The Trumpet Lesson

by Dianne Romain

  “See,” Pamela said. “I’ve got you. Now put your palms on the ground by your shoulders.”

  She did so, and Pamela pulled her back into a squat, and then helped her stand up. “You need to sit down, but not here. How about over there?” She gestured toward a high stone wall.

  She nodded.

  Pamela kept her arm around Callie as they moved toward the wall, then helped her off with her backpack, and settled her on a boulder.

  “Thank you.”

  Pamela put an arm around her shoulders again and gave her a little squeeze. “You can count on me.” She found Callie’s water bottle. “Now. Drink.”

  Callie took a long drink.

  “Better?”

  She smiled. “Much better.”

  “Good.” Pamela stood and started walking back and forth as if orating on a stage. “No wonder you lost your balance. That Armando. As I was saying.” She enunciated each word carefully: “A. Piece. Of. Work.”

  Her chest started to feel tight again. Armando. His sporadic tapping. His anxious voice.

  “He thinks I stole his dog. Can you believe it?” She lifted her hands, palms up, and shrugged her shoulders. Gray clouds hanging in the sunlit sky beyond Pamela provided a backdrop to her performance.

  Armando’s insistence that Pamela had Tavelé was crazy, she thought, but not his anxiety about her budding friendship with Pamela. She felt a twinge of guilt. What if Pamela was making Armando’s life difficult? Shouldn’t she, as his friend, keep her distance?

  “I have no idea where that scamp is. He was at my house, nosing around the garden as if he were looking for something.”

  The geese.

  “After eating two pieces of cake.” She smiled. “I recognized him immediately when he showed up.”

  Callie’s eyes followed the clouds, which looked amorphous at first and then settled into huge resting hippos.

  “I tried to call Armando. But there was some automated message I didn’t understand, so I hung up. Not that I wanted to talk to him, given how he treats me.”

  She had a point there. Armando was being difficult. If only they would talk with each other. And listen. A hippo roused and began to lumber across the sky.

  “I figured, if I left the gate open, Tavelé would head back down to the center.” She stopped and motioned as if opening a gate and then started pacing again. “But he didn’t. The next morning, he was still there. He’d dug up all my bulbs.” She laughed. “I was mad, but not for long. He’s such a flirt, the way he looks out of the corner of his eye.” She mimed the look.

  She couldn’t stay mad at Tavelé. That was a start.

  “Anyway, by Monday morning he had left. I tried to tell Armando, but he lit into me about Maestro Chávez before I could open my mouth.”

  She should lay off the maestro. Let Armando take his time. Another hippo rose in the sky.

  “I told him it was his own darn fault his dog was missing.”

  The hippos stood head to head, mirroring each other.

  Pamela sat down by Callie and leaned back against the wall. Her voice softened. “It’s not easy being the new kid on the block.”

  Her tone reminded Callie of the night she played “The Lost Child,” half-hidden behind the tree in the Jardín. Callie put her arm across Pamela’s shoulder.

  “I thought Armando would be a natural ally, but, like I told you, he cooled toward me right away. As if I had some contagious disease. And then when Maestro Chávez started getting lost, Armando blamed me.” She pulled away and faced Callie, her eyes serious. “It’s true, he stares at me and skips a beat or two. But it’s not my fault.” She put a finger to her temple. “He’s losing it.” She lowered her hand. “Armando refuses to see that.” She sighed and looked out toward the sky.

  Callie followed her gaze. The hippos slowly backed apart as if trying to find a way to gain an advantage.

  “The strange thing is, as awful as he is to me offstage, he’s fully there onstage, backing me up, you know.”

  “That’s Armando. When it matters, he’s there.”

  She turned to Callie. “Really?” Then she smiled. “Well, anyway, he is a fabulous musician.” She looked back toward the sky. “Wow, look at that!” She pointed toward the hippos Callie saw. “They look like enormous corn fritters.”

