Buddy Morris was moving the last of his stuff out of our cabin and into his old Buick, ready to head down to Denver. He was planning to help friends there open a new music venue, the Harmony Café.  I wasn’t going with him.

I was hoping to get the goodbyes over with quickly, but no such luck. Buddy kept pausing his packing to give me advice: where to take the truck if it broke down again, which pile of firewood was best to use first. On and on.

“I’ve been living here for a year and a half,” I told him. “I have learned something.”

Buddy put his duffle bag down alongside the cardboard box holding his band’s CDs.  “You didn’t grow up here, Jo, honey,” he answered, “I did.”

I’d been hearing that line from Buddy ever since we moved to Montana a year and a half ago. Knowing I’d probably never hear it again should have made it easier to take.

“You ought to write a song about it,” I replied, with a sarcasm even he could recognize. “Only do me a favor and sing it to your fans. I’m sick of it.”

 Our arguments were mostly me getting angry and Buddy getting quiet, so he just stood there, searching his shirt pockets for cigarettes, his blue eyes looking anywhere but at my face.

It wasn’t a good way to end things. Part of me wanted to give him a last hug, but I didn’t want to do anything that might change the course we were already on.  I knew that later I might be sorry that I hadn’t been nicer to him, but I’d just have to deal with that then. For now, I picked up his mandolin and his second favorite guitar and lugged them out of the cabin into the cool evening air. “Don’t worry,” I said again, “I’ll be fine.”

Maybe Buddy knew that was true, or maybe he realized that there wasn’t going to be a better goodbye. He stopped searching for his cigarettes, picked up the case holding the big Martin steel-string that was his favorite guitar, then grabbed the last of his stuff and followed me out where the Buick was waiting, its right rear fender still crumpled from the time Buddy spun us into an outcropping on our way back from town. Our road was twisty and narrow. You had to go slow. But that wasn’t Buddy Morris’s style, especially when he was drinking. Now he tossed his bag into the trunk and arranged the instruments, gently tucking blankets around them like kids he wanted to make comfortable for the long ride ahead. Once everything was packed, he got behind the wheel, lit a cigarette and backed the Buick out fast, almost hitting the old Ford truck he was leaving behind for me to use.

“Wreck the other fender while you’re at it,” I wanted to yell, but as he drove off, I just stood there waving. Buddy didn’t wave back.  Above the curve where the car had vanished, the mountains were fading in the twilight, and it was getting cold. I went back inside.

Buddy hadn’t taken much with him, but our two-room cabin felt a lot emptier.  I was going to miss the pretty sound of his guitar but spending the last year and a half listening to him sing lonesome songs made it hard for me to indulge that particular emotion. Instead, I started to rearrange the furniture. I wasn’t sure how much longer I would stay in Tarville, but I figured I might as well have things my own way from here on in.

The furniture was easy enough to move, except for the big double bed, stuck in place where its metal feet made niches in the soft floor boards. Had Buddy and I worked those feet into the floor? It must have been in the first six months we lived here, not in the last unhappy year, when his drinking seemed to be taking over again. He was never a mean drunk, just careless. Still, it was one of the things that made me question tying my life to his.

The bed seemed fixed to its spot, but I soon found that by moving the corners a little at a time, I could turn it so the crest of the Tarville Range was visible through the bedroom window when I woke up in the morning. The tops of the mountains had been getting fresh snow since early September and they glowed like gold at sunrise. Before I came to Montana, Buddy promised me a world more beautiful than anything I’d ever seen. The mountains would keep that promise for him whether he was here or not.

Once I rearranged the bedroom, my next stop was Buddy’s practice area—just a chair, side table and a mirror in the front room. Any fans of Buddy Morris should know that this was where he would sit for hours working on his songs and staring at his reflection. It wasn’t vanity, really, although a good-looking guy like Buddy couldn’t help but have a little of that. Like most musicians, he made faces when he got lost in his music—eyes squinting closed on the high notes, tongue lolling out during a long melodic run. By keeping a careful watch on himself while he played, Buddy was able to get rid of all but a tense, hurt look that went well with the sad, hopeless songs he liked to do best.

Now that he was gone, I took his chair and tried that pose myself.  With all the goodbyes I’d said in my twenty-seven years, you’d think the pained look would come easy, but staring back at me was nothing but a thin, dark-haired girl pretending the broom was a guitar.

