The Trumpet Lesson

by Dianne Romain

Her mother thanked her. “You are such a help, Callie.”

  “Oh, that’s nothing, Mother. Really. I am so happy for you. And John. I would do anything to help you start up your new life. Anything at all.”

  “Well, there is something,” her mother said. “The ring John gave me. When I saw it, the first thing I thought was, ‘Where would I put it?’ You see, I still wore the ring your father gave me. I had not even put it on my right hand, the way some widows do.”

  As a child, she had loved that engagement ring. The pearl’s smooth surface, its warm glow.

  “I don’t know. I can’t explain it. I had that ring on my finger for so long. It felt like it belonged there.”

  Over time, it had come to symbolize her father’s hold on her mother, his guarantee of her loyalty.

  “I took it off to try on the diamond John gave me, but my finger didn’t feel the same.”

  Surely not.

  “Do you know what your aunt said? I should put John’s ring on my right hand and leave your father’s ring where it was. What ideas your aunt comes up with!” She started laughing and put her hand over her mouth as if she should not be laughing at such a sacrilege. “I got used to John’s ring eventually.” She held up her hand. “It looks like it belongs there now.”

  “Yes, it does.” That thought she could say out loud.

  “I didn’t know what to do with Dad’s ring. And then I thought of you.”

  Well, she could always put it on a laundry room shelf.

  “It’s been in your father’s family for some time. His mother wore it, you know.”

  It sounded like her mother had been practicing reasons for her to accept the ring.

  Her mother took a small white box out of her pocket and opened it. She looked at the ring a moment herself. And then turned the ring toward Callie.

  The ring looked different off her mother’s finger. There, nestled in the plush black lining of the box, it looked forlorn. Like her father sometimes did after one of his rants. When he would sit in his reading chair, but not reading. Just sitting. While the room turned dark.

  He would sit there until her mother called them for dinner, when he would go to the kitchen. He would sit in silence there, too, not even joining in when they said grace. But then, when they finished eating, he would thank her mother for the meal. And thank her, too, for being a good girl. His voice soft and his eyes sad.

  And now he was gone. And her mother was giving away his ring. Had she no heart? She looked at her mother, sitting there before her, expectantly. The vulnerable bride to be. Offering the ring to seal her fate. Expecting her daughter to collude. She shook herself. Goodness, what was she thinking! There was no Shakespearean meaning in her mother’s offer. Nor was her father a tragic figure. Be reasonable.

  She accepted the box and took out the ring. It was just a ring. Gold and pearl. Lovely like multitudes of others. No more, no less. She slipped it on her finger.

  “There’s something else I’d like to ask you, Callie.” Her mother put her hand on hers, covering the ring. “I’d like permission to talk with John about the baby.”

  Callie gasped.

  “I think he already knows. He must have heard things.”

  She remembered when she was a freshman, hearing girls in the high school cafeteria whisper about an older girl who went away, supposedly to stay with a bereaved grandparent, but the girls thought there was more to the story. She pulled her hand away. “Has he told you he heard something?”

  “No, and I don’t think he would.”

  “Rumors abound in a small town, but you don’t have to confirm them.” Her voice sounded breathless. She willed herself calm.

  “John’s been open with me about burdens he carries in his heart. He’s talked with me about Steve, how bad he felt about letting him go off to Vietnam.”

  Poor John. If only he knew. There was no way he could have stopped Steve. But she would not hint at the secret Steve told her, when she shared hers. How he had laughed wryly at her father thinking he was the father. He would not have been the one to spread the rumor, and she must keep her word, too.

  “I started doing the same. Lightening my burdens by sharing them with John.” She paused. “I felt uncomfortable, especially at first.”

  “Well, yes, I understand.” Some burdens weren’t meant to be shared.

  “But, Callie, I can’t tell you how different I feel now. How much more at ease. And how much closer I feel to John. It’s almost like we are one.” She smiled and put her hand over her mouth. “And we’re not even married yet.” She lifted her shoulders and then let them settle. “I told John what I said to your father, that it was his fault you didn’t come home.”

