Touch Blue (6 page)

A
fter supper, I take Aaron over to Mrs. Coombs’s house to get the music book for the Fourth of July picnic. The cooling-down evening smells like Christmas trees and salt air. As we walk, I spin around counterclockwise to reverse the bad luck of Aaron saying “drowned” on the boat. When I twirl for the third time, he looks at me like I’m crazy. He should be grateful I’m protecting him, because bad luck is as real as good luck.

As we come up her walk, Mrs. Coombs opens her front door — before we’ve even knocked. I should’ve known she’d be watching for us.

“Hello!” I give her a wide, cheesy grin.

She narrows her eyes. Mrs. Coombs thinks any happy kid is up to no good. “I marked the songs for you to play.” She hands Aaron a thick, spiral-bound music book,
Beloved Tunes of the American People.
A fringe
of yellow Post-it notes juts from the pages. “I picked all the favorites.”

I want to ask,
whose
favorites? But if I said that, Mom’d hear about it — probably even before I got home. Mrs. Coombs has the fastest phone-dialing finger in Maine. And I bet she has Mom on speed dial.

“Be at the picnic no later than eleven,” she tells Aaron. “I’ll borrow one of the music stands from church. We can set it up that morning on the parish hall steps.”

“Okay,” he says.

As Mrs. Coombs closes her door, Aaron sticks the songbook under his arm.

“It’s nice of you to do this,” I say. “Everyone will love it.”

“I hate playing what other people want.” He fingers the yellow bits of paper. “I probably don’t even know half these songs.”

“There’s a piano in there.” I point to the parish hall next door. “You could try the songs out. And if you don’t know one, maybe I could hum it for you.”

Aaron looks uncertain as he shifts the music book under his arm. “Don’t they keep the door locked?”

“Not usually. There’s nothing worth stealing in there, unless a thief wanted a load of bean supper plates and rummage sale stuff.”

Aaron hurries across the lawn. He almost drops the music book as he runs.

“Wait! Don’t walk on Mrs. Coombs’s grass! She’ll —” I glance back to the house, half-expecting to see her charge out of her front door, brandishing her phone.

Not even a curtain quivers in the window, so I run across the grass after him.

Inside the parish hall, Aaron sits at the black upright piano and dusts the keys with the bottom edge of his T-shirt. Then, striking a note, he wrinkles his nose. “Ouch.”

“It doesn’t get played much. Just for special events like the talent show or our island holiday party in December.” My voice rings in the empty room, sounding like I’m more than one person. I flip light switches on and off until I find the one that controls the lights above the stage.

Today, that holiday party feels a world away. In the summer, it’s easy to forget how frozen the air can feel out here in winter, like the sky itself could crack from it. Sea foam freezes into long lines and swirls on the
shore, and any boats still left in the water wear skirts of ice each morning.

Aaron’ll feel all settled in with us by
then
, I hope. He plays a chord, and a shiver runs between my shoulders. His face is serious, his eyebrows down and his eyes looking just above the keys. He plays three notes, and then repeats them. I imagine words to the notes, “
Come a-long. Come a-long.
” Swaying gently side to side to the music, I watch the muscles in his forearms move as the song fills out, his right hand stretching up higher on the keys and his left hand crawling down lower. I wish I knew the real words — not that I would sing along, except in my head. “Where did you learn to play?”

“My grandmother had a piano. She taught me. I never knew I was a musician until I went to live with her. Then Home Number One had a keyboard.”

The way he calls the place by a number tugs at me. I don’t ever want to hear him call us Home Number Three.

“I was glad to leave that foster home. I missed my grandma, and I couldn’t even get away from the other kids because I didn’t have my own room. The only way I could be alone was to plug the headphones into the keyboard and play. I was only there a year, but
it was long enough.” He sets the music book on the piano’s music stand. “I think they wanted a younger kid anyway.”

“Where’d you get your trumpet from?” I ask, then add quickly, “I mean who gave it to you?” hoping it didn’t sound like I thought he stole it.

“When I was eight my caseworker at the time told me to write down what I wanted for Christmas. I wrote only ‘a real trumpet’ on my paper. I wanted an instrument I could play in the school band.” He lifts one shoulder. “I was surprised when I really got one. Most Christmases, I wrote what I wanted, but then when the present came, it totally wasn’t what I asked for — like one year I asked for a skateboard and I got a football instead. I don’t even like football.” Aaron starts a slow, bluesy piano melody. The low notes pound like waves rolling up and back on the rocks.

“That’s really pretty music,” I say. “No one in my family plays any instruments.”

“Grandma told me my mom played piano a long time ago. I’ve never heard her, though.”

