Sarah Dessen - This Lullaby

Ted glanced over at the empty seat, sighed in an irritated way, and got out of the van, slamming his door behind him. “Idiot,” he said loud enough for us to hear as he rounded the front bumper, where we could still see him through the windshield. He was looking down at the pavement. “Are you hurt?”

We couldn’t hear John Miller’s reply. But by then I was distracted anyway, because I’d spotted Dexter climbing clumsily into the front seat of the van, tripping over the gearshift before tumbling into the driver’s seat and then out the door, dropping to the pavement a bit more gracefully than John Miller but not by much. He had on the same orange T-shirt as the day I’d met him, with a white oxford cloth shirt over it. Sticking out of the front pocket was another one of those warped wedding cameras. He looked in Lissa’s window, peering close, but couldn’t see anything. She just stared back, as if on the hidden side of a two-way mirror.

“Isn’t that Dexter?” she whispered, keeping her voice low-Trey’s window, on the driver’s side, was open-as he pulled the camera out of his pocket and leaned in, taking a picture of her black window. The flash lit the whole inside of the truck for a second, and then he went to stick it back in his pocket, missing once, before fitting it back in.

“Yeah,” I said as we watched him stumble slightly as he rounded the front of the van, reaching out a hand to touch Trey’s bumper for support. He was weaving, and not in the typical Dexter-clumsy way. He seemed drunk.

“Okay, look you two,” Ted announced as Dexter ambled up, “I said I’d get you here and I did. But I’ve got a date with Mary and she’s already pissed at me so this is the end of the line. I’m not a taxi service.”

“My good man,” I heard John Miller say, in a faux Robin Hood voice, “you have done your duty.”

“Are you going to get up, or what?” Ted asked.

John Miller got to his feet. He was still in his work clothes but looked entirely wrinkled, as if someone had balled him up in a pocket for a couple of hours. His shirt was hanging out, his pants totally creased, and he, too, had a disposable camera, sticking out of one of his pants pockets. He had a scratch on his cheek, too, which looked fresh, probably the result of the tumble from the van. He reached up and touched it, as if surprised to find it there, then let his hand drop.

“My good man,” Dexter said, flopping an arm around Ted, who immediately made a face, clearly fed up, “we owe you the greatest of favors.”

“My good man,” John Miller echoed, “we will repay you with gold, and maidens, and our eternal allegiance to your cause. Huffah!”

“Huffah!” Dexter repeated, raising his fist.

“Will you two cut that shit out?” Ted snapped, shaking off Dexter’s arm. “It’s annoying.”

“As you wish, comrade,” John Miller told him. “Raise a glass and huffah!”

“Huffah!” Dexter said again.

“That’s it.” Ted started back to the van. “I’m gone. You guys can huffah all you want-”

“Huffah!” they yelled in unison. John Miller, throwing his arms into it, seemed close to tumbling over again.

“-but you get home on your own. And don’t do anything stupid, okay? We don’t have bail money right now.”

“Huffah!” John Miller said, saluting Ted’s retreating back as he walked away. “Thank you, oh kind sir!”

Ted flipped them the bird, obviously over it, then coaxed the van’s engine to life and backed away, leaving them there in front of the Quik Zip, where they commenced taking pictures of each other posing by the newspaper racks. Inside, I watched as Paul and Trey chatted up the guy behind the counter as he slid their two six-packs into a paper bag.

“Okay, now give me some pout,” Dexter was saying to John Miller, who struck a model’s pose, sticking out his chest and using a stack of coupon fliers as a prop, fanning them in front of his face and peeking over them, seductively. “There, that’s good! Great!” The flash popped, and Dexter wound the film, giggling. “Okay, now do somber. That’s right. You’re serious. You’re hurt…”

John Miller looked out at the road, suddenly mournful, contemplating the Double Burger, which was across the street, with a wistful expression.

“Beautiful!” Dexter said, and they both busted out laughing. I could hear Lissa chuckling in front of me.

John Miller had struck his best pose yet, draping himself across the phone booth and fluttering his eyelashes, when Dexter popped one last flash and ran out of film. “Damn,” he said, shaking the camera, as if that would suddenly make more pictures appear. “Oh, well. So much for that.”

They sat down on the curb. I kept thinking we should roll down the window, say something to let them know we were there, but already it seemed too late to do so without repercussions.

“Truth be told, my good man,” John Miller said solemnly, turning his own disposable camera in his hands, “I am somber. And serious. And hurt.”

“My good man,” Dexter told him, leaning back on his palms and stretching his feet out in front of him, “I understand.”

“The woman I love will not have me.” John Miller squinted up at the sky. “She thinks I am not husband material, and, in her words, a bit immature. And today, in defiance of this proclamation, I quit my very easy job in which I made nine bucks an hour doing not very much at all.”

“There are other jobs, my squire,” Dexter said.

“And, on top of that,” John Miller continued, “the band will mostly likely be rejected by yet another record label because of the artistic integrity of Sir Ted, who will drive us all into retirement by stubbornly refusing to admit that his potato opuses are a bunch of crap.”

“Aye,” Dexter said, nodding. “It is true. Young Ted may, indeed, shoot us all in the foot.”

This was news to me, but not entirely surprising. Dexter had told me that Ted’s vehement insistence that they do no covers for a demo, ever, had worked against them in previous towns, with previous chances.

“But you, fine sir.” John Miller clapped Dexter on the shoulder, a bit unsteadily. “You have problems of your own.”

“This is true,” Dexter replied, nodding.

“The women,” John Miller sighed.

Dexter wiped a hand over his face, and glanced down the road. “The women. Indeed, dear squire, they perplex me as well.”

“Ah, the fair Remy,” John Miller said grandly, and I felt a flush run up my face. Lissa, in the front seat, put a hand to her mouth.

“The fair Remy,” Dexter repeated, “did not see me as a worthwhile risk.”

“Indeed.”

“I am, of course, a rogue. A rapscallion. A musician. I would bring her nothing but poverty, shame, and bruised shins from my flailing limbs. She is the better for our parting.”

John Miller pantomimed stabbing himself in the heart. “Cold words, my squire.”

“Huffah,” Dexter agreed.

“Huffah,” John Miller repeated. “Indeed.”

Then they just sat there, saying nothing for a moment. In the back of the Excursion, I could feel my heart beating. Watching him, I knew there was nothing I could do now to take any of it back. And I felt ashamed for hiding.

“What kind of money you got?” John Miller said suddenly, digging into his own pocket. “I think we need more beer.”

“I think,” Dexter said, pulling out a wad of bills and some change, which he promptly dropped on the ground, “that you’re right.”

Paul and Trey came out of the store then, and Paul yelled over at us, “Hey, Remy-was that diet you wanted or regular? I couldn’t remember.” He stuck his hand in the bag he was carrying and pulled out two bottles, one of each. “I got you both, but…”