Wink

by Rob Harrell

  She turns and stares at a Mothra poster for maybe thirty seconds.

  “I . . . This is stupid. We don’t have a bass guitar in concert band. I’ve never even held one.”

  I lean in. “Frank has a bass guitar you can borrow.”

  She stares at me for a bit, but I can tell her mind is working overtime. I try to help. “They aren’t complicated songs. You just . . . boom boom boom boom boom.” I mimic her plucking one note on a bass.

  Slowly, a smile spreads across her face. She shakes her head. “This is crazy.”

  I clap my hands. “It’s AWESOME is what it is.” I get up. “Think about it. Down the road, we’ll go to college together and form a band. Abby and the Rosstones or something. This is just a head start.”

  She stands up and runs a hand through her hair. “Ross! We’re seriously gonna play music together? This is so cool!” She gives me a hug, but then breaks it really quickly.

  “But . . . Ugh. Jimmy.”

  I shake my head. “He’s fine, Abby. I mean, he’s still Jimmy, but he’s really good on the drums. And playing with him . . . you kind of forget his Jimmy-ness. It’s fun.”

  She looks off, like she’s having one last moment of doubt.

  “Abby! This is meant to be!” I get down on one knee and grab her hands. “Help me, Abby-Wan Kenobi. You’re my only hope.”

  It’s super cheesy, but that seals it.

  The next day, Saturday, Abby and Frank meet for the first time in the proton center lobby before my treatment.

  “You must be the world-famous Abby I’ve heard so much about.” Frank throws a pizza-flavored Combo in his mouth and wipes his hand on his scrubs. Shakes her hand, bowing dramatically.

  Abby looks him up and down. “You’re hairier than I pictured.”

  “Thank you. I try.” Frank puts the case he’s carrying on the floor. He squats down and pops the latches. Pulls out a well-worn bass guitar.

  “This old girl has seen better days.” He hands it to Abby. “But she still sounds good. I dusted her off and got her all tuned up for you.”

  Abby slips the strap over her head. Tests the weight of it. She grabs the neck and plucks a couple of strings with her right thumb. Then she looks up at me with a big grin on her face.

  “Oh, I could get used to this.”

  I’d called Frank, who said he could give her some lessons (he’d played bass guitar in a former band), but Abby texted her super genius (her words) viola teacher, Lisa, who said she could help her as well.

  She agreed to try. She’d give it a week, and if she hated it or sucked at it or it messed up her viola playing in any way, she was out. But once she put that bass around her neck, I knew she was in. It suited her.

  Again . . . like it was meant to be.

  So, with exactly two weeks until the talent show, Abby goes after the bass guitar with the kind of dedication she usually reserves for her monster movie marathons. She basically locks herself into her room for the next couple of nights. She asks around in her music-geek Facebook groups and finds some online tutorials that she loves too.

  When I text her each morning about how it’s going, she gives me the same answer.

  When I see her, though, the dented red fingertips on her left hand tell me the rest.

  I go to my treatments every afternoon, then Jimmy and I practice each evening (with only two near fights), and I play quietly in my room late at night. The calluses on the ends of my fingers are getting so tough they feel like rocks.

  It’s a Thursday when Sarah drops into her seat in front of me in Bayer’s class. I haven’t really said anything to her since the hair-pizza incident a while ago. I’m not sure why I find my voice today, but I do.

  “Hey, Sarah.”

  She turns around. “Hi, Ross.”

  I clear my throat. “I . . . I just wanted to say I’m sorry again about the, um . . . pizza thing.”

  She flashes a quick, embarrassed smile. “It’s okay, Ross. It just . . . happened. It wasn’t your fault. It’s fine.”

  I breathe a tiny bit easier.

  “But I did notice you never came to any of the meetings after that. The planning meetings.”

  “Yeah.” I sigh. “Sorry about that. I started working on something for the show, though!”

  She turns around, giving me her full attention. “Yeah! I saw you signed up. What are you doing? Is it a surprise?”

  I bob my head side to side. “Yeah. A surprise.”

  She nods for a few seconds. Morphs into Concern Face.

  “How are you feeling? How’s your eye?”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Is it . . . gonna be okay? Will it be the same, or . . .”

