Read Online Wife Living Dangerously by Sara Susannah Katz - Free Book Online

this, looking the way I always look.”
    Barry steps up to the microphone. “Hel-
lo,
ladies and gentlemen. It is my great pleasure to welcome you to classic rock night at The Rock Barn. I’m the Buzzard, and
this,
my friends, is Past the Legal Limit!” He thrusts his fist above his head and the band careens into its first number, a decent
     rendition of Led Zeppelin’s “Black Dog” which has no part for a saxophone but Michael plays along anyway.
    “Let me tell you something,” says Stacy, leaning close and literally screaming into my ear so I can hear her over the music.
     “This band is the best thing that could have happened to Barry.” She pulls a ball of yarn and two long wooden knitting needles
     from a quilted tote bag. “Makes him feel like a teenager. And not just onstage, if you know what I mean. Better than Viagra.”
    I try to block the mental image of Stacy and the Buzzard in bed but it’s too late. The band stops for a break between sets.
     All the husbands find their wives except for Michael who stays onstage to fiddle with the amplifiers. He grins at me and I
     give him an enthusiastic thumbs-up. In truth, his saxophone croaked like a thirteen-year-old boy heading into puberty, but
     I believe it is my responsibility as his wife and best friend to encourage him.
    “Barry, you’re sweating,” Stacy says. “Should I get you some water?”
    “I’m not Barry,” Barry whispers. The armpits of his gray FUBU T-shirt are heavily ringed with sweat. “I’m the Buzzard. I
told
you.”
    “Right. Sorry. Buzzard.” Stacy smiles patiently. “You want some water?”
    “I like the earring, Buzzard,” I say, touching my own earlobe. “Very cool.”
    “It’s magnetic,” Stacy whispers. “Barry would pass out if someone stuck a needle in his ear.”
    Barry glares at his wife. “Do you have to do that here?”
    “Do what?”
    “What do you think?” He looks around. “
Knit.
” He lowers his voice. “It’s not
appropriate.
”
    Stacy waves away his complaint with a patient smile and continues working her needles. “It’s a great ego boost,” Stacy tells
     me later, once our husbands have reassembled on stage for their second set. “Just look at them up there. They even have groupies.”
    She smirks and I follow her goggling eye to an old hippie shuffling barefoot on the filthy floor. She is wearing a black tube
     top and a ruffled patchwork skirt, dancing near the edge of the stage with a beer in one hand. When the song is done, she
     claps, spills the beer on her chest, and says, “Aw, fuck.” Michael looks at her, then at me, winces, and smiles a private
     kind of smile, a husband-to-wife kind of smile.
    Somewhere in the middle of a groaning rendition of “Free Ride,” I feel a hand on my shoulder. “Is there room for one more
     at this table?”
    “Annie! What are you doing here?”
    “I thought you could use the moral support.”
    Annie pulls up a stool, introduces herself to Stacy, and orders a beer. She’s wearing a dark denim jacket over a white camisole,
     flared jeans, and cowboy boots. She looks up at the stage and smiles. “Well, look at
him.
A regular rock star.”
    “Not quite,” I say, grimacing.
    She slaps me lightly on the hand. “Be nice, Julia. He’s”—she curls her fingers into quotation—“following his bliss.” She slides
     over and undoes the top two buttons of my blouse.
    “What are you doing?”
    “What do you think I’m doing? You’re with the band now. You need to dress the part.”
    I redo one of the buttons. Even in the dim lighting I can see Annie scowling at me. “What?”
    “You know what. Loosen up, Julia. You’re in a bar, you’re a grown woman, the kids are with a sitter, your husband’s up there
     rocking and rolling. Or whatever. Just have fun for a change, okay?”
    Michael joins us when the set is done. “You’ve got quite a following,” I tell him, tilting my head toward the beer-soaked
     woman in the tube top.