The Sound of Letting Go (19 page)

Two hours later, I am driving home

unprompted by a text from Mom,

my stomach growling despite an A-plus hot lunch

of oven-fried chicken legs and fruit salad.

Cal and I have named our freed slave Jeremy—

his idea,

and I don’t ask the reason.

We’ve given him a home in Pennsylvania,

the first of the United States to pass an Abolition Act—

that idea was mine.

E-mail and cell numbers written down.

Research for Jeremy’s backstory, family tree,

current living conditions, divided.

Plans made to meet again on Thursday.

All painfully established between the arcs of silence,

the epic string of whole rests

that scored our time in the study room.

We’re both horn players, well trained to wait

through swathes of music

featuring flutes and clarinets and strings,

obedient in a certain way.

Despite my love of jazz, I failed at improvisation here.

My stomach churns again,

a wave of nauseous despair battling hungry acid.

Neither of us touched the last question

on the A-PUSH assignment rubric;

neither of us dared to invent

Jeremy’s future dreams.

Wednesday morning

Mom leaves Steven’s waffle too long in the toaster.

I freeze at my post at the island,

knowing too well what may happen

when the charred smell of burnt Eggo

reaches my brother’s nose.

Steven’s head whips straight back,

making contact with the kitchen wall behind his chair.

A pause, another whack. Then his elbows close in,

the hand-wringing begins.

The masochistic scraping of his palms is more bearable

than the
bam
of his skull

hitting the already-weakened drywall.

But the smell is too much for just writhing.

Smack!
Head slams back again.

Hands twist sixty seconds more.

Smack!

Mom hovers indecisively between the toaster

and the table, watching the writhing,

hoping Steven will spare his skull

long enough for her to clean up the mess.

Finally, “Be right back.”

She pinches the smoking disk

between surely-singeing forefinger and thumb,

runs to toss it out the door.

“Morning, everybody.” Dad saunters into the kitchen,

adjusting his tie, gearing up for our routines.

He scans the room for Mom only to find her, wild-eyed,

returning from the hall.

Sees the statue of me at the island.

Hears a nasal sound emerge from Steven. Then silence.

Smack!

Above Steven’s head,

a narrow fissure appears

in the putty-colored paint.

“I-I burnt the waffle,” Mom whispers.

A curtain drops over Dad’s eyes.

His expression becomes a replica of a human’s,

like that of a bust of Haydn;

he morphs into “brave robot,” “man of the family,”

the only one big enough to move toward Steven,

even though it’s an action not unlike

bashing one’s own head against a wall:

a promise of pain.

“Morning, Steven.”

He approaches the kitchen table slowly.

An unconvincing smile cracks the plaster of his face.

“Your waffle will be ready soon.

Then we’ll take our ride to school, won’t we?

Because today is a school day.”

He is rewarded with a flashing fist,

a punch into the soft part of his side, below his ribs.

He grabs Steven’s forearm. “No, Steven.

That’s not what we do, Steven.”

My brother makes few sounds as he struggles and lashes,

the snap of his head connecting with the wall

one last time

before Dad drags him from his chair,

through the doorway to the hall.

I can’t help myself. I rise from my chair,

watch them pass Mom, cowering against the fridge.

In his stocking-feet, Steven half-slides

toward the living room.

“God dammit,” Dad shouts to no one in particular.

“I don’t know what to do.”

All things eventually end, don’t they?

Minutes, hours, days;

songs, stories;

lives as we know them.

By the time the outburst has ended,

there’s a patch of sticky, blood-matted hair

on the back of Steven’s head,

but Mom is afraid to get close enough to check the cut

that surely lies beneath it.

Dad returns him to his kitchen chair.

Steven eats the new waffle Mom has successfully toasted.

“Want me to come with you to the ER?” Mom asks.

“You don’t think the nurse can just check this at school?”

Dad adjusts his tie.

“They might need to x-ray . . .”

She’s crying now, very softly.

We continue each step in our routine,

just later than usual.

Trying not to quicken the pace, invite another punch.

This morning is another nail

in the coffin of my parents’ decision.

Without details, without a timeline, still I realize

that the
eventually
with which this family will be broken

apart

is going to come soon.

