“We have?” Bliss Overbay said.
“You’re an EMT, aren’t you? Out of the Cloud County station?”
“Yes,” Bliss said.
“I covered that train wreck last year, where it hit that truck full of people. I saw you there.”
“Ah. Yes, that was a bad one.”
It had been. A freight train plowed into a pickup truck carrying a load of Needsville people to a family picnic. Five people died at the scene, two later at the hospital, and only a toddler escaped unharmed. It had been one of those scenes that kept Don awake for weeks afterwards.
“You didn’t want me to take your picture,” Don continued. “That’s why I remember you.”
She nodded. “And you didn’t. I remember you now. Thank you.”
“This is getting kind of grim,” Andy pointed out. “What’s say Don comes up and plays with us a bit?”
“Sure,” Bliss said. “Do you know ‘Shady Grove’?”
He nodded.
Andy tapped Don’s guitar case. “Then skin that song iron and let’s throw down.”
Bliss looked at him. “‘Skin that song iron’?”
Andy shrugged. “One day I’ll invent a catchphrase, you just wait and see.”
They went onstage as an elderly lady clutching an autoharp said into the center stage microphone, “That’s going to be it for me tonight, folks. I’ll be turning things over to ol’ Charlie Ray Bowles, and believe me, I wish I didn’t have to.” Good-natured laughter followed this teasing. “Here’s the man himself, and y’all drive safely going home.”
A squat little man in an enormous cowboy hat lumbered onstage and over to the microphone. “How’s the wind tonight, folks?” he said, and there was some applause and cheering. “I figure we’ve had enough time for even the ladies to make it back from the facilities, so let’s welcome Bliss Overbay, Andy Silliphant, and—” He looked at Don and frowned. “—and their special guest?…”
“Don Swayback,” Don said as he put his guitar strap over his head.
“Don Stayback,” Bowles said, then did an exaggerated double take. “Man, that’s a weird name. You ever get any dates growing up?” He got a few more laughs than groans, which encouraged him. “I’d rather be called ‘Don C’mon Over Here,’ or ‘Don Let’s Be Friends.’”
“It’s Swayback, not Stayback,” Andy corrected. “Clean your ears with something other than your car keys, why don’t you?”
“Oh, Swayback. That’s a lot better.” The look he gave the crowd conveyed the opposite opinion. “Well, let’s welcome Mr. Swayback and his friends to our stage, why don’t we?”
As the Tufas applauded, Bliss strapped on her guitar, Andy tucked his fiddle under his chin, and the three of them stepped up to the microphone. Bliss led them off and sang the first verse:
Don had spent most of his musical life playing alone, in isolation, mastering chords he lacked the nerve to attempt before an audience. Yet suddenly here he was, strumming away on this obscure song he couldn’t even recall learning, although he definitely knew it. His fingers found the changes with ease.
His eye was drawn to a young woman who stood in one of the open side doors, dancing by herself in slow, swaying contrast to the elaborate contra dancing around her. She looked familiar somehow, as if he’d known her once, long ago in his youth. But that wasn’t possible, since she couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen now.
Suddenly he got chills as Bliss sang:
The lyric described the girl in the doorway precisely. She caught his eye and winked before turning away and fading into the night outside.
Don continued to play, but he felt disconnected, as if he’d somehow stepped into some parallel universe where songs came to life. Andy nudged him with a foot and nodded that they should join Bliss at the microphone for the final chorus.
Don was no shakes as a singer, let alone a harmony vocalist, but he somehow stayed on key as they finished the song. The applause was genuine and enthusiastic, and as it reached its crescendo Andy leaned close and said, “I bet you’re related to Benji Oswald, aren’t you?”
Too surprised to speak, Don just nodded. Andy laughed. And the whole purpose of this evening, to find Bronwyn Hyatt, was completely forgotten.
He had no idea how long he played. It seemed like hours, yet when he finally looked at his watch again, it was only ten thirty. The crowd had thinned a little, and he felt an inner certainty that it was time to leave. He said good-bye to the other musicians and put his guitar back in its case.
“Good show,” Andy said as they shook hands. “Hope to see you back.”
“Hope to be back,” Don agreed.
“You know, you’ve got more Tufa in you than you think.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Your great-grandmother was a First Daughter. That carries some weight.”
“In what way?”
Andy shrugged evasively. “We’ll talk more if you come back.”
“You said ‘if,’ not ‘when.’”
“That’s because it’s entirely your call, man. If you want to feel like you did onstage again, come on back next week. If it was too weird for you…” He trailed off with another shrug.
Bliss joined them. “What sort of nonsense is Andy telling you now?”
“He invited me back next week,” Don said.
“Well, shoot, that’s what I was about to do,” Bliss said. “You’ve got a nice sound.”
Don smiled. “Thanks.” He looked around at the departing crowd. “Listen I hate to ask this, but I don’t suppose either of you know Bronwyn Hyatt, do you?”
“Why?” Andy asked.
“To tell you the truth, she’s why I originally came here. Her father said I’d find her here, and I’m supposed to interview her for my newspaper if I want to keep my job. But…” He shrugged and smiled. “Guess I got carried away.”
“That’ll happen,” Andy said.
“I know Bronwyn,” Bliss said. “You just missed her tonight. She left about the same time you got here. I’ll mention you to her when I see her.”
“I appreciate that,” Don said. “But don’t put her on the spot or anything. She’s been through enough.”
Bliss cocked her head, as if this response pleasantly surprised her. “I’ll remember you said that.”
Still jovial, Don walked back to his car. He looked around for Shady Grove—no, he corrected himself, for the girl who’d reminded him of the song—but did not see her.
Don stopped his car at the end of the gravel road, looked both ways into the darkness, then pulled out onto the highway. The instant he did, bright headlights blinded him and a distinctive siren blared. He slammed on the brakes, stopped in the middle of the road, and held up his hand to block the light.
“You best put up both hands, boy,” a man’s voice said through a loudspeaker. Don recognized it, and did as instructed.
The headlights went out, and now he saw the flashing red and blue ones atop the state trooper car parked beside the intersection. Bob Pafford got out and switched on a flashlight, which he also shone right in Don’s face. He took his time approaching the car.
Don felt the kind of dread that comes only from anticipating not death, but pain. Pafford tapped the huge flashlight on the window. Don rolled it down.
“You’re parked in the middle of the road, boy,” Pafford said with belittling patience. “That’s a traffic hazard.”