The Trumpet Lesson

by Dianne Romain

  “Well, not really.” She exhaled on the valve casings and began wiping them.

  “You mean you didn’t ask for a tour? You didn’t search, Chou?”

  She thought of the graduation photo. “Sort of …”

  “Are you sure you’re okay, Chou? Pamela’s such a pain. She didn’t accuse you of anything, did she?”

  “Accuse me?”

  “Was she suspicious? Did she ask why you asked for a lesson?”

  She gazed at the trumpet bell and thought of the leash dangling from it. Her chest tightened.

  “I mean, it is a little odd, a woman your age—not that I think you’re old, Choucita.”

  “She didn’t seem suspicious.” She shined the trumpet’s lead pipe.

  “No, I suppose she wouldn’t be. She didn’t question you at all, did she? Why would she? Wouldn’t everyone want to study with the great Pamela? Like those groupies that followed her around. They were ridiculous the way they sat, eyes peeled on her at rehearsals. At the break one day, I told them to scram. One of them must have tattled. You should have seen how Pamela glared at me after the break. What a witch.”

  He was going too far. “Armando.” She said his name softly hoping he would listen then.

  “Okay, okay, Chou. Pamela plays well. I’ll give her that. Very well, actually. Okay, great. But that doesn’t give her the right to hide Tavelé.” He paused a moment and then continued. “I’ve got an idea. Ask to see her house. I know. I know. It will be a pain. But you can do it, can’t you? Pour Tavelé, Chou. For Tavelé.”

  She thought of Pamela talking about breathing from the core, about expressing your truest self. “She’s really not so bad, Armando.”

  “Oh, you’re just trying to make me feel better. You’re too sweet, Chou.”

  “No. Actually …”

  “Look, I’ve got to go. Anyway, thanks. Oh, and be sure to go to the symphony tomorrow. It’s the last of the season, you know. Congratulate Pamela afterward. Then she’s sure to ask you around.”

  “Actually … I’ll see her soon anyway. Sunday.”

  “Why didn’t you say so before? That’s great.”

  “But …” She wanted to say there was no way Pamela would steal Tavelé. She might even help find him.

  Armando interrupted. “Got to go. Bye, Chou.”

  She had no sooner hung up than he called again.

  “I’m leaving right after the concert, but I’ll call you from Veracruz. Got to go.”

  He hung up and then called again, this time to remind her to meet him before the concert for a complimentary ticket.

  She held up the trumpet and turned it from side to side. Not a fingerprint anywhere. Might as well call Aunt Ida. She and her mother would have had time enough to catch up by now.

  “Your mom? No, she’s not here. If it weren’t for the group and Sunday service, I’d never see her these days.”

  “The group?”

  “The Democrat coffee klatch. Remember?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Strange her mother being seen on a regular basis with outspoken Democrats. Or had Aunt Ida quieted down?

  “So you haven’t heard from her?” Aunt Ida asked.

  “Oh … Well, she said she’s been busy. Crocheting, I imagine. But she wasn’t at home when I called.”

  Ida laughed. “Then she hasn’t mentioned any news to you?”

  “News?”

  “I think she has some, all right, but she’s being tight-lipped about it,” Ida said, laughing.

  Callie relaxed. Can’t be bad news, not with Aunt Ida chuckling like that. “Well, I have news, too. I have a new friend. I think. Anyway, I took a trumpet lesson from her.” She took in a breath. She shouldn’t have mentioned the trumpet.

  “You’ve decided to play the trumpet?”

  “Well …” She hesitated. She had an answer, but not one she wanted to say. Still, there was always Armando. “It was one of Armando’s schemes. He thinks she has Tavelé.”

  “He’s run away again? This time to the call of the trumpet?”

  She laughed. “So Armando thinks.”

  “So you’re posing as a trumpet student? And how did you come by a trumpet? I suppose Armando provided you with one.”

  “No, I had one.”

  “Oh, Juanito.”

  “How did you know?”

  “That boy could sell you anything. Can you play a tune?”

  “No, but I can breathe.”

  “That’s handy.”

