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“Don’t bring bacon unless you’re prepared to deal with the consequences.”

Otis lifted his head at the word bacon then farted.

Lorrie laughed, crouching to scratch him behind his torn ear. “You’re the only one here who appreciates me.”

“He appreciates pork. Don’t confuse the two.”

She smiled down at the dog, then stood and walked to the door.

The bell rang when she opened it and she paused with one hand on the frame. For a moment, I thought she might turn back, but she didn’t. She stepped into the sunlight, the door swinging shut behind her.

Otis watched through the glass until she crossed the street.

“Don’t start,” I told him.

Brian came back carrying a stack of cassettes he had no intention of pricing. “Wednesday closing?”

“Apparently.”

“That’ll be calm.”

“Price those.”

“I’m just saying, the air got very weird near the register.”

“The air is fine.”

“Sure. Normal record-store air. Dust, coffee, unresolved romantic tension.”

I gave him a look.

He held up both hands. “Pricing. I’m pricing. Look at me contributing to capitalism.”

The mail sat on the counter in a pile. I picked it up because bills were better than whatever had just happened. Phone bill. Utility bill. A distributor flyer about Christmas ordering, which should’ve been illegal this early in August. A postcard advertising cassette storage cases in three colors no one needed.

Underneath sat a manila envelope with a Minneapolis return address. Twin/Tone Records.

I held it for a minute, my thumb pressed against the typed label.

Brian stopped. “You going to open it?”

I slid my finger under the flap.

Inside was a typed letter, two pages, with an itinerary clipped to the corner. Twin/Tone wanted me in Minneapolis the following week to meet with Peter and the distribution manager. They wanted to talk about a Wisconsin-Minnesota pipeline for regional bands, independent releases, in-store promotion, maybe a retail partnership if I was interested and if the numbers worked.

They needed my answer by Friday, August twenty-fourth. After that, they’d move on to their next choice.

Brian leaned over my shoulder, quiet for once.

I set the letter on the counter beside the register. Outside, Lorrie’s white Rabbit pulled away from the curb and disappeared into traffic, headed back toward Maple Bluff, toward lake houses and club dinners and everything I wasn’t.

4

Lorrie

Monday — August 13, 1984

Early Monday morning, my mother turned the kitchen table in the main house into the country club command center.