65. McKinley and Shemansky each had a room. . . .
McKinley and Shemansky each had a room in The Co-Op, a once-upon-a-time rooming house across from the Administration Building and near the old Campus Bookstore. I double-parked on R Street, intending to leave the motor running and go look for them, but they came out immediately carrying their mikes and amplifier. McKinley put his electric bass in the cab, but the rest of the stuff had to go in back, with nothing to protect it from the weather. We left Lincoln in a light snowfall and headed east on I-80, the noise of my truck precluding conversation. When we pulled into the Steins’ circle driveway a few minutes ahead of six, a candleflame in the high window made a vibrant spot of warmth against the blue of twilight and the downward-sifting snow.
Lugging their equipment and blowing cloudy puffs of breath, the junior geniuses followed me to the door; I rang the bell and we waited, shivering. Then the door burst inward and we were admitted by the fragrant and animated Sarah. “Come in, come in!” she cried. “You’re letting in all the cold!”
“Surely not all of it,” McKinley answered in his dry way. “Is there somewhere we can put these instruments? We’d prefer not to abandon them out here.”
Sarah showed them to the downstairs rec room. Once they’d brought everything in—I didn’t offer my one good arm to help them—I introduced them to the glowing girl. “Sarah Stein,” I announced, “this is Mark McKinley, he’s the tall one, and Robert Shemansky. They’re Julia and my fellow students from the English Department. Gentlemen, this is Sarah, the Stein family’s secret weapon.” They shook hands with Sarah like the nerds they were, McKinley grinning wise, Shemansky ducking and jerking in his embarrassment. Then we went upstairs to meet the parents. Alex, at the head of the stairs, greeted us with handshakes and led us to the kitchen, where Brenda was zigzagging like a bee, passing Julia first on the right side and then on the left.
“I’m very pleased to meet you children,” Brenda said, peering up to give us the once-over and then lowering her head—she was even shorter than Shemansky—to plow her way between us. “Now, out of the kitchen with you. There’s food to be taken care of. Julia! Don’t stand there like a lump, sweetheart, come over here and help me lift this waterfowl. . . .”
Alex took us into the living room and brought us whiskey; there was no sign of Uncle Ben or of his cowboy hat. McKinley and Shemansky looked around cautiously, relaxing after the chilly ride in my truck. Alex’s whiskey was the best, as ever, and I could see that they had sense enough to appreciate it. The aromas coming from the kitchen were heartrending.
Alex said, “Julia tells us that you’re all musicians.”
“Of a sort,” McKinley said, smiling painfully. He added, “We’re playing tonight at a place over in Carter Lake. I fully expect them to tie our amp cords around our necks and throw us in the river.”
“Carter Lake?” Alex glanced quickly toward the kitchen and lowered his voice. “I’ve heard there are some interesting establishments in Carter Lake. I hope you’re not playing at one of those, ah, all-night sorts of places.”
“We’re booked into a place called ‘The Three-Legged Dog,’” McKinley replied. “The manager’s name is Wilson.”
Alex Stein put down his glass and covered his mouth with a handkerchief; his cheeks reddened as he suppressed a cough. “Never heard of it,” he said hoarsely. “I don’t suppose it’s near the airport?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Mark McKinley said. “This is my first time in Omaha.”
“Well,” Alex said, “I hope you’ll remember that Carter Lake is not a part of Omaha.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and leaned toward us. “In case Brenda, my wife, happens to ask,” he said, “I suggest you mention the lounge at the airport Holiday Inn. In fact,” he added, lowering his voice still further, “if you were offered the choice, I’d even go so far as to suggest you play there.”
“Oh, I don’t think we’re ready for the Holiday Inn,” Mark McKinley said with a laugh.
“I’m not sure you’re ready for this, ah, other place you mention, either,” Alex said. “Oh, well,” he added, leaning back with a sigh and raising his glass. “God protects drunkards and the innocent. Would any of you take another whiskey?”
