The Trumpet Lesson

by Dianne Romain

  True. But what was she getting at? Spanish lessons?

  “Hey, nice angel,” Pamela said, gesturing toward the stone angel she had just noticed.

  “One of Juanito’s sales. It arrived with a broken wing.” She touched the wing. “I just got around to having it repaired.”

  “Oh, yeah,” Pamela said and laughed. “He came to my door the day I left. I am now the proud owner of a Gorky González serving bowl with a crack down the middle.”

  Callie laughed.

  Pamela turned back to Callie. “Anyway, as I was saying, you’re kind to children. And there’s more … Wait a minute. I was on a roll there until I saw the angel.” She laughed and then paused, looking up. “What was it … ? Oh, yeah.” She looked again at Callie. “And you don’t let fear stand in your way.”

  Me? Facing down fear? She smiled, imagining herself in line with the brave little lavender plants.

  “I saw how wide your eyes were when you arrived for your lesson.”

  She stiffened. Had she been that easy to read?

  “It could be a hitch, your being Armando’s friend. He’s not exactly on my side, as you know.” She frowned, then smiled. “But, on the other hand, if you can tolerate him, you must have the patience of Job.”

  Hmm.

  “And you have a gentle voice. The more I told Ami Mai about you, the more she saw I had been right from the start. And my mother was delighted, when I told her.”

  “Delighted about?”

  “About your being our baby’s grandmother, of course. Her local grandmother, that is. My mother will be here for the birth, and so will Ami Mai’s. But they don’t live here. Like you.”

  Me? The local grandmother. Callie noticed the jaguar through the window. She knew what he would think: More like the loca grandmother. Or was Pamela the crazy one, asking her so soon? Still, it was a nice idea. She imagined cradling Pamela’s baby. But then she imagined Armando watching her. He was scowling. Pamela was right. He wouldn’t be happy about it. It was one thing to continue trumpet lessons over his objections. Another thing to grandmother Pamela’s baby. Oh, dear. Lovely as the idea was, she should not accept. At least not without time to think.

  “Well, what do you think?”

  She couldn’t say yes or no. But she had to say something. Something true. “It’s quite an honor.” And now she had to stall. Quickly. She gestured toward the door to the dining area. “Didn’t you say you were starved?”

  Pamela appeared not so easily derailed. “Okay, I’ll give you some time to think it over. It took Ami Mai a while to get used to the idea, too. But now she’s as excited as I am.” Pamela led their way into the dining area. “Bring on the lentil stew.”

  Callie pulled out a chair for Pamela and then poured her a glass of water. When she came back carrying the tray with their meal, she glanced at the jaguar. Was he frowning?

  “AND …” Pamela said when Callie was on the way back to the table with a second bowl of stew for her. “How’s the trumpet?”

  Up to that point, they had eaten in silence, Pamela having been too focused on eating to speak, and Callie preoccupied with how to deal with the grandmother question. It put her in a difficult position. Not just with Armando, but also with Gwendolyn. If she were to be the baby’s local grandmother and Gwendolyn came to town, there she would be rocking the baby when Pamela brought Gwendolyn back from the airport. “Gwendolyn, this is Callie, the woman I told you about. Our baby’s local grandmother.” She took in a breath. Gwendolyn would approach to admire the baby. And Callie would not be able to take her own eyes off Gwendolyn. Nor would she be able to speak. She coughed. Her mouth went dry at the thought. She saw Gwendolyn, tired as she would be from travel, noticing something amiss and looking at her with a quizzical look. She closed her eyes. She couldn’t let that happen. She sighed. Therefore, she could not be the local grandmother. But what could she tell Pamela?

  She opened her eyes and looked at the jaguar. Perhaps he had been right, after all. She would be a loca grandmother. Normally a grandmother, being a grandmother, has had the experience of raising at least one baby. But she had never raised a baby, nor had even had younger siblings. The jaguar looked skeptical. Well, she had tutored and, yes, there was Juanito, but that was different from having children in her care. It was only right that she not accept Pamela’s offer. Kind as it was. As much as she wanted to help out, it would not be best for the baby.