  Callie laughed. “And Pamela, my teacher, invited me to go for a walk.”

  “Oh. How’s Armando taking that?”

  Looks like he’d been complaining to Aunt Ida again. “It was his idea. He wanted me to get to know her, in case she does have Tavelé.”

  “And if she doesn’t? Then what. You’ll drop her?”

  “Uh. No.”

  “Joking aside, Callie, there’s something fishy going on here.”

  Her aunt was right about that. Still she wasn’t about to say so. “You’re always telling me to get out more. Meet new people.”

  “Under the pretext of looking for a dog?”

  “Not just that … I like Pamela. She reminds me of you.” And she did, she realized saying it. They looked nothing alike. Her aunt, like Callie, was short and plump. But Pamela spoke her mind, like her aunt.

  “And the trumpet?”

  “I like that, too.”

  “Since when? Your father wanted you to play. Remember?”

  She did remember. But only because he had learned that band class met at the same period as French. “That was different.”

  “Well, it’s your life.”

  Yes, it was her life. And any friend of Gwendolyn’s would be a friend of hers. She checked the trumpet again, and then put it back in the case.

  If her mother was not crocheting, what was she doing? She rested her hand on the top of the case, tapping it while she thought. Her mother wouldn’t be up to anything adventuresome. Not like Aunt Ida traipsing about the world, chasing mummies.

  So, what could her mother’s news be? She had been talking more about birds recently. Had she joined that birding group Aunt Ida mentioned? Or the choir? She’d said the new director had been trying to recruit her. And hadn’t she mentioned a reading group? Could it be all three? Her mother suddenly social?

  Whatever her mother’s news, it would have nothing to do with babies. That Callie knew with certainty. After she had left home, her mother, who formerly reveled in such news, never again mentioned pregnancies, baby showers, or births. And so, after her father’s death, when she went home for the first time in years, she had been surprised to see the church pews sprinkled with another generation of children.

  Thirteen

  SHE WAITED FOR ARMANDO, AS USUAL, AROUND the corner from the concert hall. “I’m glad now you don’t meet me in front,” he said. “Pamela would be butting in, trying to give you her ticket.”

  Not likely, with her house full of visitors. Could she say that?

  He gave her the ticket and started off. Then he turned back. “Don’t forget to talk with her after the concert.” He turned to look behind him, then back to her. “Don’t worry. I’ll stay clear.” He kissed her cheeks, turned to go, and then turned back. “I’ll call you.”

  She lingered, the way she always did, her face pressed into a newspaper, until the smokers put out their cigarettes and went in. At the balcony entrance, she paused to listen for the applause indicating the concertmaster had come onstage, and then, when she heard the oboe sound concert A, she opened the velvet curtains. A muffled baby’s cry came from the area where she usually sat. The family, who had been watching for her, pointed to a seat in their row. She held up her thumb and forefinger to signal “in a minute.”

  When the maestro entered to warm applause, she looked toward the stage where she focused not on him bowing briefly to the audience, nor on Armando, but on Pamela whose broad shoulders rose from a shimmering narrow-strapped black dress and whose hair glo
wed under the stage lighting.

  Armando’s eyes, too, were on Pamela, as were the maestro’s from the looks of it, since, after climbing to the podium and welcoming the orchestra with his arms held out widely, he stood with his head turned to the right toward the trumpet section. Callie found herself holding her breath until Armando coughed twice, and the maestro lowered his arms, smoothed the score flat against the music stand, and then raised his baton to begin.

  She looked back at Pamela. And then at Maestro Chávez. Why? And then it came to her. The photo she once saw on the maestro’s mantel of a tall young woman with shoulder-length auburn hair, wearing a low-cut velvet gown and singing with her arms held out on either side as if ready to embrace her audience. Armando had said the photo was of the maestro’s wife, Patricia, taken shortly after they met.

  Maestro Chávez and his wife would have made an unusual couple, she thought. The slight, bald conductor, forever diffident, from his gentle smile and tone of voice to the way he looked down at his feet when he shuffled across the stage. Even when conducting, he appeared to be inviting the orchestra to play rather than directing them.

