by David Klass
Kachooski plays a long, last, lingering throaty note and lowers my tuba. The crowd, still and silent as stone statues, listen as if a magical spell has been cast over them. There must be dust in the gymnasium, because I find that my eyes are wet. Mr. Steenwilly accentuates the last notes of his masterpiece with a few final dramatic flourishes of his baton and then turns to the audience, and bows.
People stand and clap. I remain seated, self-conscious about again showing off my many bruises and ridiculous face cast. My old and tired mother, who is not known as a big music fan, jumps to her feet and claps as if her palms have caught fire and she is trying to beat out the flames. The mountain gorilla also stands and pounds his massive paws together, beaming proud glances at his daughter. Violent Hayes looks back at him from the stage, her face shining. Her gaze swings from the mountain gorilla to me, and for a moment we have a little silent communication, just the two of us. It may be a good thing that I am wearing a face cast, because I believe I am blushing beneath it.
Among the Lashasa Palulu, that tribe that is not a tribe, battle heroes who have been wounded in action are never given medals. They wear their scars as the proof of their bravery, and at village festivals they are seated in prominent positions and expected to lead the celebrations.
Mashed face and all, I stand up and clap with the rest of them. As I blink away the puddles of moisture that my eyes are pumping out, no doubt to dispel the irritation of airborne dust, I am forced to admit that Mr. Steenwilly caught a true emotion and set it down in sharps and flats, and Kachooski nailed the tuba solo for him. And I understand that, forlorn and cautionary as it started out, and muddled and painful as it became in places, it was, in the end, a love song.