Dusk, of a summer night.
As they walked onto the town common, Mary was again reminded of the concerts she had attended in Elmira as a child, and she felt a pang of nostalgia and sorrow penetrate the cocoon of shock which her mind and emotions had wrapped around her. So similar... but so different, too. There were no children waving sparklers; the only kids present were a dozen or so huddled together as far from the bandshell as they could get, their pale faces strained and watchful. The kids she and Clark had seen in the grammar-school play-yard when they made their abortive run for the hills were among them.
And it was no quaint brass band that was going to play in fifteen minutes or half an hour, either -- spread across the band-shell (which looked almost as big as the Hollywood Bowl to Mary's eyes) were the implements and accessories of what had to be the world's biggest -- and loudest, judging from the amps -- rock-and-roll band, an apocalyptic bebop combination that would, at full throttle, probably be loud enough to shatter window-glass five miles away. She counted a dozen guitars on stands and stopped counting. There were four full drum-sets... bongos... congas... a rhythm section... circular stage pop-ups where the backup singers would stand... a steel grove of mikes.
The common itself was filled with folding chairs -- Mary estimated somewhere between seven hundred and a thousand -- but she thought there were no more than fifty spectators actually present, and probably less. She saw the mechanic, now dressed in clean jeans and a Perma-Pressed shirt; the pale, once-pretty woman sitting next to him was probably his wife. The nurse was sitting all by herself in the middle of a long empty row. Her face was turned upward and she was watching the first few glimmering stars come out. Mary looked away from this one; she felt if she looked at that sad, longing face too deeply, her heart would break.
Of the town's more famous residents there was currently no sign. Of course not; their day-jobs were behind them now and they would all be backstage, duding up and checking their cues. Getting ready for tonight's rilly big shew.
Clark paused about a quarter of the way down the grassy central aisle. A puff of evening breeze tousled his hair, and Mary thought it looked as dry as straw. There were lines carved into Clark's forehead and around his mouth that she had never seen before. He looked as if he had lost thirty pounds since lunch in Oakridge. The Testosterone Kid was nowhere in evidence, and Mary had an idea he might be gone for good. She found she didn't care much, one way or the other.
And by the way, sugarpie-honeybunch, how do you think you look?
"Where do you want to sit?" Clark asked. His voice was thin and uninterested -- the voice of a man who still believes he might be dreaming.
Mary spotted the waitress with the coldsore. She was on the aisle about four rows down, now dressed in a light-gray blouse and cotton skirt. She had thrown a sweater over her shoulders. "There," Mary said, "beside her." Clark led her in that direction without question or objection.
The waitress looked around at Mary and Clark, and Mary saw that her eyes had at least settled down tonight, which was something of a relief. A moment later she realized why: the girl was cataclysmically stoned. Mary looked down, not wanting to meet that dusty stare any longer, and when she did, she saw that the waitress's left hand was wrapped in a bulky white bandage. Mary realized with horror that at least one finger and perhaps two were gone from the girl's hand.
"Hi," the girl said. "I'm Sissy Thomas."
"Hello, Sissy. I'm Mary Willmgham. This is my husband, Clark."
"Pleased to meet you," the waitress said.
"Your hand..." Mary trailed off, not sure how to go on.
"Frankie did it." Sissy spoke with the deep indifference of one who is riding the pink horse down Dream Street. "Frankie Lymon. Everyone says he was the sweetest guy you'd ever want to meet when he was alive and he only turned mean when he came here. He was one of the first ones... the pioneers, I guess you'd say. I don't know about that. If he was sweet before, I mean. I only know he's meaner than cat-dirt now. I don't care. I only wish you'd gotten away, and I'd do it again. Besides, Crystal takes care of me."
Sissy nodded toward the nurse, who had stopped looking at the stars and was now looking at them.
"Crystal takes real good care. She'll fix you up, if you want -- you don't need to lose no fingers to want to get stoned in this town."
"My wife and I don't use drugs," Clark said, sounding , pompous.
Sissy regarded him without speaking for a few moments. Then "she said, "You will."
"When does the show start?" Mary could feel the cocoon of shock starting to dissolve, and she didn't much care for the feeling.
"Soon."