Page 72 of Side Trip

“Who is it?”

“Some guy named Trace. Trace the Outlines is the band’s name.” He slices a fingernail through the plastic, unwraps the CD.

“Never heard of them.”

“Me neither. It’s their debut. But I like the title.” He shows her the cover.Joyride.

A hint of a smile touches her mouth, lifts the corners.

Mark goes to the entertainment center and puts on the CD. He dials up the volume and the sound blindsides her. A slap to her cheek. A whip across her back. It rocks her to the core.

Three chords in, and she has no doubt about the song. First stanza in, and she’s trembling.

Trace’s vocals reach her, a rich tenor with a rough undertone that reminds her of hot summer days driving along a historic two-lane highway with a man whose memories have haunted her since. Dylan isn’t singing and this isn’t his album. But those are his lyrics and the music he wrote to go along with them. By the end of the first verse, tears dampen her face. Her reaction to the music is sudden and strong, and entirely unexpected.

Mark turns away from the CD player, mouth parted as if to say something, and freezes.

“What’s wrong? Is it the music?”

Joy shakes her head, covering her ears. Mark looks confused.

“Your job? Is it the therapy? Don’t go if it makes you this upset.”

Joy shakes her head again.

“Then what is it?”

“Turn it off.”

“What?” he asks, baffled.

“Turn it off. Turn off the music.” Her voice rises when he’s too slow on the uptake.

Mark stabs the power button and the music cuts out. Joy bursts into tears. She runs to the bathroom and locks the door. Sinking to the floor, she drops her head in her hands and sobs.

Later that evening, long after Joy has calmed, she finds Mark nursing a bottle of Knob Creek in the front parlor. She collects a crystal-cut lowball from the sideboard and pours herself two fingers. Why not? She isn’t pregnant.

He watches her settle onto the opposite end of their couch and test the liquid. It etches a fiery trench in her esophagus. He finishes his glass, pours another, finishes that.

“Mark,” she starts when he seems intent on drinking himself into a stupor. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s just music, Joy.” He openly stares at her. “What’s going on with you? Aside from the miscarriage,” he says gently.

She sighs and gazes into the glass of amber liquid cradled on her lap. He deserves the truth, but she can’t find the courage to tell him what about the CD set her off. She’d overreacted before she could catch herself. She could blame Dylan. He’d blindsided her producing a song she never expected to hear unless, by chance, fortunate or not, they both showed up at Rob’s on the agreed upon date, and he’d sing her song for her then. Because he never finished it while on the road. She should blame herself. The dishonesty and lying, she is fully responsible.

Instead, she blames work. She’s running up against deadlines and she’s been a sloth at home. She excuses her outburst with the miscarriages and the pressure to get pregnant. Mark’s been talking about babies since before they married. Her mom wants a grandchild. His mom wants several. She corners Joy every time they visit. How’s the family planning coming along? Are you taking your prenatal vitamins? Drinking your green shakes? The cousins are getting older and she misses when they were infants. The smell, the sounds. Everything fresh and such a wonder. Joy hasn’t been able to please anyone.

Mark doesn’t buy it. Any of it.

“I’ve seen the way you read those cover to cover over and over when you don’t think I’m looking.” He gestures at theRolling Stonemagazine on the ottoman. There’s a stack of past issues on the bottom shelf of the couch side table. More stacks on the built-in shelf unit in front of them. “You flip through the pages like you’re looking for something specific.” He looks hard at her. “Is it Trace? Do you know him?”

Joy shakes her head.

“Any of these guys?” He reads the small print in the CD booklet.

She doesn’t answer him.

“Some days I feel really close to you. I don’t know where you begin, and I end. I love that about us. But other days? I watch you stare out the window for hours and you’re far away. You come back and you’re like a stranger living in our house. You’re distant. I’ve always wanted to ask where you go when you do that. Zone out.” He slides the CD booklet back into the case. “Maybe I should have downloaded the album for you. You don’t even listen to CDs.” He sets aside the disc and stands.

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