  Twenty-One

  THE MOMENT CALLIE ROUNDED THE CORNER by Doña Petra’s house, the rain that had held off all morning began to pour. Her mother would say it was raining cats and dogs. Armando favored the French comme vache qui pisse, like a cow peeing. She recalled the clouds in the mountains. Hippos peeing? She smiled and ducked under the rectangle of tin sheltering the step at Doña Petra’s entry. Good thing the pee had not started while they were driving back to Guanajuato.

  A stream of rushing water swirled around the corner and lapped up against the step she stood on. It continued on down the callejón toward her house. Not a stream she wanted to splash home through, given the dog poop she’d seen on her way up the hill.

  She huddled as close to Doña Petra’s metal entry door as she could. Still, water splashed up and dampened her ankles. She pictured Tavelé shaking off water. Had he found shelter? She drew in her feet until her heels pressed against the base of the door. No point in knocking. Doña Petra, wearing her beatific smile, would be at church. Juanito and his sister would be there, too.

  She hunched her shoulders against the wind. She could use a nice warm shower. If only the rain would stop.

  She took in the flourishing basil plant by the front door. Doña Petra had placed it there to ward off envy, she had said. Against the envy of people like Nacho and his family, Callie had thought. Compared with their dilapidated shack, Doña Petra’s house, with its newly tiled floor and insulated roof, was warm and cozy. But when she commented on the size of the plant, Doña Petra told her the plant had been there for years, from the time her house had had a dirt floor and tin roof.

  She wondered, then, about the need for basil, until she recalled first meeting Doña Petra. How sad she sounded when speaking of the poor philosopher, who had such a big house and lived there solita, all alone. When Juanito’s mother Carla came home for the winter from working in the States, she told Callie she missed her mother and her children the long months away each year. But by working up North she could earn enough to finish her family’s home. She would come back for good then. And meanwhile when away, she shared living spaces with other farm workers. She was never solita.

  Callie looked again at the basil plant. And what about herself? She lived alone. Did Doña Petra and Carla pity her? She pulled her shoulders back. Well, she enjoyed living alone. Always had, since she moved from her aunt’s flat crammed with souvenirs from mummy trips to the studio, where she enjoyed beautifully bare walls.

  She would be happy to be all alone in the quiet comfort of her house right now. If only the rain would let up.

  She looked through the downpour to the abandoned lot on the other side of the callejón. It looked beautiful at this time of year, overgrown with broad-leaved plants that hid the garbage underneath. She shuddered, recalling the rotten papaya she had once stepped on when retrieving a sheet that had blown off her line. Armando had laughed when she complained about the papaya. “You should be more worried about the rubble piled against your wall. Any kid could climb to the top and shimmy down your avocado tree.”

  Callie shivered and pulled her jacket closer. The rain had slowed, but the wind had picked up. The awning no longer protected her. She looked into the sky. Gray and thick with clouds. The rain would go on a while, and even if it stopped soon, the stream would continue. Should she wade? The water wouldn’t be as dirty as when the rain first started. She looked down at her shoes. They would get soaked. Her feet would dry faster. But did she really want to put her feet in that water? Then she recalled Pamela’s words about driving with the top down, “It will be more exciting this way.” And it had been. Careening down the curves under a sky streaked with lightning. She raised a
n eyebrow. Terrifying, but exciting.

  She rested her bottom against Doña Petra’s door to take off her shoes and socks. Then she took in a deep breath, stepped into the callejón, and splashed down the stairs.

  Twenty-Two

  AFTER HER SHOWER, CALLIE DRESSED IN SWEATS, wrapped a towel turban-style around her hair, and climbed the stairs to the dining room. The sun had come out and was shining across the room onto the dining room table. She would take another walk. Look for Tavelé in town. But first she would read her mother’s letter. She smiled. Usually she saved her letters until after her chores, but her routine was already off. She might as well treat herself to the letter now. She opened the envelope and took out the thin sheets written in her mother’s even handwriting.

  Dear Callie,

  I have been in your room, remembering you there with your books and the cloth doll Ida made for you. You would hold her for hours in your little wooden rocker, telling her stories from one of your favorite books. You sang to her, too. Tell how she could have as much ice cream as she liked, play in the snow until her nose turned blue, and pick strawberries in the full sun.

