“This is the story of Jill and her lover who was ill,” she announces, and releases a chord. It’s as if, Rabbit thinks, studying the woman-shape of the guitar, the notes are in there already, waiting to fly from the dovecote of that round hole. “Now Jill,” Jill goes on, “was a comely lass, raised in the bosom of the middle class. Her dad and mother each owned a car, and on the hood of one was a Mercedes star. I don’t know how much longer I can go on rhyming.” She strums quizzically.

“Don’t try it,” Rabbit advises.

“Her upbringing”—emphasis on the “ging”—“was orthodox enough—sailing and dancing classes and français and all that stuff.”

“Keep rhyming, Jill,” Nelson begs.

“Menstruation set in at age fourteen, but even with her braces off Jill was no queen. Her knowledge of boys was confined to boys who played tennis and whose parents with her parents dined. Which suited her perfectly well, since having observed her parents drinking and chatting and getting and spending she was in no great hurry to become old and fat and swell. Ooh, that was a stretch.”

“Don’t rhyme on my account,” Rabbit says. “I’m getting a beer, anybody else want one?”

Nelson calls, “I’ll share yours, Dad.”

“Get your own. I’ll get it for you.”

Jill strums to reclaim their attention. “Well, to make a boring story short, one summer”—she searches ahead for a rhyme, then adds, “after her daddy died.”

“Uh-oh,” Rabbit says, tiptoeing back with two beers.

“She met a boy who became her psycho-physical guide.”

Rabbit pulls his tab and tries to hush the pff.

“His name was Freddy—”

He sees there is nothing to do but yank it, which he does so quickly the beer foams through the keyhole.

“And the nicest thing about him was that she was ready.” Strum. “He had nice brown shoulders from being a lifeguard, and his bathing suit held something sometimes soft and sometimes hard. He came from far away, from romantic Rhode Island across Narragansett Bay.”

“Hey,” Rabbit olés.

“The only bad thing was, inside, the nice brown lifeguard had already died. Inside there was an old man with a dreadful need, for pot and hash and LSD and speed.” Now her strumming takes a different rhythm, breaking into the middle on the offbeat.

“He was a born loser, though his race was white, and he fucked sweet virgin Jill throughout one sandy night. She fell for him”—strum—“and got deep into his bag of being stoned: she freaked out nearly every time the bastard telephoned. She went from popping pills to dropping acid, then”—she halts and leans forward staring at Nelson so hard the boy softly cries, “Yes?”

“He lovingly suggested shooting heroin.”

Nelson looks as if he will cry: the way his eyes sink in and his chin develops another bump. He looks, Rabbit thinks, like a sulky girl. He can’t see much of himself in the boy, beyond the small straight nose.

The music runs on.