Page 19 of Still My Forever
Mr. Plett raised his instrument again. “Thank you for taking care of Roald’s responsibilities, Gil. I’m sure his chickens, ducks, and cats are glad to have someone feeding them.” More laughter rolled.
Gil hadn’t been surprised to find a whole menagerie of animals at Roald Willems’s house. For as long as Gil could remember, the man had relied on creatures for companionship. Gil shrugged, grinning. “The cats, most especially. They liked the pickled herring I found in Mr. Willems’s cupboard.” Now guffaws blasted. How good it was to hear laughter.
He smiled and picked up his baton. “Let’s start tonight’s practice with ‘When the Saints Go Marching In.’ ” The cheerful song would continue to brighten everyone’s spirits.
While Gil directed, he couldn’t resist frequently peeking at Joseph. After their heated exchange on Wednesday morning, he wouldn’t have expected Joseph’s support. Maybe Joseph wanted to make up and joining the band was his way of apologizing. If so, Gil would accept it.
As he’d done last week, he let the men play straight through,then offered suggestions for improvement. The piece included an eight-measure trombone solo near the middle. Apparently Bernard hadn’t assigned a soloist, but Gil preferred a single instrument for impact. He paused with his finger on the opening notes of the solo and scanned the faces of the three trombone players.
Two of the men were older, with salt-and-pepper hair and lined faces. In comparison, Joseph looked very young and inexperienced. But Gil remembered how well Joseph had played in high school. How often had the two of them gone to the attic, where they wouldn’t bother Taunte Dorcas, and played duets—Joseph on the trombone, Gil on a tarnished trumpet? Gil had practiced for hours in order to match Joseph’s ability, and Gil credited their unofficial competition with his being able to play as well as he did.
“Joseph?” He blurted his cousin’s name. The other two trombone players looked at Joseph and then each other. Gil hoped the older men wouldn’t be offended, but Gil appreciated his cousin’s presence. He wanted to thank him somehow. “Would you take the solo part when we go through this time?”
Joseph sat up straight and gave the trombone’s slide a quick thrust out and in, a gesture Gil recalled from when they were boys and Joseph was readying himself to play. “Sure, Gil.”
The other two trombone players glanced at each other, their foreheads creasing.
Gil sucked in a breath. Had he made a mistake? He waited for either of them to voice a complaint, but when neither spoke, he blew out the breath and lifted his baton. “All right, men. One, two…”
One of the other trombone players forgot and started the solo, then dropped out. But other than that, the second timethrough went very well. Gil reminded the flutes to watch for crescendos, then they practiced it a third time. The rendition was as close to perfect as Gil could have wanted, and he couldn’t resist exclaiming, “Yes, gentlemen! Well done!”
Somewhere during the third play-through, Ava had arrived. Apparently she’d brought a little helper, because a young boy stood beside her. Gil bobbed his head in Ava’s direction. “Our treat is here. Time for a break.”
Gil started toward the cart, eager for a piece of gingerbread. Joseph shot past him, and an uncomfortable thought settled in Gil’s mind. Had Joseph come this evening not to support Gil but to make sure he wasn’t giving attention to Ava? After how badly they’d both been hurt when he went to New York and she refused to go, their courtship was long past. He should assure his cousin there was no reason to worry. Instead of lining up for a treat, he changed direction.
The boy darted into Gil’s pathway and grabbed hold of his sleeve. “Mister, I gotta talk to you.”
Gil sent Ava a curious look, but she was busy handing out napkins and squares of gingerbread, with Joseph’s help, and she didn’t seem to notice Gil. He shifted his attention to the boy. “All right. Let’s go over there.” The child followed him to the front of the room. Gil picked up a flute from one of the chairs and sat. “Now, what did you want to talk about?”
The boy stood in front of him, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his baggy trousers. “Joining your band.”
Gil nearly barked a laugh. “What’s your name, son?”
“Timmy.”
“How old are you, Timmy?”
The boy straightened his skinny shoulders. “I’m nine-and-a-half-going-on-ten.”
Gil remembered being that age, eager for his first double-digit birthday. “Well, Timmy, this is a men’s band. You’re not quite old enough to join it.”
“But I have a horn. And I know how to play it.”
The boy’s bold declaration tickled Gil. No shrinking violet, this one. “Oh? What do you play?”
His chest puffed. “The tuba.”
Someone was playing a mean prank. This child was here to shame Gil, to make him feel guilty about what happened to Roald. Gil tapped his leg with the flute. “You do, hmm? Then where is it?”
“I left it at the bottom of the stairs.”
Just as Roald and his tuba had lain at the bottom of the stairs.
The boy crinkled his face. “It’s a little heavy for me to carry all the way up here.”
Gil stood and returned the flute to the chair. “Show me.” With his hand on the boy’s shoulder, he guided him to the stairs entrance and stepped onto the upper landing.
Timmy pointed to the bottom. A tuba rested there on its bell. Gil had expected to see Roald Willems’s dented tuba. This one, although badly tarnished and bearing a few small dents, wasn’t Roald’s.