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.The crowd seemed to be there for the music, not the drinking, for there was a sense of quiet waiting as they sat and sipped their drinks, most of them beers or tall cocktails.No one spoke to Gilbert except the bartender and then only to ask him if he was ready for another beer.As he sat, he eavesdropped on the conversations around him and found that they were either about women or music.But it was mostly music, and the music was jazz.He caught the names of Coleman and Coltrane, Gillespie, Miles, and Bird, along with mentions of more recent artists—Weather Report, Oregon, Stanley Jordan—the list of musicians under discussion was encyclopedic.He thought of joining in but felt unaccountably shy, so he drank his beer and waited, like the others.Five minutes later his father and the bass player came out from backstage and walked up to the bar.His father was wearing a pale blue shirt with a frayed collar and no tie, a blue blazer with shiny elbows, and dark slacks that looked as if they'd been slept in too many nights.There were more lines in his face than there had been before, but Gilbert could not remember his father ever looking young.His hair was even more impressive up close.The only other man Gilbert had ever seen wear his hair like that was Don King, the fight promoter, and he was black.His father must have had it permed, and then set it every day.A hell of a lot of work, Gilbert thought, but the effect was certainly impressive.The two men stood ten feet away from where Gilbert sat on his stool.He cleared his throat and said in a voice he loped his father would not recognize, "I liked your music a lot.Can I buy you a drink?"The bass man smiled broadly with yellow teeth, but his father, with the old aloofness that had always awed and frightened Gilbert, only looked at him straight-faced and nodded."Usual, Billy," he told the bartender."Same here," the bass man said, and walked over to Gilbert."Like jazz, huh?""Sure do.You guys play nice.That was a terrific 'Moon Rays.'""Well, at least you know its name," Gilbert's father said, accepting the CC and water the bartender handed him and sitting on the stool next to Gilbert."You know who wrote it?""Horace Silver," Gilbert immediately answered."Good for you," his father said dryly in a voice that held the black accents of the street."What's your name, son?" the bass man asked.He couldn't tell him it was Gilbert."John Rodman.Johnny.""Johnny.I'm Freddy, and this's Danny.You from around here?""No," Gilbert said."Down south, originally.""You don't sound like no Southern boy.""I left pretty young.Guess the dialect didn't have a chance to rub off on me.""Whereabouts down South?" Danny said.He didn't look at Gilbert.He sat with his elbows on the bar, staring at the array of bottles on the glass shelves."Louisiana.New Orleans."Gilbert held his breath but needn't have worried.There was not the slightest note of recognition in Danny's soft, slurring voice."I worked in Orleans for a while.Years ago.Great town for jazz.""Hey." Gilbert said slowly, as if the truth was dawning."You're Danny Vernon!"His father nodded."I've got your record—the one you did with Hampton Hawes on Prestige?""Holy shit," Danny said."That's gotta be thirty years ago." The hint of a smile touched his lips."It's a classic," Gilbert said."I wore one copy of it out, had to buy another."The pianist appeared from behind the curtain and waved to Danny and Freddy, who finished their drinks and stood up."Okay, kid," Danny said."It's time for the next set.You bought us a drink, so you got a request?"Gilbert thought for a moment."How about 'Groovin' High?'" He remembered his father practicing the Parker riffs over and over again, cursing savagely when the subtle licks defeated him, cheering exultantly when he got through it flawlessly.Now Danny grinned for the first time."I love that fucker," he said."We'll do it good for you, kid." He started toward the stage, then turned back."You gonna be here after, hang around.We'll have a drink.Talk."Danny didn't lie."Groovin' High" was good all right, the best Gilbert had ever heard.Gilbert hung around, and Danny and Freddy joined him afterwards, while the piano man and drummer went home to their wives.They drank a lot and talked more, and when they parted, Gilbert told them that he would come back and hear them play again.As he lay in his spongy hotel room bed, his head woozy from the beer, Gilbert told himself that the business he had in Pennsylvania could wait for a while.Laura would be there when he was ready for her.After all, he was dead.She wasn't going anywhere.Laura would wait for him.Laura would wait.JulyUsually one has less occupation in summer than in winter, and the surplusage of summer light, a stage too large for the play, wearies, oppresses, sometimes appalls….We see too much of the sky, and the long, lovely, pathetic, lingering evening light, with its suggestions of eternity and death, which one cannot for the soul of one put into words, is somewhat too much for the comfort of a sensitive human mortal.The day dies, and makes no apology for being such an unconscionable time in dying; and all the while it colours our thoughts with its own solemnity.There is no relief from this kind of thing at midsummer.—Alexander Smith, Dreamthorp"Children are afraid even of those they love best, and are best acquainted with, when disguised in a vizor."—Montaigne, quoted in Alexander Smith, DreamthorpThe picnic at Dreamthorp that Fourth of July was not the cheeriest the community had ever seen.The recent deaths hung a pall of depression over the picnic grounds.Attendance was limited to Dreamthorp residents and their invited guests, and the crowd numbered less than two hundred.Faces smiled, and laughter was heard, but they were the smiles and laughter of frightened people."Look at everyone," Laura said quietly to Tom as she took a hamburger from the grill and slipped it into a bun."They look like the crew of the Titanic waiting for the iceberg.""They are a grim lot, aren't they?" he said, taking the sandwich and putting it on the large plate with the others.He looked around the shady grove at the dozens of picnic tables, like islands in a brown sea, the individual grills beside each
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