Page 85 of After Hours at Dooryard Books
“But it’ll be a good song either way,” Nathaniel says.
“Why are you folding like that?” Susan asks. “You obviously want the drums.”
Nathaniel laughs. “Wait, are you serious? Because you matter to me more than any music we’re ever going to make. Come on, Susan.”
“That doesn’t mean you have to give in whenever I’m pushy. We can talk things out. And, for the record, you matter to me more than the music, too, so implying that caring about one another is something only you can do is rude. No offense.”
Patrick opens his eyes just enough to see that Susan doesn’t look mad. Neither does Nathaniel.
“I hadn’t thought of it that way,” says Nathaniel. “Sorry.”
“Also, you can’t let me have my way because you’re afraid I’m going to be mad at you about your reactionary phase.”
“You can’t call it that!”
“I can call it whatever I want. I, apparently, am the only one here being spied on by the actual CIA, so I feel like that gives me some rights. Anyway, I said we’re going to be fine and so we’re going to be fine.”
“I don’t think that’s how this works.”
“Okay, too bad, I think it is. We decide we want this”—she gestures at their instruments—“and we want this”—she gestures around the room. “We decide it’s worth it.”
Nathaniel fiddles with one of the pegs on his violin. “All right. Then, I really want those drums.”
“I’ll want to hear both versions. Drums and no drums. We can record both versions. Hell, we can release both versions. Just something to keep in mind. Also, if we’re hiring session musicians, I want to talk about a mandolin.”
“Your white whale,” Patrick says, sounding very far away. Nathaniel pinches his leg.
“An autoharp wouldn’t kill you,” Nathaniel says.
“So much for ‘this is your music, Susan, I’m just doing what you tell me to do.’”
“Itisyour music.”
“You made something good, Nathaniel. Nobody’s letting you wriggle out of responsibility for it.”
“Harridan,” Nathaniel says. “Here, listen to this.” On Susan’s spare guitar, he picks out a tune they’ve played before, but he’s done something to it, made it less mellow, a little jangly.
Maybe whatever new dynamic exists between Susan and Nathaniel, it isn’t worse than what they had before. Maybe it’s just in a different key.
Patrick shuts his eyes again, and he must fall asleep, because the next thing he knows, they’re listening to the Beatles’ new single. Susan has the record, of course, but so does Patrick—he bought it as soon as he heard it on the radio, like the kind of overenthusiastic teenager he never was. He’s played it probably a hundred times now. It’s a good song. It’s catchy. Patrick isn’t going to dwell on why he needs a seven-minute-long reassurance that things are going to get better. Maybe everybody needs that.
“That bridge,” Susan says.
“Micheal would have loved it,” Patrick mumbles.
“Never met a bridge he didn’t like,” Susan agrees, and starts singing along. Patrick’s spent his whole life listening to Susan sing along—she can’t help herself, really—but he didn’t need to hear her sing “Hey Jude.” That’s for strangers on the record player to sing to him. He turns his face into the couch cushion so nobody can see what his eyes are doing.
26
The school year has technically started, but the teachers are on strike. The Valdez kids have been home more often than not, which means Iris and Nathaniel have taken up residence at the back of the shop with a calculus textbook. From what Patrick has overheard, only about fifty percent of what’s going on back there is calculus. The rest is Iris arguing that the government needs to be overthrown and Nathaniel saying things like, “Yes, clearly, tell me more.”
It’s past nine o’clock, so Patrick locks the door and runs the cash register tape, then begins turning off the lights. From upstairs, there’s another ominous thud. He heads toward the back of the shop.
“One of us needs to check on her,” Nathaniel whispers as Patrick passes by.
“On my way.”
Patrick finds Susan cross-legged on the floor next to the stack of the boxes that her landlord shipped from San Francisco that spring. She has a box cutter in one hand and a look of clench-jawed resolve on her face.
