When I get to Eason Hall, John’s already unloading Trent’s stand-up bass from his minivan. I hold the gate open as he grunts and struggles to lift it out without damaging it.
He rests it on the pavement, face red. “Why can’t he just bring an electric bass and an amp, like everybody else?”
I smile. “You know Trent. Purist in the extreme.”
“Then why can’t he lug it his own damn self?”
I laugh. “Because he got you to do it for him!” With the bass safely out of the way, I reach up and slam the gate of the minivan.
John glances at my guitar case. “You bring your pennywhistle?”
I nod. I keep it and my harmonica with Bender.
“Good,” John grunts as he hefts the bass up the marble stairs. “We might need you on lead.”
“Oh. For some reason I thought I was playing guitar.”
He shakes his head. “You might just be playing backup with me, or you might be playing lead. We’ll know in about a half hour when the whole thing starts.”
After setting the bass in one corner of the big dance hall/gym/roller-skating rink, John goes to his van and returns with his own guitar, a little Irish drum, and pair of spoons.
“And Stumpy’s coming,” he says. “Someday. He can play percussion, I can play guitar.”
“Sure,” I say. I pull out my pennywhistle and go through a couple of scales, checking through the music to make sure it’s in the keys of G or D. Pennywhistle is a simple but not very versatile instrument.
A bunch of the square dancers have already arrived, milling around as John and I assure the anxious caller that Trent will be here any minute.
Trent comes breezing in the door at exactly 8:28, two minutes before the dance is set to start. He’s buttoning his vest and unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt as he strides across the floor.
“No Ana?” he asks, fixing his newsboy cap.
“Nope,” says John.
Ah. That was the lead player who probably wouldn’t show. Violin, not fiddle.
“Hey Robin, did you bring your… ?”
“Yup. And the harmonica.” I attempt to hide my sigh of relief. Playing guitar right now would be soulless. Out of obligation. Like going to prom with the guy you just dumped.
He winks at me, clapping me on the shoulder. “That’s my girl. What about Stumpy?”
The minute he says it, Stumpy jogs in. “Sorry I’m late!”
“No problem.” Trent flashes him a grin. “You’re not late—you’ve got two minutes. Let’s tune.”
John looks at me and rolls his eyes. I nod.
Everybody tunes to the pennywhistle, since it can’t really be tuned.
“Don’t forget it’ll go a little sharp as it warms up,” I say.
Stumpy rolls his eyes. “Nobody can hear that but you.”
“Well, all your string instruments will be going flat! And you bet your butt people are going to hear that!”
Stumpy’s such a hack. He could be good, he just hates hard work.
“All right, calm down. Let’s do this thing. Harvest Home, everybody.”
Trent counts us in and we start in on the hornpipe, the flute at my lips. The familiar but shabby instrument begs me to relive the moment of the craft fair, when I got to play Francis Flute, a god among instruments, and had to give it back. The caller lets us go for a verse as people choose their partners. Then he starts calling the dances. By about the third time through I’m wishing Harvest Home had a vocal part because I’m getting a little light-headed. I look over at Trent and raise my eyebrows in a question. He nods, signaling that I should cut out after the next verse. I do and the rest of the band continues to play a verse without me.
I get my breath back and join in the last verse. The song and dance end and the caller looks over, pleased. Trent winks at him, then glances at me like, “See? Nothing to worry about. We weren’t late and everybody’s happy.”
The fast songs keep on rolling. I sing for a couple of them and Trent joins in from his stand-up bass. I look over at him, flushed, and he winks at me. The sting of Sunday eases. My soul slowly opens up, allowing the give-and-take that defines good music. It’s like waiting tables, a well-coordinated service. If there’s good chemistry between the cook and the waitress, it’s a fun partnership. Trent and I were unstoppable when we worked the same shift at GCD. After so many years of playing together, we became a well-oiled machine. I left each shift with a smile on my face and money in my pockets. My fingers fly on the little flute as the music covers me, enfolding me like a blanket.
The first hour flies, and around 9:30 everybody takes a break. I go out into the hall to get a drink from the fountain and when I look up, Trent is leaning up against the wall, offering me a bottle of water.
“Good job, Robin egg,” he says. “Haven’t lost it.”
“Thanks.” I take the bottle and twist the cap off, taking a swig. Trent’s cheeks are splotched pink and his curls are barely contained by his hat. Since starting the set he’s rolled up his sleeves. His vest has been unbuttoned, revealing suspenders. It is nearly impossible to resist a boy in suspenders.
As though reading my mind, he leans in. “Hey, why don’t you come over after the gig?” he asks, breathless, like he’s scared to say it out loud. His eyes dart to my lips almost imperceptibly.
I don’t need this. But I’m on a performance high of sweat and adrenaline and he smells like rosin and wool.
“I’ll see,” I say. A little jolt jumps in my heart. A staccato note. A surprise.
He smiles. “Good.” His voice is still quiet and I want to brush the curls off his forehead. I turn on my heel and take another swig from the water bottle through my smile.
The second half of the program is slower songs—couple dances and ballads. We sing a few more times, I pull out the harmonica for a song or two, and John fingerpicks the best he can. I almost offer to switch with him. I think he can manage harmonica, if not my pennywhistle, but the memory of Sunday casts a shadow and I don’t mention it.
After the dance is over, we pack up while the caller hands Trent one hundred bucks. Trent gives each of us twenty and keeps forty for himself, since he’s the one who got the gig in the first place.
The dancers say their thanks and we smile and shake their hands.
I’m walking out the door with my guitar, smelling the sweet summer air, when my free hand is caught up in somebody else’s. I look up and Trent has grabbed it, lacing his fingers between mine.
I smile. Yes. I will go home with him tonight.
“What’s this?” I tease, holding up our clasped hands.
“What?” He looks mock confused, and I shake our hands, giggling a little. “Oh! This!” He lifts my hand and kisses the back of it, his five o’clock shadow like sandpaper.
Little licks of electricity run up my spine.
“I don’t know if you remember this,” Trent says confidentially, “but most guys don’t need their hands to talk. They can use them for other things.”
And that’s his mistake.
Because the minute he says it, I think of Carter’s hands. Hands like a surgeon or a classical pianist. I think of that first date in the park when Carter pulled me up to my knees. I think of his profile as he turned to kiss the back of my hand. And I think of the kiss, so unlike the one I just got.
That’s how I know that this moment is counterfeit. It’s all doped up on a chattery performance high and two hours of other people’s love stories and dancing. The chemistry of music is like the chemistry of love, but they are not the same thing: two people can go hand in hand but that doesn’t make them the same person.