Once I’d finished moving things, I took out the vacuum I had borrowed a couple of days ago in cold-hearted anticipation of this moment and cleaned the place from top to bottom. Finally, I took down the neon Coors sign Buddy had won in a barroom bet a few weeks after we arrived in Montana.  I left the concert posters he’d put on the front room walls. I didn’t want to get rid of every trace of him, not right away, since Buddy insisted we tell everybody that I was going to follow him out to Denver soon, even though we were both pretty certain that would never come to be.

I wasn’t sure who that story was for. Friends didn’t seem to be nosing into our business, and most of Buddy’s family had moved away years ago when the small copper mine here finally limped to a close. I wasn’t happy about lying, whatever the reason, but Buddy had gotten a promise from me, and as he was always pointing out, Tarville was his hometown, not mine. When I was ready, I could just leave.

***

“You going to be alright in the cabin by yourself?” Shelby asked me later that evening when I returned the vacuum cleaner.

“I’ll be fine,” I answered.

Shelby and Jim were old friends of Buddy’s and also my nearest neighbors. They lived just a short ride down the now dark road to town in a cabin like the one Buddy and I had shared—though Shelby and Jim had replaced most of the beat-up furniture with things of their own. When I marched in with the vacuum and all its fancy attachments, they were sitting on their couch, eating popcorn and watching the late news.

I sat down to wait, mesmerized by a commercial showing a soft drink and a hamburger dancing their way out of an office building, their snappy steps fading into the ordinariness of the weather map. Buddy and I didn’t have a TV. The curves and turns up the road to our cabin meant a lousy TV signal—and you still had to ride one town over to get decent cell phone reception. With no TV’s or phones to entrap me, I was hoping to use the time alone to sort my thoughts and make plans.

As soon as the weathergirl was done, Jim hit the remote, letting the quiet of the mountains back in.

“Want to ride into town with us this Friday?” he offered.

Friday would be the first time the Lonesome Bluegrass Boys would play at Casey’s Bar without Buddy.

“I’m not up to seeing the band just yet.”

Jim looked up. “You think I’d go myself if I didn’t have to?” Jim mixed sound for the band and was one of Buddy’s greatest fans. “Roger’s trying to step in for Buddy, but it’s gonna be a real sad night for the Bluegrass Boys.”

 “It’ll be too hard on me,” I said, reaching for the popcorn.

Seeing the band would be hard, but not for the reasons Jim would guess. I’d had it up to my eyes with the Lonesome Bluegrass Boys, just like I’d had it with Buddy Morris, but I let Jim fill in the feelings I was supposed to be having.

“Jo, come with us on Saturday instead, then,” Shelby said. “Gold Country is playing. you’ve got to get out a little. Besides, we promised Buddy we’d keep an eye on you.”

I didn’t like the sound of that, but Shelby’s face only showed concern. I knew Buddy wasn’t much for discussing our problems, but I did think he would have given his close friends a heads-up that our separation was probably for good. I was tempted to tell them myself since they were my friends, too. But when I thought about going to Casey’s, I could see the advantage in acting like everything was still all right between Buddy and me. None of our friends would have to take sides or feel embarrassed when I walked in on Saturday night, and I wouldn’t have to deal with any of the bar buzzards who seemed to circle a girl as soon as there was any hint of a break-up. Until I decided what to do next, I’d keep quiet like Buddy said.

It was only Wednesday. I was pretty sure I’d want to get into town by Saturday night.

“Thanks, I’d love to go.”

About a year ago, the Lonesome Bluegrass Boys became the house band at Casey’s Bar, meaning they played there regularly on Friday nights unless one of the better-known bands had to be booked for a Friday instead of a Saturday. Buddy had friends in most of the Saturday night bands, too, and he usually sat in with them for part of the evening. I generally went along both nights, but I never minded listening. I’m the first to admit that Buddy knows his way around a guitar. And bluegrass—even the mournful country type that Buddy seemed to favor—is my kind of music.

Like almost everybody, I grew up on rock and popular music, but in my small Nebraska town there were still occasional barn dances, usually with live music. As a kid, I never appreciated it much. Back then, the “square” in square dance was what stood out for me. But I sometimes played fiddle at those dances, alongside my gray-haired grandfather who had taken the place of a father in our family once my own dad disappeared. I loved Grandpa Collins enough to learn his music and continue playing it into my late teens despite how uncool my friends thought that was, and in the early aughts, that kind of music was pretty uncool. Unfortunately, I never inherited the family gift for getting instruments to sing, though my grandfather kept hoping.  Despite my slim talent, I developed a love for the old-timey music and western swing we played. And since that music is related to bluegrass, I never got bored those nights at Casey’s like some of the wives and girlfriends who sat up front with me at the table set aside for friends of the band.

