by J. J. Murray
The women eventually stood back-to-back, calming down somewhat, and blended into one steady hum as their lights blended to teal green. Using only their teeth to hold their kazoos, they turned to each other and embraced—until the younger woman put both her hands on the older woman’s derriere and gave a firm squeeze.
More applause.
Hope leaned over to Dylan. “Did you think that was hot?” she whispered.
“I cannot answer that,” Dylan whispered.
Hope let go of Dylan’s hand and rubbed his leg.
“Okay, it was hot,” he whispered.
The conductor tapped his imaginary music stand again and pointed to an old woman playing a violin down right in dark-blue light, her music so desolate that Hope felt tears forming.
I’ve heard that sound before. That’s the sound of grief, anguish, heartache, misery, and pain. I hope this part doesn’t last too long.
An obviously pregnant young girl approached the old woman from down left in sky-blue light, playing an oboe, and they had a musical conversation full of fierce, strident violin and pleading, weeping oboe. Abruptly, the old woman turned her back on the young girl and resumed her first, sad song while the young girl’s oboe wept her completely off the stage.
There was only a smattering of applause this time, but there was no scarcity of men clearing their throats or women sniffling.
“You okay?” Dylan whispered.
“I’m okay,” Hope whispered. I could be an oboe in another life.
The conductor turned to the audience and waved his baton to the right. He pointed at a section. He pointed again, lifting his left hand. A few people stood. The conductor crossed his arms and tapped his foot. The entire section stood, laughter rippling through the auditorium. The conductor nodded. He turned to the center section and pointed. The center section, including Dylan and Hope, stood immediately. Once he had the entire audience standing, the conductor smiled. Then the conductor frowned. He held his left hand to his ear.
“He wants us to make some music,” Dylan said.
I didn’t know this show would require audience participation! I don’t have a musical bone in my body.
“I’m waiting,” the conductor mouthed.
In moments, hundreds of people started singing random songs while hundreds more drummed or tapped on the seats in front of them.
Dylan tried to sing the Canadian national anthem.
Hope made him stop.
The conductor waved both arms until the audience quieted. As soon as the laughter died down, the conductor stuck his baton under one arm and clapped his hands once.
Dylan and a scattering of others echoed him.
The conductor nodded and clapped again.
More people echoed him, including Hope.
Okay, okay, I get it, Hope thought. What a cheap way to get an audience to give a standing ovation.
In moments, the entire audience clapped in a slow, steady beat. The conductor made the okay sign, winked, turned, and pointed left at the bass drummer, who pounded the drum in time with the audience. The conductor pointed at the Spanish girl, who began clicking away, and at the gangster, who rat-a-tatted. It wasn’t long before the audience had to applaud faster to keep up with the increasing tempo of the percussion as a rainbow of spotlights crisscrossed the stage.
The conductor turned to the audience and bobbed his head to the beat. “Not bad,” he mouthed. He then did an extremely funky monkey before spinning completely around once, twice, and then faced the stage, pointing at each musician and “unfreezing” him or her.
He’s an overgrown, dancing Tinker Bell, and this is incredible!
While harmonica, saxophone, and clarinet formed a lilting, almost calypso melody, the two kazoo players did arpeggios up and down the scale while the violin and the oboe harmonized—
I have never heard such a sound! This is the music of the spheres! I have goose bumps on my arms! I wish the conductor would slow this down! I don’t want this song to end!
With the song at its highest crescendo, every light in the theater winked out one by one until only a single green spot washed over the conductor.
The audience was already clapping wildly and continued to applaud as the footlights came up.
“Encore!” Dylan yelled loudly.
“Dylan, shh,” Hope said.
“Encore!” Dylan yelled again. “Encore!”
In seconds, cries of “encore” rang all around the theater.
The conductor held up a finger, and the cast formed a huddle.
“See what you’ve done,” Hope said.
“You know they’ve got something more,” Dylan said.
