Сара Пинскер - A Song for a New Day

April and JD shook their heads as well, telling me it was my decision. I had no logic in me; the only picture in my head was that one tiny shoe in the rubble. What was I supposed to do with that image? I couldn’t weep over a number, but I could weep over a shoe if I let myself. A shoe could wash me away if I didn’t have something else to do, something else to think about.

I wanted to play, but I didn’t want to force them. “Somebody say something. You’ve never held back opinions before.”

JD studied the posters on the walls. “Who are we to keep the staff here if they want to get home to their families? Or to put them at risk if there’s a legitimate threat? Let’s call it off.”

“I think enough of them would be willing to stay,” Silva said. “And I’ve been here all day. I don’t think there’s a big risk.”

“We walked right in,” April pointed out.

“Nobody else did.”

“Would your bosses be pissed off if you paid to keep staff here and nobody came? Nobody bought drinks?” Hewitt had been a bartender.

Silva scratched his head. “I think it’d be okay. The thing is, if we hold the show, I’m not sure the people who stayed home as instructed would get their refunds. I guess we can work something out, under the circumstances. I suppose people are as safe here as anywhere.”

“Was that an opinion? Do you want us to play?” I tried to read him, but gave up. “I don’t know you well enough to tell.”

“Not an opinion. Sorry. This is all you.”

I tried another tack. “How many staff do you need to keep here to hold the show, knowing a lot of ticket holders won’t show? Could you let the ones who are scared to stay go home?”

He thought a moment. “We wouldn’t want to lessen security. Other than that, we can get by with one person at the box office, one bartender. If you don’t mind the lights and monitors staying static, I can let most of my crew go home.”

“So you’d be willing to stay yourself?”

“I’m here. I’d stay. And since it sounds like you’re leaning that way, I’ll say I always prefer having a show to explaining to a bunch of angry people that they shouldn’t have come.”

“Okay. We’ll play. I want to play.” Saying it made it even more true. I surveyed my bandmates for affirmation I’d made the right choice. April gave me a thumbs-up. Hewitt grinned.

Silva pulled a walkie-talkie from his belt and asked his staff to meet him in the lobby. I glanced at my silent phone. A repeat message from Margo, and two more missed calls. I turned it off. Sipped my tea again. Still bitter, but bearable with honey.

JD grabbed my arm. “Hey, Luce, can we talk for a sec?”

“Sure. Oh, do you mean in private?” Privacy wasn’t usually a consideration in this band; we’d given it up months ago. The others had settled on the couch and looked immovable. I motioned toward the bathroom. “Step into my office.”

The space wasn’t made for two people. He sat on the closed toilet, and I leaned against the sink.

“I’m trying to stay on board,” he said without preamble, “but I don’t know if I can do it.”

“What? Why didn’t you say that a minute ago?”

“I didn’t expect everyone else to agree to do it. I didn’t want to be the bad guy.”

“There are no bad guys here. I wanted opinions and nobody gave any.”

“I did. I thought someone else would agree with me. It’s not safe to play and I don’t want to be here. I have a family.”

“We all have families.”

“Yeah, but I actually like mine. I want to see them again.”

I ignored the dig, built on more made-up stories. “Nobody’s going to do anything. We’re not famous. We’re at a not-so-famous theater in a random town.”

“You say that, but somebody called in bomb threats to the hotels here last night.”

“The whole state got bomb threats, not bombs.”

“And today there were actual bombs. I thought you said there wouldn’t be any hard feelings if we didn’t want to play.”

“That was ten minutes ago, before everybody agreed.”

He shrugged. “I can’t do it. I’m sorry. I can’t play.”

“We can’t do the show without bass.”

“I’m so sorry, Luce. I’ll go back to the hotel, or sleep in the van, or clear out entirely if you want me to.”

I couldn’t think of anything else to say to convince him. Hewitt and April looked at me when I stepped out, and I shook my head. Why had he spoken to me in private, anyhow? It wasn’t like they wouldn’t find out a minute later. He couldn’t sit in the bathroom forever. Wouldn’t want to, if he was that scared.

I went to find Silva, to tell him we wouldn’t be playing after all. Out in the lobby, a woman was unpacking our merchandise. We carried some with us, but since Gemma had gone home, the label had been shipping the bulk of it to venues—everything except the new T-shirts that had disappeared into the shipping ether—and hiring local fans to run the booth.

“Hi, I’m Luce.”

“Alaia Park.” She jotted a number on the side of a box, looked up, and smiled. She was older than me, maybe midthirties, with jet-black hair framing her face. When she spoke, she tucked one lock behind her ear. “I expected you to be taller than me.”

“The video was filmed from a low angle. I get that a lot. Did Silva already talk to you? You were okay with being here tonight?” I asked her. I’d already shifted into past tense, resigned to the decision JD had made for us.

“Are you kidding? I’ve been waiting for this for weeks. I love your music.”

“You’re not scared?”

She bit her lip. “I’m a little scared, but I’m also scared some semi driver will fall asleep and cross the median while I’m driving home, or somebody will ignore a stop sign when I cross the street, or I’ll step on a snake while walking my dog, or I’ll catch some terrible virus from a public bathroom. All of which seem more likely than somebody attacking this place tonight.”

I signed a poster for her: “To Alaia, who is brave.” She let her fingers brush mine when I handed it back to her.

I found the narrow stairway to the sound booth.

Silva tucked a bookmark into the paperback he was reading and folded his arms over it.

“Better futures?” I asked, pointing to the rocket ship on the cover.

“Different futures, I guess. The staff all want to stay, except for one bartender. I won’t need them all, but I didn’t want them to lose a night’s pay if they were willing.”

“You’re going to have to disappoint them after all. My bassist is bailing.”

“What? I thought they were down to play.”

“I thought so, too, but he waited until you left the room to express his concerns.”

“Huh.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too. Damn.”

“I’ll leave you to talk to your staff again, I guess.” I turned to leave.

“There’s one other option,” he said.

“What’s that?”

He gave a half smile. “I play bass.”

He must not have had trouble reading the skepticism in my look. “I can do it,” he went on. “I’ve been playing bass longer than I’ve been running sound, by a long shot. And your songs are pretty straightforward—no offense meant. I’ve been playing you in the house for a week now, so I’m familiar with the stuff you’ve recorded, and if you give me a cheat sheet of keys and changes I’ll be good to go.”

“Who’d run sound?”

“The lighting tech can do both. She’s more than good enough.”

I gave him another look. The offer was sincere. “I guess we’ve got nothing to lose, since we’re not thinking anyone’s going to show up anyway. Welcome to the band, I guess.”