Gutbucket Quest by Piers Anthony Page B

but it felt an important thing to say at that moment.
    “Yes, thank you,” Nadine added. “You be careful, Mother. Daddy thinks T-bone’s liable to pull some tricks.”
    “Like the hand?”
    Nadine jumped. “You know?”
    “Caught a whiff of it.”
    “Am I missing something?” Slim asked, perplexed by this interchange.
    “Better tell him, girl,” Mother Phillips said gravely. “He has a right to know.”

    Nadine looked uncomfortable. “Daddy felt it best not to, right away, anyway.”
    “Tell me what?” Slim was getting uneasy.
    “Something ugly,” Nadine said. She looked at the old woman. “T-Bone can’t touch you, can he?”
    “No problem. We’re safe here. Can you kids stay for dinner? We have fresh corn and some good buff tonight.”
    Slim wanted to find out what buffalo meat tasted like, and he would have liked to spend more time talking with Mother Phillips, not to mention enjoying his view of Nadine. But Nadine shook her head and said they had to go.
    She and Slim stood up and started back the way they had come. They didn’t talk, but Nadine took his hand and, again, Slim was oblivious to the surroundings. When they got back to the small room where they had started and began to put their clothes on, he was surprised to discover that his embarrassing condition had ceased to be a problem some time before.
    Nadine took a different route leaving Tralfaz. Slim could think of nothing to say to her. The image of her body was burnt into his mind, into his memory, his being. And she had acted as if she really might like him a little, as if he had a chance to earn her love. But she scared him, too. She was so strong, so independent, so clear on who and what she was. And Slim was so unclear on all those things. And what was this business about a hand, that made even Nadine nervous? He wanted to ask, but thought he’d better wait for her to tell him on her own.
    Remembering the conversation with Mother Phillips, Slim thought that a whole lot was depending on one thing he had, at the moment, a singular lack of confidence about. His playing. In his world, he knew he could hold his own. He was competent. Maybe not the best, but above average. But here in Tejas, where blues seemed to be the heart of the culture—where would he stand here? He knew that his playing rarely came from inside. It was all technique, all chops, little feeling. He wanted to express his feeling. Once in a while a note or two would linger and seem to go beyond him. But he needed to let himself out before he played for Nadine, or she would never love him. As they rode, he tried to remember something Progress had told him.
    “When you play it right,” Progress had said, “this hurts.” He’d grabbed his foot. “And this hurts.” He’d grabbed his heart. “And this hurts, too.” He’d then grabbed his crotch. “If it don’t move people, if it don’t make ‘em feel, then it don’t work. The most important thing is emotion. It’s easier to sit down and figure out what notes go with what chords and how fast you can play ‘em than it is to be askin’ yourself why you’re playin’ that song or what feelings you’re tryin’ to express or even why you’re playin’ at all. Them questions require that you be real honest with yourself. It ain’t about what you play, it comes down to what’s in your heart.”
    Be honest with himself. That was hard. There was so much he’d prefer to keep hidden. And how could he be honest with himself when he wasn’t sure, anymore, who he even was? There was so much hurt piled over him, much of it his own fault. But pushing him on was Nadine, and the hope she offered. Maybe, he thought, he could wrap himself around that hope, center on it and stand out from there. He’d find a way to put his playing through that hope and have it come out saying what he wanted it to say.
    “Slim?” Nadine said suddenly.
    He was jarred out of his thoughts. “Yeah?”
    “We have trouble, I