  The tall, broad-shouldered woman in the photo, on the other hand, had the bearing of that Minoan goddess who held a dangling snake in each of her outstretched hands. There was something of her in Pamela, too, that daring to grasp a snake. No wonder the maestro was transfixed. It was not Pamela he saw, but his beloved Patricia.

  Fourteen

  WHEN CALLIE WOKE TO THE ALARM AT FIVE A.M., it was still dark and chilly. Normally she would have lingered in bed on a Saturday, but today she leapt up. There was so much to do to be ready for her walk with Pamela the next day. She smiled as she stood in the shower, remembering waking several times in the night, already as excited as a child on Christmas morning. Silly, she knew, but it felt a little like that—hoping Pamela would talk about Gwendolyn. It wasn’t too much to wish for. Had she not been a good enough girl? Oh, that was silly. Pamela knew her daughter or she did not. It had nothing to do with her. Still, while drying herself off, she couldn’t help but think that she had better not cry, better not pout.

  She dressed quickly, went upstairs to set up her breakfast tray, and then went back to her bedroom. All the while images came to her of Pamela and Gwendolyn, the two of them shoulder to shoulder in the cafeteria, passing notes in class, whispering secrets over the phone.

  This is silly, she thought again when putting her tray down on her desk. She mustn’t get her hopes up. She lifted and dropped her shoulders, as if that would help clear her mind. She took a sip of tea. Given the lesson, polishing the trumpet, and reassuring Armando about clothes, she hadn’t made as much progress on her new translation as she would like. She would go straight to the library after her chores. Then she would finish up at home in the evening. By working efficiently, she would have everything done in time to see Pamela. Her daughter’s friend. She imagined the two of them laughing over some private joke. Oh, my, she thought, there I go again. What would Aunt Ida say? She couldn’t imagine her aunt getting lost in wishful thinking. And neither should she. She had to get on with her chores. But not all the usual ones. Perhaps there was something she could move to another day. She looked at the periodic table on the wall over her bed for inspiration. Everything there so nicely in order. She flipped through her rotary card file to the card with her list of chores for the first Saturday of the month. She moved her index finger down the items.

  *Weed and remove dry leaves from patio plants

  *Dust bedroom beams and bedroom furniture

  She looked up. The beams didn’t look too bad. She could get up early tomorrow to do them. She took a bite of yogurt and then made a sticky note, moving the beams to the Sunday list.

  *Check clothes in armoire for wear

  *Check socks for holes

  She glanced at the hand-painted box where she kept her socks and then continued down the list.

  *Check items in medicine cabinet

  *Make muffins for Armando

  Armando had left, so there was no reason to prepare things for him. But she needed to make something for the walk. Why not muffins? Was there anything she needed to add to the list? She looked up. She took out a sticky note, sharpened her pencil, and added Pack the picnic backpack.

  Then she pulled out the card with the list Things to take on picnics.

  *Sunscreen

  *Water

  *Cloth napkins

  *Snacks: veggie sticks, fruit slices, deviled eggs or muffins

  Ah, muffins were on the list, and she had just enough eggs for them. Well that settled it.

  *First aid kit

  She went to her bureau, took out the bag of first aid items, and put it on top of the bureau to check it. The latex gloves and the gauze pads were each in their own bag, and the tweezers and scissors shared a bag. These bags and the rest of the items fit perfectly in the larger bag, because she had made the bags herself. Everything was as it should be. All items present, everything in date, and the bags still in good shape.

  She put the kit in the backpack, along with a bottle of water and the sunscreen. She would add the snacks the next morning. Was there anything else she needed?

  She looked up. Oh, there was something. The cell Armando had given her for Three Kings Day. “Now I can reach you anytime,” he had said. She started to put it in her backpack and then stopped. She hadn’t called her mother. It was early. But still. At least she would be at home. No time like the present. But not on the cell. She put it away and then dialed her mother’s number on the extension by her bed. She sat on the bed listening to the ring. She should give the cell number to her mother, just in case. Not that she was likely to call. Aunt Ida might, though, and she hadn’t given her the number either. She had forgotten. And her mother? Was she getting forgetful? Was that why she hadn’t written? She wasn’t answering her phone either. She hung up the phone. Where was her mother now?