  I’m not sure why, but I tell her the thing I haven’t told anyone but Abby. “Well . . . I’m gonna lose the vision in it, eventually, but for now it just stings all the time.”

  Her face drops, and she pulls back ever so slightly for a second. I see a flash of “skeeved out” pass over her face, but she recovers quickly. “Whoa. Like . . . blind?”

  I nod, and she goes on.

  “In just that eye, or both?”

  I don’t love talking about this stuff, but I’m having a legit conversation with Sarah Kennedy! “Well . . . they hope it’s just this eye. Like, almost definitely just this one, but they said time will tell.”

  She looks fascinated. “Wooooow. I’m really sorry, Ross. That’s terrible.”

  Then it happens. She reaches out and puts her hand on mine. I know it’s just a gesture, but my heart speeds up.

  And right then, at that crucial moment, Ms. Bayer decides to start class. I groan inwardly as Sarah gives me a pat and turns away. I sit back and slowly pull my hand to myself. Let it rest in my lap like some kind of cherished relic.

  Then I make the mistake of looking over at Jimmy, who’s watching me with a big smirk on his face. He waggles his eyebrows, and I look away.

  Still a jerk.

  31

  CHECKING IN

  Frank strolls into the lobby that next Monday waving a piece of paper at me. It has an address scrawled on it.

  “I got the address. You still up for going to see Jerry today?”

  He had texted me and my dad late last night to tell me Jerry was back at home and would my parents let Frank take me to visit Jerry between my treatment and practice. They thought it was a great idea, and I was really excited to see the old guy.

  So, after my treatment, I climb into the passenger seat of Frank’s antique of a Jeep—after throwing some empty Gatorade bottles and fast-food trash in the back. He blasts Johnny Cash on the way over. Says a little Cash is good for the soul.

  Jerry and his wife live about five minutes away, on Washington Street. Their neighborhood is full of smaller brick homes. Mostly older people. I think Abby’s great-aunt lives over here somewhere.

  When we pull up, there’s a woman slowly raking leaves out front.

  “There’s Marilyn.”

  She waves and drops the rake. She’s dressed in a sweater that seems too nice for yard work.

  “Oh, you came! Jerry’ll be so excited.” She peels off her dirty gloves and gives us both a hug. She smells like my gammy. “Ross, I’m Marilyn. Jerry’s told me all about you. Y’all come in.”

  She has a Southern accent I wasn’t expecting.

  We climb the green-carpeted front steps—it looks like Astroturf, actually—and she opens the front door.

  “Jerry? Look alive, you have visitors.”

  We step into a wall of warmth—maybe it’s extra warm because of his pneumonia—and Jerry is there in a big, overstuffed recliner. He has an oxygen tube in his nose, and right away I think he seems . . . smaller.

  When Jerry sees us, he tries to look annoyed. “Aw, fer cryin’ out loud. Can’t a man get a moment of peace around here?” Then he laughs and his face lights up. “It’s good to see you fellas!” His voice is even rougher and raspier than usual. But it’s great to see him. Over his pajamas, he’s wearing a white
robe with Mountain Dew logos all over it.

  “Good of you to dress up for us, Jerry.” Frank stops and looks around the cozy living room. “But nice digs!”

  There are framed photos everywhere. On tables, all over the walls. It looks like 90 percent of them are of their grandkids.

  “Thank you, Frank. Nicest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

  Marilyn is heading to the back of the house. “You boys want some sweet tea?”

  We both say sure, but once she’s in the kitchen, Jerry leans forward like he has a secret. “You might think twice. Marilyn’s from Texas, originally. She puts so much sugar in her tea you could stand a spoon in it.”

  I nod. “Good to know. I’ll be careful.”

  Jerry waves his hand at the room. “Grab a seat. Sit a spell. I’m not going anywhere.”

  I sit on the couch by him while Frank grabs a wooden chair from a small puzzle table. There’s a half-finished jigsaw puzzle there—a picture of the Eiffel Tower and a bunch of flowers.

  Jerry wipes his face with a handkerchief. “Marilyn said my favorite radiation tech might be stopping by, so I was expecting Callie.”

  Frank laughs. “Nice. Very nice, Jerry. She sends her love.”

  “Well, send mine back.”

