Tom Perrotta - The Wishbones

“That's true,” she said. “Sinatra was the exception.” On the boom box, “You've Got a Friend” segued into “Danny Boy,” and Mrs. Cardini seemed to lose track of the conversation. Her blue eyes clouded over; she craned her neck as though looking past Dave to a taller person standing behind him. Softly at first, but then with more confidence, she began humming along with her husband's voice, effortlessly harmonizing. After just a few bars, though, she stopped. The alertness returned to her face. “We were married for fifty-two years,” she said, gazing in wonder at her own hands. “Can you imagine that?”

Dave shook his head; he couldn't.

“On long car trips, we used to sing to pass the time. ‘Danny Boy’ was one of our favorites.”

“It's a great song.”

“He seemed so healthy,” she said. “I thought we had a few more years.”

At the Other end of the line, Dave held out his hand to Joey Franco. They'd known each other since they were kids without ever really being friends. Joey had gone to Catholic grammar school and was already deep into drugs by the time he arrived at Harding High.

“I'm sorry,” said Dave.

Before the words were out of his mouth, Joey's arms were around him, squeezing hard. Dave grunted in surprise, surrendering to the embrace.

“Dave,” said Joey.

“Joey,” said Dave.

Dave had always tried to keep his distance from Joey—it was as much his bad skin as the fact that he'd been a junkie— but it felt okay to hug him inside the funeral home. Joey was sobbing now, the muscles in his back jumping beneath the fabric of his suit.

“Dave,” he said again.

“Joey.”

“Believe me,” Artie said, when the Wishbones had reassembled on the lawn outside the funeral home, “the Heartstring Orchestra is history.”

“Not necessarily,” said Ian. “All they need is a new front man.”

“Where they gonna find another seventy-year-old front man?”

“Why does he have to be seventy?” Buzzy inquired.

“Because they're a concept band.”

“Concept?” said Ian. “What concept is that?”

Artie stared at him like he was an idiot. “Whaddaya mean, what concept?”

“Whaddaya mean, what do I mean?” Ian shot back. “I asked what concept.”

“They're a bunch of old guys,” Artie explained. “That's the fucking concept.”

“What about Joey?” Dave asked.

“What about him?”

“He's our age.”

“That's right,” said Artie. “And if Stan doesn't get his shit together, maybe Joey wouldn't mind a chance to play with some guys who don't belong to the American Association of Fucking Retired People.”

“That's a good organization,” Buzzy told him. “Don't knock the AARP.”

“Mel's a pretty hot sax player,” Ian pointed out. “Maybe we could use him too.”

“Eat me,” said Artie.

They were Still standing on the lawn ten minutes later when Alan Zelack pulled up in front of the funeral home in his red Mitsubishi Eclipse, which Artie liked to mock as a “poor man's Porsche.” In a soft voice, Ian began singing “Stairway to Heaven” as Zelack climbed out of the car, pausing in the street to straighten his tie and run his fingers through his expensive haircut. Dave remembered him breathing into Phil's mouth, pressing on his chest.

“Hey, guys.” Zelack seemed delighted by the opportunity to stop and chat. “It's a shame about Phil, huh?”

“You did a good thing the other night,” Dave told him. “The mouth-to-mouth and all.”

Zelack shrugged. “My father died of a heart attack a couple years ago. Shoveling snow. He died right there on the sidewalk. Nobody in the whole neighborhood knew CPR.”

“Shit,” said Buzzy.

“What can you do?” said Zelack.

The conversation dropped off a cliff. Zelack's glance strayed to the front door of the funeral home. He didn't look all that eager to go inside.

“Hey, Alan,” Artie said. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Who was that fox you were with the other night?”

“Oh.” Zelack grinned like a guy who'd just hit the lottery. “That's Monica. I met her at a gig a couple weeks ago. She was the maid of honor.”

“Monica.” Artie shook his head at the injustice of it all. “Figures she'd have a name like that.”

Zelack rubbed his chin with the tip of his thumb. “I'm in love, man. I'm so fucking in love I can't believe it.”

Dave looked at the ground. He felt a hollowness in his abdomen, a sensation something like a hunger pang. He forgot about it when Buzzy slapped him on the back.

“Speaking of the L-word,” he said, “our man Dave here has an important announcement.”

“No way,” said Ian.

“No fucking way,” said Artie.

“It's true,” Buzzy insisted. “Little Daverino's getting married.”

Dave nodded to confirm this information, a little uncomfortable about suddenly being made the center of attention. Smiling as graciously as he could, he stood on the plush lawn of the funeral home and accepted the congratulations of his friends and colleagues.

The first funeral home Stan visited was full of grief-stricken uniformed cops. In the second one, all the mourners spoke Spanish. The third happened to be located just a few blocks from Feeney's, a corner bar in Cranwood with one of the best jukeboxes around.

It was early, and the place was nearly empty. He dropped a couple dollars’ worth of quarters on Merle Haggard and George Jones, then pulled up a stool and called for a Jim Beam on the rocks. He could only tolerate country music under certain circumstances, and this was one of them.

Since joining the Wishbones, Stan had grown accustomed to drawing stares in public places. This time they came from an older gentleman a few stools down, a dapper, pickled-looking guy in a mustard-colored suit.

“What happened?” he asked, eyeing Stan's tux with sympathetic curiosity. “She leave you at the altar?”

Stan wanted to laugh, but the sound never quite made it out of his throat.

“She should've,” he said, tossing back his drink in a single gulp. “It would've saved a shitload of time.”

He pulled Up in front of Warneck's Funeral Home at a few minutes past nine. Except for a lone figure sitting on the front steps, the place looked empty, closed for the night.

Squinting into the darkness, he recognized the guy on the steps as one of the old farts from Phil Hart's band. Walter, the piano player, the one he privately thought of as “Shaky.”

He got out of the car and headed up the front walk. The old man watched him from the steps, a shock of white hair framing the vague outline of his face.

“Hey,” said Stan. “Am I late?”

“Depends for what.”

“The wake.”

“You missed it. Viewing hours are from six to eight.”

“Were the Wishbones here?”

The old man cleared his throat with a violence that made Stan cringe. “The who?”

“The Wishbones. The band that plays after you at the showcase. I'm the drummer.”

“You guys really call yourselves the Wishbones?”

“Yeah.”

Walter whistled through his teeth, as though a pretty girl had just walked by. “Where'd you find a stupid name like that?”

Stan didn't answer. He'd always thought the Wishbones was a perfectly good name for a band. Walter reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. It was painful to watch him extract one and guide it to his lips. Stan had to look away when Walter brought out his lighter. He didn't turn back until he smelled the smoke.

“Your friends left about an hour ago,” Walter reported.