She stood before the box on her dresser. What had come over her to bury it? Had she thought that there in the dark earth Gwendolyn’s photo would lose its power?
Her father’s photo stood beside the box. That crooked smile, she realized for the first time, was Gwendolyn’s. And so, if she were to be safe, she would have to bury that photo as well. For she could not look at it without wishing her father could have seen Gwendolyn’s smile. So like his own. And what else? Jacob. She would have to bury him, too. His package, anyway. And anything else that reminded her of him. She opened her armoire. Her “uniforms.” They would have to go.
She shut the armoire, sat down on her bed, and flopped back. When Jacob had run into her aunt and learned that they were leaving town, he had come by to see her. “There wasn’t another man, was there?” he had said.
“No,” she said. “Not another man.”
“But there is something. Something you’re not telling me.”
“Yes.”
“I can handle it. Whatever it is. I can handle it. So tell me or don’t tell me. But stay.”
She had known that was true. Jacob could handle knowing or not knowing. Jacob could handle anything. But she could not. She could not go back with him without telling him, and she could not tell him. Telling was her daughter’s decision. And so, it followed, she could not be with him. A simple question of logic. She could not stay.
She sat up. But now, by that same logic, she was in a fix. Now she had to leave everyone. Her mother, her aunt, Armando, Pamela. For if she stayed, she would have to explain, or so she felt. Armando, Pamela, her mother had all been open with her. Didn’t she owe them the same consideration? Especially now that they had read her notes, which seemed, she realized, crazily cool, which wasn’t how she felt about any of them.
Her mother, of course, would know she was taking flight from talking about her baby. Not that her mother would tell the others. But still, she had already opened Pandora’s box with that little fit of hers. She should have stayed calm. Reasoned with her mother. Why hadn’t she? And then there was her admission to Armando. She had been weak from exhaustion, but still it seemed odd, after all these years, that she had not been more careful when he asked whether Pamela reminded her of someone. And as for Pamela, wouldn’t she be pondering her admission that she was the woman in the black scarf who sat in the back of the auditorium? It would be easy enough to piece some kind of story together, if they all compared notes. And then, who knew what she had mumbled in her delirium. Had she called out Gwendolyn’s name? She must have betrayed the location of the box. How else would it have appeared?
Her mother had asked if she had been afraid. If that’s why she hadn’t talked about her baby. Of course, she had been afraid. She could still feel the shiver of fear when Noah put his arm around her in the car, and she had asked “Is it all right? You and me. Is it all right?” A fear that turned to panic when she felt the stir of their child within her. If anyone suspected Noah, there would be nothing she could do to protect him. And so she kept silent. She had signed the papers. But all the while she had waited for a miracle. Noah would come. He would take them home to a house like the one with the stained-glass lily. Denial had been the only way she could manage her grief.
She walked to her dresser, picked up the key to the box, and turned it in the lock. She paused and then opened the lid. Not a drop of water. She started to cry. She stood there a while, her head bowed and her shoulders shaking, and then she took out the photo of Gwendolyn and held it next to the photo of her father.
Yes, they had that same crooked smile. Gwendolyn was undeniably his granddaughter. And her daughter. And beautiful. And happy. And kind. And that’s how she would sound. She knew that somehow. She was sure of it. But there was something else. She saw that clearly, too. The woman in the photo wasn’t her baby. She put her hands against the dresser to steady herself. And nothing would bring her baby back.
She walked back and sat on her bed. Was that what she couldn’t face? That finality? That even if she became fast friends with Gwendolyn, she would never have her baby back? The only way she could keep her baby was to keep her memory alive. See her dimpled arms. Smell her head. Feel her mouth against her breast. And wouldn’t those memories lose their immediacy if she were face to face with the woman her baby had become?
She could not talk about Gwendolyn. But what of those hints she had given? Those threats to her secret’s safety? Had something been added to the equation? Something that threatened her resolve? Armando’s voice came to her, “Lâche-la, Chou. Lâche-la.” And she had let go. But it hadn’t started then, had it? It had started years before when he had knocked on her door, wanting to improve his French “for love,” and she had let him in.