  Her mother must love John dearly to be so open with him.

  “But I didn’t tell him the whole story. I didn’t admit that the gossip was true or that I had been the one to suggest you go away. That’s what I want to tell him now.”

  “So you can feel better? You and John.” Was it happening again, her mother siding against her? She felt the ring burning on her finger.

  “It’s not about feeling good, Callie. It’s something else. It doesn’t feel right, not telling John. He’s to be my husband. I want him to know what I’ve done. Who I’ve been.”

  Of course. Callie had wanted to tell others, too. Had wanted to shout from the rooftops from the time she first saw her baby’s sweet face. But she had resisted. Over and over.

  “Callie?” Her mother said softly. “May I?”

  The softness of her mother’s voice didn’t fool her. Her mother was determined to tell her dear John. There was no way she could stop her. “Go ahead. Tell him.” She felt the ring burning on her finger. “And while you’re at it, tell your neighbors. Announce it at the wedding.” She tugged at the ring. “Meanwhile you can tell Armando, Pamela, her mother, Juanito, the gordita ladies. Oh, and don’t forget the Jehovah’s Witnesses.” She pulled again on the ring. “You could hand out leaflets to save time.” She saw the look of horror on her mother’s face, but she could not stop. “Or would you rather I brand my forehead?”

  “Callie, please. Times are different. You don’t have to keep your baby a secret. Not even your father would expect that of you now.”

  “My father. Do you think he could keep me from my baby? Do you think I would give up one minute, no, one second, of time with her for him? My loyalty is not to him, or to you, and certainly not to John. It is to my baby.”

  “Of course, and we could help you find her.”

  “No. I made a promise to myself, to her, never to disrupt her life again. Never. And I will not. I will never contact her. And you will not either. You and John.” She was almost shouting. “Promise me that you will not look for her.”

  “We would never look for her without your permission.”

  She was firm. “No. Promise you will never look for her. Period.”

  “Okay, Callie. Okay.” Her mother sounded tired.

  Her heart was racing. She couldn’t think. She had to calm down. Figure out what to do next. She focused on Pamela’s instructions. Take in air, like a pitcher filling with stream water. “All right then.” She pulled again on the ring, and this time it came off.

  Her mother was watching her, and so was the jaguar, warning her with his eyes. They needn’t have worried. She was calm now. No more scenes. She opened the box and slid the ring into the velvet slot.

  Forty-Three

  CALLIE PUT DOWN THE RAG SHE HAD BEEN DUSTING with and answered her cell. “Bueno.”

  “It’s late. I thought you might not answer.”

  Late. What time was it?

  “It’s midnight.”

  So, she’d been dusting and organizing the philosopher’s books for two hours? Well, she’d gotten a lot done, separating the books into categories. She had put Jacob’s package in the box she’d marked “Ancient.” Jacob and Socrates side by side. She looked over at the box. What would their dialogue sound like?

  “I’m sorry t
o call so late, Calecita, but I had a gig.”

  Calecita. She smiled. He hadn’t called her that for a while. “I am tired, but happy to hear from you.” She crossed her legs and sat down on the floor by a box she had marked “Medieval.” “How’s Tavelé?”

  “I was so worried that he wouldn’t come to me. Before we left, I went by the bakery for his favorite cake, you know the one, orange with cream cheese frosting.”

  Food. That would revive her. She looked around. Where was that egg sandwich she’d brought upstairs for a snack?

  “When we got there, and I saw Tavelé playing with the other dogs, I ran to see him. Jorge took off before I remembered the cake. I ran after his taxi, but he didn’t see me. Mrs. Fischer was still standing there under the pepper tree where the taxi had been. She’s such a lovely viejita.”

  Viejita? Pearl was not much older than she was. Her stomach growled. Where was that sandwich?

  “She told me not to worry about the cake. Everything would be all right.”

  “And was it? Was everything all right?” All right without her there. She sighed.

  “Someone else had brought a cake, so it didn’t matter. And we baked pizzas in the Petersons’ new brick oven. The oven gets so hot, they bake in seconds. It’s amazing.”