  She went everywhere with you. You probably don’t remember, you were so little, but one day I found you teetering on a chair at the basement door. You were reaching for the light switch. She was by your feet, and you were looking down, telling her not to touch your daddy’s saws. The chair tipped so that your doll slid off. I was terrified you would fall, too, but I managed to catch you.

  That evening—do you remember?—your father found you a block away from home, with a bag of your clothes and your doll. You sang to her in your room for a long time afterward, promising never to yell at her or give her the silent treatment.

  Callie leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. She remembered telling Pamela she had liked playing alone in her room. But she hadn’t been all alone, had she? She returned to the letter.

  I found your doll this morning in the back of your closet, wearing her gingham dress and white apron. The nylon stuffing was poking through one of her mitten hands. The red ribbon that tied her hair was gone and so was one of her blue button eyes. But she still had her embroidered-on smile.

  I sewed up the seam and tied a new ribbon for her hair. I’m pretty sure I can find a matching button. I thought, maybe now, you would like to have her.

  She frowned. She had once planned to keep her doll safe for her own child and for that child’s child and all who came thereafter. But then, when she left home for college, she left everything, including the suitcase her mother packed for her. None of her old clothes fit anyway. On that last morning the first thing she saw in the dawn light was her doll sitting prettily in the little wooden rocker. The doll must have seemed a symbol of all that could not be, for she found herself twisting and pulling at the doll until she looked, she realized now, the way she herself had felt inside.

  Going through these things takes me back to the past. I never told you, did I, that I feared—when you left for college— that I would never see you again. When you came home

  after your father died and stood beside me at the sink, a towel in your hand, wiping the dishes as naturally as if you had never left my side, I was so relieved tears came to my eyes.

  A lump formed in Callie’s throat. She remembered her mother trying to hide her tears that first evening home. But she thought her mother had been grieving her father’s death.

  Still, I worried that one day you would leave again and that even Ida would not know where you were. When you said you were moving to Mexico, I was terrified that I would lose you for good. But then you came to visit from so far. Then, finally, I knew that wherever you went, I would not lose you again.

  Now when I remember things of the past, I cherish them all, the joys and the sorrows.

  Callie read the last phrase again, “the joys and the sorrows.” Was there a message there? She turned the page over.

  Well, Dear, I have gone on some, but I wanted you to know about your doll. Don’t worry, I’ll have her fixed in no time.

  Everything here is fine and dandy.

  Love, Mother

  Strange. Not a thing about what had been keeping her mother away from home. Or the news Aunt Ida suspected. Was mending the doll her mother’s news? And that “fine and dandy,” a familiar enough phrase coming from Aunt Ida, but odd from her mother. And what a strange jump from “the joys and the sorrows” to “fine and dandy.” In any case, on that score, she had her doubts. Her father had died, but he had left his mark, and if it had faded from her mother’s point of view, it had not from hers.

  She had never wished her father dead, but still she returned for his funeral only because of her mother. She recalled her mother, sitting beside her on the front pew, one hand on top of the other, the way she always held them when her father had done something outrageous.

  Well, he had done something outrageous that time. What had he thought while the ladder was falling backward? Did he see his life projected on the sky above him? Did he hear his last words to his daughter? Did he wish that once over the years that followed he had taken one second to say he was sorry he had thought only of himself? Sorry he had not offered her a word of comfort? Sorry he had chosen blame instead of compassion?

  She saw herself that last night before leaving for college. On her knees begging him. He would not have repented, even within spitting distance of the pearly gates. If he looked back on his life at all, it would be to find others responsible. Never himself. He was probably still standing before the gates, his chin raised, blustering.

  Twenty-Three

  WHEN CALLIE STOOD UP, SHE FELT LIGHT-HEADED. She’d better eat something before dusting the beams. She started toward the kitchen and then noticed the answering machine message light blinking. Ten blinks. Ten messages. More than she had ever gotten before. Had something happened to her mother or Aunt Ida? And then she remembered the mine shaft. Armando. Of course. She should have called him first thing. She pressed the play button.

