Ray

XXVIII

I BROUGHT a new Goliath harmonica made by Hohner into J. Hooch’s room. By then he weighed a hundred and thirty and was looking fairly decent.

“Gimme that son of a bitch. Whose is that?”

“Yours.”

A month later he was back at the Hooch house. I would put the MG on neutral to hear the strains coming from Sister’s studio. His bed was there. He’s moved to it, all the guitars, the stereo around him. The old boy was playing the hell out of the harmonica. He was at a hundred and fifty and going normal.

“I’ll be what my daughter was trying to be!”

“What?”

“Already got myself recorded. All I need is a drum. I read Sister’s diary! Goddamn it, I’m a great old son of a bitch!”

The dirty dog was playing the harmonica every time I came by the house. I’d just shut the car down and listen to the tender sorrow coming through the forty-eight reeds.

Then with duty on my mind, I go by the emergency room. Nothing. The usual hurt niggers, but all’s in control.

I am late coming home and Westy is pissed off. Yes, I had some bourbons, and I guess I just sort of threw her nightgown up and tried to.

Women enjoy conversation.

Lube does not come in before talk.

I got up to brush my teeth and prove I’m not drunk.

All right.

Afterward, I ate her slowly. I hadn’t eaten much all day.