Free Slow Waltz in Cedar Bend by Robert James Waller Page A

out to the living room, Clarice was perched on the Shadow, wearing a maize-colored sweater and forest
     green corduroys tapering down just above her dainty tassel loafers.
    “Lookin’ good, Clarice, real good.” He said it and he meant it, with three bottles of beer propelling the warmth of the compliment
     even further than he might have taken it otherwise.
    “Thank you, Professor Tillman. How’s the winter repair job on the bike coming along? I see you have the chain off and hanging
     over the back of a chair.”
    “Aw, the old guy is in need of constant attention these days. Parts are getting just about impossible to find, but the mail-order
     catalogs keep him going. If I have to, I’ll start running off my own parts at a machine shop somewhere. He and I are together
     for life.”
    “Well, I’m glad somebody is.” The divorce still hurt, Clarice never tried to pretend otherwise around him. “Any big trips
     planned for the summer?” She tilted back her dark blond head, took a drink of beer, and gave him a lickerish grin. They both
     knew what was coming down before the night was over.
    “Thought I might ride up along Lake Superior. I haven’t been there for a while. It’s kind of pretty and not too crowded if
     you stay away from the big holidays. Wanna go with me?” He wasn’t sure why he made the offer. He usually preferred traveling
     alone, but he was feeling deserted and left behind, and Clarice was looking especially good that night. He liked Clarice a
     lot.
    She knew his travel habits and looked surprised, little quizzical smile on her face. “Maybe… when are you going?”
    “I can go just about anytime, since I don’t teach summer school anymore. If you’re interested, we can work it out to your
     schedule. Ready to rumble?”
    The spaghetti was good. They took their time over dinner, drinking a bottle of wine and talking before plunging into the maelstrom
     that was Beano’s around nine-thirty. Bobby had the Blues Band cooking: “Put on your high-heeled sneakers, Mama, and your wiglet
     on your head/Put on your high-heeled…” Drummer, lead guitar, bass, Bobby singing and playing harmonica. And, of course, Molly
     Never (that’s what she claims her parents named her) absolutely screaming on electric violin, legs apart, black heels and
     black stockings, black miniskirt, purple blouse. She looked like a funky Peter Pan who had been around the darker side of
     life. The band hit 115 decibels and headed up from there.
    Bobby’d had this same band for twelve years, and they operated with a hard, disciplined precision. He shouted over the microphone,
     “Here’s a song made famous by three black girls from Memphis, now to be sung by three white boys from small towns in the Midwest.
     That’s why you pay Beano’s exorbitant cover charge, to hear that kind of shit, right?” The crowd roared.
    Clarice and Michael stood off to the side, waiting for a table to open up, which could take hours. She was screaming at him,
     him at her, as they tried to talk over the searing lead guitar of one Doppler Donovan, who wore a cowboy hat on his head and
     military-issue, jungle-style combat boots on his feet. Bobby had gone into a honky version of a Chuck Berry skip as he slid
     into his harp solo, amplifier cord looking as if it were coming out of his mouth where he held a small microphone against
     the harmonica.
    Michael looked over at the booth where he and Jellie had sat a week ago. It was occupied now by two couples engaged in a pairwise
     beer-chugging contest. Her words floated through the smoke and the noise of Beano’s: “There’s something else going on between
     us, isn’t there, Michael?”
    Clarice slipped her arm around his waist and hugged him, bouncing up and down to the beat. She wanted to dance, and she’d
     eventually get him out there. But Michael wasn’t comfortable on dance floors, never had been, so he was waiting for the second
     round of beer drinking to override the