Free Rhythm and Bluegrass by Molly Harper

tell that’s not beef!”
    “I’ve heard it’s kind of greasy. And gamy,” I said, in what I hoped was a nonjudgmental tone.
    “It is a little bit better in burgoo,” she said. “The other flavors mask the taste.”
    “The stew stuff? I thought that was just for the Kentucky Derby.”
    “Not really. Burgoo has always been more of a potluck party thing. When people didn’t have enough to feed their families—or when they were just plain bored—they got together and threw whatever they had in the pot—venison, chicken, raccoon, vegetables—and they made a stew out of it. There’s no official recipe. Corn, lima beans, carrots, onions, and whatever meat you can get together. Back when Will was a little boy, we used to do it as a sort of community feed for people who couldn’t afford to feed their families—that way, we didn’t put them on the spot. It’s harder to be depressed about poverty when you’re throwing a party.”
    “So why did you stop throwing the parties?”
    She shrugged. “My mother-in-law was the one who organized them. After she died, we seemed to fall out of the habit. I thought about starting it up again but then Jim took over the music hall and my hands were too full.”
    Suddenly, I realized where I knew this woman from. And I felt like the dumbest person alive. She had Will’s eyes. Or rather, Will had her eyes. This sweet-faced woman in the peach-plaid shorts was Will’s mother, she of the delicious pecan pie.
    And it seemed that she was here to power-hug me. “Well, now that the excitement is over, honey, I am so glad to meet you!” she cried, throwing her arms around me so hard that my neck cracked. “I’m Brenda, Will’s mama.”
    “Um, thank you for the pie,” I said.
    “Oh, it was the least I could do. You’re just adorable up close, aren’t you, sweetie? No wonder my Will’s been in such a dither.”
    “I try,” I told her, turning toward the door as I heard yet another familiar voice yell, “Hello? Ma?”
    It was Will. And he seemed to be carrying more possums.
    There were two taxidermically preserved bodies in the cardboard box Will was toting. Their eyes were open and fixed, pale yellow glass. And their bodies were frozen in playful poses, as if they were dancing. Brenda grimaced. “I thought you could use them for your displays . . . The possum thing is just a coincidence, I promise.”
    She pulled the two stuffed animals out of the box and put them on a nearby table. “This is Flotsam and Jetsam. George won them in a poker game a year or so after he opened the club and trained them to dance outside the door. People used to stop by just to see them hop around. And then, of course, they’d hear the music and they’d have to come in.”
    “I had no idea you could train possums,” I said, thinking of the furious specimen we’d just evicted.
    “Anything to bring people through the door,” Will muttered in unison with his mother, though her tone was more reminiscent and cheerful.
    Brenda ignored her son’s grumpiness and laced her arm through mine, leading me around the room so she could see my progress in cleaning. “I can’t tell you how happy I am that someone is going to organize all this stuff and share it with people. I’ve been begging Will for years to come over and at least clean the place out. But he said it wasn’t our building anymore, so we should just leave it.” Will shifted from foot to foot, suddenly fascinated with the sunglasses hanging from his pocket. “I’m so happy it won’t be left to the bulldozer.”
    “Happy to help.”
    “Now, I have something for you, out in the car,” she said, looking to Will. “Hon, would you mind getting the plastic storage bin in my backseat?”
    He frowned. “Why didn’t you just bring it in with you?”
    “Are you going to argue with your mama or are you going to comply with my very simple request?” she asked, her voice going steely.
    Will’s mouth popped open as if he was going to