Marcy | A Round of Applause

Marcy

A limo rolled beside a curb, and its driver assured he'd be waiting at the same spot upon his passenger's return. She bunched her jacket's ends within her hand and pottered through the autumn winds. A bar's heating system kissed the native's cool skin as she admired the business's intimate touches, running her glistening nails across the dented countertop the owner never bothered to fix. He did repair the hot-blue neon sign 'Where the Real Cowboys Live', which blinked over twenty times a night during her last visit.

"Johanna? Johanna Beckett?" A silver-bearded man beamed. "What'chu doing here, girl?" He wrapped the young woman in a tight bear-hug and laughs swept the room.

"I took a plane. The mayor wants me to sing for the county fair. "

"Wow. I remember back when you were a little girl—coming in with your mama to sing here on the weekends." A slight pout crossed his mouth. "I'm really sorry about Marcy, darling. How's everybody doing?"

Johanna swallowed a sore lump within her throat. It had been six months.

"We're getting along, Dale. Thanks."

"How 'bout a drink? Hey, Lane. We've got a customer. Take a load off, darling. It's on the house."

A young man emerged through the kitchen's door. "Johanna?"

"Hi, Lane."

"We've missed you, Jo-jo." He hugged his childhood friend and positioned himself at the counter while she selected a stool. "What can I get you?"

"Hm. Could I get an apple cider mojito?"

"Still your favorite?" Johanna nodded, and Lane grabbed a cider bottle. "So, what's new?"

"Besides singing for the county fair?"

"I heard on the news. Congratulations."

"Thanks."

Lane's smile dimmed as he garnished the singer's cooler. "Have you heard from him yet?"

Johanna picked at her skirt. "Why should I?"

"We all make mistakes."

"Would you leave your daughter for a pipe-dream?"

The prepared cooler bumped her side of the counter. "I wouldn't, but it couldn't be that big of a pipe-dream if his daughter's living it now." Johanna folded her lips. "I'm not defending him, but you have done alright for yourself."

She preferred the bar's jukebox over Lane's counsel and sipped her drink as the music played. Her silence could project a clear response.

"They say you moved into your mom's house."

"Yeah. There's no need to buy a new place whenever I come to town." Johanna sighed, completed her cider, and placed a generous tip beside the empty glass. "Thanks, Lane." Her cowgirl boots scraped the floorboards.

"Jo? We're here for you." His brows knitted. "You know that?"

She nodded, her voice growing thick. "I know."

The singer left the bar before her clouding tears could escape.

***

Johanna slid the kitchen door, revealing the stars. She settled onto the patio's top stair and relied on her mother's sweater to keep her warm from the night's draft. The young woman cradled her most prized possession in her lap, given to her on her eighteenth birthday: an acoustic guitar, black and lacquered, with a honey-warm sunburst surrounding the instrument's soundhole. Pressing her calloused fingers along the guitar's wire strings, her mother's face came like the wind into her mind.