At about half past six, Martha Prentice appeared in the doorway of the bedroom. We had heard no sound of the front door opening, of her calling out to see if anyone was home, of her step upon the stairs to where we were working. It would be unnatural for someone to venture that far into her own home without making a sound. Yes, she was wearing the rubber-soled shoes of her part-time profession, but that would not have totally accounted for her silent entrance. Stealth would.

“Hello,” she crackled out of nowhere. Gail jumped the veritable mile, and I landed only a few yards short of her.

“Mom,” said Gail after regaining her breath and heartbeat. “You scared me.”

“How are things coming along?” she asked, not looking at anything but me.

“Oh, fine, I suppose,” said Gail. “Since we started, Ray speaks softly, if at all, and carries a big stick-in-the-mud. All work and no play is our Ray.”

A look of satisfaction crossed Martha’s face. “That’s good, Mr. Sherwood. I’m glad to hear you’re taking Gail and her work so seriously. It would be a terrible thing if her big debut were anything but perfect.”

“I understand, Mrs. Prentice,” I said to Gail’s mother.

“It would just kill me if anything went wrong. You too, I’m sure.”

Chapter 31

31

No Picnic

That evening and the few days that followed were hallucinatory for me. I was actually grateful for the hours I spent on the bandstand. The bandstand I knew. It was my fixed place in the universe and had been for many years. From town to town, ballroom to American Legion hall, my fixed position in the universe was always with Frankie Pompano two feet to my left and Dave Wooster two feet to my right. Sometimes where the piano was located might shift from one side to the other, but within the sax section and in correlation to the trumpets and trombones, I knew my place.

After our last set, Jack stepped over to me as I packed up my instruments and said good-naturedly, “Hello, Ray. Your solo work tonight was the worst I’ve ever heard from you, wouldn’t you say?”

“Was I hitting a lot of bad notes?” I asked. “I wasn’t listening.”

“Not bad, no. Just not very many.”

Vera had plenty to say to anyone who’d hear her out on the subject of cradle robbing. She talked her loudest about it when I was within shouting distance.