Free Slide Trombone by David Nickle Page B

as death.
    Steve, alone in the washroom. Sucked a deep breath. Looked at his hands, thicker now than then, white little lines along the creases . . . Thought about how they once held one of the big-hair girls — Sue’s friend, the one with the red hair and the freckles on her shoulders. Her name wouldn’t come to him. But her face — wide mouth, cheekbones sharp . . . eyes that looked at him, seemed to
see
him . . .
    Not the one he’d married.
    That one now: she never saw us — playing, we mean. Steve could barely summon her face; when he did, it was obliterated by hot lights, the smell of old beer and cigarettes. Steve took a long breath. Blinked. Thought:
    I used to be . . .
    Steve regarded the trout, lowered his finger to touch the surface of the water. Trout twitched its tail, swung suddenly around to back of tub. And she came to him.
    Her.
    A day ago, standing in the driveway, left foot jittering in its flip-flop, arms crossed, as Steve hitched the trailer to the back of the van. Hot summer wind blew piss-yellow air from the highway, coloured by the afternoon rush. Her brow creased; not angry, not exactly.
    “We have to get on the road.”
    Might have said more; but too much had been said already. And he knew it. She thought he smoked too much; thought this was a bad time to go off.
    Night before: she boiled it down for him as they lay together.
    “You’re disappearing.”
    “Stare into the abyss,” he said softly, staring that night at the square of silver the street lamp made on the ceiling. Staring.
    Listening.
    Humming along.
    “Don’t go,” she said. Fingers fluttered at his chest.
    That day: She shook her head, threw up her hands. Went back inside.
    This day: Trout splashed. Agitated, in clean bathwater.
    Dying.
    Rain hit on the roof. Wind blew across the open window like it was the top of a beer bottle. That was it: we kept ourselves quiet. “Dazed and Confused” was long done. Steve took a breath. Swallowed his beer in two big gulps.
    There was a wide plastic bucket under the sink. Steve took the bucket, lowered it into the tub so it filled with water. Trout swam into it. Steve lifted it out with both arms.
    “Trout didn’t mean be quiet.” Steve, on his way to the front door. “Meant what it said.”
    Vincent: “Keep it down?”
    “Keep what down?” Dave.
    “Same thing trombonist asked
you
about. Not the music, either. More.” Steve, outside now. “But it’s too fuckin’ late.”
    The rain soaked us fast under storm-black sky. Squinting, hand sheltering eyes, it was hard to see where the lake started.
    We made for the dock, empty now. Walked out to the end of it. Dave had been right: should have taken fish back to the lake right away. Claw-footed bathtub was no place for a six-pound lake trout. Dave helped Steve lower the bucket to the water, dip it below the surface. Splashed. Trout jumped out, scales breaking surface in a broad arch. Lightning flashed, dazzlingly close. Trout corkscrewed deep into the black.
    “Be free!” Vincent, arms up in the air. Steve, lowering himself to sit on the soaking dock. Dave, standing, half-finished beer in his right hand, held shoulder height; left hand, absently noodling the strings of his invisible axe; head bobbing to the rhythm of an inaudible drummer.
    The rain was cold and hard but not unpleasant. Not on any of us. Vincent reminded us of the St. Patrick’s Day set, back at the Rook, that year. Dave wrapped tight in blue spandex culled from the ladies’ section of the Goodwill. Wailing out “Misty Mountain Hop” like we owned it. Steve smiled, blinked away the water running down his forehead, pasting thinning hair into his eyes. Looked out at the water, black stipple frosted with misted rain. He flipped over the bucket, started tapping. Vincent, pointing back at the house. Door wide open. Light spilling out. Three gentle strums across the worn strings on Dave’s acoustic, warming up for a run on “Black Mountain Side.”
    “The