“I don’t drag. I’m there all the way.”
“Well, but you’re holding me back somehow. Tying me in. I don’t now.”
“Get another drummer, if you feel like that.”
But he never did. Together they went over each new piece, juggling lines and bickering and giving little wheezes of disgust at each other. When it came to music, Drum always won. He had the feel for it. “What’s this talking out in the middle of a piece?” David once asked. “Where does that get you? Most of what you say is not even connected.”
“I ain’t going to argue about that,” said Drum. “I just do it. If you have to ask why, you shouldn’t be here.”
“Oh, all right. I don’t care.”
He had the sense not to go against Drum on things like that. He believed that Drum was a real musician, someone who deserved to climb straight to the top. When an audience talked instead of listening, David muttered curses at them all the while he played. When Drum hit one of his low moods, David followed him around rescuing scraps of songs from wastebaskets. “What call have you got to slump around like this? What you throw away those other cats would give their teeth to write. You’re nearly there. You’ve almost made it.”
“You reckon so? I don’t know. Maybe you’re right,” Drum would say finally.
David paid a visit to Evie Decker on a Saturday afternoon during finals. She was on her front porch studying. She lay in a wooden swing with her head on a flattened, flowered cushion, one foot trailing to the floor to keep her rocking. When she heard the Jeep, she turned and blinked. Swirls of color chased around its body and across the canvas top, where they blurred and softened. And there came Drum Casey’s drummer out of the little tacked-on door, smoothing down his bangs with his fingers. “The Missouri Compromise,” Evie went on out loud, “was supposed to maintain a …” but her eyes were on David. She watched him cross her yard and climb her steps, rifle-straight and full of purpose. Because of the edgeless shimmer of his hair in the sunlight, he seemed only another daydream, nothing to get nervous about. “Afternoon,” he said.
“Afternoon,” said Evie. She sat up, laying a finger in her history book to mark the place.
“You Evie Decker?”
But he would have known, having seen her forehead by now. She didn’t answer.
“I’m David Elliott. I play with Drum Casey.”
“I know, I recognized you,” said Evie. She waited for him to go on, but he seemed to be getting his bearings. He gazed at the dim white house, at the lawn twinkling beneath a sprinkler, and finally at Evie herself, who wore a billowing muu-muu and no shoes. Then he said, “Mind if I talk with you a moment?”
“All right.”
He sat on the top porch step, with his forearms resting on his knees. Now that he was in the shade he had lost his shimmer. He was made of solid flesh, damp from the heat. Evie began swinging back and forth very rapidly.
“I’m also his manager,” said David.
“Yes, I know.”
“I do his publicity, line up parties and things. I think we got a good sound going.” He flashed her a look. “Drum has.”
Evie stopped swinging.
“Drum has really got it,” he told her. Why was he watching her feet? She curled her toes under. “Don’t you think so?” he asked.
“Well, yes,” said Evie. “You know I do.” She brushed a loose piece of hair off her forehead. David peered at the scars and then lowered his eyes — something that usually made her angry. “What was it that you wanted to talk about?” she asked him.
“Oh. Well, you spoke to Drum the other day about a plan you had. Plan for publicity.”
“Tuesday,” said Evie.
“Was that right, you had a plan?”
“I thought if I went to his shows, and sat up front. You know. People would say, ‘This boy has got to be good, look at what she did because of him.’ Only your friend said—”
“It’s not a bad idea,” said David.
“Your friend said no.”
“Ah, he don’t know. That’s why he has me.”
“He said he couldn’t sing under those conditions.”
“What does he know?”
“He knows if he can sing or not,” Evie said.
“Look. Do you want to try it? Just once, just tonight. If people take notice, you can stay. If not, you go. All right?”
“What, try just sitting there?”
“That’s right. Tonight. I’ll give you a lift, pick you up at eight. Three dollars and beer. Only don’t drink a lot, you hear? It wouldn’t look good.”
“I never have but one beer anyway.”
“Though on second thought, nothing wrong if you did drink a lot. It wouldn’t hurt anything.”
“I never have but one,” Evie said.
“Oh, well.”
He stood up and Evie stood with him, clutching her book. “Wait,” she said.
“What is it?”
“Well, I don’t know. I haven’t thought it out yet, really—”
He paused, not arguing, just waiting. “About your friend,” she said. “Drum, I mean. Well, I hate to go against him this way. Riding right over what he said to me. What will he do? Did he say anything about you coming here?”
“He didn’t know about it,” David said.
“Oh,” said Evie.
“He leaves this kind of thing to me,” David told her. He looked up suddenly, straight into her eyes. “You can’t ever listen to him. Then where would he be? Playing in a room to himself, wasting all that music alone. I hate to see things wasted.”
It seemed more settled then. Evie nodded and let him go.
At eight o’clock that night Evie came down the front steps in a skirt and blouse, her vinyl sandals, and a blue plastic headband that kept her hair off her face. The Jeep was already parked outside. In the back seat, behind David, Drum Casey sprawled out with both feet up and his guitar in the crook of his arm. It hadn’t occurred to Evie that he might be there. She froze on the sidewalk, gripping her purse. Then David said, “Nope. It’s not what I was thinking of.”
“What?” she said.
“You need something black. Dressy.”
“No one dresses up at the Unicorn.”
“You do. You want to stand out. We’ll wait.”
“What? You want me to change now? I can’t do that, my father will start wondering. He thinks I’m at a friend’s.”
“We’ll wait around the block then.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” said Drum. David shooed him away with one hand.
“You leave this to me,” he said. “I’ve got it all clear in my mind. We’ll be over there, Evie.”
Evie ran back to her room. She changed in a rush, mislaying things that had been right at her fingertips and tearing stockings, jamming zippers, tripping over cast-off clothing. If she took one minute too long, she felt, the Jeep would vanish. It would drift off like a tiny, weightless boat, piloted by careless people with short memories. She put on a scoop-necked black blouse and a black skirt. Then she picked up a pair of pumps and ran down the stairs in stocking feet. “Back in a while, Daddy,” she called. Her father didn’t answer. He might not even have heard.
The Jeep waited around the corner. Drum was plucking one guitar string over and over. He didn’t stop when she climbed into the front seat, but David looked her over carefully and said, “That’s right. Much better.”
“Is this what I should wear all the time?”
“All the time?” said Drum. “How often you figure on doing this?”
Evie looked at David, who was backing the car up. He didn’t answer. Finally she turned toward the back seat, and without actually meeting Drum’s eyes she said, “If it works out, I’m coming every week.”