  She continued before the jaguar could respond. And, second, there were others better equipped than she. Doña Petra had raised numerous children. She was getting older and should be cleaning less in any case. And she would be happy to clean her own house to give Doña Petra the time off. She would help pay for baby care, too. Her thoughts began to race. With Doña Petra, the baby would become bilingual easily. And Pamela’s Spanish would improve, too. She would be on hand, of course, to answer questions. And she would help out in any way she could, when she was in town. But what with her mother and aunt getting older, she didn’t know when she might suddenly find she had to be out of town. Doña Petra never left town. Appointing her local grandmother would be better for everyone concerned. All quite logical.

  “Callie?”

  “Sorry.” She stood up. “Can I get you something else? Tea, perhaps.”

  Pamela laughed. “I’m fine now.” She gestured toward Callie’s chair. “Sit. Tell me …”

  It’s a good thing she had had time to think. She sat down and folded her hands on her lap. “Okay.”

  “How are you doing with the trumpet? Have you found its magic yet?”

  She breathed out a sigh of relief. “I forgot.”

  “Not to practice, I hope?”

  “No, no. My list.” She felt through her pockets. “It’s here somewhere.”

  “You made a list?”

  Of course, she did, chimed in the jaguar. Callie scowled at him. She felt the paper and pulled it out. “Here it is.”

  “That’s great,” Pamela said, when Callie finished reading the list to her. “Now, did you listen to the Cora Bryant album?”

  “Every day. I love it.”

  “Good. I didn’t tell you ‘Gal with the Horn’ is the first record my mother gave me. She said, ‘If you are going to play the trumpet, then you’d better know that you’re not alone. Plenty of other women have played, too. The lady teacher I found told me that. She’s white, but that doesn’t matter. She plays with the orchestra and in clubs. And she’s going to teach you how to play whatever you want.’ My father just stood there with his mouth open a moment, and then he shook his head the way he does and smiled. ‘Whatever you think, Mother.’”

  Callie felt tears come to her eyes. “You have wonderful parents.”

  “Yes,” Pamela said. “I hope I can be half as good.”

  “You will be,” Callie said.

  “And you’ll be a great granny.” She picked up the list Callie had left on the table. “A list-making grandmother.” She laughed. “Can’t wait to see you holding her in one arm to free your other for making a list.” She mimicked the motion.

  She felt the warmth of a baby in her arms again and then a chill went through her. “What if I let her go?”

  “To make a list?”

  Let her go. Why had she said that! It wasn’t in her prepared speech. And, besides, there was no way she might let Pamela’s baby go. There would be no reason for someone to take Pamela’s baby from her arms. None at all. Imagine that. No reason at all. Her body filled with light. Not that she would have the baby all the time, of course. But, still, she would have plenty of time with the baby. She imagined rocking her to sleep, spooning apple sauce into her little mouth, reaching her arms out to catch her taking her first wobbly steps. And when the baby went to school, she would take snacks to the playground like other grandmothers. All this, she could have with Pamela’s baby.

  “Callie,” Pamela spoke quietly. “Are you afraid you’ll drop her? I am, sometimes.”

  She reached over and took P
amela’s hands in hers. “No, I’m not afraid I’ll drop her. And neither will you.”

  Pamela slouched back in her chair. “I hope not.”

  “You’ll be fine.” She took in a breath and sat at attention. As the baby’s local grandmother, she would see to it that Pamela was fine. What would she do if Gwendolyn did know Pamela and came to town? Well, she would have to cross that bridge when she came to it. And Armando? She sighed. Armando. He would just have to get used to it.

  Twenty-Eight

  PAMELA HAD SAID, “PLAY A G. OKAY. NOW PLAY a melancholy G. Now a happy one. Now a frightened one. How about an enthusiastic one?” And so, after closing Pamela’s garden gate behind her, Callie paused to savor how the same note sounded different—at least when Pamela played. It wasn’t just the note itself, it was the repetition and rhythm Pamela added, and how the note grew louder or softer. And there was something else she could not put her finger on, something about the quality of the note itself. It sounded simple when Pamela played, but when she tried, she didn’t hear much of a difference. “Try putting images or words with your notes,” Pamela had said. “That can help.”

