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open, and there was Abby, staring down at him. There’d been a horrible, bottomless instant when their eyes met; then she’d shut the door.
    Bennie had left the party with someone else—there was always someone else—and their night of fun, which he felt comfortable presuming, had erased the confrontation with Abby. But now it was back—oh, it was back, bringing waves of shame so immense they seemed to engulf whole parts of Bennie’s life and drag them away: achievements, successes, moments of pride, all of it razed to the point where there was nothing—he was nothing—a guy on a john looking up at the nauseated face of a woman he’d wanted to impress.
    Bennie leaped from his stool, squashing the cowbell under one foot. Sweat stung his eyes. His hair engaged palpably with the ceiling shag.
    “You okay?” Sasha asked, alarmed.
    “I’m sorry,” Bennie panted, mopping his brow. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
    Back upstairs, he stood outside the front door, pulling fresh air into his lungs. The Stop/Go sisters and daughter clustered around him, apologizing for the airlessness of the recording studio, their father’s ongoing failure to vent it properly, reminding one another in spirited tones of the many times they themselves had grown faint, trying to work there.
    “We can hum the tunes,” they said, and they did, in harmony, Olivia too, all of them standing not far from Bennie’s face, desperation quivering their smiles. A gray cat made a figure eight around Bennie’s shins, nudging him rapturously with its bony head. It was a relief to get back in the car.
    He was driving Sasha to the city, but he had to get Chris home first. His son hunched in the backseat, facing the open window. It seemed to Bennie that his lark of an idea for the afternoon had gone awry. He fended off the longing to look at Sasha’s breasts, waiting to calm down, regain his equilibrium before putting himself to the test. Finally, at a red light, he glanced slowly, casually in her direction, not even focusing at first, then peering intently. Nothing. He was clobbered by loss so severe that it took physical effort not to howl. He’d had it, he’d had it! But where had it gone?
    “Dad, green light,” Chris said.
    Driving again, Bennie forced himself to ask his son, “So, boss. What did you think?”
    The kid didn’t answer. Maybe he was pretending not to hear, or maybe the wind was too loud in his face. Bennie glanced at Sasha. “What about you?”
    “Oh,” she said, “they’re awful.”
    Bennie blinked, stung. He felt a gust of anger at Sasha that passed a few seconds later, leaving odd relief. Of course. They were awful. That was the problem.
    “Unlistenable,” Sasha went on. “No wonder you were having a heart attack.”
    “I don’t get it,” Bennie said.
    “What?”
    “Two years ago they sounded…different.”
    Sasha gave him a quizzical look. “It wasn’t two years,” she said. “It was five.”
    “Why so sure?”
    “Because last time, I came to their house after a meeting at Windows on the World.”
    It took Bennie a minute to comprehend this. “Oh,” he finally said. “How close to—”
    “Four days.”
    “Wow. I never knew that.” He waited out a respectful pause, then continued, “Still, two years, five years—”
    Sasha turned and stared at him. She looked angry. “Who am I talking to?” she asked. “You’re Bennie Salazar! This is the music business. ‘Five years is five hundred years’—your words.”
    Bennie didn’t answer. They were approaching his former house, as he thought of it. He couldn’t say “old house,” but he also couldn’t say “house” anymore, although he’d certainly paid for it. His former house was withdrawn from the street on a grassy slope, a gleaming white Colonial that had filled him with awe every time he’d taken a key from his pocket to open the front door. Bennie stopped at the curb and killed the engine. He couldn’t bring himself to