All those years in Chicago, she had seen the beauty in all her students. Loved them all equally, but, in a way, distantly. But then when she learned where her daughter was, that she was safe, and loved, then she had opened her heart to Armando, and then to Pamela, who had taught her how to breathe. She picked up the postcard from the philosopher. The lake and mountains that had drawn her looked peaceful. A peace she had sought from the time she let her baby go. A peace she had never found. Not by organizing, not by working, and even not by breathing. None of them brought lasting peace. So why would a silent retreat? However long. Especially not now when retreating meant letting down her mother and Armando and Pamela. There would be no peace in that.
She began to shake again and wrapped her arms around herself. She felt like a sphere in Plato’s Symposium. Cut in half. Unable to find comfort. Her mother must have felt that way. And now she had a chance at happiness. All she asked was to share her story with John. How could she deny her that?
WHEN her mother came down with the papaya and tea, Callie asked her to call the others.
With barely a toe in the room, Pamela blurted out, “Don’t you want to be Granny?”
She stood, turned toward the door, and was in the middle of responding, “Yes, with all my heart,” when Armando entered a step behind Pamela. “I need you here, Callie.” He caught himself and put his arm around Pamela. “We need you here.”
Tavelé ran to her and jumped up, putting his front paws on her chest as if to express his agreement.
She lowered his feet from her chest and then turned to Pamela and Armando. “I want to stay. But there are some things I need to tell you.”
She went to the dresser and waited until her mother, her aunt, Pearl, and Juanito, who had turned up, too, entered the room.
Pearl, her hand on Juanito’s shoulder, paused at the door, looking as if she weren’t sure they should join the group of intimates.
Her hesitancy confirmed Callie’s sense that she could rely on her. “Please.” She reached out a welcoming hand. “Come in.”
Pearl let go of Juanito and sat down on the end of the bed. Pamela joined her on one side and Armando on the other. Callie’s mother and Aunt Ida sat together on the bench in front of the windows to the patio. Juanito sat cross-legged by Tavelé on the floor in front of them.
Juanito’s eyes went to the painted box. “Es la caja que encontré en tu jardín?” He went to the bureau to look more closely.
“Sí.” Callie patted him on the head. It was the box he’d found in her garden. “Gracias.”
She turned toward the group, looking from one to the other as she spoke. “I am sorry for what I put you through. Not just my recent desperate flight.” She paused and then went on. “But my years of silence.” She held up the photo of Gwendolyn. “I thought I was protecting her.” She turned toward her mother. “But I realized I was trying to protect myself.” She looked at Pamela and then at Armando. “And that I risked hurting the ones I am closest to.” She held the photo in front of her heart. “I knew this woman when she was a baby.”
She turned toward Pamela and opened her mouth, but could not speak.
Pamela looked at her encouragingly, and when she did, her words came to Callie. Sound is a gift of the b
reath. Callie let out her breath fully and then her lungs filled as easily as the crystal pitcher filled from the mountain stream. “You may already know her, Pamela. You went to the same high school.”
Pamela looked up a moment and then whispered. “So that was it.” She opened her mouth to say something else, but she stopped when Pearl put an arm around her. Pearl then nodded to Callie as if to say, it’s all right. Go on.
She took a step toward Armando.
He looked as if he wanted her to continue but was afraid of what she would say.
She spoke to him quietly, sweetly, as if they were the only two in the room. “That night, in the Jardín, when Pamela played ‘The Lost Child,’ it was she I thought of.” She looked at the photo. “Her name is Gwendolyn.” She looked again at Armando, paused a moment, and then added even more quietly. “I am her mother.”
Armando just sat there, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop.
She wanted to reassure him, but she had to finish first. She turned to her mother and her aunt. “I let you assume her father was Steve.”
Her mother said, “Oh, Callie. How hard that must have been.” She paused with tears coming to her eyes. “Not trusting us.”
