Facing the Music

by Larry Brown

Genres: Anthologies; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

Facing the Music, Larry Brown’s first book, was originally published in 1988 to wide critical acclaim. As the St. Petersburg Times review pointed out, the central theme of these ten stories “is the ageless collision of man with woman, woman with man--with the frequent introduction of that other familiar couple, drinking and violence. Most often ugly, love is nevertheless graceful, however desperate the situation.”

There’s some glare from the brutally bright light Larry Brown shines on his subjects. This is the work of a writer unafraid to gaze directly at characters challenged by crisis and pathology. But for readers who are willing to look, unblinkingly, along with the writer, there are unusual rewards.

Release date: January 9, 1996

Publisher: Algonquin Books

Print pages: 299

Sample

Praise for Facing the Music

“Larry Brown . . . is a choir of Southern voices all by himself.”

—The Dallas Morning News

“Ten raw and strictly 100-proof stories make up one of the more exciting debuts of recent memory—fiction that’s gritty and genuine, and funny in a hard-luck way.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“Larry Brown, a captain of the firehouse in Oxford, Mississippi, rediscovers real stuff, like great writers do. He’s been out there, and reports it beautifully. He is a master.”

—Barry Hannah, author of Ray and Hey, Jack

“A stunning debut short story collection.”

—The Atlanta Journal-Constitution

“Like his profession, Larry Brown’s stories are not for the delicate or the fainthearted . . . his characters are limited people who are under siege . . . their stories manage to touch us in surprisingly potent ways.”

—The Cleveland Plain Dealer

“Direct, powerful, and singularly honest.”

—Willie Morris, author of North Toward Home

“Brown’s special gift is to make you feel while you’re reading it that only this story is worth telling.”

—Winston-Salem Journal

“Unpredictability, combined with a hard-eyed realism and a virtuoso display of style keeps the reader riveted to what Brown tells us about people we’ve often seen but never really known.”

—Southern Magazine

“If his first book . . . were itself a fire, it would require five alarms.”

—The Orlando Sentinel

“A collection of finely written stories, which, even at their darkest, claim as theirs the will to hope.”

—St. Petersburg Times

“He doesn’t seem to care if readers walk away from a story depressed, so long as they are aware that the ability to destroy does not preclude a tender sensibility, and that humor and catastrophe occupy the same seat on the bus.”

—Independent Weekly

“Ten terrific stories . . . great reading.”

—Grand Rapids Press

“Larry Brown has an unerring comic sense, a sensitive ear for talk, an unsentimental commitment to his characters and, above all, the intimate, ruthless, loving connections with the world he writes about that is the hallmark of a good and honest writer.”

—Ellen Douglas, author of A Family’s Affairs and Can’t Quit You, Baby

“This is the debut of a valuable writer.”

—The Memphis Commercial Appeal

“He writes live people, and he knows things about them you didn’t think would get found out until Judgment Day.”

—Jack Butler, author of Jujitsu for Christ

“Tough stuff. Good stuff.”

—The Antioch Review

“Larry Brown’s work is exceptional by any standard. Talent has struck.”

—Harry Crews, author of A Feast of Snakes and Body



For Richard Howorth

I cut my eyes sideways because I know what’s coming. “You want the light off, honey?” she says. Very quietly.

I can see as well with it as without it. It’s an old movie I’m watching, Ray Milland in The Lost Weekend. This character he’s playing, this guy will do anything to get a drink. He’d sell children, probably, to get a drink. That’s the kind of person Ray’s playing.

Sometimes I have trouble resting at night, so I watch the movies until I get sleepy. They show them—all-night movies—on these stations from Memphis and Tupelo. There are probably a lot of people like me, unable to sleep, lying around watching them with me. I’ve got remote control so I can turn it on or off and change channels. She’s stirring around the bedroom, doing things, doing something—I don’t know what. She has to stay busy. Our children moved away and we don’t have any pets. We used to have a dog, a little brown one, but I accidentally killed it. Backed over its head with the station wagon one morning. She used to feed it in the kitchen, right after she came home from the hospital. But I told her, no more. It hurts too much to lose one.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say, finally, which is not what I’m thinking.

“That’s Ray Milland,” she says. “Wasn’t he young then.” Wistful like.

So he was. I was too once. So was she. So was everybody. But this movie is forty years old.

“You going to finish watching this?” she says. She sits on the bed right beside me. I’m propped up on the TV pillow. It’s blue corduroy and I got it for Christmas last year. She said I was spending so much time in the bed, I might as well be comfortable. She also said it could be used for other things, too. I said what things?

I don’t know why I have to be so mean to her, like it’s her fault. She asks me if I want some more ice. I’m drinking whiskey. She knows it helps me. I’m not so much of a bastard that I don’t know she loves me.

Actually, it’s worse than that. I don’t mean anything against God by saying this, but sometimes I think she worships me.

“I’m okay,” I say. Ray has his booze hanging out the window on a string—hiding it from these booze-thieves he’s trying to get away from—and before long he’ll have to face the music. Ray can never find a good place to hide his booze. He gets so drunk he can’t remember where he hid it when he sobers up. Later on, he’s going to try to write a novel, pecking the title and his name out with two fingers. But he’s going to have a hard time. Ray is crazy about that booze, and doesn’t even know how to type.

She may start rubbing on me. That’s what I have to watch out for. That’s what she does. She gets in bed with me when I’m watching a movie and she starts rubbing on me. I can’t stand it. I especially can’t stand for the light to be on when she does it. If the light’s on when she does it, she winds up crying in the bathroom. That’s the kind of husband I am.

