Page 10 of Waiting for Gilbert

I repeat the question out loud, “Why don’t you grow up, Gil Conner?” Great question.Never. I’ll be a little boy forever. Peter Pan for life. I chuckle and kill the engine but wait to open the door while the chorus repeats of The Cars’ “Just What I Needed.” My breath billows around me fogging the windows. And my nose is about frozen. The two miles from my Aunt’s house to mine isn’t far enough to get the heat moving. The temperature has continued to drop all day. Last I checked we were in the single digits.

Holiday parties are my favorite. I get paid to play. Paid to eat. Sometimes I travel to gigs at ritzy art galas or estate parties where I’m expected to play softly in the background and slink away when my shift ends. Those are okay. Music is music and I love it, but nothing beats parties where peoplewantto hear the music. They can’t help but feel its pull and they’re sucked into my world. I relish when their bodies begin to move all on their own as if their spirit is captured by the song and they’re no longer in control.

Christmas parties in my hometown? A blast, especially when I’m allowed an exit whenever I want. It almost feels wrong to take the money. I do, though. My bills won’t pay themselves. Bills, bills, bills. Time to get out of this truck and make a plan for work tomorrow.

Man, that girl was quirky. Nathan never mentioned his sister-in-law was so cute.

I tug my hat lower over my ears and grab the foil-wrapped plate of leftovers that Aunt Jewels forced upon me. A smidgen of self-pity slithers into my chest for how I live nearly the exact same life I’ve lived since I was eighteen. Play music. Swing a hammer. Make a little money. Beg food from Aunt Jewels.

She met me at the door with the food. I kissed her on the cheek, and I said thanks. It will sustain me another day.When are you going to grow up?

Never! I refuse. Just to prove it, I slip a cookie from under the foil and shove the whole thing in my mouth.

I tap my fingers on the steering wheel while I mentally gird my loins to open the door and step into the tundra. The snow continues to fall, and the wind whips it around with such violent anger that it doesn’t have time to settle. With a warrior’s cry I grab my food and open the door, which cuts the music. My cell vibrates my coat pocket with Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1. I slide back on the bench and slam the door. “Conner.”

“Hi! Gil. Hey.” It’s Nicole. “You made it home already? Good. Good. So, listen. Hey. I know it’s short notice. I didn’t catch you before you left. Royce cornered me. He’s determined to convince me of his next conspiracy. Did you know the government has alien technology powering their stealth flyers?”

“He explained it yesterday at the grocery. Between the yogurt and sour cream.”

“Mm. So you’re up to speed.”

I push down the old metal lock on the door and pull it up again. Down. Up. “Anything else?”

“I confirmed your renter! You’ve moved out of the cottage already, I hope.”

“I—”

“Your room in the big house is ready to go?”

“Sure, but?—”

“Wonderful!

I let her interruptions slide. It’s not like what I have to say will make a difference. My bedroom is almost ready. But I can complete it in a few days. A week at most. Even though I told her I had sleeping quarters for myself in the big house, I’ve spent most of my construction time focused on the cottage since it’s warmer there.

“This is simply wonderful. I was hoping you’d say that. I know how busy you are with your music. It seems you and John are out every weekend for a show.” She releases a sigh with a feminine laugh at the end. “Thank heavens. Good. That’s good.”

“When’s our guy moving in?” I wait for her to tell me after the holidays like we’ve already talked about and make this phone call unnecessary. As planned, I’ll finish my room, install the water heater, and at least get the shower working with a few days left to enjoy Christmas before he moves in. “Did they finally hire a band teacher for the school?”

“She, actually. She’s coming tonight.”

“Mmmm.” I cover my annoyance with a deep breath. This is what I get for asking my best friend’s sister to do something I should have done myself, even if she does have better connections. This is unexpected on multiple levels.

Merry Christmas to all.

Shoot. “Guess I better pack my toothbrush. She probably doesn’t want that in her new bathroom. When should I expect her?” It’s currently past eight o’clock.

Silence on the other end. “Nickie? Nicole? When’s she coming?” I glance at the screen. My phone is dead.Double shoot. I had a full battery when I answered. Phone batteries aren’t designed for single digit weather.

“Wonderful!” I shove another cookie in my mouth feeling anything but wonderful. “Awesome!” Chew. Swallow. Unknown she-guest arriving at any moment. I get to move out of my snuggly warm cottage in weather so cold that electronics are dying. I have an unfinished bedroom in my unfinished house. I need to build a fire in the big house. I need to pack my meager possessions. We got this. “Let’s do this!” I Tarzan-pummel my chest.

Knowing I’ll return, I leave my plate of food and launch myself into the cold. I run around to the other side and grab my baby, where I’ve carefully shoved her case into the passenger seat. She shouldn’t be left out here in the cold.

Once inside the cottage, I start the timer on my watch. Me against myself. I will win. But how quickly? I throw my dirty laundry, shoes, a deck of cards, books, and a few odds and ends onto my bed—herbed—and pull the sheets into an I’m-running-for-the-hills bundle and shove the rest of my clothes into my rolly suitcase. I fill my now-empty laundry basket with everything that belongs to me in the kitchen—not much. I hesitate over my cello and leave her in the closet. I’ll come back for her once the big house is warmer.

Small puddles form as the snow I’ve tracked inside begins to melt.Tick, tick, tick. She could be coming down the driveway this very moment. I ransack the bathroom and haul everything to my truck. Back inside, I swish a damp rag over everything in the bathroom and the kitchen counter.

The gleaming wood of the new butcherblock taunts me. This morning I rubbed the seventh layer of linseed oil into my masterpiece. I run a calloused finger along the edge and hold in the sigh trying to escape. I spent far too much time arranging the planks to make sure the slight variance in color was artfully random. “Someday, Gil.” Someday, I’d finish a job and keep it.

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