  It hadn’t taken long to fry the egg, either, and spread the bread with mayonnaise. But little good did it do her if she couldn’t find it. She looked around.

  “We each rolled out small balls of dough—whole wheat, you would have loved it—and filled them with whatever we liked. Mrs. Fischer likes chorizo, and so does Tavelé.”

  Everything must be all right, but Armando was clearly not in a rush to tell her. She tried to stand up to look for the sandwich on an upper shelf, but one of her legs had gone to sleep. She settled back down and shook her leg against the floor. “So, he was fine?”

  “Oh, I guess I forgot to tell you. He came to me as soon as he saw me. He jumped up to my chest, the way he does, and then let his front feet slide back to the ground.”

  She looked down her body, remembering the line of bruises from her chest to her toes left by Tavelé’s nails.

  “But then he ran away again to play with the other dogs, as if he’d forgotten all about me. I was so nervous I could barely finish my pizzas.”

  “Pizzas? You mean slices?” She pushed herself up and looked around, but didn’t see the sandwich. She sat back down.

  “No. Pizzas. Three of them.”

  “Three?” She would be happy with one.

  “They were small.”

  She would have to make herself another sandwich and get to bed. “It’s late, Armando.”

  “But I haven’t told you about Mrs. Fischer. Did you know she sings? She has a beautiful contralto voice, warm, rich, and deep. When we finished eating, we started playing music. I remembered what Pamela had said, about her mother singing, and so I asked Mrs. Fischer to sing. At first she refused. She didn’t know the songs we were playing, nor we hers. I said it didn’t matter. She could sing a cappella. And so she did, standing there erect and solemn, with her hands clasped at her waist, she sang, ‘He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands.’ The way she sang it, it sounded like a prayer, reminding God that he had all of us, the Petersons, me, Mrs. Fischer, Tavelé, all of us in his hands.”

  It would be nice to feel that way. In the hands of someone you could trust.

  “No one moved. The dogs stopped playing. Even the leaves of the pepper trees became silent. And then, when she finished, she opened her arms out wide, and we all stood and did the same and made a circle with the dogs inside. The Peterson’s little girl said, ‘Look, we’re making a pizza.’ Everyone laughed. The dogs started barking and jumping. The breeze came up again, and peppercorns rained from the trees on all of us.”

  “That’s lovely.” More lovely than if she had been the one with Armando. Tears came to her eyes. She should get off the phone. She willed her voice steady. “I’m sorry. I need to go.”

  “But that’s not all. When Jorge came back, I helped Mrs. Fischer into the taxi, and then I called Tavelé. When he came running to me and jumped into the taxi, Mrs. Fischer said, ‘Bless you God, bless you,’ and started to cry. She cried and then she laughed and then she cried some more. I’ve never seen anything like it. The cake was still there in Jorge’s taxi, so I offered her a slice, but she couldn’t eat it for crying. So Tavelé ate it. Anyway, when Mrs. Fischer stopped crying, you know what she told me? She had been afraid of losing Pamela. Just like I had been about losing Tavelé. Imagine that. Did you know Pamela was adopted?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I sure didn’t. Pamela didn’t know either until she was in high school. She was furious when she found out. Wouldn’t speak to that nice lady for months.”

  Pearl had told Armando all that?

  “After she told me that, about Pamela not speaking to her, she started crying again, and I thought she would not stop. Tavelé was worried, too. He put a paw on her lap. Then she smiled and calmed down some.”

  Tavelé should put his paw on Armando’s lap.

  “She told me what a wonderful daughter Pamela was, how she never stayed angry for long. Well, I don’t know about that. But, anyway, that’s what she said.”

  She heard him starting to swish his drum. Her head felt as if it were spinning, too.

  “When we got to the parking lot below Pamela’s house, Pamela was there waiting. Before Mrs. Fischer got out of the taxi, she said, ‘Thanks for taking me along.’ Isn’t that funny? Her thanking me—when she’s the one who helped me.”

  Armando needn’t have worried, and neither should Pearl. She had been the one Pamela had come to depend on. Pamela would always come back to her. And now so would Armando.

