Raymond Soulard, Jr. New Songs (for Kassandra) - The ...

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“Yes. There’s no pressure. No performance to be judged. No money expected. No
critics.”
“You’re not man enough to face a few boo-birds?”
“I’m not interested in boo-birds or yayy-birds even.”
“What then?”
“I don’t know.”
“How can you not know? Notebooks & more & you don’t know why?”
“No. Grey. I don’t.”
He quiets.
Rebecca hooks my attention again, smile, love, Art. Yes! Yes.
“Something more” I mumble to her neck, in her hair.
“Yes” she breathes.
“I don’t know what—not now—maybe I did—maybe I will again” my kisses more
lavish, Rebecca enjoys, is silent—
“Do I have to know?” Untwined we stare each other.
“No,” she says. “I don’t think so.”
“What then, Grey? What do you want? What should I do?”
“Stop expecting the trees to talk back. Stop believing they care.”
“I like believing that they care. I like talking to them.”
“Better than people?”
“Sometimes.”
“Because they don’t talk back? Don’t doubt you, confuse you, make you feel low?”
“Sort of.”
“I just play drums. I don’t have your answers.”
“I know.”
He glares at me. “Work it in then! It might help sometimes.”
Grey & I glare at each other: “I can’t do what anyone wants, Grey. Can’t, won’t.”
He sips from his pitcher of Guinness—Mr. Bob indulging him this privilege
tonight—
“What about the red-haired wench?”
“Merry Muse?”
He sips hard.
“She’s never told me what to do. Just urged & irritated me on.”
“& wifey there?”
“Rebecca. Not wifey!” she yelps.
“I know, kid. Sorry.”
“Say it, then.”
“What?”
“Say my name.”
He sips. “Rebecca.” He sips harder. “Dorothy.” He finishes foamily. “Americus.”
Grins goofy.
“Soulard.”
“Eh?”
“I’m married.”
The Cenacle | 59 | October 2006