Marzipan at the Holiday Inn

I was pulling into Hamady Brothers for Suzy Q’s and Vernors when they said on the radio Keith Moon had died. “Some of our WWCK listeners might remember when the Who opened for Herman’s Hermits at Atwood back in 1967—or,” and the DJ chuckled, “a certain party at the Holiday Inn that night. Were you partying with Moon and the boys here in Flint? Give me a call.” I swear it pinned me to the upholstery. I sat there with my hand hovering over the radio dial, watching all the other housewives push their carts to their Chevys and Buicks.

“I saw him drive that Rolls Royce straight into the pool,” the first caller told the DJ, and just as soon as he was off the air, another sad son of a bitch called in, eager for a little fame on the FM station. “What the hell was a Rolls doing in Flint? It was a goddamn Lincoln Continental. Pete Townshend pulled him out of it and broke his jaw. He spent the night at St. Joe’s.”

I snapped, “What do you idiots know?” and the sound of my own voice startled me. There was a commercial break, and after the department store ads and oil change specials, they played music again. In Hamady’s, I stared into the racks of Banana Flips and Sno Balls, until I had to tell some greasy stock boy that I didn’t need his help, thank you very much.

I never met Keith Moon and didn’t give a damn about him; I didn’t even go to the concert. That morning, after my husband left for work, I fixed Rosa’s hair at the kitchen table, with ribbon to match her dress. She was the only one of my three children to get my hair, blonde and fine, and she never appreciated it. While I braided it she’d get sulky and twist under my hands to see Brandon behind her, harassing Delia by singing radio jingles in a high whine. I’m Slim Chiply, the guy you see on the Paramount Potato Chips bright red pack. Delia started shrieking and Rosa whimpered and pressed a hand to her scalp. I’m the flavor deputy, Brandon went on, giggling. “Oh for the love of the Lord,” I said, swatting her hand away. I used to be desperate to get them out the door so I could take my diazepam and watch the morning news.

I was watching the children turn the corner when Thomas pulled up in his new Impala. Royal blue with blue leather interior. You could tell he thought he was something, his arm folded on the door and some Motown girl group sha-la-laing loud as hell on the radio. He swung out of the car with his trumpet case in one hand, and waved to me with the other. The Suttons let their son use the basement to practice with his band, Peter J and the Metros. It made me mad, Thomas’s waving, and I ignored it. He never knew how to be discreet. I watched Delia, always lagging behind, round the corner and turned back into the house.

I could hear Thomas’s horn while I cleaned up the toast crumbs and gobs of jam. The heartbeat thump of the drums rattled the storm windows. Terrible for my nerves. Those big-shot bands from England were playing that night at Atwood and the Metros were opening for them. This wasn’t long after they recorded their 45 at that little studio in Detroit, when they were convinced Berry Gordy himself would walk into Embers any night with fistfuls of cash and Diana Ross all fur coat and beehive on his arm. I thought it was pathetic as hell, that kind of daydreaming. All of them grown men with jobs in the shop, a few of them with wives and children.

They practiced that single while I did the dishes. Oh we’ve waited so long for our turn, honey, Peter sang. When I couldn’t hear the trumpet anymore I...