Laura Anderson - Song of Summer

My table leaves during the song, so after hefting myself off the stool onto swollen, achy feet, I clear the dishes and count up my tips. Sixty bucks. That’s Friday money, all right. By the time I head back to the counter, Trent’s at the computer, punching in.

“Tonight at eight?” I call as I trade out my apron for my purse.

“Eight!” He waves, poking his head in the pass-through window. “I may be a little late!”

“What else is new?”

When I get home, I have enough time to shower, eat some dinner, and go over the songs that Trent’s picked out. They’re simple enough. A few boom-chunk chords. Bender feels foreign in my hands, and I wonder if our Sunday synergy is lost forever. By the time I’ve brushed up, it’s nearly time to go. I throw on a cotton sundress and a pair of hiking boots, leaving my hair braided loosely over one shoulder. Then I grab my keys and go.

When I get to Eason Hall, John’s already unloading Trent’s stand-up bass from his minivan. I hold the gate open as he grunts and struggles to lift it out without damaging it.

He rests it on the pavement, face red. “Why can’t he just bring an electric bass and an amp, like everybody else?”

I smile. “You know Trent. Purist in the extreme.”

“Then why can’t he lug it his own damn self?”

I laugh. “Because he got you to do it for him!” With the bass safely out of the way, I reach up and slam the gate of the minivan.

John glances at my guitar case. “You bring your pennywhistle?”

I nod. I keep it and my harmonica with Bender.

“Good,” John grunts as he hefts the bass up the marble stairs. “We might need you on lead.”

“Oh. For some reason I thought I was playing guitar.”

He shakes his head. “You might just be playing backup with me, or you might be playing lead. We’ll know in about a half hour when the whole thing starts.”

After setting the bass in one corner of the big dance hall/gym/roller-skating rink, John goes to his van and returns with his own guitar, a little Irish drum, and pair of spoons.

“And Stumpy’s coming,” he says. “Someday. He can play percussion, I can play guitar.”

“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 of 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.

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.