  They trade barbs for a couple minutes as Marilyn brings in our tea. And Jerry wasn’t kidding—I take a sip and my head almost explodes from the sweetness.

  Jerry sees my reaction. “I warned you, didn’t I? How are you doing, Dime Slot?”

  “I’m okay. But tell us what’s going on with you.”

  He quickly fills us in on his health. “Eh. The doctors keep saying they’re gonna let me loose on the streets, but it’s a trick. Three times they’ve said I was almost back to normal, then they pull the rug out from under me.”

  It’s good to see him still making jokes. “Well, that sucks. What is it? I mean, what kind of sick are you?”

  “Well . . . take your pick.” He laughs and goes into a short coughing jag. “Kind of a hodgepodge. Some pneumonia, some heart stuff. Plus the ball cancer. I’m a mess, frankly, but tell me about you. You’ve gotta be close to done with your treatments, right?”

  “Nine more.” I slide my hand up under my hat and rub my bald spot. It’s become a habit. “Next Friday’s my last one.”

  Jerry stops and takes a couple of long breaths. They sound difficult. Wheezy. “Attaboy. Good for you. I’m proud of you, Ross.”

  It chokes me up, him saying that. I’m not sure why.

  Frank leans over and hits my knee. “Tell him! About the show next Friday.”

  So I tell Jerry all about the talent show. About the lessons with Frank and how I was gonna play alone but then Jimmy came along. And now Abby too.

  Jerry looks like he thinks that’s the best thing he’s heard in a long time.

  “Aw. Man. That is fantastic.” He winks at me. “I always kinda wanted to be Miles Davis, y’know.”

  I ask who Miles Davis is, and it gives Jerry another (longer) coughing fit. “Frank, ya ignoramus. If you’re gonna teach the kid about music, you needs to include some Miles, for God’s sake.”

  Frank leans back and puts up his hands. “My bad. I’ll take the heat on that. Merely an oversight.”

  We talk for another ten minutes or so before Jerry goes kind of quiet. His eyes look tired as he grabs a bottle of pills from the table beside him and pops one.

  “Marilyn! I took a pink square one!”

  She calls back from the other room, “Okay, I’ll mark it down.”

  He gives us a comically disgusted look. “I’m sick of pills.”

  Then he tells us—in that blunt, friendly manner old people have—that he’s wiped out and we’d better go.

  “Oh!” I jump up. “I almost forgot. I brought you a couple of things.” I reach into the bag and pull out the DVD set of all seven Harry Potter movies. “You said you’d seen a couple, but now you have time to watch ’em all. They’re awesome.”

  Frank chimes in, rolling his eyes. “I’ll back the kid up. They’re pretty good. Prisoner of Azkaban’s the best.”

  Jerry takes the box set, looking amused. “I’ll do that. I’ll watch them. Anything’s better than daytime TV.”

  Then I reach into my bag and pull out my sketchbook. The leather-bound one that was my mom’s.

  “I . . . I also did a drawing for you . . .”

  Jerry looks at Frank. “He draws too?”

  Frank shrugs. “News to me.”

  Jerry watches as I open the book and take out the drawing I carefully cut out earlier. “A true Renaissance Man, this one.”

  I hand it to him. It’s a drawing of Louis Armstrong playing trumpet, from a photo I found on the internet. It’s the first time I’ve ever shown someone one of my “real” sketches.

  Jerry looks at the picture for a long time without saying anything. Rubs at his nose with one big finger.

  “Thank you.” His voice is extra rough, and maybe a little shaky. He clears his throat. “Ross. Thank you. This means a lot.” He turns it around to show Frank.

  Frank is impressed. “Dang, son. You can draw.”

  Jerry looks at it again for a bit before giving me a big grin. “Thank you. I’m gonna have Marilyn find a frame for this.”

  Frank launches back into ribbing mode. “That poor woman. Who do you think she is, your assistant?”

  “Nobody asked you, Frank.” He laughs. “Nobody asked you.”

  We start to go, but before we do, Jerry grabs my hand and wishes me luck at the talent show. Says he’ll see me soon.

  But I kind of wonder.

  That night, Abby comes to practice at Frank’s—along with both of our dads. Her parents were understandably concerned about her going over to some stranger’s house, so the solution was that our dads would tag along.