During the time I was a regular, that table was occupied almost exclusively by women. Even when the bands took breaks, the men would only come over to the table to say hi, and maybe nuzzle the women they were with. Then they’d go hang out at the bar with the other musicians who were almost exclusively men.

The way the sexes separated at Casey’s seemed strange to me at first, but after a few months of living in the foothills, I could see what was good about it. During most of the week, Buddy and I didn’t see much of anyone besides each other. In the mornings, Buddy played and wrote his songs, while I put the finishing touches on what was called “authentic Native American jewelry” for an agent who sold it to tourist shops as far away as New Mexico. The silver jewelry, with its stones and beads, came practically ready to assemble. All you needed was quick fingers. Despite my failure on the fiddle, I had the quick fingers, though I couldn’t claim any Native American ancestry. After the drudgery of office work for a booking agent in Denver (where I first met Buddy), making jewelry in the cabin seemed like a nice enough life, especially at the beginning when the two of us would spend the late afternoons scrambling around the hills like kids, collecting fossils and antlers, fishing a little or just walking and looking. It was great for a long while, but it gave Buddy and me more than enough time together. On the weekends the arrangement at Casey’s suited us both just fine.

And things weren’t totally rigid at Casey’s. Sometimes we girls would wander into the bar and talk, and just as often, one of the guys would sit down at our table for a bit. Buddy came over now and then, too, but he never did sit down. When he was feeling good about his playing, he’d brush his lips against my neck or lean into the conversation and pull me to him. No one at the table seemed embarrassed by this kind of interruption. The talk just flowed right on over it like a stream over a rock. But the girls did catch on to Buddy. Sometimes when he was playing really well, Shelby or my friend Lu Ann would lean over and say, “Watch out for them hot licks girl. You’ll be tired in the morning.”

Even after things got bad with Buddy, there was still some truth to the teasing. The frayed connection between us could spark if things went right. For him it depended on whether he was feeling good enough about his playing not to have drunk too much. For me it depended on having a few beers with the girls. It helped if the talk about the men was hot enough, if Buddy mostly played guitar and didn’t sing too many of his own sappy songs, and if he didn’t scare me angry by driving too fast on the twisty road that led up to our cabin.

Then, all conditions met, we’d fall into bed together—for the moment kidding ourselves that everything was still the way it was when we first came to Tarville.

By working all day and staying up later than I did when Buddy was around, I got more jewelry done by Saturday than I usually did in a full week.  I felt like I deserved to go into town. Besides, though I liked the quiet of the cabin during the day, it was a little too quiet at night and I was having trouble sleeping. I was hoping a late night at Casey’s would wear me out.

When I got down to Jim and Shelby’s, Jim was in the front room, piling wood alongside the stove. It was late September and still warm during the day, but winter in Montana could come storming out of nowhere, and it was smart to be ready. Though Buddy had barely spoken to me in the two weeks since I told him I wasn’t going with him to Denver, he still spent the days before he left just like Jim, chopping wood and putting it into piles. It could have been a final bit of thoughtfulness or just a habit of the season. I wasn’t sure.

“Where’s Shelby?” I asked, pushing Buddy out of my thoughts.

“Still in the bedroom primping.” Jim stopped arranging the wood and pointed to a bottle of wine sitting on the table. “Open that up, Jo. We’ve got something to celebrate.”

“You got your loan?”

Ever since Jim landed a job as an engineer for the radio station in the next town over, he and Shelby had been trying to get the bank to lend them the money to buy the cabin they’d been renting all these years.

“We’ve got it. But that’s not the only good news.”

“Shelby’s pregnant,” I guessed.

“Guess again,” he answered, uncomfortably. “It’s almost as good.”

“Tell me?” I was a little envious of these two, barely older than I was, who already knew what they wanted out of life.

“Open that bottle,” Jim said, piling up the last few pieces of wood. “I’ll tell you when Shelby comes out.”

I got three small juice glasses from the cupboard, twisted the cap off the wine bottle and poured.

“Congratulations,” I greeted Shelby when she came out, looking the way she always did on weekends, her blond hair all stiffly curled and moussed, her face bright with makeup.

“We can really start fixing this place up, now that it’s going to be ours,” she said happily.

“Tell her the rest,” Jim said.

“Which rest?” Shelby asked looking at Jim with suspicion. “You’re getting me all mixed up.”

