Don't I Know You? by Marni Jackson

miss Rassy.
    â€œYou must be so proud of your son tonight,” Rose says, not letting go of his hand. “Wasn’t he fantastic?”
    â€œYes, yes he was. Very impressive indeed.” Why did he end up sounding like a naval officer in these situations? “Are you writing something for the Star ?”
    â€œNo, for Rolling Stone , actually. Just a little sidebar on ‘the hometown concert.’”
    â€œBut it’s Rolling Stone , good for you.” She was quite pretty, he thought, despite the big glasses and the cowboy shirt.
    â€œI did something for them on Ronnie Hawkins and the Band.”
    â€œRompin’ Ronnie? No lack of material there.”
    â€œA little too much, actually.” They laugh.
    â€œDo you have time for a drink or something?” She touches his sleeve. “I’d like to talk to you about tonight.”
    â€œYes, well, I’m with some people…” Just then his wife comes up and slips her arm in his. He introduces them. Astrid gives Rose a cool smile, one she is practiced at. Scott is handsome, with a fine head of hair, and women like him.
    â€œIt was very nice to meet you, Rose,” she says as Neil’s sister catches up and the three of them head for the door.
    Rose stands alone in the lobby. She feels a little bruise of rejection, then dismisses it as unprofessional. Tomorrow, she’ll call him at the Globe , set up something. She has the feeling there’s a lot he wants to say about his son, that no one ever asks him.
    Scott leaves without ever catching sight of Rassy, and they hurry through the cold night air to the parking lot, where he scrapes the ice off the windshield of their car.
    â€œWe can stop somewhere for a drink if you like,” his wife says on the way home, with a hand on his knee. Some sort of celebration seems in order.
    â€œNo, we should probably head home while the weather’s clear.” He looks over at her, grateful for her company and the gleam of her dark hair—the way she dressed up for the occasion and now is perfectly happy to call it a night. The way she handled that Rose woman. Sidebars in Rolling Stone ? When was the last time he saw a girl’s byline in that magazine?
    He should write something about tonight, though. He feels like rushing to his typewriter the minute they get through the door. Instead they drop off Neil’s sister and head home, where they pour a nightcap. They sit on the couch side by side to watch the news.
    Later in bed, he keeps hearing Neil’s voice, twisting and bright like a small flame inside him. For years he’s carried a heavy feeling of having failed his son. It’s lifted now.
    Astrid stirs beside him.
    â€œNeil was wonderful tonight, wasn’t he?” Her low, unwounded voice.
    â€œYes, he was.”
    Her arms go around him, her breath is warm on his neck. Down in the city the second show would be over and people would be leaving Massey Hall, fanning out into the snowy night, satisfied. Neil might be backstage with Rassy right now. Or heading down to Ciccone’s for something to eat.
    Early tomorrow, before the column, he would type a few notes about this miracle of an evening. The night his son came home.

 
    The Bill Murray Effect
    The year I turned thirty, I spent the summer working in a Kingston, Ontario, restaurant where my friend Zalman was the chef. His wife, Rose—another Rose, obviously—made the desserts, including a legendary Spanish flan. I was the “salad girl,” washing greens in the deep zinc sink, and sometimes I worked out front too, taking cash or making the fancy coffees (the words “latte” and “barista” were not yet part of the language). Zal and Rose were dear longtime friends who were hoping that Roberto and I would stay together.
    But the breakup was already in motion, like a car rolling back down a hill in neutral. You didn’t want to get in the way of it.
    They had