  The first. “Great message, Chou-Chou. Now everyone knows you’re not at home. I’ll try you on your cell.”

  The second: “Callie, what happened? I was talking to you and then the phone went dead. Call me as soon as you get back.” There was tapping in the background, but not too erratic.

  The third: “I don’t know what I was thinking before. There’s no way you could have gotten back by now, even assuming you haven’t fallen off a cliff. I’m sending Jorge to look for you.” Poor Armando. If only she had noticed the answering machine before the letter. Reading it had only put her in a dark mood anyway. Not that that was her mother’s fault. But then what had she thought when she first saw the condition of her doll?

  The fourth: Drum roll. “Claude just left to look for souvenirs for his aunts.” Cymbal crash. “I’m staying here at the hotel. Call anytime.” Well, at least that message sounded less anxious.

  The fifth: “I can’t believe it. I just looked out the window and saw Claude around the corner with that waiter he had been whispering with.” Oh, dear.

  The sixth: “You know why I don’t take you to the mountains: cliffs, loose bulls, rattlers, lightning strikes.” She shivered. Mine shafts.

  The seventh: “Lightning strikes. Oh, God. I just remembered overhearing Pamela say something about flying kites. First, she steals my dog and then she electrocutes my best friend. Isn’t it enough for her, trying to get rid of the maestro? That reminds me, I’d better check on him.” Vintage Armando. But someone did need to check on Maestro Chávez. She hoped to God he was okay.

  The eighth: “He’s at home. Safe. No word of you at the hospitals, the Cruz Roja, or the fire department. And Claude’s not back.” The dull, repeated thud of a funeral drum. “He’s not coming back. I know it. God, Chou, I hope you’re all right.” How could she have let him get this hysterical? She should have borrowed Pamela’s cell to call him right back! She felt her own heart beginning to race.

  The ninth: “Guess what, Chou.
Claude just came waltzing in.” He laughed. “Danzoning in, I mean. With presents for me. A pitcher for coffee and another, a lechero, for hot milk. Just like the ones used at our favorite restaurant. A waiter holds them high, one in each hand, and then, in unison, pours streams of steaming coffee and milk into your cup. The waiter’s giving us some tips on using them. Claude’s the best.” She smiled. He is. Now, if only Armando would stay on that track instead of getting constantly derailed by jealous thoughts.

  The tenth: “We’re going dancing.” And then in a whisper. “The waiter, too, but don’t worry. His wife will meet us at the plaza. Get it? They have five children. What luck.” There were five taps and then, “If you’re still alive when you play this message, call me ASAP.”

  That was her Armando, one minute expecting disaster, the next one dancing. She looked over at the jaguar. “Wipe that smirk off your face.”

  When she called Armando to reassure him that she was okay and only the cell fell into the mine shaft, he was so enjoying dancing that he only ranted a little about Pamela risking his dear Chou’s life. Still, he would not hang up until she promised never to go to the mountains again. “At least,” he added with a laugh, “not unless you are tethered to me.” He hung up and then called back. “Be sure to get another cell.” Then he called again, reminding her to look for Tavelé every day and to call him first thing when she found him. As if she could forget. She hung up the phone, shaking her head.

  She waited a second in case he called again, and then dialed her mother. She pictured her, needle in hand, mending her doll. How kind her mother was. She wanted to tell her that, but thought it best not to broach the subject. Instead she would assure her mother that she would never run away again. As it turned out, she needn’t have worried about what to say. The phone rang and rang. No answer.

  WHEN her hair dried she set off in search of Tavelé. She would visit a different neighborhood each day, starting with the next neighborhood over and then continuing neighborhood by neighborhood around the canyon clockwise. She made other plans while walking along calling “Tavelé.” She would remind Jorge, Armando’s driver, to look for Tavelé and to spread the word to other drivers. She would visit all the butcher shops in town. And she would get word to the mail carriers.