“I mean about the call. The call from Denver.”

“Oh, you mean Buddy,” Shelby responded, relieved.

I could see she thought Jim meant something else, but I decided not to quiz her.

 “Buddy called just before you got here,” she began. “He said to let you know. The Harmony Café should be open in a couple of weeks.” She looked pleased.

 “That’s great,” I answered, surprised that one of Buddy’s schemes was actually moving along quickly like he said it would. “Is that your big news?”

“There’s more,” Jim said. “Buddy’s booking all the bands for the café. Mostly big names, but he wants the Lonesome Bluegrass Boys to play there one Friday a month. Of course, it will be Buddy on guitar while we’re there, not Roger.”

“Who’s telling Roger?”

“Roger knows it’s really Buddy’s band. He won’t be no trouble,” Jim answered. “Besides, it’ll leave room in the van for you.”

“That’s a hell of a long ride.” It was hours and hours to Denver. Everything about it sounded sickening.

“It’s a lot of road and we’ll need time off from work to make it, but it’s only once a month and it’s worth it for the exposure. Besides,” he added irritably, “you’ll have a place to sleep and a free ride.”

“To free rides,” Shelby chirped, lightening the tone.

We clinked glasses.

“To the Lonesome Bluegrass Boys,” Jim added, his voice hoarse with feeling. “We’re still a band.”

I thought about tossing my glass against the wood stove the way I’d seen people do with fireplaces in the movies, but I couldn’t remember whether that was to blot out something or to make it stick. Instead, I finished my wine to the bottom. While Jim went off to change his shirt, Shelby poured us both another.

“You’re not thrilled about Buddy’s news,” she said, handing me my glass. Shelby was the only one in Tarville who knew some of my unhappiness with Buddy and my anger at his drinking, but she didn’t share my doubts about him or the band. “I still say, if you’d only figure out what you want yourself, you won’t question Buddy’s path. That first CD the band made is rough, but it’s selling. The group is gonna knit together; you’ll see.”

“Let’s have another one for your loan,” I said. “I can drink to that.” We had another, and then another glass with Jim. I’ve never had a head for alcohol, so when we left the cabin and stepped into the crisp night air, Jim and Shelby were feeling good and I was a little over the edge. Still, I managed to climb into the back seat of the car. On the slow roller coaster ride down to Tarville, I watched the crescent moon with its single star slip in and out of view through the side window.

When we arrived at Casey’s, the three of us hurried through the cold parking lot and into the noisy bar that led to the main room. Jim disappeared on the way through the bar, so Shelby and I stood together at the back of the main room, waiting for a break in the music before going to our usual table. I felt strangely nervous and a little unstable in the high-heeled cowboy boots that were my one concession to dressing up for the weekends.

Up front, Gold Country was crowded onto the tiny stage, and the darkened room whirled with the sound of their voices. I grabbed Shelby’s arm and held on tight letting the music lift my spirits the way it always did when it was done well. As soon as the song finished, Shelby led me over to the table where I’d sat almost every weekend for the last year and a half.

Everyone greeted us warmly, moving chairs to make room, but I knew that I didn’t really belong at that table of musicians’ wives and girlfriends anymore. I was glad when Gold Country went into their next tune, so I didn’t have to answer any questions about Buddy yet. Someone at the far end of the table poured beer from one of the pitchers and sent the glasses down to Shelby and me. I really wanted a soft drink or some water, something that would clear my head. I looked around but no one was waiting tables, and I didn’t want to go back to the bar. I tried to sip the beer slowly, but before the end of the set I had downed a few glasses of beer, too. Instead of feeling out of control like I would have expected, I felt pleasantly relaxed and lost in the scene.

In front of me, on the bright stage, Gold Country struck up a bluegrass version of a familiar old-time tune that I had learned when I was a kid. I found myself staring intently at Doug Fisher’s fingers as they moved along the neck of the fiddle, as if looking hard enough would make the name of the tune pop into my head. But soon I was lost in the music, watching Doug bend and sway. Suddenly, he moved away from his mike and the guitar break started up, the sad staccato carrying me off to a creek at the edge of my grandparent’s ranch in Nebraska. As the guitar break was ending, I leaned over to ask Shelby the name of the tune, but she put her hand on my arm to shush me as June Campbell stepped forward on the banjo.

