She was not wrong.
“Does he come here every week?” she said.
On the screen, the irate guy turned up and down the street, scouring the scene for someone to take his case. A big guy in a long, fluttering black coat and one of those flat caps pulled low came along as thoughhe meant to come into the pub, but then veered, tense-shouldered, avoiding the stir the other guy was making in protest.
“That crybaby lost us a customer,” I said.
A few minutes later, Kyler rolled his empty cart back into the scene for more abuse. The guy on the street was still squabbling and gesturing while Kyler went about returning the cart to the back of the truck, jumping down, closing up, and pulling away.
The guy turned out not to be in such a hurry, after all. He had a little time to complain to anyone who happened by. When he finally ran out of steam and people to draw into his drama, he got into his car and peeled out of the spot.
McPhee’s door swung open, closed, open. Time passed. There was Primary Jim, going out for a smoke or whatever he did when he took the daily break from his busy schedule of weighing down the bar.
Next to me, Sicily fidgeted with the fringe at the end of her scarf, over and over threading the strings through her fingers. Over andover. I barely resisted the urge to slap at her to make her stop. Out in the hallway, one of the dogs collapsed heavily to the floor and sighed.
“How is this finding my mom?” Sicily said, pulling out her cell to thumb at it. “It’s boring.”
I found it fascinating, but whatever. Kids.
Oh, but here I came on the video, walking back from the missed bus stop, hauling my garbage over my shoulder. Cold in my leather jacket, sliding in my boots. Like an amateur music video, missing the music. And the budget.
Sicily leaned forward. “That’s you.”
“Sure is.”
“Are you taking out the trash?”
I hit fast-forward through the part where I fell on my butt. Marisa hadn’t come into the pub by the front door, anyway. She’d come in through the back, with me. But she would havedepartedby the front.
“A lot of people drinking on a weeknight,” Sicily mumbled as folks on the video Charlie Chaplined in and out of the bar.
“My band was playing.”
The kid’s eyes slid back to the poster.
Checking the date?
“You’re still—”
“Yep.” I pumped up the fast-forward to double-time.
“She came to see your show?”
I didn’t need to ask who the kid meant or mentionshehadn’t stayed for the second set. WhyhadMarisa come? To tell me something, but she’d never managed it. To ask me something, but I hadn’t let her.
“She probably wanted to hear you sing,” Sicily said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe.”
People came and went. That trashy white truck with the bum tire pulled into the alley, and the homeless guy with the grocery cart rolled out, quickly. Then here I came, from the alley, this time. With the dogs. Or it was fair to say the dogs came out, with me, an accessory barely holding on. There was Bern, the manager, ducking to the corner with a cigarette, almost out of view at the alley.
I was aware of Sicily’s breath next to me. This… person. She wasreal. What a trip. Wait until I told Joey—
Sicily looked over at me. “What?”
I must have made a noise. “Nothing,” I said.
On the screen, the street grew dark. The streetlights popped on, hot spots in the shadowy grays of the video. Cars parked along the street, unparked. Pedestrians passed, taking a look into the pub.
