staring at the ceiling. “You’re probably completely scandalized,” she said. “Rusty sort of gave me a taste for that.” She snorted. “Literally and figuratively.” We stared some more.
“I guess you probably don’t need to hear about Rusty,” she said. I reached over to pat her thigh, and my hand collided with hers reaching over for me.
When we finally got up, the kids had gone off someplace. She made coffee and brought it to me on the living room sofa, pretty good brewed coffee with cinnamon in it. I couldn’t decide whether cinnamon was a good idea or whether it was in bad taste because you should want the true flavor of the coffee. She pawed through the records again and came up with Webb Pierce, which got her some points. I mean, Webb Pierce? You would’ve thought Billy Joel or something. Or would you? Consider the woodstove and the black-and-white tv, and just the house in general. So maybe that t-shirt had been an aberration, or even a very twisty irony. Then there was the thing she’d said about her husband giving her a taste for that: had this been tactlessness or air-clearing openness? She did seem to know the difference between literally and figuratively . I was having trouble getting a handle on this Martha Peretsky.
“Have you ever heard him?” she said, lowering the needle.
I considered saying yes and said no. So whatever the first lie was going to be, it wouldn’t be that. Unless I’d told one last night at some point. I thought I remembered maybe fudging some things.
“If you end up liking it,” she said, “I’ll stick a tape in the thing.”
“Great,” I said. “Friend of mine’s been getting me into country music a little.”
“Why isn’t anything coming out?” she said. “I’ve got it turned up to five.”
“I can sort of hear it,” I said.
“OA my God,” she said. “I forgot to bring the speakers inside.”
“Your neighbors like Webb Pierce, do they?”
She jerked the needle off the record.
“Why don’t I go out and hand them in to you through the window?” I said.
“Would you? That would be great.”
Another beautiful day out. And full-grown trees around: on Heritage Circle the trees mostly weren’t big enough yet to give shade. Here I was in the backyard of some woman I’d been fucking. Whereas a year ago today—I don’t know, enough with the year ago todays. “Your yard looks kind of partied-upon,” I said, handing her the first speaker. “I’m afraid our cleanup last night was kind of superficial.”
“And whose fault was that?” She actually shook a roguish finger.
“I’ll make it up to you,” I said, queasy at having to coquette back, but wasn’t it a lover’s obligation not to break the mood? “It actually shouldn’t take that long.”
“Come in and have your coffee first,” she said, probably meaning Let’s go back to bed first. Or at any rate, that’s how it turned out.
We got to hear the Webb Pierce later.
“Yeah, I really like it,” I said. So maybe that lie was the first. “How did you end up getting a taste for this?” Phrased about as maladroitly as possible.
“Long story,” she said. “You really want to know?”
“Sure,” I said. The second.
“When we were growing up, outside of Washington, my dad had this country-western band? The Stony Davis Show.” She said this announcer-style.
“That was your dad’s name, Davis?” I said, wondering about the Peretsky.
“Yeah,” she said. “I just sort of kept my married name. So anyhow, his big thing was imitations, I mean he could do Johnny Cash and Ernest Tubb and, I don’t know, Eddy Arnold. Webb Pierce, of course. And he really had them down, and that was part of his show. And see, he looked a little bit like Webb Pierce. Kind of jowly? So about once a year he and the band would drive someplace like Pennsylvania or New Jersey where he wasn’t known, and they’d call some little nightclub and give them this story that Webb Pierce’s bus had
“I guess you probably don’t need to hear about Rusty,” she said. I reached over to pat her thigh, and my hand collided with hers reaching over for me.
When we finally got up, the kids had gone off someplace. She made coffee and brought it to me on the living room sofa, pretty good brewed coffee with cinnamon in it. I couldn’t decide whether cinnamon was a good idea or whether it was in bad taste because you should want the true flavor of the coffee. She pawed through the records again and came up with Webb Pierce, which got her some points. I mean, Webb Pierce? You would’ve thought Billy Joel or something. Or would you? Consider the woodstove and the black-and-white tv, and just the house in general. So maybe that t-shirt had been an aberration, or even a very twisty irony. Then there was the thing she’d said about her husband giving her a taste for that: had this been tactlessness or air-clearing openness? She did seem to know the difference between literally and figuratively . I was having trouble getting a handle on this Martha Peretsky.
“Have you ever heard him?” she said, lowering the needle.
I considered saying yes and said no. So whatever the first lie was going to be, it wouldn’t be that. Unless I’d told one last night at some point. I thought I remembered maybe fudging some things.
“If you end up liking it,” she said, “I’ll stick a tape in the thing.”
“Great,” I said. “Friend of mine’s been getting me into country music a little.”
“Why isn’t anything coming out?” she said. “I’ve got it turned up to five.”
“I can sort of hear it,” I said.
“OA my God,” she said. “I forgot to bring the speakers inside.”
“Your neighbors like Webb Pierce, do they?”
She jerked the needle off the record.
“Why don’t I go out and hand them in to you through the window?” I said.
“Would you? That would be great.”
Another beautiful day out. And full-grown trees around: on Heritage Circle the trees mostly weren’t big enough yet to give shade. Here I was in the backyard of some woman I’d been fucking. Whereas a year ago today—I don’t know, enough with the year ago todays. “Your yard looks kind of partied-upon,” I said, handing her the first speaker. “I’m afraid our cleanup last night was kind of superficial.”
“And whose fault was that?” She actually shook a roguish finger.
“I’ll make it up to you,” I said, queasy at having to coquette back, but wasn’t it a lover’s obligation not to break the mood? “It actually shouldn’t take that long.”
“Come in and have your coffee first,” she said, probably meaning Let’s go back to bed first. Or at any rate, that’s how it turned out.
We got to hear the Webb Pierce later.
“Yeah, I really like it,” I said. So maybe that lie was the first. “How did you end up getting a taste for this?” Phrased about as maladroitly as possible.
“Long story,” she said. “You really want to know?”
“Sure,” I said. The second.
“When we were growing up, outside of Washington, my dad had this country-western band? The Stony Davis Show.” She said this announcer-style.
“That was your dad’s name, Davis?” I said, wondering about the Peretsky.
“Yeah,” she said. “I just sort of kept my married name. So anyhow, his big thing was imitations, I mean he could do Johnny Cash and Ernest Tubb and, I don’t know, Eddy Arnold. Webb Pierce, of course. And he really had them down, and that was part of his show. And see, he looked a little bit like Webb Pierce. Kind of jowly? So about once a year he and the band would drive someplace like Pennsylvania or New Jersey where he wasn’t known, and they’d call some little nightclub and give them this story that Webb Pierce’s bus had
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