by Austin Vail

Created on: May 27, 2007

The street shone in the late spring drizzle. Sodium lamps reflected from overhead. He walked with head bowed, collar turned up, a gloved hand cupping a Marlboro cigarette against the rain. His steel-toed work boots strode forward in a blues shuffle rhythm, not hurried, not without aim. Water dripped from his oiled canvas western hat.

He at first thought it was just a scrap of cloth that had blown up against the golf course fence. It was dark, almost black, but had lightness at the edge, unexpected and curious. He stopped and picked up the soaked five-dollar bill. Abraham Lincoln stared back at him, a sad man with tired eyes, a great man who had died from an assassin's bullet, who had left behind something worth printing on money.

Sally greeted him at The Restaurant, a joint with more imagination than the name, and placed a snifter of Drambuie next to his coffee. He paid her with the soggy fiver. She didn't say a word, only draped the bill over a dry bar towel. Silently he sipped the golden, sweet liquid and chased it with coffee. The heat of the mixture dissolved the aching of the week.

"You're doing okay?" Sally asked.

"Okay enough," he said.

"Want something to eat?"

"No. This is fine."

"More coffee?"

He threw back the rest of the Drambuie. Sally refreshed both.

By the time the rest of the band showed up, he felt warm inside and out. From a coat pocket he took out his harmonicas, four diatonics. He started played especially soulful that night, thinking of country blues, Chicago blues, blues from the Delta and the Piedmont. The crowd danced slowly at first. The band followed into the deepness of his pain, and after a few respectful turnarounds, burst forward into the rocking blues, and he followed them out of his misery. The crowd danced faster, the drums and bass driving, the guitars screaming, the harp wailing. He finally sang.

During the break Sally sat across from him in a corner booth by the kitchen, where it was less noisy.

"How was the funeral?" she asked.

"No fun."

"She was too young."

"Too young," he said.

She reached across the table and put her hand on his.

"Have you cried yet?" she asked.

"Only on stage."

"I heard. Are you better now?"

"This helps," he said and looked into her eyes, sadly. Small, brave smiles touched at lip corners.

"Sorry I couldn't make the funeral," she said.

"You didn't miss a thing. I only went for her folks. They kept the casket closed, you know."

"That was a kindness."

"I just went like this. Didn't feel like renting a suit. Her folks didn't mind.

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