There isn’t much that sounds lonelier than a clawhammer banjo played in a minor key, but June stood there, the same faraway smile on her face, whether the tune was happy or sad, taking us along with her. For the rest of the tune, the band floated smoothly from fiddle to guitar to banjo and back, until near the end, Jim LaFrano leaned his long arms over the big stand-up bass and began thunk-thunking a break that somehow managed to be mournful and funny at the same time—just before Big Doug dove back in with the fiddle and closed the tune out.

I jumped to my feet, clapping and cheering, and everyone else at that table was on their feet, too.

 “Aren’t they the greatest?” I shouted to LuAnn who was sitting a few seats away. This band could play, they could sing, and the songs they wrote sounded as if they’d been part of the bluegrass tradition forever. I couldn’t help but compare them to the Lonesome Bluegrass Boys, where too often things were out of balance, circling around Buddy’s fireworks on guitar and mostly second-rate songwriting.

Everyone else at the table was back in their chairs. I was still on my feet, clapping and shouting. “Now that’s a real band!” I yelled.

Shelby grabbed my arm, lowering me back down to my seat. “Honey, you’re cooked,” she whispered.

I glanced around the table at the wives and girlfriends, all connected to local bands, including the Lonesome Bluegrass Boys. Some were smiling, but a few were eyeing me coldly. I didn’t feel cooked, but I sat quietly through the rest of the set, sipping another beer and letting the sweet high harmonies of Gold Country wash over me. When they finished, I jumped to my feet again, clapping and hooting. I could see Shelby looking worried, but I didn’t feel like being cool. I was relaxing for the first time in weeks, and I didn’t care what anyone thought. I felt free enough to fly.

As the musicians came off stage, a few of Buddy’s friends stopped to ask me if he’d gotten off okay. I think I was doing all right answering their questions when June Campbell came over to say hello before going off to the bar to join her band.

“You guys sounded great, Junie!” I told her. Most everyone at Casey’s called her “Junie Tune,” a nickname she was given by Casey himself when she was only twelve and already playing in a band.

“Thanks, “she answered. “Buddy gonna sit in with us later?”

I was fuzzy-headed enough for the question to puzzle me until I realized with relief that the answer was no.

“Not tonight. He’s in Denver.”

“That’s right, I forgot. Well, you say hi to him for me.”

I laughed. “If I ever see him again, I sure will.”

She looked puzzled.

“He’ll be sending for Jo as soon as things are settled in Denver,” Shelby piped in, pulling me down into my chair.

That was a good story. I wondered if it could be true. “When things are settled,” I echoed weakly.

“We’ll miss him tonight,” Junie added.

“Not half as much as Jo will,” LuAnn leered as Junie went off to the bar. “Hot musician or not,” LuAnn whispered to me, “she’s just another girl after Buddy’s ass.”

“First girl to Denver gets him,” I mumbled. I really didn’t care.

Shelby again whispered something to Lu Ann who now took me by the arm. “Come on Jo.  First were gonna pee. Then I’m gonna buy you a nice cup of coffee at the bar.”

“Make it a Pepsi.” I took a last slug of beer. “It’s hot in here.”

“Sure thing,” LuAnn answered, leading me out of the main room, through the crowded bar and towards the restrooms. On the way we passed Jim, who was leaning on the bar, eyes half opened, shirt untucked on one side. He looked wrecked.

“They’ve been buying me shots to celebrate getting the gig in Denver,” he explained.

“It’s a good thing Shelby’s along,” LuAnn told Jim. “You and Jo don’t add up to one designated driver between you. “

Jim laughed. I let LuAnn pull me off to the restroom.

Inside, the usual Saturday night lineup of five or six women were waiting to get into the two stalls.

“You go first,” LuAnn said, pushing me in front of her and behind a thin bottle-blonde, who was swaying as she hummed to herself, waving a cigarette close to my face, despite the no smoking sign.

I moved aside and leaned my shoulder against the cool surface of the wall, closing my eyes to help the time pass. The heat and smoke in the small room was making it hard to breathe, and the blonde’s tuneless melody buzzed in my ears. LuAnn shook my arm. I opened my eyes.

“You okay?” she asked.

“I’m fine.” I moved forward a few steps in line, then leaned against the wall again, closing my eyes.

I wasn’t fine. It was too warm; my stomach was queasy. Every time the toilet flushed, I felt a vibration as if the small room were expanding then contracting. Next, the door of the stall would creak open, and someone would brush by me or bump into me on the way to the sinks. That would be my signal to open my eyes and move up a few steps in line. Each time the pattern repeated, the room got a little hotter. And through it all, the irritating smoke and tuneless melody. Finally, I opened my eyes and stepped away from the wall. I needed fresh air right away. I started to leave, but LuAnn grabbed me by the sleeve and swung me back into place.