  “Callie? Are you there?”

  “I need to get to bed.” When she pushed herself back up again, her sleeve brushed something off a shelf. She reached down to pick it up. The postcard the philosopher had sent about the silent retreat. She’d forgotten all about it. Doña Petra must have found it in her pocket when doing the wash. She should write the philosopher a note. Tell her about the lavender. She slipped the postcard into her pocket as a reminder.

  “Okay, just a minute. I’ll be right back.”

  “Armando …” Too late, he had already gone off somewhere. She looked at the shelves again. Lifted an extra dust rag. Ah, the sandwich. She took a bite.

  “I’m back. Tavelé wants to say hello …”

  “Armando, I have to finish up here.”

  “Say something to him.”

  She swallowed and then said, “You need to wear a leash.”

  She heard Tavelé sniff into the phone as if he understood.

  “You can finish up now, Chou,” Armando said and hung up.

  She had just finished arranging the boxes when the phone rang again.

  “I forgot to tell you. I told Mrs. Fischer how Maestro Chávez stares at Pamela, and she said she wasn’t surprised. When I asked why, she told me he had shown her a photo of his wife when she was young. One I’d never really paid any attention to. And guess what? According to Mrs. Fischer, she was the spittin’ image of Pamela. Imagine that.” He sounded pensive. “Maybe Pamela wasn’t trying to distract him after all.”

  “No, I don’t suppose she was.” Why hadn’t she told him that a long time ago? But she hadn’t, had she? So it was Pearl who had come to the rescue. “Armando, I really must go.”

  “I just wanted you to know that,” he said and hung up.

  She was pulling the door shut when the phone rang again.

  “There’s something else.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve been thinking.”

  “Okay.”

  “Well, if Pamela isn’t so bad and wouldn’t have intentionally distracted Maestro Chávez, then she wouldn’t have stolen Tavelé, either—well, not intentionally.”

  He was, it seemed, finally coming to his senses. No thanks to her.

  “And you would have known that. Ri
ght? I mean, you don’t usually go along when I’m suspicious, you know. You’ve never once called a Paris hospital, for example.”

  “No …” She closed her eyes. She still felt lightheaded, even after finishing the sandwich. She needed to get to bed.

  “And at first you didn’t want to go along with my idea that you search for Tavelé at Pamela’s. I know you don’t like to meet new people. So now I wonder. Why did you?”

  She looked around the laundry room, as if looking for an answer. The box with the pearl ring sat alone on the top shelf. Forlorn, like her father. He had been a lost child, hadn’t he?

  “Callie?”

  “She reminded me of someone.”

  “Maestro Chávez’s wife?”

  “No. Someone else.” She picked up the box.

  “Someone you loved? Like the maestro loved his wife?”

  Someone she loved. “Oh, Armando, I can’t talk about it now. I’m too tired.” She opened the box.

  “Will you tell me sometime, Callie?”

  “Maybe.” She took out the ring. An engagement ring. A promise. “I don’t know.”

  “I tell you things. I told you about Claude.”

  Her father had kept his promise. “It’s a long story, Armando.” And she should keep hers. She put the ring on her finger and touched the pearl.

  “And you’re tired, Calecita.”

  Tired. “Yes.” She needed a long, long rest.

  Forty-Four

  THE BELLS WERE RINGING THE TIME, AS THEY had every quarter hour since Callie had lain down. When was that? Around one-thirty a.m.? And now they were striking two-fifteen. They must strike all day, too. But she only heard them in the darkest hours of the night when everything else—even the rooftop dogs—quieted down. She sighed. If only her thoughts would quiet down.

  She felt for the pearl on her finger. Perhaps her father had never forgiven her for her pregnancy. But he had been right about one thing. No one should ever know.

  Her feet felt ice cold. Her hands, too. She really should try to get some sleep. But she had to figure it out first. How to keep her promise. It wouldn’t be easy. Not with her mother pressuring her. And Armando asking questions. And then there was Pamela. She had deceived her, hadn’t she? Was that the kind of granny she was to be? She shivered.