Free All Your Pretty Dreams by Lise McClendon Page A

back table.
Parking space was not at a premium.
    But the bar was deserted
except for Walter. “Planning the concert,” he told Jonny. “Moved it
to the lake. The city park.”
    And praise be for that.
Under the pine trees in the large picnic area a canvas tent was
going up, with a stage under it. Jonny was impressed. No landfill
concert, no wafts of garbage through the crowd. He had to give
Lenny more credit.
    The candidate stood with a
clipboard and a baseball cap near the tent, giving orders to
several senior citizens. One was setting up folding chairs, another
working on tablecloths. Lenny threw up his free hand in a wave. “My
man! Back in God’s country.”
    “ The Twins didn’t feel the
spirit.”
    “ Well, the Twinkies, what
can I say? Come look at the stage.”
    They examined the wood
risers and flats. A banner for Farmer’s Insurance hung across the
base. There would be some electrical issues around the stage, cords
strung for blocks, but otherwise it would work. Lenny answered
questions about ice and coolers from an earnest middle-aged couple
wearing lederhosen and knee socks, then turned back.
    “ I found somebody to play
with you since your dad’s out. My sister’s friend, Audri with an
‘i.’ She sings with a band. Kind of a punk but you might hook up,
you never know. God knows I tried.”
    “ Hold on. Dad’s
out?”
    Lenny grimaced. “You better
talk to him yourself. See you at six.”
    On Birch Street Jonny saw
the drumstick first, dangling from the arched trellis of pink roses
like an errant branch, smooth and thornless. On a shrub rose a
snare drum was pierced through by a branch. What was going on?
Everything was still, no voices from the house or the motel. A
cymbal was stuck on edge in the mud. In a patch of grass a metal
stand, twisted.
    Hesitating on the step,
Jonny listened. What was happening inside? Somebody had gotten so
angry they’d thrown the drum set out. Ozzie? Margaret? Somebody
else? What sort of argument had gone down in the house where nobody
raised their voice?
    Was this the part where he
backed away and drove off into the sunset? God, it was tempting.
The pit of his stomach clenched. He wasn’t that kind of a guy. He
wished he was— nothing could be better than to be a free spirit,
devil-may-care, a man without a country. Travel the world, broken
hearts in his wake. Could he just give it a try, please?
    He sighed. Nobody
devil-may-care had ever grown up in Red Vine, Minnesota.
    “ Anybody home?”
    The parlor exploded with
roses. Sweet scents hung thick in the air. Big bouquets in vases,
doilies on chair backs, everything tidy and in its place. Margaret
kept the parlor dusted and bright, in case somebody dropped in. No
broken dishes, nothing out of the ordinary.
    Maybe it was nothing. A
percussion-hating vandal broke in. Or, Ozzie had decided to give up
percussion once and for all. He wasn’t playing tonight because his
drum set was broken. Muffled noises from the kitchen. Pushing
through the door, he saw Carol Chichester and his mother sitting at
the table, cradling coffee mugs, surrounded by drifts of wadded
tissues. Carol looked up.
    “ It’s Jonny,” she
whispered to Margaret, waving him in. “He’s back from
Minneapolis.”
    His mother put her face in
her hands and sobbed. Noisy, grunting sobs.
    Tragedy swirled in his
mind. Who had died? Who was maimed? Where was Wendy? He’d never
seen his mother cry, not like this. People didn’t cry in his
family, not in front of others.
    “ What’s
happened?”
    Carol took his arm, leading
him back through the kitchen door. When the door finished swinging
she said, “Your dad, he—”
    “ Is he all
right?”
    Her eyes squinched. “Oh,
yes. He’s just fine,” she said acidly. “He’s having a fling with
Loreen. Your mother just found out.” Jonny felt his chest squeeze
shut. He took a step back. “She found them together last night, in
Loreen’s car, right outside on the street. Under the streetlight.
For