Song of Summer (25 page)

“Sure,” I say. I pull out my pennywhistle and go through a couple of scales, checking through the music to make sure it's in the keys of G or D. Pennywhistle is a simple but not very versatile instrument.

A bunch of the square dancers have already arrived, milling around as John and I assure the anxious caller that Trent will be here any minute.

Trent comes breezing in the door at exactly 8:28, two minutes before the dance is set to start. He's buttoning his vest and unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt as he strides across the floor.

“No Ana?” he asks, fixing his newsboy cap.

“Nope,” says John.

Ah. That was the lead player who probably wouldn't show. Violin, not fiddle.

“Hey Robin, did you bring your… ?”

“Yup. And the harmonica.” I attempt to hide my sigh of relief. Playing guitar right now would be soulless. Out of obligation. Like going to prom with the guy you just dumped.

He winks at me, clapping me on the shoulder. “That's my girl. What about Stumpy?”

The minute he says it, Stumpy jogs in. “Sorry I'm late!”

“No problem.” Trent flashes him a grin. “You're not late—you've got two minutes. Let's tune.”

John looks at me and rolls his eyes. I nod.

Everybody tunes to the pennywhistle, since it can't really be tuned.

“Don't forget it'll go a little sharp as it warms up,” I say.

Stumpy rolls his eyes. “Nobody can hear that but you.”

“Well, all your string instruments will be going flat! And you bet your butt people are going to hear that!”

Stumpy's such a hack. He could be good, he just hates hard work.

“All right, calm down. Let's do this thing. Harvest Home, everybody.”

Trent counts us in and we start in on the hornpipe, the flute at my lips. The familiar but shabby instrument begs me to relive the moment of the craft fair, when I got to play Francis Flute, a god among instruments, and had to give it back. The caller lets us go for a verse as people choose their partners. Then he starts calling the dances. By about the third time through I'm wishing Harvest Home had a vocal part because I'm getting a little light-headed. I look over at Trent and raise my eyebrows in a question. He nods, signaling that I should cut out after the next verse. I do and the rest of the band continues to play a verse without me.

I get my breath back and join in the last verse. The song and dance end and the caller looks over, pleased. Trent winks at him, then glances at me like, “See? Nothing to worry about. We weren't late and everybody's happy.”

The fast songs keep on rolling. I sing for a couple of them and Trent joins in from his stand-up bass. I look over at him, flushed, and he winks at me. The sting of Sunday eases. My soul slowly opens up, allowing the give-and-take that defines good music. It's like waiting tables, a well-coordinated service. If there's good chemistry between the cook and the waitress, it's a fun partnership. Trent and I were unstoppable when we worked the same shift at GCD. After so many years of playing together, we became a well-oiled machine. I left each shift with a smile on my face and money in my pockets. My fingers fly on the little flute as the music covers me, enfolding me like a blanket.

The first hour flies, and around 9:30 everybody takes a break. I go out into the hall to get a drink from the fountain and when I look up, Trent is leaning up against the wall, offering me a bottle of water.

“Good job, Robin egg,” he says. “Haven't lost it.”

“Thanks.” I take the bottle and twist the cap off, taking a swig. Trent's cheeks are splotched pink and his curls are barely contained by his hat. Since starting the set he's rolled up his sleeves. His vest has been unbuttoned, revealing suspenders. It is nearly impossible to resist a boy in suspenders.

As though reading my mind, he leans in. “Hey, why don't you come over after the gig?” he asks, breathless, like he's scared to say it out loud. His eyes dart to my lips almost imperceptibly.

I don't need this. But I'm on a performance high of sweat and adrenaline and he smells like rosin and wool.

“I'll see,” I say. A little jolt jumps in my heart. A staccato note. A surprise.

He smiles. “Good.” His voice is still quiet and I want to brush the curls off his forehead. I turn on my heel and take another swig from the water bottle through my smile.

