gets down on her knees in front of him, and his smile glows like toxic waste.
“This is best if you take it all in one gulp, sugar. It’s got a little bit of an after burn, but the bourbon makes it all better.”
“What is this?” Bish asks.
“It’s something my mama showed me. It’ll keep you going for a good long stretch. If you get my meaning.”
She offers him the cupcake on the plate. “One nice big bite. It’s going to be hot, so you have to swallow it right down. Then chase it.”
He takes the cake and looks at her. She winks like Delilah probably winked at Samson.
“Go for it, sugar. One time, just for me.”
The cake disappears into his mouth, and she’s already bringing up the glass and tilting it between his lips. He swallows and coughs a little before he sits back on the couch.
“Whoa,” he croaks. “Hot.”
“Yeah, it is, isn’t it?” She squeezes his hand with the glass in it. “But it’s going to be so good in a little while.”
“That’s what I’m thinking too, honey.”
She stands up and looks at me, still over by the cart, most of the bourbon gone, and a lot of the fruit and champagne. She turns back to Bish.
“You like any of the young players out there now?” she asks. “Anyone coming up who can really play the blues?”
“There’s a kid out of Texas.” Bish taps his chest like he’s got a big belch stuck in there. “Stevie Ray Vaughan. I saw him in Houston a couple of years ago. Heard that he’s cutting an album now.”
He tries to swallow again and she pours him another glass of Jim Beam.
“Funny,” she says. “Blues is black music, but now only white guys seem to play it.”
“Lots of black singers don’t like blues now,” I say. “They say it reminds them of slavery. And they think it’s too country.”
Bish rattles the ice in his glass. “Yeah. They’re into rap now ’cause it’s more modern. City music.”
Shonna Lee offers him a cherry.
“Modern, my ass,” he goes on. “It’s a fad. A year from now, everyone will have figured out it’s crap and it’ll go away.”
“I don’t know if anything ever really goes away,” she says. “I think maybe it all just goes underground until the time is right again.”
“Sure.” Bish chases the cherry and grimaces. “Like Santa Claus comes every year.”
“Have you heard of a guy named Robert Cray? He’s black.” Shonna Lee watches Bish drink, and the bourbon seems to burn him all the way down like the melted sugar did.
“I’ve heard the name. Haven’t heard him play, though. You like him?”
“He’s not as hot as you, but he’s got a sweet sound.”
She looks at him like she’s just decided not to trade in the station wagon for the fancy sports car after all. She threads her arm into the sleeve of her corduroy jacket and turns to me. I can feel her eyes from across the room.
“Jack.” She sweeps her sneakers from under the coffee table and slides them onto her feet in one flowing motion. “It’s getting awfully late. Would you care to walk me home?”
“What?” Bishop’s voice rises, and it catches a little at the end. He’s still holding the empty glass. “No way, honey, you’re not leaving.”
“Yes, sugar,” she says. “I am. Thank you for the interview. I’ll send you a copy when I get it written. And maybe I’ll see you at breakfast.”
I’m reaching for what’s left of the bourbon, but she grabs my wrist.
“What the hell?” Bish slams his hand on the table, and I hear the highball glass crack.
“Oh, sugar, did you hurt yourself ?” She moves over and grabs his hand. “You better take care of that cut.”
She steers him into the bathroom, closes the door behind him, and smiles at me.
“I still need you to walk me home, Jack.”
I’m too amazed to do more than nod. I put my arm around her waist and she leans her head against my shoulder while I walk her two doors down the hall to my own room. Her hair smells so good I almost drop the key trying to unlock my door.
The next few hours could be a dozen songs I’m never going to write, and she’s still lying beside me when morning creeps through the curtains. I look at the clock while she’s in the shower and wonder how I’m going to give her cab fare home without looking like the jerk of the universe. And if I’m still going to have a job when Bish sees me again.
Shonna Lee comes out of the bathroom in a cloud of steam and drops her towel on the bed like we’ve been together forever. She gives me a kiss and takes her time putting her clothes back on.
“We should go see Mr. Underwood, shouldn’t we?”
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” I say.
“It’s better if we’re together.” She opens the door and starts down the hall, leaving me to catch up.
There’s no answer when I knock. I try the doorknob. It’s not locked.
That cracked glass is still on the coffee table, the champagne is floating in the melted ice, and the fruit is getting a little brown around the edges. Bishop is nowhere in sight. I stick my head in the bedroom, but the bed hasn’t been slept in.
Shonna Lee takes the few remaining bits of ice from the bucket and drops them into the cracked glass. She wraps a napkin around the bottle and pours just a tad of bourbon too, then she flicks the crack with the bourbon bottle, and the glass crumbles so liquid leaks onto the table. She puts the bottle on the table next to the glass and folds the napkin again before she looks at me, then at the bathroom door.
I don’t hear the shower or any movement behind it. I knock a couple of times, but nobody answers. I try the knob.
Bish is lying on the floor, blood on the sink, blood on the toilet, blood around his mouth, blood soaking the white bath mat. His eyes are bulging and his face is blue.
I come back into the room and see the girl dipping one of the remaining strawberries in whipped cream. Her face looks like I don’t have any surprises for her.
“What was in that envelope?” I ask.
“What envelope?” Her voice is smoother than the whipped cream and I feel a cold lump in my stomach.
“You flushed it down my toilet, didn’t you?”
She looks at the champagne bottle leaning against the side of the bucket, then picks up another strawberry.
“I was with you all night, Jack. I’m your alibi.”
“I had no reason to want him dead.”
She raises her eyebrows and bites into that strawberry. I remember the night in jail when he made me give up my songs. And the day he sold my guitar. And all the rest of it.
“They’ll think he was so drunk he swallowed the broken glass.”
Along with the hot sugar she hid it in.
“Jesus,” I say. “What an awful way to go.”
“I imagine.” She licks her fingers delicately. “Probably even worse than hanging.”
For a second, I think I’m going to throw up. “What’s your real name?”
“Shonna Lee.”
We look each other in the eye. She reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out another envelope.
“Shonna Lee Mattix.”
My voice feels heavy as lead. “Why not me too?”
She hands me the envelope. It’s addressed to the Mattix family in Tillerville, Mississippi, and I recognize my own handwriting.
She’s right. Things never go away. They just go underground until their time comes around again.