“I think I’d better,” Robert Shemansky said.
Shemansky was as fair-skinned as one of the elves in an illustrated book of English fairy tales, so it was a bit of a shock when he disappeared with Alex into the rear of the house and re-emerged wearing a yarmulke. He was given the seat on Alex’s right, across from Sarah, while McKinley and I sat across from Julia at Brenda’s end of the table. When he took up the chanted Hebrew prayer, raising and lowering his glass unprompted and showing (for once) a relaxed and serious manner, Julia, Mark McKinley, and I glanced at one another with murder in our eyes; he made us feel like three secular barbarians.
Our main dish was duck, with dumplings in a protein-rich sauce and mild, winy sauerkraut on the side. The vegetable was cauliflower and carrots, with plenty of black pepper; there were mashed potatoes, home-canned corn, and candy-sweet nut-sized pickled beets. Peasant cooking, but for the angels, like a Czech potato farmer’s first meal in heaven. After Shemansky, McKinley, and I each consumed enough calories to injure a middle-aged person, Brenda hauled out a dense, double-chocolate cake with half an inch of icing. We whined pathetically and ate the huge slices with tears in our eyes. Julia had picked at her food almost in fright, but when the chocolate cake came around she could no longer resist. She accepted a quarter-pound slice with the air of a condemned woman bravely accepting her fate.
Shemansky and McKinley did a pretty good improv about knowing the assistant manager at the Holiday Inn. Julia, who had not been let in on the switch, looked at me quizzically; I winked at her, and she frowned and went on eating. Brenda nodded approvingly, shoving food at us. “I’m a little worried about you two,” she said, turning to Julia and me. “Downtown Omaha— You’d better take my car. That truck of yours, Mr. Smith, does not reassure me.”
“We’ll take mine, Ma,” Julia said. Julia drove a much-used Buick Skylark wagon, a hand-me-down from candy-hauling Ben.
“What if it won’t start?” Brenda said. “It’s a cold night, and your car will be sitting for at least two hours. I’d feel so much more relaxed if you’d take the Chrysler.”
“That’s no car, Mama,” Sarah put in. “It’s an ocean liner.”
“I can’t even park it, Ma,” Julia said.
“That’s funny, because I can park it,” Brenda said. “Mr. Smith will drive. I’m sure he can park it one-handed.”
“Our mother parks by the crunch-and-tinkle method,” Sarah explained.
“I’d really rather take my truck,” I said. “I know I can drive that.”
“I’d really rather not ride in it,” Julia said. “I’ll drive.”
“Give us the truck,” McKinley said, nodding toward Shemansky. “Then the three of you can argue all night if you want.”
“You might get lost,” I said. “You’re not going unless I drive you. And I don’t think you should put your amplifier on anyone’s upholstery. I’ll drive you to Car— to the Holiday Inn, then I’ll come back for Julia and we’ll flip a coin.”
Brenda clucked. “Too much driving,” she said. “Take the Chrysler and put whatever it is in the trunk. And here’s another thing. I want the three of you to spend the night with us. It’s too far back to Lincoln, and I’m absolutely certain Mr. Smith will fall asleep and crash.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said as though offended. “Really, we wouldn’t want to trouble you.” If I did succeed in ditching my office-mate and his buddy, I wanted them to have a night in the Greyhound depot to remember me by.
“Let them go, Ma,” Julia said. “That way I’ll have time to help you with the dishes.”
“One of my daughters? Help with the dishes? What am I hearing!” Brenda cried. “You’d better go, Mr. Smith. I wouldn’t want to miss this amazing event.”
“I always help with the dishes, Ma,” Julia replied sullenly.
“One or two of them, anyway,” Sarah said.
Alex took no part in this conversation; he sat quietly in his chair, his hands massaging the armrests, and gazed absently at the tablecloth. It was clear he wished he could go with us to the Three-Legged Dog.
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