The One-in-a-Million Boy

by Monica Wood

There was liquor involved, no doubt. And a girl. Even out there in the middle of God’s empty palm, Frankie would have figured a way to work in a girl.

I had it easier than you, because Randall was born a month later, and you forget about friendship when you’re raising babies and running a store and keeping your husband from stabbing the furniture with a carving knife over his failure to publish his lamentable songs.

When he sauntered into the house and took a brownie without asking, she realized how long it had been since someone paid her the compliment of presumption.

You sound just like the record, honey, his mother had marveled, standing at his bedroom door. One lasting memory: her gaunt fingers tapping on the doorjamb, keeping time. Her fingernails yellowing with illness. His mother, who loved music. Any music. But especially his.