  She started walking, shaking her head in wonder. Would she ever be able to play like that? She stopped. Her father could. Note his stomping bulls and dancing bears. And the melodies he played that had made her cry as a child. She started walking again. Her father’s sad songs reminded her of Pamela playing “El Niño Perdido.” She thought back to Pamela’s worries about caring for her baby, about dropping her. She appeared, now that she thought of it, a little lost herself. But wasn’t that natural for a first-time mother, to feel not quite up to the task? Or was there more to Pamela’s nerves than that? Was she afraid of losing her baby?

  She was so absorbed in thought that she didn’t notice Nacho sitting on the stairs. But when she heard “Callie,” said emphatically the way people in the barrio acknowledged each other, she looked at him. She saw him taking in the trumpet case she carried and found herself straightening a little as if she had already learned to play.

  Nacho would, he assured her, keep an eye out for Tavelé. “No te preocupes,” he said. She repeated those words as she entered her patio. There was nothing to be worried about. With everyone away, she had gotten all the summer household tasks done, her current translation was going well, and now Pamela was back and Armando soon would be. She looked up. There was not a cloud in the sky, and she had plenty of time for lunch, finishing her translation, and then looking for Tavelé herself. Who knows, with the way her luck was going, she could find him that very day. She imagined the sound of a G expressing the look on Armando’s face when she told him she’d found Tavelé.

  She opened the door to the dining area. And in any case, there was news she could tell him this very day. The rumor Pamela had heard about openings in the orchestra, including one for cello. It would be perfect for Claude. She started toward the phone. Then she noticed her computer and stopped. First things first. Now that she had a cell again, she could talk to him when looking for Tavelé. She fixed herself a sandwich and then returned to her document. But still it took her a moment to concentrate, with the image of Armando and Claude arm in arm in Guanajuato dancing through her head.

  WHEN she finished working, she slipped her cell in her shirt pocket, put a leash and some dog biscuits in her backpack, and then headed toward her door. Such good news about the cello opening. And here she had been worrying, worrying, worrying about how to tell Armando she was becoming a local grandmother. With Claude in town, he would surely calm down about Pamela, and, besides, he would be too busy to care if she had other commitments. Perhaps he would even pitch in.

  When she opened her door to leave, she saw two Jehovah’s Witnesses down the callejón where she had intended to go. She’d have to delay her exit. No matter, she could pull some weeds to pass the time. She shut the door again and went down to the patio, patting the angel’s wing on the way.

  When she passed under the patio tree, an avocado landed with a thump behind her. She turned and squatted to pick it up. Squashed on one side and having left a dark mark on the tile. What a pity. She glanced around the patio. And not the only one. She looked up. And there would be more. She sighed. She would have to get out the pole with the basket Armando had had made for her to pick them. But not now.

  By the time she had picked up the avocados, cleaned the stained tiles, and opened the door again, the Jehovah’s Witnesses were nowhere in sight. Good. Well, no time like the present to call Armando. She took the cell from her pocket. She was glad she had put the call off. So much nicer to break the happy news when she was looking for Tavelé. It would be as if Armando were walking with her. She dialed the number as she started down the callejón stairs.

  “Who told you that?” Armando asked when Callie mentioned the opening for a cellist. His tone sounded harsh. She stopped walking. Before she could think of an answer, he guessed. “I suppose it was Pamela. Causing trouble again.”

  What was going on? “What do you mean? I thought you would be happy.”

  “Happy to have that woman meddling in my life?”

  “I mean about the cello opening.”

  “You assumed I had not heard?”

  She sat on a low stone wall by the stairs. “Well, I thought, if you did, surely you would have called. I mean … It sounds like such an opportunity.”

