Page 20 of The Other Brother
“Yeah, I know. If you play for a while, you’ll get calluses, which makes it easier.”
Cody shows me his fingertips of his left hand, where the skin is roughened at the top. I grab his other hand, his playing hand, where the fingertips are completely smooth.
“That’s insane,” I say.
Suddenly I realize I’m holding his hand. I drop it abruptly.
Cody runs his hands through his hair. “We can stop now, if you want? I’ll show you more chords tomorrow.”
“Yeah, okay.”
Cody takes back his guitar and starts to strum.
“Is that one of your own songs?” I ask.
He stops playing. “Yeah, just something I’m mucking around with.”
“How do you make up songs?”
Cody looks uncomfortable. “What do you want to know?”
I shrug. “I don’t know, the process, I guess. Like, how do you decide what to play?”
“It’s like, sometimes you get a feeling, and you can’t find the words to describe it. Like words can’t do it justice. So you try to produce music that makes people feel the same.”
“So, it’s really all about musically transmitted feelings?” I say.
Cody flashes me a smile, showing off a dimple. “Yeah, that’s one way to put it. Say, if you wanted people to feel loneliness, you’d play something like this.”
He strums a few notes on the guitar, and suddenly the first prickle of an ache of loneliness starts in my gut.
“That’s insane. It’s like you’re a wizard or something.”
It’s weird I’ve never thought about it before. I mean, I know some songs make me feel different things, but I’ve never thought about how the songwriters deliberately set out to manipulate your emotions.
“And if you wanted people to feel happy, you’d play something more upbeat like this.”
He’s in instructor mode again. It’s incredibly cute.
Cody’s halfway through playing an upbeat, happy song when his phone rings.
He puts down the guitar and picks up his phone.
His expression darkens, but he presses to answer the call.
“Hi, Dad.”
He stands up, moving away towards the kitchen.
“Yeah, everything’s good here. How are you guys?”
He chews on his lip as he listens to whatever monologue is happening on the other end of the phone. He murmurs a few generic "That sounds like fun" type comments.
I can tell when the conversation shifts because suddenly tension travels up Cody’s body, stiffening his shoulders and furrowing his forehead. His voice takes on a defensive edge.
“Yeah, I’ve already made a start on learning the Tchaikovsky piece. It’s going okay. The fingering is tricky, but I’m getting there… Yes, I’m putting in the hours… Yes, I know there’s no substitute for repetition.”
Finally, he hangs up, placing his phone on the counter carefully. He walks back towards me, his expression tight.