“Has your mom ever heard you play?” I ask.

“No.” He flips open the book to one of the Post-it notes. “I don’t know ‘You’re a Grand Old Flag.’”

My mom would never miss seeing me in a concert. She’d write it on the calendar and be there in time to get a good seat. I imagine what it must be like for Aaron: standing up at the end as the audience applauds, but she’s not there. Or unwrapping his trumpet that Christmas morning and not being able to hold it up and show her. Or seeing his birthday cake in front of him, and she’s not telling him to make a wish. But it’s all a big white blank in my imagination, because I can’t even
pretend
what it would feel like not to have my mom at those times. “Couldn’t she have just showed up at one of your school concerts?” I ask. “Even if it wasn’t
technically
allowed. I mean, it’s not like they check IDs at the door, right?”

“She never knew when the concerts were. And I couldn’t tell her, because I didn’t know where she was.” He frowns. “Are you going to hum or not?”

I sigh and hum the first verse. I think I sound like a human kazoo, but Aaron nods his head in time with me.

“Have you written back to her?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Every time I try, it comes out wrong — like I’m mad or I don’t know what to say. I wish I could just talk to her.”

“We could make your mom a video of the Fourth of July picnic,” I say. “Then she could hear you play and
see where you live now and meet Libby and me. We could show her cool things about the island.”

“Your parents would have to ask Natalie. I hate how everything has to go through her. It’s not like I’m a baby!”

“Well, what if —”

“Look, forget it! Okay?” he snaps. “I don’t even know if my mom has a TV that works. Or a computer. Or whatever she’d need to watch a video.”

I close my mouth. I feel bad that I kept asking questions and now he’s upset. I wish I knew a good joke or something funny, to make him smile and take the anger out of his forehead. As Aaron plays the second verse of the song by himself, I glance to the stacks of boxes along the wall marked L
ADIES
’ A
ID
S
OCIETY
R
UMMAGE
S
ALE
. I don’t think Aaron even sees me leave.

The clothes in the first box have a stale, old-people smell. I find a tweed sport coat and a wide blue-and-orange-striped tie. Sorting through sweaters, shirts, baseball caps, and a pair of ladies gloves so narrow I don’t think they’d even fit Libby, I snatch up a slate-colored felt hat. The sort that snowmen wear.

“I’m sorry, sir. You do not meet our dress code.” Holding the clothes out to Aaron, my chest seizes with panic. What if he sneers at me for acting babyish?

Taking one hand off the piano keys, Aaron holds his palm upward. “You couldn’t pick a better tie?”

I smile, draping it over his hand.

Knotting the tie in place, Aaron gets up from the bench. From another box along the wall, he pulls out a knitted brown scarf with two huge, lime-green pom-poms at the bottom.

I’m not much for style, but that scarf is dirt ugly. Aaron wraps it loosely around my neck, flipping both ends over my shoulders. The pom-poms hit me in the back.

“Oh, how very
brown
.” I pose with one hand on my hip. “What do you think?”

“Not quite.” Aaron pulls out a purple sequined hat. He drops it on my head and tips it down on one side. “Better.”

By the time we’re done, Aaron’s decked out in the tweed coat with his hat squashed low over his eyebrows, dark sunglasses, striped tie, and a rolled-up napkin for a cigar.

I’m wearing someone’s raspberry-satin prom dress, bunched in my hand to keep it from dragging on the floor, the sequined hat, the brown scarf, and a whole jewelry box’s worth of cheap, chunky necklaces.

Aaron sits back on the piano bench. “I’ll play piano, you take the vocal part.”

I smile, until I realize what he actually said. “Wait a minute! Do you mean actual words? I can’t sing!”

“Everyone can. Some people are terrible at it, but everyone can sing.” He flickers out a few twinkly notes on the piano. “Pretend you’re someone else, then. That’s what I do when everyone expects me to be someone I’m not.” He glances at me. “The one, the only, the incredible —”

Oh, glory. “Um. Lola?”

Aaron grins, like I hoped he would. His left hand plays low notes, while his right hand passes me Mrs. Coombs’s
Beloved Tunes of the American People
. “Pick one from here, Lola.”

I flip through the pages. “Home on the Range” would sound ridiculous on Bethsaida, unless I substituted Eben’s dog, Beast, for “buffalo.” “Auld Lang Syne” isn’t a summer song. And I don’t even know “Sentimental Journey.” “I think a better title for this book would be
Beloved Tunes of Really, Really Old People.
”

I find a hymn I know from church.

“I don’t know this one,” Aaron says as I set the book open on the piano. “I’ll follow you.” He begins playing, slow and gentle. “You didn’t take your cue, Lola.” He begins again.