  Abby glances around as she steps into Frank’s house. Sniffs the air. Frank has his hands on his hips, watching her.

  “Does it meet your standards, Your Highness?”

  She looks around a bit more before answering. “I’ve seen worse.” Stares up at the crooked ceiling fan. “I think.”

  Denny and Jimmy show up just after us, and I watch Abby and her dad taking in Denny’s whole enormous, tatted, long-haired appearance. But Denny’s enthusiasm for what we’re about to do wins them over.

  “This is gonna be so rad!”

  Jimmy, on the other hand, doesn’t even raise his eyes when he shakes hands. Gives Abby a barely audible grunt of recognition. Charming as usual.

  Finally, there’s a knock at the door. Denny bounds over to let in Lisa, Abby’s viola teacher. It’s the first time I’ve seen her, and she looks like a librarian. She’s not much older than Frank or Denny, but she’s all proper and buttoned up. Her sweater is something Ms. Bayer would wear, and her hair’s pulled back so tight it looks like it hurts.

  Denny puts out an enormous hand. “You must be Lisa. Pleasure to meet you.”

  Lisa gives him a small, tight smile, and the contrast between the two is enough to make me laugh.

  “Charmed.”

  Denny takes her jacket and introduces her to everyone. Offers her something to drink. She declines, but seems to relax a bit, assured that he has some manners.

  When we head to the basement, our dads start to follow. I turn and look at mine. “Um . . .”

  He looks at Frank and Denny, then back at me. “Oh. Are we not . . .”

  Frank shrugs like it’s up to me and Abby.

  I feel weird shutting my dad out, but . . . “I dunno. I thought it’d be cool if you saw us the first time at the show.”

  “Yeah! Sure!” My dad is backing up. “I get that. We’ll just . . . Hang up here. Frank, do you have some cards?”

  Frank walks over to a bookshelf and grabs a pack. Abby’s dad looks at Denny, kind of excited. “This is great! Could I get a beer?”

  Denny lights up like he’d been waiting for this. “Um, does a bear wear a funny hat?”

  Abb
y’s dad gives him a strange look.

  “Yes.” Frank chuckles. “That’s Denny-speak for yes.”

  32

  PUT A LITTLE BASS IN IT

  This probably won’t come as a surprise, but Abby shows us how it’s done.

  She’s learned the three songs we gave her and plays them like a pro. In just a few days! I mean, we haven’t chosen complicated songs, but she’s got these things DOWN. I guess knowing one stringed instrument helps with another or something? That or she’s a wizard.

  After a few fumbles, we make it all the way through the Eagles song. It feels amazing, and Frank jumps off his stool to give us a standing ovation. “That sounded great!”

  “For an Eagles song.” Denny has his huge arms crossed. “Can we move on to something else?”

  Lisa looks over at Denny. “Not a fan?”

  Denny lets out a long, pained sigh. “The Eagles are the dark lords of all things boring and beige and bland, and everything we should fight to destroy in this world.”

  A small grin slips over Lisa’s face. “Well, aren’t you charming?”

  Denny shrugs his enormous shoulders.

  “Listen.” Frank holds his hands out to Denny in an I-get-it gesture. “There’s a reason. I’ve done some thinking about this. Our objective here is to win a talent show, right? Not set the rock world on fire.”

  Denny just stares back, unimpressed.

  “I know your views on the Eagles, Denny. I’ve heard them many times. But Ross and I’ve talked about it.” He looks over at me.

  I nod as he goes on.

  “I like the harder stuff better too. But they wanna win this thing. And the Eagles are safe. ‘Take It Easy’ is a safe, well-known song. And teachers are the judges at this thing. Not kids.”

  Denny bobs his head, like that makes sense.

  “And finally, it’s simple enough that these guys can do it—a simple version of it at least—and sound pretty good.” He looks around at us all. “Right?”

  Everyone is nodding but Denny, until he finally tips his head back in defeat. “All right. Fine.”

  So we focus on “Take It Easy.”

  We figure out what to do instead of the guitar solo, which I’m years away from being able to play. Then we play it again and again and again, with suggestions from Frank and Denny and Lisa each time. And it starts to sound better. And better.