been music, or Lloyd would be going on about the documentary he wanted to make, a music documentary that would profile a band without ever letting the audience hear one of their songs. Or something like that. Now, they’d probably be talking about politics, the ways in which they could fix the world.
“Want to join us for a drink?”
It was one-half of the lesbian pair—the one in the shiny shirt. She turned her head to indicate her butch friend in the Pats jersey.
“Sure,” Hen said, and followed her around the U of the bar.
“What’ll you have?” the woman asked, after introducing herself and her friend to Hen. The band was playing a revved-up rockabilly version of a Beatles song, and Hen couldn’t quite hear their names. She thought they were Stephanie and Mallory, neither of which fit the women in front of her.
“Narragansett looks good,” Hen said, and Stephanie/Mallory ordered three.
They hung out and chatted while the band finished their set—half the patrons stepped out onto the deck to smoke cigarettes—and then came back on, playing “November Rain,” then a Bob Dylan song that Hen liked but couldn’t remember the name of. Hen and her new friends danced through the encore in the crush of the dance floor. Everyone smelled of smoke and sweat, and most everyone sang along—“You got a lotta neeerve”—and Hen forgot all about the reason she was here in the first place. She was having fun—unironic fun—and she had new friends.
Back at the bar, in the relative quiet now that the band was finished, Hen told the two women she’d driven to the Rusty Scupper all the way from West Dartford.
“Why?”
“I saw this band at a bar near me, and I was all alone tonight, so I thought I’d go somewhere new to see them. Glad I did.” She sucked the foam off the top of her new can of beer.
“That’s a long drive back,” said Stephanie (it was definitely Stephanie—Hen had heard the girl in the Pats shirt call her that). “We’re right down the street if you wanna crash on our couch.”
“Oh, no, no. I’m fine.”
“We’re not hitting on you.”
“No, I know. I just . . . I should get back.”
“We could call you an Uber.”
Hen suddenly realized that they were trying to make sure she didn’t get in a car and drive. She put her can of beer down and said, “I’ll be fine, but maybe I’ll skip this beer.”
The lights popped on, and Hen realized the bar was closing. She looked around. The place was nearly empty, and in the glare of the overhead lights, everything looked a little shabby. She spun to look at the stage, and the band had packed up and gone. “What time is it?” she asked.
In the parking lot, Hen said good-bye to the two women, hugging each in succession. She bummed a cigarette from Mallory, who lit it for her before they took off. It had been many years since Hen had smoked; she took two deep drags, then felt dizzy and ground it out on the paved parking lot. She got into her car, trying to assess just how drunk she was. Maybe it would be foolish to drive. Instead, she closed her eyes for a moment, almost fell asleep, then opened them again. The inside of the car windows had fogged up, and she opened the door to let some air in. There were now only a few cars in the parking lot. She unfolded herself from the driver’s seat and bounced on her toes for a moment in the chilly air. The Rusty Scupper, filled an hour ago with people and music and drinking and dancing, was now a dark, unremarkable two-story block of brick. In the shadows toward the back, a long, boxy car looked familiar. She took a few steps toward it, as though she were being pulled. She heard a muffled shout coming from its direction, and the car seemed to buck a little. A feeling of real fear surged through her body, sobering her up. She took another two steps forward, then saw a figure appear behind the Dart, standing almost perfectly still, then moving fast, dipping out of sight. There was a sound like a hard tennis serve, then another sound, the crack of a bat hitting a baseball. Her legs almost disappeared out from under her, but she moved two steps closer. The figure stood up behind the car. He was in the shadows—how did she know