Page 56 of Waiting for Gilbert

“The top of what? We don’t have an arrangement.” My hair will be thinner by the end of this weekend from how many times I’ve pulled my hands through it.

“True. True.” John gathers his music from the piano. “Practice is over. This is good enough for Omaha. My boy has a symphony to write.” He pulls a notebook from his backpack and dumps it on what we call my scratch table next to the piano. “This is where you shine, my friend. I’ll bring food.” He’s halfway through the door when he points at me. “You are not to leave this room. I’ll be back in two hours. Let’s see what you can do by then.”

I’m anxious. I usually create our arrangements at my own whims, not on command. Can I create when told? Can I make art for someone else per their preferences?Lord, work through me.I stretch my neck side to side with the release of a deep breath.

John bursts into the room with a hand on the door. “Don’t overthink this. They’re asking because they liked what they heard. Write what feels good. What feels right. Sure, you want to make them happy, but they wouldn’t have picked us if they didn’t want your stamp.”

I only nod and slip on the headphones. I don’t need to hear the original songs from her email. I know enough to go for it.

John opens the door again. “You don’t have to use Handel.” He threads his fingers. “Classical and Pop have a baby.”

“John. I got this. Go away.”

“I’m going. You’ve got this.”

I wait a measure to see if he’s coming back. He doesn’t, and I adjust the headphones.

Designs instead of notes take shape on my page. I let my ideas for the arrangement flow like a brain dump. There are no bad ideas at this stage. Sometimes I open a door and decide that’s not the hallway I wanted to enter, but I refuse to let myself become discouraged. I simply open another door. I move between my scratch table, piano, and cello. I sit for at least ten minutes on the box drum working out a rhythm and stare across the room without seeing.

Bing!

The interruption sends a flair of annoyance through me. I usually have my phone off during recording sessions and the few times I forget aren’t a problem because I don’t have that many friends.

Bing!

I throw my pencil across the room where I left my phone at the card table.

Bing!

Before Cordelia I didn’t get many texts. Since Cordelia… I feel the tug of a smile. Nobody else in my contacts would send three in a row.

Bing!Make that four.

Bing!Definitely her. I dutifully ignore the allegretto thrum of my heart. Standing, I lean my elbows on the table and glance at the door before scanning the screen.

Cordelia: There’s a guy with a black car at your house.

Cordelia: He’s standing outside your door and knocking.

Cordelia: Still knocking.

Cordelia: Ew! He’s looking in the windows! Who does that?

Cordelia: Ack, he’s walking this way.

Cordelia: I’m not here! I’m hiding.

Cordelia: I don’t think he saw me. Gosh, I hope he didn’t see me.

Gilbert: Did you lock the door?

Cordelia: Dearest Gilbert. I’m ASTOUNDED at your lack of faith in my “I’m not home” knowhow.

Gilbert: What if he’s coming for the eggnog pie?

Cordelia: You ate the rest of it last night. I was going to make you another one, but I forgot. You want another one?

Gilbert: I do love a good eggnog pie.

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