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Show •287 them I turned on Adam's old radio. It had a dark-brown glossy steamlined case, curved and solid, in the style of the thirties. I peered through the grille at the back and saw the tubes begin to glow, but for a long time no sound came out. "Maybe it doesn't work," Morgan said over her shoulder. Her arms were covered with suds up to the elbows; she searched under the bubbles for something else to wash and brought up a yellow plate. "Old things break down-you can't get sentimental about it or you'll spend half your life crying." But the radio woke up with erratic crackling sounds. I moved the dial slowly, picking up squeals and whistles and snatches of music that faded before I could zero in on them. "We don't get very good night-time reception here," I said. "All the local stations go off the air at sunset." "We could just talk, Buck. We have things to talk about." I looked at her. "Because we're splitting up," she said. "Now that we've made up our minds I want to straighten some things out," "All right." But I wanted the music that this old radio could deliver, short on fidelity but long on feeling, with all the high notes toned down, and the lowest tones amplified. Finally I found a station playing big band jazz, full of brassy chords. |
