Page 38 of Waiting for Gilbert

I do, and she leans even closer. I’m an endangered species at the zoo that she’s researching for science. She hasn’t procured a magnifying glass, reference books, or a sketch pad yet, but I wouldn’t be surprised to see them. I play through another verse and slip into an interlude of my own arrangement. If John was here, he’d take over the melody on the piano.

Halfway through the song, she steps away and I stretch into the music, letting myself sway from side to side and fill the space. Her eyes close with a smile and then she’s dancing in the cramped corner of the kitchen. It’s the untrained, silly and free dance of someone who’s simply moving. Enchanting. I need a jar to capture this spirit that she’s released in this room and carry it home with me.

The song ends with a flourish, and I point the bow to the ceiling. She sighs, stepping to the sink. “I’m going to finish the dishes. Play another.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The evening rushes by with more music and more food. Even though she put a proverbial spotlight on me, it’s not too bright, and I enjoy sharing my music with her. That’s what it feels like anyway. It doesn’t sit awkwardly like an interview or a performance or “Hey, listen to me show off.”

We enjoy the music together. We enjoy the food together.

I’ve put away the cello and now pick at a bag of chips because she won’t let me help her clean. Anytime I rise to help with something she turns bossy with one word commands. “No,” or “Sit.” She points, like she’s commanding a dog. Of course I obey. Thankfully I tucked my deck of cards in my coat and I busy myself with a game of Solitaire while we talk. Watching her flutter around the kitchen is entertaining.

She washes every dish and wipes the table and countertops. As if that weren’t enough, she drops to her knees and washes the cabinet doors. After the sink is polished and dried she drops the rag on the floor and swishes it around with her foot. She unravels her bun—and gasps in surprise when, not one but three, pencils clatter to the floor—before she finally sinks into a chair next to me with her curls a delightful mane around her face. “What’s your dream for the band?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you’re over here building houses or something. Are you going to do that or play?”

That’s the age-old question isn’t it? I shrug. “I guess if we’re dreaming I’d switch. Play full-time, build things for myself. But the music isn’t as reliable. Everybody always needs something fixed.”

“I make a living taking pictures of dessert. You just need a better manager.”

I point my sock-covered toe and drag one of the pencils from the floor over to us. I pick it up and pass it to her.

She fiddles with the yellow pencil and smiles. “How do you know exactly where to slide your fingers on the strings?”

“We start with stickers, and after a while you justknow. It’s like whistling.”

Her face falls. “I can’t whistle.”

“What? You poor thing. Show me.” It turns out the girlcanwhistle, but can’t control what sound comes out. An airy wind-through-a-drafty-window is the best she can do.

She surrenders with a shrug after a couple demonstrations. “My dad can do the high-pitched dog whistle thing. Doesn’t even use his fingers.”

I curl my tongue and show off my own “high-pitched dog whistle thing.”

“Ack!” She covers her ears.

“Not everyone has the gene.” I chuckle at her repeated failed attempts. “By spring you’ll be driving a manual like a pro. That’s enough to get in with the cool kids.”

“Ha!” She slaps a hand through my piles of cards. “How many slices did you eat, Gilly-boy? Those pies didn’t make themselves. I’m already a cool kid.”

I tip my chair on two legs and thread my fingers behind my head. “Hmm. I don’t know… It’s an elite group. We don’t accept just anyone.”

She leaps from her chair and presses her palm against my chest. My arms spread wide the moment the chair falls backward, then I grab her hand with my good arm. Her smug expression transforms to shock mid-fall and a shriek explodes into my ear as we crash.

Her weight sprawls across me for the barest moment before she tries to scramble away. But I’m not through yet. I pin her against my side and find her ribs. I know I’ve met my mark when she squeals.

“I’m sorry!” She gasps through her laughter.

“Did that go the way you thought it would go?” I speak through the red curls over my mouth.

“I’m sorry–Ow! Ow, ow, ow!”

I release her and she rolls away. She groans as she rises to her knees with a hand on her rear.

“What happened? Did I hurt you?”

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