But everything’s okay, so far. She’s not rubbing on me yet. I go ahead and mix myself another drink. I’ve got a whole bottle beside the bed. We had our Christmas party at the fire station the other night and everybody got a fifth. My wife didn’t attend. She said every person in there would look at her. I told her they wouldn’t, but I didn’t argue much. I was on duty anyway and couldn’t drink anything. All I could do was eat my steak and look around, go get another cup of coffee.

“I could do something for you,” she says. She’s teasing but she means it. I have to smile. One of those frozen ones. I feel like shooting both of us because she’s fixed her hair up nice and she’s got on a new nightgown.

“I could turn the lamp off,” she says.

I have to be very careful. If I say the wrong thing, she’ll take it the wrong way. She’ll wind up crying in the bathroom if I say the wrong thing. I don’t know what to say. Ray’s just met this good-looking chick—Jane Wyman?—and I know he’s going to steal a lady’s purse later on; I don’t want to miss it. I could do the things Ray Milland is doing in this movie and worse. Boy. Could I. But she’s right over here beside my face wanting an answer. Now. She’s smiling at me. She’s licking her lips. I don’t want to give in. Giving in leads to other things, other givings.

I have to say something. But I don’t say anything.

She gets up and goes back over to her dressing table. She picks up her brush. I can hear her raking and tearing it through her hair. It sounds like she’s ripping it out by the roots. I have to stay here and listen to it. I can understand why people jump off bridges.

“You want a drink?” I say. “I can mix you up a little bourbon and Coke.”

“I’ve got some,” she says, and she lifts her can to show me. Diet Coke. At least a six-pack a day. The refrigerator’s crammed full of them. I can hardly get to my beer for them. I think they’re only one calorie or something. She thinks she’s fat and that’s the reason I don’t pay enough attention to her, but it isn’t.

She’s been hurt. I know she has. You can lie around the house all your life and think you’re safe. But you’re not. Something from outside or inside can reach out and get you. You can get sick and have to go to the hospital. Some nut could walk into the station one night and kill us all in our beds. You can read about things like that in the paper any morning you want to. I try not to think about it. I just do my job and then come home and try to stay in the house with her. But sometimes I can’t.

Last week, I was in this bar in town. I’d gone down there with some of these boys we’re breaking in, rookies. Just young boys, nineteen or twenty. They’d passed probation and wanted to celebrate, so a few of us older guys went with them. We drank a few pitchers and listened to the band. It was a pretty good band. They did a lot of Willie and Waylon stuff. I’m thinking about all this while she’s getting up and moving around the room, looking out the windows.

I don’t go looking for things—I don’t—but later on, well, there was this woman in there. Not a young woman. Younger than me. About forty. She was sitting by herself. I was in no hurry to go home. All the boys had gone, Bradshaw, too. I was the only one of the group left. So I said what the hell. I went up to the bar and bought two drinks and carried them over to her table. I sat down with them and I smiled at her. And she smiled back. In an hour we were over at her house.

I don’t know why I did it. I’d never done anything like that before. She had some money. You could tell it from her house and things. I was a little drunk, but I know that’s no excuse. She took me into her bedroom and she put a record on, some nice slow orchestra or something. I was lying on the bed the whole time, knowing my wife was at home waiting up on me. This woman stood up in the middle of the room and started turning. She had her arms over her head. She had white hair piled up high. When she took off her jacket, I could tell she had something nice underneath. She took off her shirt, and her breasts were like something you’d see in a movie, deep long things you might only glimpse in a swimming suit. Before I knew it, she was on the bed with me, putting one of them in my mouth.

“You sure you don’t want a drink?” I say.

“I want you,” she says, and I don’t know what to say. She’s not looking at me. She’s looking out the window. Ray’s coming out of the bathroom now with the lady’s purse under his arm. But I know they’re all going to be waiting for him, the whole club. I know what he’s going to feel. Everybody’s going to be looking at him.

When this woman got on top of me, the only thing I could think was: God.

“What are we going to do?” my wife says.

“Nothing,” I say. But I don’t know what I’m saying. I’ve got these big soft nipples in my mouth and I can’t think of anything else. I’m trying to remember exactly how it was.

I thought I’d be different somehow, changed. I thought she’d know what I’d done just by looking at me. But she didn’t. She didn’t even notice.

I look at her and her shoulders are jerking under the little green gown. I’m always making her cry and I don’t mean to. Here’s the kind of bastard I am: my wife’s crying because she wants me, and I’m lying here watching Ray Milland, and drinking whiskey, and thinking about putting another woman’s breasts in my mouth. She was on top of me and they were hanging right over my face. It was so wonderful, but now it seems so awful I can hardly stand to think about it.

“I understand how you feel,” she says. “But how do you think I feel?”

She’s not talking to me; she’s talking to the window and Ray is staggering down the street in the hot sunshine, looking for a pawnshop so he can hock the typewriter he was going to use to write his novel.

A commercial comes on, a man selling dog food. I can’t just sit here and not say anything. I have to say something. But, God, it hurts to.

“I know,” I say. It’s almost the same as saying nothing. It doesn’t mean anything.

We’ve been married for twenty-three years.

“You don’t know,” she says. “You don’t know the things that go through my mind.”

I know what she’s going to say. I know the things going through her mind. She’s seeing me on top of her with her legs over my shoulders, her legs locked around my back. But she won’t take her gown off anymore. She’ll just push it up. She never takes her gown off, doesn’t want me to see. I know what will happen. I can’t do anything about it. Before long she’ll be over here rubbing on me, and if I don’t start, she’ll stop and wind up crying in the bathroom.

“Why don’t you have a drink?” I say. I wish she’d have a drink. Or go to sleep. Or just watch the movie with me. Why can’t she just watch the movie with me?

“I should have just died,” she says. “Then you could have gotten you somebody . . .