“I’ve got peace like a river,” I sing so quiet I’m almost whispering.

“Very pretty,” Aaron says. “Keep going.”

“You have good pitch,” Aaron says.

“Yes, indeed. We could use you in the choir, Lola.” Reverend Beal leans against the doorway, arms crossed.

I grab the purple hat off my head. “We were just —”

“How about ‘Amazing Grace’ now?” Reverend Beal asks. “We really, really old people like that one.”

I clamp my fingers over my mouth.

“I got a call from Mrs. Coombs. She saw you two come in here and was worried you were up to mischief.” He glances at the open boxes.

“We’ll put these things back neatly,” I say. “I promise.”

“All in good time.” Reverend Beal sets up a folding chair and sits down to be our audience. “I think Fourth of July will be very special this year,” he says. “Thank you for agreeing to play for us, Aaron.”

As Aaron plays “Amazing Grace,” Reverend Beal joins in with his booming bass voice. I let myself sing a little louder with each few words, in a way I never would dare at church or school, where I try to keep my voice low and in the middle of the group.

Aaron plays verse after verse.

And I sing free.

O
n the morning of the Fourth of July picnic, Dad and Libby go to the parish hall to help decorate. Last year, Amy and I were in charge of decorating all the long tables, but when Dad mentioned going this morning, it didn’t sound fun without her.

I’m washing up breakfast dishes with Mom to the far-off sound of Aaron improvising with his trumpet in the attic.

You’re a grand old flag, do-doot-de-doo!

From the open window above our kitchen sink, I watch the spruce treetops swaying in the breeze, like they’re dancing. Thin clouds stretch a line of dashes across the blue sky. And past our yard, Doris Varney sits in her porch rocker, a mug stopped halfway to her lips.

You’re a high-flying flaaag!!

“You don’t think Aaron’ll play it that way at the picnic, do you?” Mom pulls a dry dish towel from the rack beside me. “Because Mrs. Coombs will be fit to be tied.”

I rinse a skillet under the water. “I like the song that way.”

You’re the emblem of — the land I looooove.

“It makes it sound new and not as ordinary.” I hand the skillet to Mom and pick up a juice glass from the soapy water. “He also plays the piano really well. Did you know that?”

“No. Is that why you two were sneaking around the parish hall the other day?”

“Um.” I scrub the glass so hard it squeaks.

Mom smiles. “Mrs. Coombs called, but I told her you wouldn’t be up to any trouble. I’m so glad Aaron’s feeling more a part of things here.”

The home of the free and the brave! BAH-dah-DAH!

“I can’t wait for everyone to hear Aaron play.” Part of me is itching to tell Mom this was all my idea and how I got Doris Varney to call Mrs. Coombs — without me even asking her. I’m afraid Mom might think that was meddling in other people’s business, though,
instead of helping out. But sometimes the right thing needs a little shove to get started.

Keep your eye on the grand old flaaaaaaag!

The long church supper tables are set up on the grass, covered with pies, cobblers, and slabs of watermelon on paper plates. The Ladies’ Aid Society went red, white, and blue wild this year — from the striped napkins on the table to the little flags stuck upright in the cupcakes to the balloon bouquet attached to the fire hydrant. There are buntings under every window and twisted streamers looped over the parish hall doorway.

Dad’s over with the men tending the clambake, and Reverend Beal, wearing a chef’s apron, bastes and turns chicken legs on the big grills. All around, women hurry with platters and bowls and shoo the littlest children out from underfoot.

Mom, Aaron, and I make our way around a traffic jam of old ladies:

“Let’s make some room on the table for this.”

“Do we need a bowl for the chips or can we just put out the bag?”

“Oh! Who brought this blueberry pie?”

Mrs. Coombs calls over to Mom, “Isn’t this a beautiful day, Kate? We couldn’t have had better weather if we’d ordered it from a catalog!”

“Yes,” Mom replies. “It’s a perfect day for a picnic — sunny, but with that lovely breeze off the water to keep the mosquitoes away.”

“I’m glad you remembered my music book, because I’ve thought of a few more songs I want to add.” Mrs. Coombs nods to Aaron. “You can come over and get ready. No funny business, now — I want those songs played with the respect they deserve.”

“Don’t worry,” Aaron mutters, handing her the songbook. “I’ll play everything downright grim.”

He follows Mrs. Coombs, and I sidestep a few people setting up folding chairs.

Next to the lemonade table, I see Mrs. Ross with her hand on Grace’s hair. I scan the crowd to see if all the other new kids are here, too. I see Henry setting up chairs with Mr. Morrell. The Webbers brought Sam, and — oh.