The second half of the program is slower songs—couple dances and ballads. We sing a few more times, I pull out the harmonica for a song or two, and John fingerpicks the best he can. I almost offer to switch with him. I think he can manage harmonica, if not my pennywhistle, but the memory of Sunday casts a shadow and I don't mention it.

After the dance is over, we pack up while the caller hands Trent one hundred bucks. Trent gives each of us twenty and keeps forty for himself, since he's the one who got the gig in the first place.

The dancers say their thanks and we smile and shake their hands.

I'm walking out the door with my guitar, smelling the sweet summer air, when my free hand is caught up in somebody else's. I look up and Trent has grabbed it, lacing his fingers between mine.

I smile. Yes. I will go home with him tonight.

“What's this?” I tease, holding up our clasped hands.

“What?” He looks mock confused, and I shake our hands, giggling a little. “Oh! This!” He lifts my hand and kisses the back of it, his five o'clock shadow like sandpaper.

Little licks of electricity run up my spine.

“I don't know if you remember this,” Trent says confidentially, “but most guys don't need their hands to talk. They can use them for other things.”

And that's his mistake.

Because the minute he says it, I think of Carter's hands. Hands like a surgeon or a classical pianist. I think of that first date in the park when Carter pulled me up to my knees. I think of his profile as he turned to kiss the back of my hand. And I think of the kiss, so unlike the one I just got.

That's how I know that this moment is counterfeit. It's all doped up on a chattery performance high and two hours of other people's love stories and dancing. The chemistry of music is like the chemistry of love, but they are not the same thing: two people can go hand in hand but that doesn't make them the same person.

I look up at Trent and he closes his eyes, sighing. When he opens his eyes, the spark has dulled.

“I shouldn't have said that, should I?” he says quietly.

I smile and blink at a few surprise tears. “No,” I say, shaking my head. I give the back of his hand a peck and let it go.

He nods twice. “Got it,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. He takes a couple steps down the marble stairs before turning around to face me again. “Good luck, Robin.” He shakes his head and smiles ruefully. “You're gonna need it.”

I nod. A tear trickles down my face. I will need it.

One Week of Summer Left

Carter

This is the first time in my life that I've wished for noise. I want something to block the thoughts that bombard my head. Everything still reminds me of her, even after a week. I see a couple holding hands and I want to throw rocks at them. I see the bicycles whizzing by and I remember the long shadow speeding along the sidewalk and me yanking Robin toward me and her falling into my kiss.

All the musical instruments I see seem to be painted in neon colors, they stand out so vividly. French horns and flutes are captured in paintings. A man plays the violin in the park, his case set out in front of him. People whistle. I see it all.

Since being grounded from my bike, I've been doing a lot of walking around Chautauqua. I walk down to the lake and feed the ducks or watch the boats. I walk around the grounds and rediscover things I haven't seen in ages—hidden parks, the to-scale outdoor map of the Holy Land, the new building projects trying so desperately to look old. There are a bunch of one-room buildings in the woods behind Elizabeth S. Lenna Hall, where musicians practice. Sometimes I walk around those funny little buildings. It looks like a tiny village or summer camp. I've never noticed it before, but the air feels charged with something.

It's on one of these walks that I see an old man. He's walking among the little buildings, and when he sees me, he smiles and says something through his impossibly long beard. He's like someone out of a storybook—a spry but bent man who walks a little hunched over, although he doesn't need a cane. Yet.

I shake my head and point to my ear. “I'm deaf,” I mouth. He nods and thinks for a minute before reaching into the front pocket of his overalls, pulling out a card that says, “Lenny Starr, Chautauqua groundskeeper and professional dreamer.” I nod and hand the card back to him but he waves for me to keep it. I see him thinking again. He looks like one of those old Felix the Cat clocks whose eyes move back and forth. A grin lights his beard, revealing teeth that are too perfect, and he beckons for me to follow him.

I eye him up and down. I could take him if I had to. What have I got to lose?

