Free Before He Finds Her by Michael Kardos Page B

these last few days of reflection and near--constant driving to tell her that the plan had expanded. And they had to be finished rehearsing by ten tonight because of the town’s noise ordinance. When they’d first moved to Sandy Oaks, a cop had broken up a weeknight jam at 8:30 p.m. Someone in the neighborhood had called the cops on them anonymously, rather than just knocking on the door like a normal human being and asking Ramsey if they could turn it down a notch or two. Welcome to the neighborhood.
    “I want us to be great, is all,” he said, getting a six-pack from the refrigerator and setting it on the counter.
    Laid out on the kitchen table were 3 x 5 index cards, with more cards in a plastic box. Allie had a computer in her office at work, but she preferred the index cards, which she carried with her when she traveled from doctor’s office to doctor’s office, wearing tight business skirts and being outgoing and drumming up demand for whatever new drug her company decided that these doctors’ patients’ bones or blood or organs couldn’t do without. Fridays, she confirmed the next week’s appointments. It wasn’t lost on Ramsey that at different points in their lives, they both worked as drug pushers—he as a sixteen-year-old pot dealer, she as a grown woman shilling expensive pharmaceuticals for a megacorporation. But he kept this observation to himself.
    Allie handed Meg her Little Mermaid cup of water. “You guys will be playing for family,” she said to Ramsey. “They’ll be proud no matter how you sound.”
    “Yeah, about that.” Just then, the bass amp got a lot louder. The last thing they needed was a cop breaking up their rehearsal before it got started.
    “About what?” Allie asked.
    But Ramsey was heading upstairs to the guest room for his guitar case. “About what ?” she called after him. Seconds later, he was back. He kissed Allie’s neck, bent down and kissed the top of Meg’s head.
    “I’ll tell you later,” he said. When Allie’s eyes narrowed, he added, “Don’t worry—it’s good. Like a surprise. Killer bra, by the way.”
    He grabbed the six-pack with his free hand and headed to the garage. As soon as he’d opened the door separating the laundry room from the garage, a beer can was arcing toward him, and he had to drop the six-pack on the ground (it was either that or the guitar) to catch it. Ramsey opened the can, took a swallow, and looked around.
    “I had a dream last night,” he said, closing the door behind him. “I could fly, and breathe underwater.” He set the guitar case on the ground and snapped it open. “I could do anything. I think that dream was about this gig.” He looked up at the guys. “It’s going to be like that on Sunday. Like flying. And breathing underwater.”
    “Amen,” said Eric.
    “Preach to us, brother Ramsey!” called Paul from behind his drum kit. Eric, sensing sacrilege, shot his younger brother a look.
    Ramsey wiped down the fretboard with a rag and lifted the guitar out of its case.
    “You have no idea,” he said, “how good it is to see you assholes.”
    Ramsey gladly parked his car outside, in the driveway, to make room for the drumset, microphone stands, speakers on tripods, a jumble of patch cords and speaker cables snaking across the ground. The four-channel P.A. sat on a scratched-up coffee table that Ramsey had claimed from someone else’s curb back when he needed to furnish his first apartment on the cheap. Tacked to the drywall were a half dozen rock-star posters and twice as many classic album covers. In the corner of the garage stood a spare refrigerator/freezer, left by the house’s former owner.
    They had a name, Ramsey and Paul and Eric and Wayne. They called themselves Rusted Wheels, but they weren’t a real band. Real bands played out. The point of Rusted Wheels was always exactly this—to jam in Ramsey’s garage. They met up every couple of weeks, depending on Ramsey’s driving schedule, and in all