Over to one side, Eben Calder is sitting with a group of summer kids. Eben nods his head toward me and says something to the boy next to him. The boy laughs.

I make a sour face at them. Eben better not make any trouble today.

As I pass the dessert table, I pull a daisy from one of the vases of red carnations, white daisies, and blue iris.

When will I know for sure that Aaron will stay with us?
I start pulling off petals.
This year, next year, sometime, never. This year, next year, sometime, never.
I pull petal after petal, ending with
sometime.

I drop the bare stem in the grass. “Sometime” could include “this summer,” right?

“Hey, Tess,” Jenna says, coming up beside me. “You’d better act busy or Mrs. Coombs’ll pick a job for you. Last year she put me in charge of picking up trash. It was disgusting.”

I smile. “Okay.”

We rake seaweed over the clams for Dad and carry things for Reverend Beal. As we work, I keep sneaking glances to Aaron talking to people and getting ready. This is gonna be great! As he opens his trumpet case, I tell Jenna, “Come on. It’s starting!”

“Aaron’s real good at trumpeting,” Libby announces loudly as Jenna and I sit down between her and Grace on a blanket on the grass.

“He’s
more
than good,” I say.

Mrs. Coombs picks up her songbook off the table. She carries a music stand to the top of the parish hall steps and sets it dead center in front of the audience. “Welcome, everyone! We have a special treat today! Aaron has agreed to play us some good old-fashioned patriotic tunes to get our toes tapping!”

I glance to Eben whispering with another boy on the other side of the lawn, his full plate balanced on his knee. Eben probably just came for the free food.

Aaron stands up straight, his fingers flickering over his trumpet stops. I would’ve expected him to look embarrassed by Mrs. Coombs’s corny introduction, but he just straightens the music book on the stand.

Libby inches forward on the blanket, and I throw a proud look at Eben. He gives me a mocking smile, but it doesn’t bother me one bit. It feels like when I play UNO with Libby, and I’m down to one wild card left. I sit there, waiting to lay that last card on the table and win.

“So let’s give Aaron a big Bethsaida Island welcome for agreeing to entertain us this day!” Mrs. Coombs says.

People clap politely. Aaron steps his feet apart, like he needs to brace himself against the music. His elbows
come up, his forehead lines with concentration. He purses his lips at his mouthpiece.

For the first few notes, I don’t recognize the song. Aaron plays it soothing, like a lullaby.

Mrs. Ellis starts singing along from the audience, her quivery old voice sounding surprisingly good with Aaron’s trumpet.

Everyone claps loud and long. Libby inches forward on the blanket, and I glance at Eben. He stares back, but I don’t care, because I know Aaron’s good and so does everyone else.

Aaron smiles, looking happier than I’ve ever seen him, and turns the page of the songbook. He plays “Pilot’s Hymn,” “God Bless America,” and “The Battle Cry of Freedom.”

Sitting cross-legged on the ground, I roll a piece of grass between my finger and thumb. Mom didn’t need to worry about Aaron improvising, because he plays song after song without a single “doo-wah.” But I miss the spirit he gives those songs at home — the extra bits he adds that lift them up to something new.

With every song he plays, more people sing with him. My toes move gently up and down in my sneakers. When he holds a long note, he closes his eyes for a moment, his muscles tight in his arms and around his mouth. Leaning back, he tips his trumpet up, like he’s playing that note to the trees. As he finishes each song, I cross my fingers it won’t be the last.

In the pause after “Stars and Stripes Forever,” I hear Mrs. Coombs from somewhere behind me. “Wasn’t that stirring, Kate? I always said Aaron would be a good addition to this place.”

I can’t see Mom, but I bet she’s pursing her lips, holding back words — like I am. Except Mom’s words probably don’t include “old biddy.”

“Such a fine young man, even if he is a bit scruffy around the edges,” Mrs. Coombs continues. “A good haircut, that’s all he needs.”

Aaron turns to another bookmarked page. His eyebrows shoot up and his mouth opens. His gaze sweeps over the audience. Then he slams the songbook shut so hard, the music stand teeters.

Everyone claps, but Aaron’s off the steps and cutting through the maze of people on the grass. Wait! He didn’t play “Taps” yet. He knows Mrs. Varney is waiting especially for that one.

“What’s going on?” Libby asks Jenna as I scramble over purses and blanket corners and squeeze past elbows. Dad and Mom stand up, but Aaron doesn’t even stop for them. “Excuse me,” I say over and over.

Ahead of me, Aaron runs away down the road. His shoulders are hunched and his head dips forward, like he’s hurrying headlong into a storm, with his trumpet under his arm. I call after him, but he doesn’t look back — not once.