“Jo,” she snapped, “we’re almost there.”

“I can’t wait.”

“Cross your legs for a minute more,” she said irritably.

“That’s not it,” I started to explain.

A toilet flushed again.  A girl in a purple old lady’s hat topped by a clump of mottled feathers came out of the farthest stall, brushing by. The blond in front of me waving the cigarette was still humming. I took a couple of steps forward then leaned back against the wall. The cool surface felt good through my damp shirt. I turned and pressed my forehead against the wall’s surface. The room was churning rapidly now.

“You gonna make it?” LuAnn asked.

The toilet flushed. Sweat ran under my arms and between my breasts. I didn’t feel like answering. Then a stall opened, and LuAnn grabbed me by the shoulder, pushing the blonde in front of me out of the way.

“Get in there. Now!” She shoved me inside and pulled the door closed behind me.

“What the hell…?” I could hear the blonde start.

“She don’t feel good,” I heard LuAnn tell the woman as I locked the door.

Once the door was closed, I knew I was going to throw up everything I’d taken in all night. I raised the toilet seat and grabbed one of the handicap bars. Gagging and hanging on, I took aim, and somehow through a haze of dizziness managed a bullseye. When I pulled my head up again, my eyes were streaming, the bitterness was in my throat, and I could hear LuAnn saying, “Jo, are you all right?”

I was better but I wasn’t ready for conversation. Instead, I reached over and flushed the toilet. The vibrations were still making the room expand and contract a little, so I leaned back and waited, reading the tame graffiti, telling who loved who and who wanted to do what to whom, when the heaving started up again. I bent over the toilet. Another bullseye.

***

When I finally came out of the stall, the room was empty and the churning that had been going on out there had stopped.

The other stall was occupied.

“LuAnn,” I called, but no one answered. I stooped to look under the door. The feet had on running shoes. LuAnn always wore cowboy boots to Casey’s.

Just in case, I knocked on the door. “LuAnn is that you?”

“Can’t you tell she ain’t here,” an annoyed voice on the other side answered me.

“Sorry,” I told the voice.

I went over to the sink to clean up, first washing my hands good, then cupping them under the cold water and rinsing my mouth until the bitter taste was gone. Next, I washed my face, but when I reached for towels, the dispenser was empty. I was staring in the mirror at my wet face, thinking that I looked pale and strange, when the woman in the running shoes pushed by me trying to get at the other sink.

“No towels,” I said as she turned on the faucet.

“Saturdays there’s never enough. You’d think they’d know by now. “

She shook the water from her hands and headed back to the stalls.

I was still staring at myself in the mirror when she came back.

“Here.” She handed me some toilet paper. “You okay?”

“Very okay.” I took the paper from her and dried my unfamiliar looking face.

She took a hairbrush out of her bag. “Maybe you’d better go find your friend. She’s probably waiting.”

I guess I was still giving out an odd vibe, but if she wanted me out of there, I wasn’t ready to go yet.

“Sorry about knocking on your door,” I said to show her I was nothing to worry about. “I didn’t want to leave without LuAnn.”

“This LuAnn must be quite a gal.”

I nodded. The girl had taken the barrettes out of her long auburn hair and was brushing it down over her shoulders. I watched, fascinated, as her hair fell in perfect, long, shiny waves.

“You here with Gold Country?” she asked. “I saw you at the front table.”

“No, I’m with some friends of the house band,” I answered, keeping things vague.

“The Lonesome Bluegrass Boys?”

“That’s them.”

 “I won’t say nothing about your friends’ band.” She put her brush away, her eyes still on her reflection as she turned from side to side. Her hair swung on her back like it was one piece.

“They’ve only been together a little over a year,” I responded, echoing Shelby’s defense of the Lonesome Bluegrass Boys. “That first CD they made was a bit rough, but it takes time to be a real band.” It seemed disloyal not to say something in their defense to this stranger.

“Could be,” she said doubtfully. “Maybe you haven’t heard.  They lost their lead guitar player. They ain’t much without him.”

It was what I thought myself, but it made me angry to hear her say it. I was about to defend the band again when Shelby stepped inside.  “There you are. Are you okay? LuAnn said you were sick.”

“I’m better now.”

“LuAnn got you a large ginger ale. It’s waiting on the table.”

I was thirsty, but I wasn’t going back to that table where I no longer belonged.

