Tom Perrotta - The Wishbones

“Happy Birthday,” he would've said. Nothing else. And then he would've walked out.

He still couldn't believe she'd slapped him with that court order. He hadn't been violent with her except that one time, and even then, he'd only put her in the headlock to try to get her to listen. At the hearing, she'd accused him of stalking her and making death threats. On Joel's advice she'd taped his phone calls and kept a log of the time he spent spying on her from his car. Stan was surprised to learn that he'd called her on fourteen separate occasions on Valentine's Day, each time saying the exact same thing before hanging up: “Till death do us part, Susie. Till death do us part.” (He'd been drinking that day, and could only remember calling her five, maybe six times at the most.)

Stan explained that he'd only been reminding her of her wedding vows, but the judge—probably an old law school chum of Shysterblatt's—had ruled in Susie's favor. So now Stan wasn't allowed within a hundred feet of the woman he'd married and still loved with all his heart. That was the fucking legal system for you.

At five after seven, Joel Silverblatt emerged from his office and walked across the street. He tapped on the driver's-side window of Stan's LeBaron. Stan rolled it down.

“Go home,” Silverblatt told him. “We just called the police.”

“The police can't do anything. I'm more than a hundred feet away.”

“You're drunk. You're sitting in your car with a bottle of whiskey. You want to lose your license on top of everything else?”

“Everything else?” Stan repeated incredulously. “You mean like my wife?”

The evening was breezy; Silverblatt reached up with both hands to protect his hairdo from the elements. He was a rubber-faced guy with a fleshy nose and dark circles under his eyes from trying to keep up with a woman half his age.

“Go home, Stan. Go anywhere. Don't you have someplace else to be?”

Stan thought of the wake. He thought of Artie, and of the cops on their way. He thought of Susie in Mexico, ocean water streaming from her hair. Suddenly he felt tired, too tired for any more trouble.

“I'll go,” he said. “On one condition.”

“What's that?”

Stan poked the picture into Silverblatt's tummy. “Give her this. It's her birthday present.”

With obvious reluctance, Silverblatt accepted the photograph. Stan started his car.

“It's our honeymoon,” he explained. “That's me holding the towel.”

“I'm sick of this bullshit.” Artie pushed up the sleeve of his double-breasted Armani-style suit to consult his nearly authentic Rolex. He held up his thumb and forefinger, spaced about an inch apart. “Stan's about this fucking close to being an ex-fucking Wishbone.”

“Come on,” said Dave. “It's a wake. What's the difference if he's here or not?”

“What's the difference?” Artie asked. “I'll tell you what's the difference. A band's only as strong as its weakest member. If one guy is a fuck-up, the whole group's in trouble.”

“Did you see Sid and Nancy?” Ian cut in. He was dressed like a professor on TV, tweed jacket over a black turtleneck. The jacket even had patches on the elbows. “It's just like what you're talking about.”

“Didn't see it,” said Artie.

“I did,” said Dave.

“Sid and Nancy?” Buzzy seemed distressed. “The one about the waitress?”

“Waitress?” Ian went cross-eyed and stuck out his tongue. “What planet are you from?”

“Sid Vicious,” Dave explained. “The guy in the Sex Pistols.”

“Good flick?” asked Buzzy.

“Excellent,” said Ian. “You should rent it sometime.”

“I liked The Doors,” Buzzy told him. “You were right about that one.”

“Oliver Stone.” Ian nodded as though the director were a friend of his.

“You liked that?” Artie said. “How could you like that crap?”

“I liked the scene in the elevator,” Buzzy said, grinning at the memory. “The one where he gets the blow job.”

“The guy was a poet,” said Ian. “An honest-to-God fucking poet.”

“Big deal.” Artie shook his head in disgust. “He writes a few good songs, shows the world his dick, gets fat as a pig, and drinks himself to death. That's the whole movie.”

“He was trying to make a point,” Ian countered.

“Oh yeah?” said Artie. “What point is that?”

Ian thought it over for a few seconds, then shrugged.

“Beats me,” he said. “I still think it was a pretty cool movie.”

Nobody said anything for a while. Artie checked his watch again and muttered something about Stan being a total fucking zero. Ian knelt down and rubbed a spot of dirt off his cowboy boot. Dave watched a teenage boy help a frail old woman up the steps of the funeral home and wondered why a grown man would make himself miserable over something as simple as marrying the woman he loved. Buzzy slapped himself in the forehead.

“Frankie and Johnny.” he said, his face lighting up with relief. “That's the movie I was thinking of.”

Phil Hart was laid out in the clothes he'd died in, the satin-lapeled, powder blue uniform of the Heartstring Orchestra. On a nearby table, surrounded by elaborate bouquets and floral wreaths, a boom box played a tape of Phil singing “Summer Wind,” accompanied by a piano.

Dave had never been to a wake with music before, and he thought it made a real difference. Instead of the grim focus on the casket he'd encountered in the past, there was a relaxed, almost cheerful atmosphere in the viewing room. People were mingling; a low hum of conversation filled the void between the living and the dead. If you closed your eyes, you might have thought you'd wandered into a cocktail party by mistake.

The Wishbones joined the line of people waiting to file past the coffin and offer their condolences to Phil's family, who were gathered along the opposite wall in a wedding-style receiving line. Dave was surprised to see the surviving members of the Heartstring Orchestra, also in uniform, standing shoulder to shoulder with Phil's wife and grown children, as though all of them—not just Joey Franco, but Walter and Mel as well—were blood relatives of the dead man, instead of guys he'd played in a band with.

“Candy Man” followed “Summer Wind.” Dave thought it was a peculiar song to be playing at someone's wake—he remembered hearing somewhere that it was actually about a drug dealer— but it seemed to have some sort of special meaning for the people in the receiving line. As soon as it began, the attention in the room shifted to Phil's widow, a tiny, white-haired woman with delicate features and a dazed expression on her face. She dabbed at her eyes with a pale green Kleenex, then whispered something to the overweight man standing next to her. The man, who must have been her son, smiled like he was going to cry and said something in response that sent a ripple of amusement down the line. Ian poked Dave in the ribs.

“Daryl Dragon,” he said.

“What?”

“Daryl Dragon.” Ian looked smug. “I'll be amazed if you get this one.”

Dave was in no mood for trivia, but he didn't want to hurt Ian's feelings. He pretended to think about Daryl Dragon while watching the activity on the other side of the room. Phil's widow began to sob quietly, as did Mel, the sax player in the Heartstring Orchestra. He buried his face in his hands while Joey Franco patted him awkwardly on the arm. Walter, the piano player, reached into his inside coat pocket with one trembling hand and pulled out a crumpled handkerchief. An obscure synapse fired in Dave's brain; two lost faces spiraled up at him from the dark swamp of oblivion.