2 A.M. at The Cat's Pajamas

3:05 P.M

Alex Lorca uses his key to let himself into his father’s apartment. The oniony smell of old drapes and carpet. The mail heaped against the door. In the bedroom’s honeyed light, Louisa folds clothes into suitcases. “You scared me,” she says, not looking scared. “I forgot you have a lesson.”

Alex perches in the doorway. “You colored your hair.”

“It’s too much.” She swats at it. “Do you think so?”

“It’s beautiful.” His voice is flat, unbiased. “You’re leaving.”

“What happened to my geranium?” She points to a weary plant on the sill. “It was healthy and strong three days ago. I told your father, don’t forget to water her. The one thing I asked. There’s no talking to that man.” She crosses to Alex and takes his chin in her hand. The immediacy of her never fails to please him. He can tell she’s been crying, but Louisa’s expression is always that of someone looking at some meaningful, tragic thing. Even when she’s chewing out a distributor for overcharging them. Even when she’s looking at him. “I’m leaving,” she says.

“That fat jag made you leave.”

“Don’t call your father names. One day he’ll be dead.”

“One day we’ll all be dead,” Alex says.

“Him first, though, because he eats like a farm animal.”

Alex doesn’t smile. He feels his life fast-forwarding, thwip-thwipping quicker than he can handle. “Where are you going?” he says.

“My brother’s for now. When I find a place, I’ll have a key made for you so you can crash when you come in from your mother’s house, instead of here. This place isn’t healthy. Nothing can grow.” She zips the suitcases. “Least of all future famous guitarists.”

Alex fidgets in the doorway. He doesn’t know what to do when she speaks like this. She is always telling him to watch his hands, or bringing home brochures from the city’s best music schools. But how would he ever get his father to approve? Lorca’s rule is no guitar. No matter how much Alex or Louisa pleads. From age six, however, Sonny and the guys had sneaked lessons whenever Lorca was at the club. Sometimes it was Sonny, sometimes Max, depending on who could get away. The last place Lorca would ever suspect, his own apartment.

Alex carries the suitcases. Louisa scoops up the plant and follows him into the main room.

“You and I,” she says, “are always going to be family.”

“Family,” he spits.

“Kid.” She only uses this word when she wants to remind him that she is older and, at least for another year, taller. “We’ll still talk every day. I’m still coming to hear you play tonight.”

“He won’t let me,” Alex says. “He said things changed.”

“That fat jag.” She slumps into a chair. “He’s blaming you for me. I’ll talk to him.”

“There’s no talking to that man,” he says.

A sound at the door startles them. Sonny enters the kitchen, holding the Snakehead guitar. “Louisa,” he says. “What a fun surprise. Haven’t seen you around.”

“I’m not here to disrupt your lesson,” she says. “Good to see you, Sonny.”

Sonny registers the suitcases. “Anything you want to talk about?”

She halts in the doorway. “I’d like to talk about why Lorca isn’t letting Alex play tonight.”

A bead of perspiration wends down Sonny’s forehead. “Things changed.”

“What changed?”

“Is that a geranium?” Sonny says. “They need indirect sunlight. Otherwise they get ashy.”

“Sonny.”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss club business, Louisa. He’ll kill me.”

“On second thought”—Louisa releases the suitcases with two sharp slaps against the linoleum—“maybe I’ll stay. You guys want eggs? Sonny? You love omelets.”

“I could go for some eggs,” Alex says.

“You guys will practice,” Louisa says. “And I will make eggs. And then, we’ll have a nice chat.”

“This is entrapment,” Sonny says. “I’m being entrapped.”

“If you feel trapped, Sonny,” Louisa gives Alex a barely perceptible wink, “it’s probably because you are.”