“I’ll come up later. I want to listen from the back. See how it sounds.”

“Okay, but don’t get lost.” Shelby left; the door closed shutting out the music that was starting up again in the main room.

The auburn-haired girl had put her barrettes back in and was taking out a brownish red lipstick.

“I’m going out to listen,” I said, heading towards the door.

“They won’t sound any better from the back,” she said, leaning towards her reflection and blotting her lips now all bronze and perfect, like in a magazine.

I turned back, surprised. “Gold Country? That band sounds great from anywhere.”

“I’ve heard better.”

“I’m talking about the bands that come through here.” I was resisting the desire to pull her away from the mirror and make her face me.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” she said to the mirror.

She put her lipstick away and turned towards me. There were long auburn strands in the sink where she had brushed her hair.

“My boyfriend plays guitar for Blue Space,” she continued proudly, handbag on shoulder, ready for her getaway.

“Blue Space,” I blurted out, trying not to laugh.

She nodded.

Blue Space was my number one dumb band, an unskilled combination of new age music and bluegrass. They’d have to be a lot better musicians to pull that off. If she didn’t know that, it wasn’t worth being mad at her.

“They play a different kind of music,” I said, diplomatically. “You can’t compare the two bands.

“You sure can’t,” her voice was dripping sarcasm as she flicked her long hair over her shoulder and started towards the door.

Before I could think, I grabbed her hair. She screamed as I pulled her back into the room.

“Are you nuts?” she shrieked, putting a hand to her head and moving away from me towards the far wall.

I followed, grabbing her arm. “I’ve seen your boyfriend play. He stinks.”

She laughed, not even pulling away this time. “You didn’t puke up enough of that booze, honey.” She looked at me coolly. “You’re still loaded.”

In the big mirror over the sinks, I saw my face twisted in an anger that couldn’t have anything to do with her. What did I care about her taste in music? I let go of her arm.

She glanced at the red marks my fingers had left on her arm, then pushed by me.

“Nice talking to you, nutsy!” She headed for the door, shoving it open. The music came flooding in. Then the door swung shut behind her and the room was silent.

My throat was dry, and I was dizzy again. I bent over the sink ready to cup my hands for some water, but the long auburn hairs were still there. My stomach rose. I gagged and ran for the nearest stall.

This time I knew I had gotten everything up. I washed my mouth out until it felt fresh, then stepped out of the restroom and into the bar, giving my eyes a second to adjust to the gloom. As I started for the main room, I saw the auburn-haired girl standing near the bar, talking excitedly and gesturing my way.

A tall, heavyset man detached himself from the group around her and came towards me. I shrank back against the restroom door.

“Come on, Jo. Let’s talk.” It was Casey himself. He took hold of my shoulder with his heavy hand, then herded me over to some empty stools at the far end of the bar, away from the music.

“Sit down.” His voice was stern.

I sat.

“I don’t want no more trouble out of you.”

I didn’t want trouble either. “I was just gonna walk by. I wasn’t going near her.”

“You stay back here until she calms down, you hear?”

That was fine with me. “I need a Pepsi with lots of ice.”

“It’s on the house.” He went around to the other side of the bar and filled two glasses, one for him, one for me. He pushed mine towards me then leaned on the bar, waiting.

That Pepsi tasted good. I drank it to the bottom.

“Here you go,” Casey said, pushing his over, too.

“Thanks.” I took a big drink. The room was brightening up, like in a TV ad, and I felt like I was coming out of a long, dull sleep.

“I’m sorry about the trouble,” I said.

“First time for you. Everyone gets a first time. “

“You’re being so nice.” I was suddenly soppy and sorry for myself. Tears were coming from nowhere. I finished off the second soda.

“It’s a hard time for you, Jo. We’re all gonna miss Buddy.”

“I’m not going to miss him,” I answered bitterly. “If I never see him again, I’ll be glad.” I was sick of hiding it from everyone.

Casey took the empty glass away from me, refilled it and pushed it back. “No one likes a breakup, but I promise honey, you’ll mend.”

I needed to mend, but it wasn’t from splitting with Buddy. It was losing the hopes we started out with.  I reached for a napkin to wipe my eyes when I stopped, surprised. “Buddy told you?”

“Told me what?” Casey asked.

Suddenly I was clearheaded. “You just said breakup. Buddy must have said something.”

Casey looked uncomfortable. “Buddy never said nothing about a breakup. He just told everybody to treat you like he was still here.”

