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Who-Ville

They started late. The guy that told him they could use his PA system showed up without an apology a few minutes before they were supposed to go on. Just as well, really. The guitarist broke a string almost as soon as he plugged in. He didn't have a spare set and he scrambled for a replacement.

Well, I should tell you that the guitarist is my husband, Jack. This is the first time his band's playing out in front of people. It's also the first time I've met the guys he plays with. They'd invite me to things, but he'd turn them down.

"Busy," he'd tell them. I guess he was ashamed, but I don't know who for. The busy part is true enough. I work at a hospital and I'm nearly done with my nursing degree. In the beginning, he liked the idea: I'd do something I loved and could make a decent living at. Now, I can't mention grad school without hearing him groan.

I suppose it's all a game with him, little wifey off to school. I know I'll be making more than he does. He says that doesn't bother him. You know, someone told me once it's all fun and games until someone gets their butt kicked.

Anyway, they played really well. The owner of the bar wants them back next month. The crowd got into it, too. I watched Jack play: his eyes half closed, the light shining over his red curly hair like a halo. It was exactly like the night we met. I heard the songs he worked on over and over night after night at home. Even the parts he grimaced over sounded perfect to me. I felt excited and peaceful when he played. It was all I ever wished for. Every sticky sweet love song I ever heard, every romance book I ever read was right there in front of me when he tore through the set.

The music ended. The lights came up and everyone went home. Everyone but us. I heard the growl first:

"Where's the car? We've got to get this junk out of here . . .." I tried to reply. "Well?" He sneered. I didn't say a word. I picked up his guitar case and walked the half block to the car.

We found ourselves back at the bar, dissecting the night's performance. I said something about the vocals. "Well, Honey," Jack said, almost nicely. "That's very interesting. Music theory's part of that school of yours too?"

I turned away. I looked down the bar. My hand felt cold and warmed up my beer. There was a hockey game on. Expansion teams. No one I recognized. A drunk wearing a New York Islander jersey was the only other person watching. He yelled at the screen: "You jerks! Fight! C'mon!"

Jack's back was towards me. I was glad he'd played well. Hope for the future, you know. I know he hated his day job. He said it every day. I used to ask what he'd rather do than work at the bank. He never had an answer for me.

This, however, was good. More gigs, maybe some session work. Possibility. Probably no more money than now, but his anger, that anger, yes. He could make it on his own. No more failure. Maybe a future, a life, for me, too. I could support myself, too. Yes, yes. Apartment, car payments . . . with a new job, yes. I looked up, out.

Jack and his friends were still talking. I started to make my way through the back door of the bar, out to the street. I turned and looked back at him. He was smiling, happy. Just like when we met. The Jack I fell in love with. The way things were, before. Maybe, I thought, they could be the same again, maybe a chance.

I looked towards the door, then back at Jack. As I did, I heard a voice, hissing and spitting. To this day, I couldn't tell you if it came from the drunk, Jack, or me. Over and over, it was all I could hear.

Coward

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