Ray and Eva

Ray and Eva sang and yodeled their way on radio stations all through the Middle-Atlantic States, from Virginia through Ohio, in a two-door tan sedan, stopping to plink at bean cans with .22 rifles after they had dined from them nightly. When they weren’t on the radio, they sang and yodeled around campfires and slept by the car.

They sang and yodeled and played some guitar in bowling alleys and hootch joints, wherever they had a stage. They had a following and drew crowds through five states.

They had a best-friend couple they saw whenever they visited Ohio, Ed and Jenny and their three-year-old son, Dale. They had .22s too and plinked along with them while enjoying molasses beans. Jenny rode in front, taking up what little space there was, while Ed and Dale rode in the back, sitting in the trunk, feet on the chrome bumper, the trunk lid for a roof, watching the road streak, between their outstretched feet. Dale liked it fine, and acquired a taste for sweet beans and the corn they picked along the way and roasted by the roadside. Dale learned to shoot the pump action .22 as well.

When they visited Ohio, Ray and Eva took real baths and not just in a lake or river. Ed, Jenny and Dale had more frequent and regular tub time, in galvanized tubs with hot water from the stove. This hardly impressed Dale.

It wasn’t until later, when Ed and Jenny bought a real house with a shower and indoor toilet, that Ray and Eva settled down too — a steel mill job, regular pay — and stopped singing and yodeling, mostly. The two couples drifted apart and saw each other only occasionally after that.

Then one day Ray shot Eva and killed himself with a .22, without a note or explanation. They had remained devoted, right up until that morning.