“That’s all?”  Buddy had left a string of bewildering instructions for all of us. Was he keeping all options open?  Or was he just as confused as I was?

“Buddy’s not the kind to toss a girl away like an empty cigarette pack,” Casey continued, “but I figured if he was still in your heart, he wouldn’t have to say a thing.”

I took a sip of Pepsi. “Who else knows?”

“I don’t know nothing about that.”

“You mean, everybody knows, and nobody said anything?”

“I don’t know about everybody. And besides, you didn’t say nothing either.”

“But Buddy asked me not to…” My voice was rising again, tears of frustration in my eyes. Buddy might as well be here for all the trouble he caused.

Casey reached over and patted my hand. “Shush, honey, don’t worry yourself. Just because Tarville’s spread out over all these hills don’t mean it’s not a small town. Things get around. If you lived here a little longer, you’d know that.”

I got off the stool and pushed the glass back. Cola slopped over the side of the glass. “I could live here twenty years, and I don’t think I’d know anything.”

“Well, Jo,” Casey said, dropping a gray rag into the spilled soda. “You didn’t grow up here.”

“No,” I answered. “I didn’t.”

In the parking lot, the night air was cold and cutting. I held the car door open for Jim, shivering in my light jacket, while Shelby maneuvered Jim into the back seat where he sat up for a few seconds, then curled over sideways, fast asleep. I got in the passenger side and Shelby got behind the wheel. “What a night,” she said, pulling out of the lot and onto the empty road.

“It sure was.” I turned towards the window and closed my eyes, pretending I was falling asleep, too.

We rode along in silence.

 As the car turned up our hill, Shelby nudged me. “Come on Jo,” she said. “I know you’re awake.”

I opened my eyes. “I don’t feel much like talking.”

“That’s alright,” she said, “but you don’t have to keep your eyes closed.”

“Well, I feel like an idiot. Between you and everybody, acting like nothing’s changed. But I suppose Buddy and I were pretending everything was okay with us for a lot longer than this,” I added bitterly.

“Buddy was just trying to give you the time here that you needed.”

“Is that what he told you?”

Shelby didn’t answer, her eyes on the twisty road that led up to our cabins.

“You sure he wasn’t trying to make a fool out of me, with that story of getting together in Denver?”

“Come on, Jo. Buddy’s not like that.”

I didn’t respond.

“Maybe he just wanted to leave a door open,” she continued.

“He left a door all right.  And I’m gonna walk right through it as soon as my jewelry money comes in.”

The car slowed. Shelby’s cabin and my parked truck were caught in the headlights. Shelby pulled in close to the cabin porch and stopped.  “I sure wish you’d be around to see the baby.”

“The baby?”

“We didn’t want to say anything for a few more months because I lost the one before, but if you’re going, Jo, honey, I want you to know.”

So, there would be a baby, too.

“I’m real glad for you,” I whispered, feeling the bitter mixture of happiness for her and jealousy for what wasn’t mine. I pulled my jacket closed and got out and waited while she roused Jim and coaxed him out of the back seat. Above my head, the crescent moon with its lone star had been replaced by a sky full of stars that filled the spaces between the dark shapes of the mountains.

I shivered. I didn’t want her life. Really, I didn’t want any of it. But I didn’t know what to want.

“Stay and sleep on the couch,” Shelby offered after we dumped Jim on the bed.

“I can drive,” I answered.

***

I took it slow on the dark curves up to the cabin, then carefully backed the truck into its usual spot—though I no longer had to leave room for Buddy’s Buick. Out in the thin cold air, the stars were bright enough to see by. Still, I was glad that I’d left a lamp on in the front room to help me find my way back inside.

I hung my jacket near the mirror in its new spot by the closet door. I had moved it, but it was still Buddy’s practice mirror. Now, even in low light, I noticed the change in my face I’d seen in the restroom down at Casey’s.  There it was, the look that Buddy had worked on so hard to go with his lonesome songs. I had gotten it just right.

I stepped closer to get a better view, then laughed and the look was gone. Buddy had called it a hardness in me, the thing that made me snicker at all his sad, sentimental songs, even the really good ones.

And looking back, I admit there were more good ones than bad.  But even back then I knew that Buddy, who never spent more than a day by himself—who had probably picked up a car full of hitchhikers by the time he got to Denver so he wouldn’t have to ride alone—even he could feel lost and lonely. But that’s what made all those lonesome songs funny, too, wasn’t it? You could fill your house, your car, your whole life with people and still feel alone—any time anywhere.

It wasn’t special. Anybody could.