"I'm so sorry, Vernell," I whispered.

"Vernell!" Jolene had had enough.

"I'll keep a close watch," he said, as he walked me to the door. "She's my baby, too, you know."

"I know, Vernell."

He opened the door and watched as I walked over to my car. "Take care of yourself, Maggie."

I looked back. Jolene was drifting down the staircase like a descending spider. Vernell was the one who needed to watch his back, I thought.

I started the car and backed carefully out of the jdriveway, past the flattened mailbox, out into the cul-de-sac. Vernell had closed the front door and by now was facing an angry Dish Girl. I let the VW slide across the street, under the cover of the drooping pin oak, and watched.

The downstairs lights went out. Eventually only one room stayed lit, Sheila's. She was sitting up there, worrying, I just knew.

"Don't worry, baby," I whispered into the darkness. "Mama's right here."

I sat under the big tree branch and watched for I don't know how long. The sound of Maurice Chevalier's voice echoed in my head, replaced by Jolene's accusatory voice: "What kind of a mother are you?"

Maybe the warning had been directed at me. Maybe someone knew about Jimmy being dead in my house, and me being a singer and having a daughter. I'd heard about people getting anonymous phone calls after they'd been in the paper or on TV. Maybe that Jolene was right. But there'd been that phone call at the Curley-Que, too. I pondered on that awhile. Was she right? Was I a bad mother? What kind of right did I have to go off and pursue my own dream?

Sheila's light finally winked out a little after two A.M. I sat there a few more minutes and then drove off toward Jack's. There was no sense in going back to the club. The boys would all be heading home by now. The night was drawing to a close.

I putted slowly across town, lost in a fog of indecision and confusion. I pulled into Jack's parking lot, slid into a space near the loading dock and walked toward the door, all without consciously taking in my surroundings. Only the harmonica music drifting slowly across the lot intruded into my awareness. Jack was sitting on the concrete loading pad, waiting for me, a Rolling Rock in one hand and a C Sharp harmonica in the other.

"You scared the shit out of me," he said. He didn't look scared, though, he looked just as he always did, calm and peaceful. "I've been sitting out here, waiting."

It was only when I stepped up onto the dock and sank down beside him that I noticed his hands were shaking ever so slightly.

"Jack, I'm sorry," I said. He turned to me, his eyes filled with concern and some other emotion that I couldn't read. "I had to go see about Sheila. I couldn't have stayed and explained."

"Is she all right?" he asked.

"I don't know. I think maybe, for now, she is." Jack sighed and took a swig of his been "Vernell's fine little wife thinks the man on the phone was trying to point out what a bad mother I am."

"Well, that's just horseshit!" Jack said. He reached over and put his arm around my shoulders, pulling me close to him. It was cold outside and Jack's body was warm.

"I don't know what to think. All I know is, it scared me to death."

"Scared me, too" he said. "You've gotta start taking better care of yourself. Watch what you're doing. Fix the damn lock over at your place and let the police help you. This is getting serious, Maggie. I tried to explain it to Sparks, but I gotta tell you, Maggie, he was a little pissed."

That was all I needed. "I'll call him tomorrow."

"Well," Jack sighed, "better let him cool down a bit first. Just show up on time tomorrow night and talk to him."

"What did he say, Jack?" I asked, suddenly more afraid.

"He said he'd had enough of you running in and out. Said he had a band to think of and that if you couldn't be reliable, he'd have to let you go."

"Great! Just fine!" I said.

"Try not to let him get to you," he said. "His bark is worse than his bite." He squeezed me tight, then stood up. "Let's go inside. It's freezing out here."

It wasn't until we got inside and into the light that I realized something else. Jack had been crying. He tried to hide it with a thin, watery smile, but his eyes were swollen and red. In my lifetime I will admit that I had not seen many men cry. It was unusual and a little frightening. But then, Jack was unusual, a man who was comfortable with his feelings. Still, I couldn't help walking up to him and touching him tentatively.

"Jack? What's wrong? Have you been crying?"

He turned and smiled softly, but his lips trembled. "I'm fine," he said.

"Did I scare you that badly?" I asked.

He laughed a little and shook his head. "No, don't worry about it. It doesn't have a thing to do with you. Except"-his voice faltered for a moment-"except just don't let anything happen to you, all right? I couldn't stand to lose anyone else right now."

"Is it Evelyn?" I asked.

"Yeah, but let's not talk about it right now, all right, Maggie?" He reached out and stroked my hair gently, as if I were much younger than him, and not the other way around. "Let's just go upstairs and go to sleep." He stressed the word sleep, as if I should understand that he, too, realized the moment we had shared was past.

I let him take my hand, and we walked up the stairs to his bedroom. This time, when I slipped in between the sheets, it no longer occurred to me to worry about his nakedness. Instead I rolled over to face his back, reached out my hand, and let it rest on his shoulder. Later, when he thought I was asleep, I heard a quiet sob escape his lips and felt him tremble.

I lay there wondering what to do, my hand still resting on his shoulder. In all of my life, I had never seen a man hurt this way, not over a woman, not over anything that I could recall. Even when my brother Larry's wife left him, he hadn't cried. I'd found him out behind the old barn, chopping wood in the middle of January, working so hard that even bare-chested in thirty-degree weather, he was sweating. But I never saw him cry.

Eventually, I heard the soft sound of even breathing and realized that Jack had drifted off to sleep. I lay awake for a long time, thinking about the men in my life, and wondering if one of them had been the voice on the phone, if maybe someone I knew had killed Jimmy and now wanted to see me dead. But why? What had I done to make someone so angry they'd threaten my daughter and try and frame me for murder?

I awakened alone and with a plan. Jack was gone and the carafe of coffee was waiting for me on the kitchen counter. I sat on the sofa, drinking and rooting through my purse and wallet. I had been surprised to see Marshall Weathers's card floating around in my bag a few days ago. I hadn't remembered him giving it to me, but now when I needed it, it was nowhere to be found.

"Come on, Weathers, I know you're in here," I muttered. I pulled out my wallet and started taking every picture, credit card, and paper out of the worn leather slots. It had to be there somewhere. Only after I emptied every last item out of my purse did I find the beige business card, wedged under a piece of leather at the bottom.

I sat for a few moments, studying the card and debating: Call or don't call? "Just don't think about it," I whispered to myself. "Just pick up the phone and do it." My fingers were cold and I realized that I was shaking on the inside. "What are you afraid of? He'll listen to you. He'll take you seriously." But maybe he wouldn't. Maybe he'd blow me off like he had when someone shot at me. Maybe he'd think I was making it all up to throw the suspicion off of myself.

I jumped up off the sofa and ran across the room to the phone, picked it up, and dialed before I could stop myself. He answered on the first ring.