I follow him through the musician's village and down one of the main streets of Chautauqua. He takes me to the amphitheater. It is a gigantic cement-and-wood structure that seats thousands on wooden stadium seating. But Lenny's not taking me to the audience. He leads me down the steps, down the steep inclines, all the way to the stage, where I've never been before. I look up at the thousands of seats and imagine performing in this space. It's frightening. Robin said she's performed here with All-County choir every year since middle school, but she's never had a solo. She should have. After what I saw last week… they should've given her a solo.

Lenny is waiting by a little door right next to the stage. He beckons for me to follow him and I do. We go through a little hallway and into another, smaller, door. I feel almost like I'm in Willy Wonka's chocolate factory, except Willy Wonka is a slightly frightening man with a ponytail who smells like clove cigarettes, and there's no candy.

Maybe I feel more like Alice in Wonderland.

I duck after him, into a room lined with pipes. Not the kind for smoking but the kind that you might pour water into. Big pipes and little ones. They cover the walls in descending or ascending lines, like bar graphs illustrating direct relationships. There are little slits and holes in the pipes. It takes me a second, but I realize where we are:

We're inside the organ.

There's a huge pipe organ installed in the Chautauqua amphitheater. It's one of the biggest outdoor pipe organs in the world. Every Sunday it plays for an interfaith service and organists come from all over the world to give it a try. And I'm inside of it.

I look at Lenny and he waggles his eyebrows at me. He points at himself, then he spreads his arms wide and indicates the pipes—all of them. He points to himself again.

“You take care of this?” I mouth and sign.

He nods and smiles through his beard and hugs his chest. He loves it. He beckons for me to follow him farther, and he goes through another door. There's a yellow sign on it that says, “Touch nothing!” in bold black print. He points at the sign seriously before going in the door and motioning for me to follow.

It's pitch-black. The minute he flips on a switch, though, I see that I am surrounded by huge pipes. Giant wooden pipes and metal pipes line the walls and are in a clump in the middle of the room, all safely partitioned by railings. They are polished to a high shine and are the size of sequoias in this little room. There are two stools on the floor. Lenny sits on one. He looks at his watch, then points to it, nodding and holding up a finger, telling me to wait.

We sit together in the little room. The minutes tick by. I'm trying to figure out the best way to leave when Lenny looks up at me. He points to his watch again, then takes a pair of dirty earplugs out of his overalls pocket. He offers me a second pair with a silly look on his face, then stuffs them back in his pocket, almost doubled over laughing at his own joke. I indulge in a smile. Why in the world did he bring me down here?

All of a sudden, a deep vibration shakes the ground, the stool, the sac around my heart, the space between my cells. I leap to my feet, eyes wide, heart pounding out of my chest. My feet feel unsteady on the ground and Lenny is looking at me, grinning. Someone is playing the organ. A vast, low note.

All of a sudden, I feel the note shift! The vibration is… lighter somehow. It doesn't move me at my core, but it tingles in my extremities. It's a higher note than the one that was just being played! I can feel it! I've felt thumping bass before. I've felt dull, indistinct changes at loud concerts where everybody's screaming and it feels like the air is charged with electricity.

But this. This is all around me. It's like I'm swimming in it. Or it's a sauna and it's thick around me. And all of a sudden, I feel it. There are more notes. There are hundreds and thousands of notes, and they're all being played in different times and rhythms but they all fit together and it's like nothing I've ever felt before.

My chest grows tight and images flash through my mind—Trina as a baby when my parents brought her home, the old couple that lives up the street who's been married for sixty years, the sunset from my window seat on the plane overlooking the Atlantic.

Seeing Robin for the first time.

The music might have something to do with it, but it's just the first domino in a chain reaction. It's proof of the inkling that there are things out there bigger than me—love and beauty and life—the things that compose a soul sense. And I don't have to hear music in order to feel love, but one enhances the other.

So maybe music doesn't awaken a soul sense. Maybe it just reminds us of the times when we've felt it before.

I look at Lenny with wet eyes. “Thank you,” I sign.

He inclines his head and leans against a pillar, a satisfied smile under his beard. I sit on the stool that was assigned to me and I listen. My whole body listens.