  “Now look, Callie. The openings are no sure thing. Maestro Chávez has enough on his hands without auditions. Neither is it sure that Claude would win the audition. Or that he would want to audition in the first place. He’s teaching in Paris, you know.” He mumbled, “Where we would have been right now, if I had had any sense.” And then he continued, “Who knows what the atmosphere in the orchestra will be like if Pamela gets her way about firing Maestro Chávez.”

  Pamela wanting to fire the maestro. Armando was getting carried away again. “Armando …”

  “And that jerk who mocks everyone will be guest conducting the week after vacation. What if he gets hired to take Maestro Chávez’s place? I couldn’t do that to Claude. Put him in such a position.”

  “But what about Claude? What does he think?”

  “Let’s leave Claude out of this.”

  She stood up. “You mean he doesn’t know?” She should keep going. Maybe she would come across Tavelé, and then Armando would settle down. She started down the stairs again.

  “No, and he won’t if I have anything to do with it.”

  She held the phone away from her a moment and looked at it, as if then she could see what was going on. She tried to talk. “But …”

  “Look. I told you. The openings are no sure thing. So why tell him?”

  If only she could think of a husband story. There must have been plenty who had withheld information and lived to regret it, but she couldn’t think of a single one.

  “And Pamela better not either.”

  “Pamela? She doesn’t even know Claude exists.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t put it past her to spread the word to everyone she does know, and someone’s bound to know Claude.”

  “Oh, I don’t know, I think she has other things on her mind.” She realized as soon as the words slipped out that she should have kept her mouth shut.

  “Oh, you know her so well, it seems. But she did tell you about the opening, didn’t she?”

  She tried to direct the conversation to Tavelé, telling Armando how his driver Jorge, the other drivers, the mail carriers, the butchers, and Nacho were on the lookout for him, and how she was looking for him herself at that very moment. It was like having him there with her. And wasn’t that nice? Her words did not quite ring true even to herself. And they did nothing to dissuade Armando, whose tirade against Pamela grew more insistent and veered at times toward her, too. She hadn’t searched Pamela’s house first thing, the way she was supposed to, thus giving Pamela the chance to hide Tavelé elsewhere. By the time he had finished and abruptly hung up, she had gotten so discombobulated that
she was no longer sure where she was other than she had entered a dead-end path. When she turned to leave, there, coming toward her, were the Jehovah’s Witnesses.

  “ARE you lost?” they asked her. “Can we help?”

  She stiffened. Then, not wanting to give herself away, she pulled back her shoulders and managed a calm, “I’m fine. I live nearby.” As if to prove she knew where she was going, she turned up the hill at the corner, instead of down, the one sure way to reorient oneself, as anyone familiar with the geologic bowl that was Guanajuato knew. By heading uphill, she continued lost, and ran into the Jehovah’s Witnesses several more times. Finally, she headed downhill, as she should have from the beginning, and once in the historic center easily found her way to her barrio.

  When she got home, she was relieved to find that, in spite of her detour, she had time to work on her translation before dinner. Neither had her feet wandering, as Pamela would have said, been in vain, for though she had found no apples, nor had she seen Tavelé, she did have some worthwhile thoughts.

  She sat at her desk, turned on her computer, and then leaned back. First, there was Armando’s odd aside that it would have been better for them to be in Paris than in Veracruz. Why had he said that? And then there was his reaction to the cello opening. Had their relationship taken a turn for the worse in Veracruz? Would they have done better in Paris?

  Why? Well, there was the language difference, and people tended to take on different personalities when speaking different languages. Was that it? Had Claude’s speaking Spanish been the problem? She could reassure Armando by telling him about the Portuguese husband who had seen too many World War II movies and so had turned into a complete maniac when speaking German. She had had to have him hospitalized in Berlin. But once they returned to Lisbon, he became his sunny self. She would leave out the end of the story, how when climbing an olive tree to offer her a branch, her intended had fallen, and that had been the end of him. But, in any case, Claude wasn’t likely to do anything rash when back in the French language. And she felt sure he would calm down in Spanish, too. He was probably just hung up on the difference between ser and estar, as plenty of others had been. Once he got that down, he would be fine. She could see to that.