color dabbed on with a tiny stiff brush, burgundy
lip liner, matching matte lipstick, quick touch of gloss on the center of the bottom lip for the illusion of fullness like
they tell you in the magazines. Granite eyeshadow, one shade for the crease, another for the brow bone, then two coats of
ebony nonclumping mascara. A bit of bronzer on the cheeks and a lot of blending and my makeup is finally done. I douse myself
with Happy, run a blob of finishing cream through my fetching locks, review the rules with the babysitter, kiss the kids,
and hop in the van.
The Rock Barn is empty as usual. Most college kids would rather not watch middle-aged guys play rock and grown-ups are too
busy juggling homework, baths, and bedtime to venture out on a Tuesday night. So it’s just me in my spandex pants, a craggy
bartender named Rooney, the guttermouth drunk in the black tube top, and two secretaries from Joe Patterson’s office, both
wearing elastic-waist jeans. Michael blows me a kiss as I toddle in on my high heels. Though The Rock Barn is dark as a cave,
Michael continues to insist on wearing his prescription sunglasses onstage. Barry Sanders disappears to use the men’s room
and I remember that his wife had mentioned something about a prostate infection.
There is a blast of humid air as the front door swings open. I assume it’s Marcia Simmons, Lucy’s Brownies troop leader. Marcia’s
husband Ned recently hauled his drum kit up from the basement and now threatens to play with The Blue Gilligans, another ensemble
of lawyers. At the last Brownie meeting, in which the girls made sock puppets for residents of the Cambridge County Nursing
Home, Marcia mentioned that she’d like to watch my husband’s band before she granted Ned her “blessing.”
It isn’t Marcia after all, but a petite young woman in denim shorts, rhinestone-studded platform flip-flops, and a gauzy peasant
blouse cropped above her belly button. She takes a table near mine and I can see that she has a heart-shaped face, a smooth
high brow, big eyes, and full, glossy lips. Most striking is her hair, waist length and dark, which swings as she moves to
the music. She is too young and attractive to be one of the regulars at The Rock Barn. I wonder who she is.
The girl can’t seem to keep her hands off her hair. She pulls it up and off her neck, then lets it drop so it cascades down
her back. She winds a section around her finger, then pushes it behind her ears. At some point she puts it in a high ponytail
using an elastic band she keeps around her wrist. I fleetingly imagine snipping off that ponytail with a pair of garden shears
and sending it to the wig-making company. The fantasy fills me with guilty pleasure.
The girl rests her chin in her hands and fixes her eyes on the stage. I inch my chair a bit farther ahead so I can see who
she is staring at. With a dull thud in my chest I realize that she is staring at my husband.
Bass guitarist and law librarian Walter Shope plays the final bars of “Ramblin’ Man” before Joe steps up to the microphone.
“At this point, ladies and gentlemen”—at this point I have to give him credit for maintaining the fiction of a real audience—“I’d
like to introduce our very special guest. All the way from Miami Beach, Florida, give it up for… Edith Berry!”
Then the young woman I’ve been watching rises to her feet, shakes her hair loose, and confidently bounds up to the stage.
Michael smiles as she lowers the microphone to lip level. The band plays the first dramatic bars of a song I recognize immediately
and with fatalistic surety as Peggy Lee’s “Fever.” Edith Berry begins to sing in a low, sultry voice. Now I don’t merely want
to snip her ponytail off. I want to cut off the entire head. I also feel I should protest the sudden shift in musical genres.
Hey, I want to scream, this is a rock and roll band. Somebody pull that girl off the stage!
Edith
lip liner, matching matte lipstick, quick touch of gloss on the center of the bottom lip for the illusion of fullness like
they tell you in the magazines. Granite eyeshadow, one shade for the crease, another for the brow bone, then two coats of
ebony nonclumping mascara. A bit of bronzer on the cheeks and a lot of blending and my makeup is finally done. I douse myself
with Happy, run a blob of finishing cream through my fetching locks, review the rules with the babysitter, kiss the kids,
and hop in the van.
The Rock Barn is empty as usual. Most college kids would rather not watch middle-aged guys play rock and grown-ups are too
busy juggling homework, baths, and bedtime to venture out on a Tuesday night. So it’s just me in my spandex pants, a craggy
bartender named Rooney, the guttermouth drunk in the black tube top, and two secretaries from Joe Patterson’s office, both
wearing elastic-waist jeans. Michael blows me a kiss as I toddle in on my high heels. Though The Rock Barn is dark as a cave,
Michael continues to insist on wearing his prescription sunglasses onstage. Barry Sanders disappears to use the men’s room
and I remember that his wife had mentioned something about a prostate infection.
There is a blast of humid air as the front door swings open. I assume it’s Marcia Simmons, Lucy’s Brownies troop leader. Marcia’s
husband Ned recently hauled his drum kit up from the basement and now threatens to play with The Blue Gilligans, another ensemble
of lawyers. At the last Brownie meeting, in which the girls made sock puppets for residents of the Cambridge County Nursing
Home, Marcia mentioned that she’d like to watch my husband’s band before she granted Ned her “blessing.”
It isn’t Marcia after all, but a petite young woman in denim shorts, rhinestone-studded platform flip-flops, and a gauzy peasant
blouse cropped above her belly button. She takes a table near mine and I can see that she has a heart-shaped face, a smooth
high brow, big eyes, and full, glossy lips. Most striking is her hair, waist length and dark, which swings as she moves to
the music. She is too young and attractive to be one of the regulars at The Rock Barn. I wonder who she is.
The girl can’t seem to keep her hands off her hair. She pulls it up and off her neck, then lets it drop so it cascades down
her back. She winds a section around her finger, then pushes it behind her ears. At some point she puts it in a high ponytail
using an elastic band she keeps around her wrist. I fleetingly imagine snipping off that ponytail with a pair of garden shears
and sending it to the wig-making company. The fantasy fills me with guilty pleasure.
The girl rests her chin in her hands and fixes her eyes on the stage. I inch my chair a bit farther ahead so I can see who
she is staring at. With a dull thud in my chest I realize that she is staring at my husband.
Bass guitarist and law librarian Walter Shope plays the final bars of “Ramblin’ Man” before Joe steps up to the microphone.
“At this point, ladies and gentlemen”—at this point I have to give him credit for maintaining the fiction of a real audience—“I’d
like to introduce our very special guest. All the way from Miami Beach, Florida, give it up for… Edith Berry!”
Then the young woman I’ve been watching rises to her feet, shakes her hair loose, and confidently bounds up to the stage.
Michael smiles as she lowers the microphone to lip level. The band plays the first dramatic bars of a song I recognize immediately
and with fatalistic surety as Peggy Lee’s “Fever.” Edith Berry begins to sing in a low, sultry voice. Now I don’t merely want
to snip her ponytail off. I want to cut off the entire head. I also feel I should protest the sudden shift in musical genres.
Hey, I want to scream, this is a rock and roll band. Somebody pull that girl off the stage!
Edith
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