She had walked farther than she thought. By the time she reached the driveway, she was worrying about dinner. She planned as she hurried up the hill toward the studio: first, the onions and the peppers, get them going in the large cast iron frying pan; second, the chicken, cut in chunks; then the chicken stock and the coconut milk, the curry and the basil. Whoops, forgot the rice. Start that right after the onions and the peppers; give it time to steam a little and not be so wet. She placed the straw hat on its peg, drank a large glass of water, and played Highway 61 Revisited.
"Like a rolling stone . . . " she sang along as she cut up onions. "To be on your own . . . " Whack, whack. "How does it feel? . . . " Whack, whack. Amber and Art arrived in the middle of Desolation Row.
"Listen to that," she said as Bob Dylan's harmonica blew out the pain and isolation.
"Damn," Art said, "that smells good."
"Listen!" Willow said, turning up the volume.
Don't send me no more letters, no—not unless you mail them from Desolation Row. Dylan's intensity, the smell of curry, Amber's perfect body next to Art's shoulders, and her own unnamed passion coalesced into another moment she would never forget. "Too much," she said when the piece ended. "Want some wine?" She busied herself with dinner. Earlier, with the chickadee on her shoulder, she was a child of the universe. Now, she felt reborn as an adult. It was so lonely and sad, so—terminal.
She looked at Amber and Art. They did not appear to be in crisis. Art was lighting up a joint. Willow took a few hits out of politeness. She didn't mind getting high once in awhile, but the smoke in her lungs felt foreign and unhealthy. Amber, who smoked cigarettes occasionally, dragged away with gusto, the little pothead. Art was following her around with his eyes as though he were chained.
She served and poured; they ate and drank. The evening got blurry.
Willow told them about the chickadee and about playing Cripple Creek.
"Yeah," Art said. "He lives in a house behind his mother's. She's got money, or the family does. Don't know much about Martin; he went to private school, was only around summers. His father was a pilot. He died about ten years ago."
"He plays banjo pretty well," Willow said.