They feel shaky now. Guess it’s a good thing I’m sitting.
“Sorry, Maggie.” He shakes his head against the pillow and winces like the movement hurts. His eyes are closed, and his eyelids look bruised. “Ruined your night.”
“Hush,” I tell him, giving in to the urge to run my fingers through his hair. “You didn’t ruin anything.”
He smiles faintly, as if the caress feels nice, and I notice how his hair is fine and cool near the ends, thick and warm near his scalp. I’ve always been fascinated by all the different colors. Some strands are dark, like amber. Some are light, like the sand down on the Cajun Riviera.
“How many of these did you take?” Luc is standing at the doorway, a glass of water in one hand and a prescription bottle in the other.
Cash says nothing, refusing to open his eyes.
“Dammit, Cash!” Luc stomps over and squats next to the mattress. “You tell me right here and now if we needa take you to the hospital to have your stomach pumped.”
The tip of an icy blade slices up my spine. “Oh sweet Lord.”
“No hospital,” Cash slurs. “Only took two.”
“Then washed ’em down with all that hooch,” Luc snarls.
“No hospital,” Cash says again, opening his eyes.
A red haze of pain clouds his vision as he and Luc engage in a silent argument. I can’t tell what secrets pass between them. Finally, Luc sets the bottle of pills aside so he can drag a weary hand over his face. His callused palm makes a raspysound against his beard stubble.
“Fine,” he agrees. “No hospital. But at least sit up and drink some water.”
“Roger that.” Cash manages a sloppy salute before pushing up on his elbow and downing half the contents of the glass. When he’s finished, he sets it on the floor and lets his head fall against the pillow. Then he closes his eyes and curls onto his side, shutting out the world.
“Go on home, Maggie May.” Luc is still crouched beside the mattress. He looks like a hulking gargoyle. In olden days, folks thought gargoyles warded off evil spirits. If ever there was anyone who needed someone to keep the darkness at bay, it’s Cash. And if ever there was someonecapableof keeping the darkness at bay, it’s Luc. “I got it from here,” he adds.
“I’ll stay too,” I tell him.
“Both of you…stay,” Cash mumbles, proving he hasn’t completely withdrawn from us. “Get your guitar, Luc. Play me ‘Sparkle and Shine.’”
My heart skips a beat. That’smysong.
“You think that’s wise, man?” Luc asks. “With your head—”
“Play.” Cash nudges Luc’s knee.
Luc sighs before standing to make his way outside. I figure I’m smashing the edge of the mattress and making Cash uncomfortable, so I get up and take a seat in one of the folding chairs.
When Luc returns from getting his guitar out of Smurf, he pulls the strap over his head and looks from me to Cash and back again. There’s uncertainty in his eyes.
“You sure about this?” he asks Cash as he drops into the empty chair and adjusts the guitar on his knee.
“Play,” Cash insists again. “Sing.”
The instant Luc begins picking that tender, wistful melody on his six-string, I’m thrown back in time. Steve Earle’sWashington Square Serenadealbum had just released when Luc and I met. I turned him on to J.K. Rowling. He turned me on to one of America’s great troubadours.
I think it was a fair exchange.
Leaning back, I listen as his deep baritone fills the air. His voice is as smooth as tupelo honey, and the expression on his face is one of love for the music and reverence for the simple poetry of the lyrics.
I wonder whatever happened to his dream of becoming a songwriter.
He used to tell me and Cash that his plan was to tend our bar during the day and at night write the kinds of songs they played on the radio. The kinds of songs that touched hearts and minds and became the soundtracks of people’s lives.
He never wanted to be a singer. Or so he claimed. “Don’t wanna perform onstage,” he would say. But he never hesitated to entertain me and Cash, and I think the real reason he didn’t want to perform was lack of confidence—thanks to those buttheads at Braxton Academy—more than lack of desire.