The cast seemed to argue for several moments before slinking away to various spots on the stage. Most of the actors-musicians looked glum. Only the conductor and the oboe player seemed happy.
The conductor tapped his invisible music stand, and the “band” played a sluggish, dirge-like song featuring a gloomy solo by the oboe player under gloomy gray lights. None of the musicians seemed to be enjoying life, frowns in abundance, and all but the oboe player turned their backs on the audience. The conductor stopped the music, mouthed “I’m so sorry” to the audience, “screamed” at the musicians, nearly came to blows with the gangster, and had to be restrained by the violinist. He turned to the audience, mouthed “I’m really sorry,” and waved his baton again. This time the band played an up-tempo, jazzy version of “Downtown,” the old Petula Clark classic, while the two kazoo players belted out the melody.
All right, Hope thought. Hey, look at me! I’m dancing in the theater.
When the singers arrived at the chorus, Dylan tried to sing along. “Downtown, things’ll be something something when you’re downtown.”
Even Hope tried to sing, but not very loudly.
At the conclusion of the song and after the bows, the house lights came up and Hope put on her coat.
“That was incredible,” she said, “and I didn’t know you could sing.”
“There’s just so much we don’t know about each other,” Dylan said, following her out of the row. “Perhaps we could take the rest of the evening to become better acquainted.” He hooked a finger around one of her belt loops and pulled her hip to his as they moved up the aisle to the lobby. “Now would be a good time to start. Are you free for the rest of the evening?”
She kissed his cheek. “Yes.” I’m actually free for the rest of my life.
They were almost through the lobby when Kiki and Angie leaped out in front of them. “Mr. Healy?” Kiki said. “Hope? What are you two doing here?”
Hope rolled her eyes. “As if you didn’t know.”
Wow, On-Gee—I mean, Angie—is taller than I remembered. I only got a glimpse of her outside Thrifty once or twice before. She’s at least three inches taller than Dylan, and she’s gorgeous, with long dark hair, blue eyes, and legs for days but in proportion to the rest of her body. I was expecting her to have arms to the floor and the wide face of a giant, but it’s a cute face without a shred of makeup.
Dylan stepped behind Hope, resting his hands on Hope’s hips. “Hi, Kiki, Angie.”
How does he know On-Gee? “You two have met?” Hope asked.
“Of course I know Angie,” Dylan said. “She was a volunteer during my . . . fifth year, I believe, at Kinderstuff. She helped us out in art for four years before she disappeared on us.”
“I had to go to college, Dylan,” Angie said with no trace of a Hungarian accent.
Even her voice is cute, a lilting alto.
“I made a bigger mess than the kids did, Hope, and I had the biggest crush on Dylan back then, mainly because of his hair,” Angie said. “I was barely fourteen when I started volunteering.”
I’m so glad Angie’s not heterosexual. She could steal my tall Irishman in a second if she wanted to.
“Did I say ‘encore’ loud enough, Angie?” Dylan asked.
Angie laughed. “You said it way too soon! You should have let the appla
use go at least thirty seconds longer. You know musicians. They love to hear applause.”
Hope turned her head and stared into Dylan’s eyes. “You were actually part of the performance?”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Only for tonight,” Angie said. “We’ll find somebody else we know tomorrow night, and whoever it is will let the applause build for at least a minute.”
“I was feeling the moment,” Dylan said. “Couldn’t help it.”
“You two make such a nice couple,” Kiki said.
“You do,” Angie said.
“Thank you,” Dylan said. “Angie, are you doing what you love?”
Angie nodded. “And love has found me.” She kissed Kiki on top of her head.
He must say that phrase to all of “his kids.” Love what you do, and love will find you. So simple and yet so profound.
Kiki smiled broadly at Hope. “So I was right about this show, and you are glad you came.”
“You were right,” Hope said. “But it needs a much bigger stage.”
“The producers are thinking of expanding it with a few horns, a piano, and a xylophone, if you can believe it,” Angie said.
