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"Good," Bishop said. "But we'll keep it short. Tell that fan it'll have to be short."
Having conceded one issue, Kayleigh said, "But I really want to think about the concert, Daddy."
"Hey, baby doll, whatever you're happiest doing."
Bishop leaned forward and snagged one of the guitars his daughter kept in her living room, an old Guild, with a thin neck and golden spruce top, producing a ringing tenor. He played Elizabeth Cotten's version of "Freight Train."
He was a talented, syncopated fingerpicker, in the style of Arty and Happy Traum and Leo Kottke (and damn if he couldn't also flat-pick as well as Doc Watson, a skill Kayleigh could never master). His massive hands totally controlled the fret board. In pop music, guitar was originally for rhythm accompaniment--like a drum or maracas--and only in the past eighty years or so had it taken on the job of melody. Kayleigh used her Martin for its original purpose, strumming, to accompany her main instrument--a four-octave voice.
Kayleigh remembered Bishop's rich baritone of her youth and she cringed to hear what he'd become. Bob Dylan never had a smooth voice but it was filled with expression and passion and he could hit the notes. When, at a party or occasionally at concerts, Kayleigh and Bishop sang a duet together, she modulated to a key he could pull off and covered the notes that would give him trouble.
"We'll make sure it's short," he announced again.
What? Kayleigh wondered. The concert? Then recalled: the luncheon with the fan. Was it tomorrow, or the next day?
Oh, Bobby ...
"And we'll talk about it, the concert. See how you feel in a day or so. Want you to be in good form. Happy too. That's what matters," he repeated.
She was looking out the window again into the grove of trees separating the house from the road, a hundred yards away. She'd done the plantings for seclusion and quiet but now all she thought was it would provide great cover so that Edwin could get close to the house.
More arpeggios--chords broken into individual notes--rang out. Kayleigh thought automatically: diminished, minor sixth, major. The guitar did everything Bishop wanted it to do. He could get music out of a tree branch.
She reflected: Bishop Towne had missed concerts because he was unconscious or in jail. But he'd never chosen to cancel one.
He racked the guitar and said to Sheri, "Got that meeting."
The woman, who seemed to have a different perfume for every day of the week, rose instantly and started to reach for Bishop's arm, then thought better; she tried to be discreet in his daughter's presence. She did work at it, Kayleigh reflected.
I don't hate you.
I just don't like you.
Kayleigh wafted a smile her way.
"You still got that present I got you a coupla years ago?" Bishop asked his daughter.
"I have all your presents, Daddy."
She saw them to the door, amused that Darthur Morgan seemed to regard them with some suspicion. The couple piled into a dusty SUV and left, petite Sheri behind the wheel of the massive vehicle. Bishop gave up driving eight years ago.
She thought about making more calls about Bobby but couldn't bring herself to. She strode to the kitchen, pulling on work gloves, and stepped outside into her garden. She loved it here, growing flowers and herbs and vegetables too--what else, in this part of California? She lived in the most productive agricultural county in America.
The appeal of gardening had nothing to do with the miracle of life, the environment, being one with the earth. Kayleigh Towne just liked to get her hands dirty and concentrate on something other than the Industry.
And here she could dream about her life in the future, puttering around in gardens like this with her children. Making sauces and baked goods and casseroles from things she herself had grown.
I remember autumn, pies in the oven,
Sitting on the porch, a little teenage lovin', Riding the pony and walking the dogs,
Helping daddy outside, splitting logs.
Life was simple and life was fine,
In that big old house, near the silver mine.
I'm canceling the fucking concert, she thought.
