Justin Tussing - Vexation Lullaby

Peter watched a nature show that explored the astounding variety of life-forms living deep in the ocean. Then he watched adrenaline junkies pilot wingsuits through a red-walled canyon.

A chime let him know he had a text.

The message was from Cyril: Bourbon is being consumed. Your presence is required. Do not delay. The bodyguard included a street address.

Peter didn’t feel like drinking and he certainly didn’t feel like watching Cross drink, lest anyone view his presence as tacit approval (he did not approve). Peter decided to go all the same. If he went, Martin couldn’t call him a square, Martin couldn’t say, Good for you, Silver, someone has to have the stones to stand up for orthopedic shoes and middle-class responsibility .

During his interim as a touring physician, Peter had discovered that time moved like an avalanche, not at all and then all at once. He showered, pulled on jeans and a polo shirt, what he imagined to be appropriate bourbon attire. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but he’d give it a shot. What was the point of being a rock-and-roll physician if he didn’t indulge in the lifestyle? It occurred to him that he might get wasted.

THE CAB STOPPED in front of a limestone mansion. A dark green awning tented the entranceway; burgundy carpet cascaded down the stairs. Was he wrong to think it resembled a funeral home?

At the top of the stairs an engraved brass sign: We Request Gentlemen Wear Jackets and Ties .

A tall woman in a slim gray dress intercepted Peter. She belonged to that tribe of people whose beauty is so compelling that it serves as a sort of wit. “Are you meeting a party?”

Peter gave Cross’s name. “They didn’t tell me about the dress code.”

“You must be Dr. Silver.” With a narrowed glance, she appraised him from head to toe. “And, I think you look fantastic.”

Lying is erotic because if a person can say anything, then anything is possible.

A really dumb thing to do, Peter decided, would be to send Lucy a picture of him drinking bourbon with Cross.

Peter trailed the hostess through a dining room, focusing all of his attention on a square button a few inches above the small of her back, which appeared to mark the precise point where her hips pivoted.

When they reached the table, Alistair lifted a pair of empty glasses to his eyes, twisting them as though focusing binoculars. “Ah,” he said, “it’s the man of the hour.” Bluto sat beside him, stone-faced.

“I’ve found your doctor,” the hostess said, slipping away.

Maya was there! She turned to him and smiled; she had a notebook open before her on the table. A pair of bifocals perched on her nose. He decided that Alistair had been lying about her having a boyfriend. He simply chose not to believe it.

Where was Cross? He turned around in time to watch the singer return from the restroom. As he traversed the dining room, Cross drifted off course, as though at the mercy of an invisible current.

When he reached the table, he clapped Peter on the back of the neck. “You’ve met Helen of Lexington?”

Peter said he had.

“We’re all a bit in love with her,” Maya admitted, “except for Bluto.”

“Don’t drag me into this,” said Cyril. “You’ll get me in trouble.”

Cross took his seat. “We’re waiting for our final guest, a cherry-and-bourbon-glazed innocent with green pecans and black truffles under his skin.”

“The wait will be protracted,” Cyril said, picking up a pint glass with a straw in it. He took a long sip.

“Welcome to the party,” said Alistair.

A husky waiter set a flight of bourbons before Peter. Four stone cups, each containing an ice cube the size of a golf ball and, perhaps, an ounce of booze.

“Take your medicine,” Cross said.

FOR THE BETTER part of an hour, Peter played catch-up with the table. Alistair would not be caught.

Meanwhile, Maya continued to interview Cross. “Do you ever consider the experience of your audience?”

“You mean do I worry if they’re comfortable?”

“I’d be interested if you did, but I meant the question in a broader sense. How aware of them are you?”

“I can see them if I’m playing outside, like at a festival.”

“You don’t play many festivals in the States,” Cyril added.

Cross said, “We need more European festivals in the U.S.”

Maya reached out and rubbed the forearm of Cross’s sweatshirt between her finger and thumb. “The fabric is so thick.”

“It’s cashmere and Kevlar,” said Alistair.

Cyril leaned toward the woman. “Don’t write that down.”

Maya scratched out a line in her notebook. “What do you think about while you’re performing?”

Cross turned toward Cyril. “That’s a good question.”

The bodyguard kept his eyes on the front of the restaurant. “You think about movies.”

“Sure. I think about movies I want to see.”

“What’s a movie you want to see?”

“Any movie where Emma Thompson swims laps in a pool.”

Maya said, “She’s lovely.”

“She’s always so quiet. Even if she’s yelling, she does it at a whisper.”

“What about that dog?” asked Cyril.

“When Allie was young, we had this Bernese mountain dog. I think about that dog sometimes.”

Alistair leaned across the table. “I don’t know what he’s talking about.”

Cross took another sip of his drink. “Yes you do. If you were sitting down, it would put its head on your knee and stare at you.”

“I take it back,” said Alistair, “I remember him.”

“You loved that dog.”

“I stand corrected.”

“What was its name?” Maya asked.

“Black Dog.”

Alistair lifted his glass. “To Black Dog.”

Everyone drank.

“I’ll give you three more answers,” Cross said. “Gina Lollobrigida, an espaliered pear tree, and—”

“The Pottsville Maroons,” Maya said.

Cross sipped his drink. “I repeat myself sometimes. It’s an occupational hazard.”

Maya put her notebook away. “I didn’t mean to cut you off.”

Cross emptied the glass in front of him.

“Don’t forget,” Bluto said, “you still have a show tonight.”

“I know what I have.”

The dining room had cleared out. It reminded Peter of those scenes in a disaster film where stillness is used to show disarray.

Bluto waved to the hostess, who breezed over to the table.

“We need to get some food in these people.”

“I’m on it,” she said.

“This whole town is horse mad,” said Cross. “I’d like to come here sometime and order a roast horse.”

“You’ll get us arrested talking that way,” Cyril pointed out. “Probably get me lynched.”

“The next time we’re down here, Bluto, I want the whole band in silks.”

Alistair said, “Dom would look like a jockey with a thyroid problem.”

“I’ll carry a little whip and I’ll walk around and pretend to hit them.”

“Nobody whips the jockeys,” Bluto pointed out.

Cross nodded. “Why am I talking so much?”

“It’s unusual,” said Cyril.

The chef, an older woman with frosted white hair and wearing a fuchsia jacket, delivered to the table a platter of delicate horn spoons that held spheres of an emerald mousse topped with caviar.

Peter couldn’t imagine putting either substance in contact with the well of booze macerating in his stomach.

Bluto smacked his lips. “This is good stuff,” he said. “Everyone’s got to try a couple of these.”

Peter’s phone buzzed. It was Martin. He got up from the table to take the call.

“You still think he’s going to play tonight?”