Everyone was quiet, and then Aunt Ida asked, “Will you tell us, Callie? Who he was?”
“Oh … I know,” Armando stood up and approached Callie. His voice was soft. “His name was Noah, wasn’t it, Chou? Noah.”
She smiled and put her hands against his cheeks. “Oui, mon coeur, c’était Noah.”
Epilogue
ONE FINE SUNDAY THE FOLLOWING JUNE, ARMANDO stretched out the window, his cell by his ear. The busy signal again. He shook his head. Busy, busy, busy. Even on the one day of the week they were all to be together. Otherwise it seemed like he hardly ever saw her any more. Not with that baby around. And she wasn’t even the best with the baby. He was the only one who could settle her down when she got into a fit. Everyone said so. Even Pamela. Not that Little Flea had many fits. She was sweet as pie, and looked just like him. So there. He waived the cell at Callie. “The spittin’ image,” Aunt Ida had said.
God knows who she’s on the phone with this morning. Things just hadn’t been the same since she opened that box she’d buried. And then there was the package she sent Juanito for. He’d wanted to go for it. But she’d said, “Let’s let Juanito go, this once.” Once, when Juanito had been the one to find the box in the garden? Oh, well. Juanito had brought the trumpet down, too. He wouldn’t have done that, for sure. She’d started up practicing, practicing, practicing. As if she didn’t have anything else to do. And now she was always on the phone with someone. Talk, talk, talk. Who in the world has called her this time? Can’t be Aunt Ida. She knows Sundays are family day. Must be that philosopher calling about the retreat. Well, Chou could use a silent retreat now, that’s for dang sure.
Still, after she has finished her gallivanting around the States and France this summer, she could be silent right here in her own garden instead of prancing off to Michoacán. He’d suggested that. Even said he wouldn’t call her more than once a day. Scout’s honor! But she had just smiled and said, “Oh, Armando,” in that soft voice of hers. He glanced at the Virgin and then looked back out the window.
Well, she’d better get off the phone soon and get ready for their outing. Tavelé had been carrying his leash in his mouth all morning. And it was nearly noon.
And there she was on the phone. Busy. Busy. Busy. When he wanted to remind her to pack a jacket. It could be cool in the mountains. And, no, they weren’t going to the mine shafts or in that death trap of Pamela’s. He crossed himself. Jorge would be driving them. He’d seen to that. They would picnic in the forest meadow Jorge had told him about. With a stream on one side and a rocky outcropping rising on the other. It sounded perfect. Perfecto. Parfait.
He had already packed Tavelé’s favorite cake. Callie would be bringing along her usual healthy meal. Veggies. Veggies. Veggies. There would be nothing but breast milk for Little Flea. He rolled his eyes. She would prefer cake, and he would make sure she got some—as soon as she was ready for solids. A little cake never hurt anyone. Look at him. He’d eaten cake all his life, and he was a fine specimen. He looked in the mirror and flexed his biceps. He smiled, and then he leaned in closer. Was that a gray hair he saw?
He frowned. It’s a wonder he didn’t have more of them, given what she’d put him through. He turned back to the window. Was that her green silk scarf on the line? He had said how pleased he was she was finally wearing it. And what did she say? “Little Flea’s favorite place to burp.” Thanks a lot.
He shook his head. She had no business up there with the phone under her chin and hanging those blooming sheets that she should be having someone else hang. He’d offered to find someone now that Doña Petra was so busy with Little Flea. But she just wouldn’t listen to reason.
And as for her leaving for the summer. That was crazy. Loco. Complètement fou. She wasn’t just leaving him, she was leaving Pamela, Ami Mai, and that innocent little baby. Didn’t she ever think about anyone but herself? He had told her that, too, and all she had done was smile. He looked again at the Virgin. Yeah, he knew Mrs. Fischer was coming for the summer, but she spoke even less Spanish than Pamela or Ami Mai. Little Flea was fluent, of course, but at three months she could hardly be expected to translate!
