Page 15 of After Hours at Dooryard Books
“All right,” Nathaniel says, squaring his shoulders and holding on tight to the battered violin case. “Let’s go.”
* * *
It’s a five minute walk to MacDougal. Patrick takes the quieter way, turning onto a stretch of West Fourth that’s only a few blocks long and which hardly gets any traffic. It’s almost pretty, with the first March leaves appearing on some of the spindly trees that line the street, but Patrick can sense Nathaniel’s attention drawn to every piece of gum ground into the sidewalk, every nasty smell that wafts out of the gutter.
When they turn onto Sixth Avenue at a messy intersection of three streets, Nathaniel tenses beside him. He stops walking, so Patrick stops too. Sometimes Nathaniel seems to disappear to someplace else—someplace not particularly pleasant, by the looks of it. He goes perfectly still and rigid, like he’s relying on the same prey animal instinct that makes deer freeze in the face of oncoming headlights.
Right now, they’re blocking the sidewalk. Patrick takes Nathaniel by the arm and steers him off to the side, so they’re standing against the plate glass window of a shoe repair place.
“You’re all right,” Patrick says.
“Lies,” Nathaniel says, with a valiant but failed attempt at bitchiness.
“Want to turn around?”
“Of course I want to turn around,” Nathaniel snaps. “But I won’t.”
“There’s no shame in going easy on yourself.”
Nathaniel looks like he wants to argue, but instead he rolls his eyes, like Patrick’s being very silly about all this. “I need to try.”
“All right.”
“Just—don’t leave me.”
“I wasn’t planning to,” Patrick says.
Nathaniel’s face reddens. “I mean, stay next to me.”
“Sure,” Patrick says, more surprised that Nathaniel made himself ask than by the actual request. He wouldn’t be the first person to treat Patrick like a cross between a bodyguard and a Saint Bernard. The girl Mrs. Kaplan took in last year had practically glued herself to him.
“We’ll cross at the corner,” he says when they start walking again. “Nothing to worry about. Okay, let’s go, the sign changed to Walk.” Nathaniel keeps so close that their arms touch.
Patrick can practically feel the nervousness rolling off Nathaniel, but Nathaniel doesn’t say anything, so neither does Patrick. By the time they get to the guitar shop, Nathaniel is out of breath and noticeably pale.
The guy behind the counter has blond hair down past his shoulders, a Santana t-shirt, and a joint that he hastily hides under the counter when the shop door opens. He fusses over Nathaniel’s violin like it’s a newborn baby.
Nathaniel winds up buying a set of strings, a new bow, some resin, a new case, and some odds and ends that Patrick can’t identify.
“Susan Larkin told me to say hello,” Nathaniel says over his shoulder on the way out.
“Susan—Suzie Larkin? Jeez, man, you could have told me up front. Is she back in town? Wait.” The man’s eyes narrow. “I read that the band broke up. Are you playing with her now?”
“No,” Patrick cuts in before this guy tells all his customers and his dope dealer, and Susan winds up reading about her alleged new act in theVillage Voice. That’s the last thing she needs.
“Okay, man,” the guy behind the counter says, taking a step back, his hands up in surrender.
“Do you want to go straight home or stop for lunch?” Patrick asks when they’re out on the sidewalk.
Nathaniel sticks his hands in his pockets and looks up at the sky. “I’m still coherent, so let’s press our luck a bit.”
They stop at the kind of place that has a jukebox and a liquor license, cigarette butts on the floor and waitresses who act like they’re doing you a favor. Patrick orders a burger and beer. After a perfunctory glance at the menu, Nathaniel says he’ll have the same.
While they’re waiting for their food, Susan’s single from last August plays on the jukebox. It’s full of hand claps and tambourines. It’s catchy. Patrick likes it. “This is Susan,” Patrick says. “She hates it. The record company overdubbed drums and extra vocals. Last summer, radio stations would not stop playing it.”
Nathaniel listens to the rest of the song in silence, his face gradually arranging itself into something tight-lipped and pensive. “Joan Baez but you can dance to it,” he says eventually.
Patrick laughs, pleased by the bitchiness and surprised that Nathaniel apparently knows who Joan Baez is. Patrick’s secret opinion is that it sounds like the Lovin’ Spoonful, only prettier, but Susan would have to torture that information out of him.