  Perhaps she should get her mother a cell, though she couldn’t see her mother accepting. She hadn’t even given up her rotary for a digital phone. Callie hadn’t wanted to accept a cell either, but she had, for Armando’s sake. He worried less when he could reach her. Not that he would be worrying in Veracruz. He would settle down, as usual, once he was with Claude. She pictured the two young men walking through the plazas wearing their guayaberas and Panama hats, humming lines of music to each other, stopping at a café for coffee and sweet rolls. Armando might not call at all for a few days. Still, just in case he did, she would put a message on her machine to call her cell. She paused. Was that just announcing to potential burglars that she was not at home? Or would they imagine their target, listening, deciding whether to answer or not?

  BACK in her bedroom after washing her dishes, she noticed the trumpet case by the armoire. She frowned. She had forgotten all about breathing. What would her daughter think? Where did that thought come from? She sat down on the end of the bed. Pamela. She might tell her friend Gwendolyn about the student who forgot to breathe. Of course, her daughter would not know that the student Pamela spoke of was she, her mother.

  What else would Pamela have said? “She’s a new student, an older woman who’s taking trumpet lessons for the first time. She’s at least fifty. Imagine that.” What would her daughter think about that? A woman in her fifties taking up the trumpet. It sounded, now that she thought of it, adventurous. But she was not adventurous. Goodness knows how much effort it took Aunt Ida to get her to go away. So, Pamela would be giving her daughter a false impression. She should be clear with Pamela that she’s not adventurous, though she’s taken a trumpet lesson. And moved to Mexico. After all, she hardly left her house other than to go to the library. She could be living anywhere, really. She could slip in that information when walking with Pamela.

  But then she might sound like a recluse. And that was not so either, regardless of what Aunt Ida thought. After all, she did agree to take the walk with Pamela, whom she barely knew, and she went out with Armando, and
she went to the symphony. Her daughter shouldn’t think her anti-social.

  She noticed she was hyperventilating. She had gotten carried away. Here she was sitting on the bed, imagining all kinds of things, when she should be checking the armoire. Pamela may never have met Gwendolyn. She looked at her watch. Still, she would do her breathing, just in case. She could spare twenty minutes.

  But where? She looked around her bedroom, then through the windows to the patio. Under the avocado tree, of course. There would be the most oxygen there. If she were lucky, Gwendolyn would come back, too. She moved a chair to the patio, set a timer for twenty minutes, and sat the way she had at Pamela’s. She tried to remember what Pamela had said. About the stream of water. The way it filled the crystal pitcher. She imagined her lungs as the pitcher, filling and emptying.

  Her body felt grounded and yet light, as if it were floating. She sat there breathing to the image of the pitcher receiving and pouring pure, sparkling water.

  When the timer went off, her eyes popped open. Someone had come to the stream and helped her hold the crystal pitcher, but it hadn’t been her daughter. It was Jacob. She stood up quickly. She couldn’t linger there. She had things to do.

  She moved the chair back to her bedroom, opened her armoire, and looked at the clothes. They suddenly looked so, well, dowdy. Jacob came to her again, teasing her about the “uniforms” in her closet in Chicago: baggy flood pants in browns and beiges, loose-fitting, cream-colored tops. Here it was years later and her closet looked the same. Could all her tops really be the same style and color? She looked through them. So they were.

  She took out an armful of clothes and laid them carefully on the bed so they would not slide. She shrugged. She didn’t have Pamela’s sense of style. That was for sure. Did her daughter? Or did she favor yoga attire, like she had on in the photo?

  She took out the rest of her clothes, wiped the inside of the armoire with a damp sponge, and then, after checking each piece carefully, put them back one by one. Then she glanced through the clothes once more, looking for something she could put in the give-away basket she kept for Doña Petra and Juanito. She took out a sweater she had bought from an elderly woman sitting on a callejón. She had never worn it. That would do. She did not wear her parka or lined wool slacks much either, but she needed them now that she visited her mother every Christmas.