The familiar swish of a rocket from the Iglesia de Guadalupe sounded, and he looked to see Callie jump and drop the phone. He laughed. Served her right.
He took a step back from the window. The poster of Claude was still there rolled up and leaning against his congas. He fingered the edge of it. Chou had been right about some things. He had to give her that. He leaned out the window again and blew her a kiss across the canyon.
-Fin-
Acknowledgments
I want to thank Patricia Damery, Jan Beaulyn, Jimalee Plank, Elizabeth Evans, and Elizabeth Herron. We wrote together in Sebastopol, CA, on Thursday nights and weekend retreats for decades. They kindly commented on the first draft of The Trumpet Lesson, which I wrote after moving to Mexico. I owe seeing myself as a potential novelist to Maria Luisa Puga, who encouraged me in her workshops for novelists in Erongarícauro, Michoacán. Writing coach Sarah Lovett’s wise and wonderful advice got me through the first draft of my novel. She also offered delicate suggestions for fine-tuning the final draft. A. J. Buckingham, Ana Cervantes, Marc Smith, Anna Adams, Julie Allen, Dolores Miller, and Joyce Chong provided comments that helped me improve my manuscript. I also received encouragement and questions from authors and audience members at the monthly open mics here in Guanajuato. During the first five years of the novel, I had the good fortune of taking trumpet lessons weekly from Jason Pettit and occasionally from John Urness here in Guanajuato, from Daniel Norris in Rohnert Park, CA, and from Stanton Kessler in Kansas City, MO. Markus Stockhausen permitted me to sit in on his week-long master class in Guanajuato, and Anton Curé invited me to observe his classes at the Conservatoire National Supérieur de Musique et de Danse de Paris. When struggling with an embouchure tremor, I got advice from Laurie Frink and later from Charlie Porter. In the last few years of writing the novel and during more drafts than I can count, Erin Ferris and Mark Sander provided developmental editing and copyediting with wit and wisdom. At Brooke Warner’s enlightened suggestion, I spent a month in Madrid cutting 10,000 words. Stephanie Elliot’s eye for timeline mishaps led to additional fine-tuning. My sister Nancy Bentley gave me top-notch tips for book club discussion questions. Lirio Garduño-Buono and Jean Pierre Buono kindly pitched in at the last minute to review the Spanish and French. Everyone affiliated with She Writes Press was super: proofreaders Jennifer Caven and Chris Dumas, editorial project manager Samantha Strom, cover designer Julie Metz, book designer Stacey Aaronson, and publisher Brooke Warner. I’m grateful to all of them and to the community of mutually supportive She Writes Press sister authors who generously share their experiences. I am also grateful to my family, friends, a
nd acquaintances who, on hearing a line or two about my novel responded, “I want to read that!” And, finally, I am thankful for my love, novelist Sterling Bennett, a model of playful creativity and dedication to craft.
For Book Clubs
Dianne Romain would be delighted to visit book clubs in person or via Skype. You can contact her and find additional discussion questions at dianneromain.com.
Discussion Questions:
1. With whom do you identify in this novel, and why? What character drives you crazy and why?
2. Of the following factors, which do you think most affected the characters’ choices? Social attitudes about race, sex, and family; early childhood experiences; parenting styles; personality; family and friendship bonds. Explain. What would you add to the list? Explain.
3. Do you find parallels between Callie’s situation and Armando’s? How would you describe those parallels?
4. Pick a scene where you would have acted differently than a character did. What would you have done differently?
5. Do you feel differently about yourself and others after reading the novel? Explain.
6. What images did you have of Mexico and Mexicans before reading The Trumpet Lesson? Have any of your views changed?
7. How would you describe the different types of families found in the novel? Do any of these families remind you of families in your own life?
8. How might the stories of adoption in the novel change in a different time period or in a different culture?
9. How do you feel about the use of French, Spanish, and “Midwestern talk” in the novel? How do you feel about the use of “flaco,” “gordo,” “moreno,” and “guëro” (“skinny,” “fat,” “dark,” and “light”) as nicknames?
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