“They should add a fundeh to the bass drum and castanets,” Kiki said.
“A percussion threesome?” Angie said.
“I have told you the drum and castanets are not enough,” Kiki said. “The fundeh would keep the tempo steady. Your castanet player is still too fast.”
Angie squeezed Kiki’s shoulders with two delicate hands. “We can argue about it later. I gotta go. Some of the colors still didn’t blend right, and the backlights aren’t bright enough at the beginning.”
“Can you not do them tomorrow, On-Gee?” Kiki asked. “We must go celebrate.”
Angie sighed. “I want to adjust them while they’re still fresh in my mind.”
“I should be fresh in your mind,” Kiki said.
“You are,” Angie said, “and if you help me, we can go celebrate sooner.”
Kiki sighed. “I go to work, I go to a show, and I go back to work. It is always work.”
Dylan stepped away from Hope and gave Angie a big hug. “It is really good to see you again. Let me know when they add the marching band.”
“I am not lighting a marching band,” Angie said.
Kiki grabbed Angie’s hand. “Let us go finish so we can begin.” She dragged Angie back into the auditorium.
Dylan took Hope’s hand. “Having fun?”
“Yes.” She leaned into him as they followed the crowd outside. “When did Angie recruit you to yell ‘encore’?”
“About three weeks ago, I think,” Dylan said. “She still stops by Kinderstuff occasionally to say hello.”
Because she still has a crush on you. “So you were going to the show whether I was with you or not, huh?”
“Well . . .” Dylan nodded. “Yeah. But I wouldn’t have had a good time without you.”
“Right.”
“It’s a long walk to The Islands,” Dylan said. “We could get another cab.”
“I am starving,” Hope said, “and I need another kiss, and you only seem to be able to kiss me in a cab, so . . .”
Dylan faced Hope, took her face in his hands, and kissed the enamel off her teeth while hundreds of people streamed out of the theater around them.
Hope had to catch her breath.
“Yes,” Hope said, “I think we’ll need a cab.” I’m feeling weak in the knees.
On the ride to The Islands, heavy traffic allowed Hope and Dylan to share several long kisses interrupted sporadically by car horns and curses from the driver.
After a particularly passionate kiss involving a mutual trading of hands, Dylan caressed the back of Hope’s neck. “What instrument best portrays your voice?”
“A French horn,” Hope said. “No. Too obvious. What’s the quietest instrument? A flute. I’d be a flute.”
“But a single flute can often be heard over the entire orchestra,” Dylan said.
I can’t be a flute then. I don’t really want anyone to hear me. “Maybe I’m a . . . tambourine.”
“Why a tambourine?” Dylan asked.
“Because you have to shake or hit me to make me talk,” Hope said.
Dylan squeezed the back of her neck gently. “I would never do either.”
Hope rested her head on Dylan’s shoulder. “I know you wouldn’t. What instrument would you be?”
“I’d have to be a trumpet,” Dylan said. “I talk too much. That means we’d be a trumpet and a tambourine.”
That’s only slightly phallic.
“You know, I think we’d make a good piano,” Dylan said, “and not just because of the color of the keys. I think we’d strike some nice chords.”
“You have strange thoughts, Dylan Healy,” Hope said.
“And the black keys are on top of the white keys,” Dylan said.
I like it on top. “But there are more white keys,” Hope said.
Dylan smiled. “But the black keys are more fun to play.” He slid his hand off Hope’s shoulder and slipped it down Hope’s side, pulling up her coat and tickling her ribs.
She swiveled away from his hand and moved toward the door. “Is that all you want to do with me? Play?”
Dylan nodded. “I want to run my fingers through your hair and all over your body. I want to see what kinds of sounds you make.”
I cannot wait for this man to play me. She slid back to him. “Just kiss me until we get there, okay?”
“May I continue to tickle you as we do?” Dylan asked.
“Just tickle my ivories when you kiss me,” Hope said, pulling his face to hers.