My days watching Mom and Dad and Steven

around the kitchen table are numbered.

The house grows still, the only sounds

Steven’s slightly stuffy breathing,

the occasional
tink
of his fork against the waffle plate.

I try to feel love for him

but come up with only a heart full of confusion

and a yearning not to break this gentle silence

by pushing back my barstool,

snapping shut my horn case,

rifling through my key ring.

So I cannot leave for jazz band.

My father walks slowly around the table,

looks at Steven’s head. “Can’t be too bad.

Heads bleed like crazy, and this has already stopped

without our even touching it.

I’m bringing him to school.”

I hate the victory in Dad’s expression.

“Love you, Steven,” Mom musters

as we watch Dad usher him belatedly out the door.

I don’t know what meaning she feels behind that word.

Whom do we love, anyway?

People who love us?

People who care for us?

People who are put in our care?

Is love trust, understanding,

the ability to communicate?

Is it the ability to touch

and be touched in return?

Is it the humble ritual of bending to tie sneakers,

of returning from the office,

albeit late and with grim reluctance,

to give a boy a shower?

I don’t think I know anymore

what the meaning of that word is

or how to find it

or how to give it up.

Thursday morning, it is easier not to go to practice.

I leave the house as if jazz band were my destination,

but I cannot bear the thought of the squawks and

squeals of tuning up,

the cheer of chatter among musicians.

My blue varnished fingers clutch the steering wheel.

I remember the rebellious wet,

the gratifying cold of applying polish.

But darkened eyes and nails are not enough

to make my parents realize that this decision for Steven must be theirs, not mine.

That if (or when) he is gone, I may never be able to feel

safety without sorrow,

relief without remorse.

It is hard to be a rebel with good grades

and a three-year All-State number one trumpeter streak.

I love making honor roll. I love playing beautiful sounds that make people forget

all they know about my difficult daily life,

about the bad parts of the days they endured before they opened up their ears.

But if I keep playing, how can I show Jasper

there’s a tragedy happening in its midst

without actually telling anyone?

I drive to Evergreen High,

park in a spot far away from the door,

curl up like a kitten in the driver’s seat,

leave the motor running to keep the car warm.

“I’ve been learnin’ about your American Thanksgiving,”

Cal greets me in the library after school.

“It was Abe Lincoln there who proclaimed it

a national holiday, to try to get a sense of unity

’tween the North and the South.”

“Aren’t
you
the studious one.” I don’t tell him

I’d assumed Thanksgiving was a steady date

from the days of feathered headdresses

and square-buckled pilgrim hats.

Lincoln was Gettysburg, the ironclad USS
Monitor
, assassination,

not turkey and gravy.

“What’s that got to do with our slave?”

“I was thinkin’ about how our lad

might spend his first free Thanksgiving,

but the research tells me it’d probably be the same

kind o’ day as any other.”

He looks disappointed by the notion,

as if it cannot be the case

that this grand American holiday

might have passed unnoticed by so many citizens.

But I am unsurprised by the notion

of extraordinary days performed as ordinary:

the narrative of my life.

I rub the inside corners of my eyes with my middle

finger and thumb.

“Writing stories is harder than playing music, isn’t it?

Weaving together all these facts is not the same

as playing a score.”

“Life is a big story. Music is just one way to tell it,

to realize how many tales all kinds of people share.

Like this North and South; we’ve got that in Ireland, too.

‘The Troubles,’ they call that history.

All about religious freedom,

Home Rule.”

“We’ve got a slew of rules at home.” I laugh, then

my automatic instinct to keep my family’s front door closed kicks in. I glare into the curiosity sparking in Cal’s eyes.

“Race or religion, people are always battling

on one kind of moral ground or another. The question

is whether we should start this story on Thanksgiving Day.”

Cal looks thoughtful.

“So, would Jeremy know it was Thanksgiving?

Who would tell him?

And would we want this to be the day he was freed?”

I can’t help but smile at his energy, his effort.

It makes me want to say I’m sorry

for not wanting to share Aggie with him,

for not caring enough about this fiction we are making.

“You got stuck with a crap history tutor, Cal,” I tell him.

“But a damn fine musician.

Even if you don’t show up for jazz band two days running.”