Free The Collected Stories of Amy Hempel by Amy Hempel and Rick Moody Page A

the owner of the club, the man who would introduce Wesley onstage.
     
    The owner told Wesley to join him backstage. Eve and I blew a kiss and carried our drinks upstairs. We passed people in line at the ticket window. To one side of the box office there was an eight-by-ten of Wesley. It was a publicity shot from years ago, the sincere-looking one. It was the same picture he had on his mantel at home, only there it carries a caption: “He aimed for the top. He started at the bottom. He ended up somewhere below in-between.”
    We found the small round table reserved for us up front. Eve offered me the first sip of her Tab so that it would be me who would get the one calorie.
    “Look over there,” she said, nodding far right. I looked, and saw four men, twentyish, crowded together, a pitcher of beer on their table. They were novices who played smaller clubs on open-mike nights.
    “They’re something,” Eve said. “Watch them when Wesley’s on. When he makes you laugh, look at them. One will say, ‘That’s funny,’ and they’ll all nod their heads madly and none of them will smile.
    “A couple of months ago that little blond one opened for somebody here. He saw us in the bar after and asked Wesley what he thought of his act. Wesley said, ‘Well, Bob Hope can’t live forever.’ The guy took it as a compliment.”
    Eve smiled her great rectangular smile.
    I asked if she had changed her mind about Wesley, and she said, “Mmmm. Can we not talk about that?”
    I worked at my drink. Eve stared at the empty stage. I said I was glad we weren’t talking about that.
    “I have a fondness for him,” she said. “Sometimes it’s weak…Did he seem nervous to you?”
    “Always.”
    “That’s what I mean,” she said. “That’s why the boat. That’s why,” the lights went down, “I’m always here.”
     
    The owner of the club bounded onto the stage. He grabbed the microphone off its stand and began to speak. Seconds later the sound came on.
    He said, “Every night I come out here and tell you what a great show we have and you know, it’s the God’s honest truth. But tonight I really mean it.”
    Eve and I scooted together till our shoulders touched. We heard him say Wesley’s name. A blue spotlight followed Wesley onstage. We heard Wesley tell the audience how great it was to be back in L.A.
     
    In Sydney Lawton Square, the knolls roll carefully into each other, but the trees don’t match, and there aren’t enough of them. Wesley and I pass the doggy station—half a dozen segments of yellow-painted phone pole carved into hydrants, to receive water, not give it.
    “I did what she wants,” Wesley says. “I got a boat, and we’re leaving the first of whatever comes after July. Hell, I did what I want. I’ve always been a seaman at heart—your Conrad, your Old Man and the Sea, your fish. It’ll be good to get out on the waves and sort of expand my limitations. Sink in water for a change.
    “As for Eve, she’s not sure it will work. But it will. I told her, The trick is this—I do what I want, and you do what I want.”
    He laughs at himself. “And because, too, I love her to death. I watch that girl like a movie. ‘Eve Grant Does Three Hours of Laundry.’ I’m watching.”
    “Why don’t you tell her these nice things?” I say.
    “I could,” Wesley says, doubtful. “But, hey—I guess I’m just a jerk.”
    “Can you just up and go?” I say.
    “I get residuals, remember—Cement cracks, this we know. And Eve can always apply for Aid to the Totally Disabled. You’ll want to tell her I said that.”
    A teenage boy hefting a tape deck matched his pace to ours and Stevie Wondered us to death.
    “You know,” Wesley says, as if he doesn’t hear the music, “I meet a person, and in my mind I’m saying three minutes; I give you three minutes to show me the spark. It’s always there with Eve, and it’s been how long? So I keep thinking—can’t we just be together all the time whether