about Jonah?”

“Through GG, of course. She told Rosie what

was up—just in general terms, though—when the

kid came to live with her. I guess his worthless

mother pretty much washed her hands of him.” Bob

heaved a big sigh. “Jesus. First JoJo and then

Max’s niece and now you.”

“Max’s niece?” The reference tugged Dare

away from his personal swamp. He appreciated

the distance.

“A neighbor she was babysitting for tried

pulling something one night. But she’s a tough little

cookie, so she ran from the house and told her

parents. Chester the Molester was in jail by the

next morning. Seems he’d been in trouble for that

sort of crap before.” Bob took a swig of beer.

“Bastard was lucky. If the cops hadn’t got him,

Max and his brother sure as shit would have.”

“I’m glad Max didn’t have a chance to do

anything stupid,” Dare said. “It would’ve sucked if

he’d ruined his life over some scumbag.”

Bob nodded. He lapsed into troubled silence,

his thick fingers sliding over the plastic cup. When

he spoke again, he seemed to address his beer.

“Y’know, when I was growing up I heard

mutterings about monkeyshines like that. So-and-

so’s old man is a little too friendly. Coach X ogles

boys in the shower room. This or that family’s

foster kid was yanked from their home on the QT.”

Bob shuddered. “Gave me the creeps, even though

I didn’t really understand what was going on.”

“Did you ever want to understand?”

“Kind of, but mostly not. I was a kid and kids

are nosy, especially about grownups’ secrets. But I

was scared, too. I remember asking my ma what

happened to Margie, the foster child, ’cause we

were friends. My ma about had a conniption.” Bob

screwed up his face and chopped out a rather

shrewish imitation of his mother’s voice. “‘That

ain’t none of our business! She’s gone now, so you

just forget about her and keep your trap shut!’”

A corner of Dare’s mouth lifted. “I take it