LITMIR.BIZ

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nodded. “You learn a lot about people.”

      “I bet.” Mr. Müller shoved one hand into his pants pocket and jingled some change. “What about DJs? Give you much competition?”

      “Not really. There's no real substitute for live music.”

      Mr. Müller gazed contemplatively at his beverage. “A kid I work with is a DJ. He calls himself Rockin’ Randy or some such.”

      Before Dave could reply, Julie opened the door and poked her head into the room.

      “Dinner,” she told them.

      Mr. Müller jumped up from the couch like he'd heard a gunshot.

      “Chowtime,” he said, looking deeply relieved.

      Later, after her parents had gone to bed, Dave and Julie went down to the rec room to watch TV. Dave channel-surfed for a while, stopping to watch an Amy Grant video on VH1. He'd never told anyone, but he thought Amy Grant was the sexiest woman alive. The fact that she was born-again just made fantasizing about her that much more exciting.

      Julie snuggled up next to him like they were back in high school. “Well,” she said, “that wasn't so bad, was it?”

      Amy Grant was dancing against a chaste white background, wearing a succession of cute hats, looking like she was having the time of her life. That was the secret of her appeal, Dave realized. She just seemed so ecstatically happy to be herself, beautiful and dancing on VH1.

      “Was it?” Julie asked again.

      “The food was great. You outdid yourself.”

      “My parents were good, too, don't you think?”

      “They were fine.”

      In fact, the evening had been fairly painless, much easier than Dave had expected. Mr. and Mrs. Müller were surprisingly civil with each other, and Julie hadn't snapped at them once. No one made even a veiled reference to the sex incident. Julie slid her index finger between two buttons of Dave's shirt.

      “It's amazing how excited they were when I told them. How did your parents take it?”

      It had always interested Dave how some artists were able to make videos that captured their sensibility, while others couldn't even come close. As a general rule, the cooler you were, the less likely you were to succeed on video. You couldn't really imagine Chrissie Hynde or Natalie Merchant dancing around in twelve different hats.

      “Dave.” Julie snatched the remote from his hand, erasing Amy from the screen. “I asked you a question.”

      “Sorry. I got a little distracted.”

      “What's wrong? You act like something's bothering you.”

      He swallowed hard. It was now or never.

      “There is,” he confessed.

      She moved away from him, sitting up straight and watching him with an alertness that was fierce, almost animal.

      “What?”

      “I feel awful about this.”

      “Go on,” she said. There was the faintest quiver in her voice.

      All at once, he knew he couldn't do it. He'd never be able to. They'd live together for fifty years and be buried side by side before he'd be able to explain that it was all just an accident.

      “Go on,” she repeated.

      “It's the ring,” he said. “I can't afford to buy you a good one.”

      The tension drained visibly from her face; she slumped back against the couch and shook her head.

      “I don't care about the ring,” she told him.

      “I do. You deserve a nice one.”

      “I really don't care, Dave.”

      “Well, I do.”

      She terminated the discussion by reaching behind his head, pulling his face against hers, and kissing him in a way that normally would have made him forget everything else.

      “Julie,” he said, when she finally came up for air, “I was wondering about something.”

      “Hmm?”

      “Do you have any photo albums I could look at?”

      “Now?” she asked, kissing him again.

      “Yeah,” he said. “If it's not too much trouble.”

      “Right now?” she asked, tracing the grooves of his ear with her tongue.

      “Uh-huh,” he murmured. “As long as it's not a problem.”

      “This very minute?” she asked, sucking on his earlobe while tugging with gentle efficiency on his belt.

      “Whenever,” he told her.

       YOU'VE GOT A FRIEND

      On the way to Phil Hart's wake, Dave told Buzzy about his engagement.

      “That's great,” Buzzy said. He was wearing a black pinstripe suit with a black shirt and a skinny white leather tie, an outfit that made Dave vaguely embarrassed on his behalf. “I'm really happy for you.”

      “You mean that?”

      “Why wouldn't I?”

      “I don't know. I'm not sure it's such a great idea myself.”

      “Why?” Buzzy turned to Dave with an expression of dawning comprehension. “Her old man answer the door with a shotgun?”

      “Nothing like that.”

      A couple of seconds went by. “So how'd it happen? You get down on your knees and all that crap?”

      “I don't know.”

      “You were there,” Buzzy reminded him. He looked at Dave more closely. “You were there, right?”

      “I was,” Dave admitted. “I just didn't mean to do it.”

      “Ah,” said Buzzy.

      Dave's chest felt constricted, as though he were wrapped from armpit to navel in Ace bandages.

      “I'm up the fucking creek,” he said. “She's already reserved the church.”

      Buzzy laughed. “Tell her you have a gig that day.” When Dave didn't respond, he rolled his window down and spit a wad of gum into the street. “It was easier for me. Jo Ann was pregnant with Zeke. That kind of made the decision for me.”

      Of all the Wishbones, Buzzy had come closest to the big time. In the mid-eighties he'd been part of Flesh Wound, a locally popular speed metal band that had been on the verge of signing with one of the major labels when the guy they were negotiating with got fired and the deal collapsed. Flesh Wound's lead singer and lead guitarist split off to form LasseratoR, which had since become a fixture on the local club circuit, but Buzzy had retired from serious rock ‘n roll in favor of marriage and family.

      “Jesus,” said Dave. “Look at this.”

      Warneck's Funeral Home looked like the scene of a good party. Cars lined both sides of the street in front of the imposing Victorian mansion; well-dressed people stood in clusters on the porch and lawn, taking advantage of the balmy evening.

      Dave parked on a nearby side street. He and Buzzy walked in silence down a sidewalk sprinkled with a confetti of white blossoms already going brown along the edges. There was a greenish fragrance in the air, a soft springtime smell that made him nostalgic for high school, the feeling of endless possibility that stretched out in front of you every time you left your house on a night like this.

      “Are

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