Chapter 13
The Islands, boasting “Exotic Caribbean Cuisine,” was as crowded as it always was, no matter the day of the week or the time of night. At least a dozen people milled around the front door, and twice as many packed the small first-floor interior around the counter.
“We may be getting it to go,” Hope said.
“Is it always crowded like this?” Dylan asked. “It’s nine o’clock.”
“It’s a happening place,” Hope said, “and it is Friday night. We could place to-go orders, and then we could eat at my apartment. If you want to.”
“You know I want to,” Dylan said, smiling at everyone around him. “But how much would we eat when we got there?”
He has a point. We might not be eating much.
“I love this place,” Dylan said. “The aromas are amazing. I don’t mind waiting.”
“We may be waiting a long time,” Hope said. “Once I was second in line, and one of the owners made the woman in front of me wait ten minutes while she prepared a take-out order in front of us.”
Dylan shrugged. “So we wait. This time last week, I was warming up some leftover spaghetti in the microwave.”
This time last week, I was asleep.
“Tonight I am out with a beautiful lady,” Dylan said. “There isn’t anywhere I’d rather be.”
“It might be a very long wait,” Hope said.
“The night is still young, isn’t it?” Dylan asked.
“Yes, but . . .”
“And it’s going to be a long night, right?” Dylan asked.
So long I hope it doesn’t end. Hope nodded.
“Then we’ll wait.” He kissed her cheek. “I want to drink this place in.”
Hope hated to wait for a table in any restaurant, but she especially hated waiting for one of the few tables in the upstairs loft at the Island.
This was Odell’s favorite place to eat, and we never took anything to go. We could have brought our own drinks, picked up the order, and eaten in Prospect Park or on the steps of the Brooklyn Museum like most people do, but Odell didn’t like eating in the park, even on a nice day, because he said it was what “the common folks did.” He seemed to enjoy standing shoulder-to-shoulder and hip-to-hip in a crowd, and the whole time he’d complain about the wait. I once suggested we get it to go
and eat it at my apartment, and he said, “This place has more ambiance than your apartment ever will.” That word, “ambiance,” was one of the few French words Odell knew.
“Can we at least find out how long it will be to get a table?” Hope asked.
“Sure,” Dylan said.
Dylan and Hope weaved and twisted their way through the crowd to the wooden counter, where a large, smiling Jamaican woman shook her head often at the people around the counter asking her if their orders were ready while she chopped green peppers and onions.
“Excuse me,” Dylan said to the woman.
The woman cocked her head toward him. “What?” she shouted, waving her knife.
I’d be testy, too, if this many people were yelling at me in my kitchen, Hope thought. I wouldn’t want to get her mad. That woman is at least three of me. One swipe of her meaty arm and she’d clear the restaurant.
“How long is the wait for a table?” Dylan asked.
The woman smiled suddenly. “You want a table?”
Dylan nodded. “A table for two.”
The woman dropped her knife, grabbed two menus, flipped up the counter, pushed through the complaining crowd, and started up an extremely narrow set of stairs.
“Follow her?” Dylan asked.
“Follow her,” Hope said, holding onto Dylan’s jacket as he parted the swarm. At the top of the stairs, Dylan ducked his head because the ceiling was barely seven feet high. The woman handed Dylan two menus, pointed to an empty circular table to the right, and returned to the noise below. Dylan and Hope squeezed between couples at two nearby tables and sat at the small table, a flowery tablecloth atop it and a vase of fragrant flowers on a side table nearby, glowing candles giving off fitful light.
Odell and I once sat at this very table, Hope thought. I hope the man across from me can erase those sad, old memories and replace them with happy, new memories tonight. She glanced under the table at their knees touching. That’s a new thing already. Odell hated when I tried to get frisky with his legs, but are Dylan and I getting frisky now? This is a small table.
Dylan looked at the menu for several minutes before announcing, “Since this is my first visit, and since you’ve been here before, I want you to order for me.”