What You See in the Dark - Manuel Munoz [28]
“Oh,” she said, trying not to pause, as if to suggest that Ed had been expecting her. “I figured I would just wait for him.”
“You singing for him?” He didn’t give her a chance to answer. “He’s got too many people already. Everybody and their mother thinks they can sing a song.”
She straightened a little when he said that, and the man took her posture for apprehension.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said. “It’s just that … well, I can’t tell you how many people show up and ask Ed to let them sing for tips.”
“That’s what I had planned,” she said, shaking her head in embarrassment.
“What’s your name?” he asked. This time, there was kindness in his voice, as if he recognized that he had been too brusque. His voice wasn’t just kind but apologetic. She looked up at him, his brown hair still singed with a light color on top from the summer days, his nose slightly sunburned.
“Teresa,” she said.
“You’re Alicia’s girl, aren’t you?” He shielded his brown eyes with his hand against the sun, but he studied her as intently as he had studied her guitar. “Yeah, you are—you look a lot like her in some ways. Around the eyes, I mean.”
“You knew my mother?”
“She worked with my mama at the café. Everybody knew your mama. She was a real nice lady. Did you know Mrs. Watson? Arlene Watson?”
She shook her head.
“I’m her son. Dan.” He stuck his hand out and she reached to shake it. Even though it was hot out, his hand felt cool to the touch, her hand tiny in his palm.
“It’s good to meet you,” she said. She tried to keep her hand light in his, not knowing when to let go.
“She around anymore? She didn’t pass, did she?”
“No. She had to go back to Texas,” Teresa said. “Family.” She spoke with a nervous hesitation, and Dan Watson seemed to catch the waver in her voice. She could tell that he already knew her whole story, but his face didn’t betray it.
He smiled at her instead and pointed at the guitar, and the way he smiled eased everything. “You want to sing for me?” he asked her. He leaned over and picked up the guitar with great care, holding it out to her. In his hands, the guitar looked like a toy, small against his frame.
Teresa shook her head. “I should be heading home.”
“Come on, now,” Dan Watson encouraged her. “Just one little song.” When she shook her head again, laughing, he stepped closer, nearly placing the guitar in her arms. “You can sing at the Copas if you’re any good.”
He held the guitar out to her. She thought of the women on the television sets at Stewart’s Appliances, the women not just singing anymore but speaking to her somehow, letting loose with their admonishments: this was why they held out their arms at the end of every song, they would tell her, because someone like him might reach right back.
“You want to go across the street? Have some water and rest a little while I’m setting up?” he asked. He had a hint of a singer in his voice, the way it rose and fell, yet still nestled in sincerity. He placed the guitar in her arms, and his brown eyes held hers for a moment before he backed away and began walking toward Las Cuatro Copas.
“Come on,” he called out, half turning, as he walked. After that, Dan Watson didn’t turn around again. He was tall, his back wide, his brown hair thick against the sun. The sound of boot steps on the gravel slowly faded as she watched him disappear inside the building.
She stared across the street at the dark opening of Las Cuatro Copas. Where was Cheno? Her hands clutched the guitar and she heard her feet against the gravel, and she found herself at the threshold of the bar, her eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness inside.
“That water’s for you,” Dan’s voice called out to her, but she couldn’t see him, her eyes still not acclimated. She stepped in, making out a long bar against the lefthand side, with stools padded in royal blue velvet. She reached for the glass, grateful to be out of the heat, the ice water stinging her lips. She looked up at a ceiling fan whirring, an old swamp cooler