I look up at Trent and he closes his eyes, sighing. When he opens his eyes, the spark has dulled.
“I shouldn’t have said that, should I?” he says quietly.
I smile and blink at a few surprise tears. “No,” I say, shaking my head. I give the back of his hand a peck and let it go.
He nods twice. “Got it,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets. He takes a couple of steps down the marble stairs before turning around to face me again. “Good luck, Robin.” He shakes his head and smiles ruefully. “You’re gonna need it.”
I nod. A tear trickles down my face. I will need it.
One Week of Summer Left
Chapter 34
Carter
This is the first time in my life that I’ve wished for noise. I want something to block the thoughts that bombard my head. Everything still reminds me of her, even after a week. I see a couple holding hands and I want to throw rocks at them. I see the bicycles whizzing by and I remember the long shadow speeding along the sidewalk and me yanking Robin toward me and her falling into my kiss.
All the musical instruments I see seem to be painted in neon colors, they stand out so vividly. French horns and flutes are captured in paintings. A man plays the violin in the park, his case set out in front of him. People whistle. I see it all.
Since being grounded from my bike, I’ve been doing a lot of walking around Chautauqua. I walk down to the lake and feed the ducks or watch the boats. I walk around the grounds and rediscover things I haven’t seen in ages—hidden parks, the to-scale outdoor map of the Holy Land, the new building projects trying so desperately to look old. There are a bunch of one-room buildings in the woods behind Elizabeth S. Lenna Hall, where musicians practice. Sometimes I walk around those funny little buildings. It looks like a tiny village or summer camp. I’ve never noticed it before, but the air feels charged with something.
It’s on one of these walks that I see an old man. He’s walking among the little buildings, and when he sees me, he smiles and says something through his impossibly long beard. He’s like someone out of a storybook—a spry but bent man who walks a little hunched over, although he doesn’t need a cane. Yet.
I shake my head and point to my ear. “I’m deaf,” I mouth. He nods and thinks for a minute before reaching into the front pocket of his overalls, pulling out a card that says, “Lenny Starr, Chautauqua groundskeeper and professional dreamer.” I nod and hand the card back to him but he waves for me to keep it. I see him thinking again. He looks like one of those old Felix the Cat clocks whose eyes move back and forth. A grin lights his beard, revealing teeth that are too perfect, and he beckons for me to follow him.
I eye him up and down. I could take him if I had to. What have I got to lose?
I follow him through the musician’s village and down one of the main streets of Chautauqua. He takes me to the amphitheater. It is a gigantic cement-and-wood structure that seats thousands on wooden stadium seating. But Lenny’s not taking me to the audience. He leads me down the steps, down the steep inclines, all the way to the stage, where I’ve never been before. I look up at the thousands of seats and imagine performing in this space. It’s frightening. Robin said she’s performed here with All-County choir every year since middle school, but she’s never had a solo. She should have. After what I saw last week… they should’ve given her a solo.
Lenny is waiting by a little door right next to the stage. He beckons for me to follow him and I do. We go through a little hallway and into another, smaller, door. I feel almost like I’m in Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory, except Willy Wonka is a slightly frightening man with a ponytail who smells like clove cigarettes, and there’s no candy.
Maybe I feel more like Alice in Wonderland.
I duck after him, into a room lined with pipes. Not the kind for smoking but the kind that you might pour water into. Big pipes and little ones. They cover the walls in descending or ascending lines, like bar graphs illustrating direct relationships. There are little slits and holes in the pipes. It takes me a second, but I realize where we are:
We’re inside the organ.
There’s a huge pipe organ installed in the Chautauqua amphitheater. It’s one of the biggest outdoor pipe organs in the world. Every Sunday it plays for an interfaith service and organists come from all over the world to give it a try. And I’m inside of it.
I look at Lenny and he waggles his eyebrows at me. He points at himself, then he spreads his arms wide and indicates the pipes—all of them. He points to himself again.
“You take care of this?” I mouth and sign.
He nods and smiles through his beard and hugs his chest. He loves it. He beckons for me to follow him farther, and he goes through another door. There’s a yellow sign on it that says, “Touch nothing!” in bold black print. He points at the sign seriously before going in the door and motioning for me to follow.
It’s pitch-black. The minute he flips on a switch, though, I see that I am surrounded by huge pipes. Giant wooden pipes and metal pipes line the walls and are in a clump in the middle of the room, all safely partitioned by railings. They are polished to a high shine and are the size of sequoias in this little room. There are two stools on the floor. Lenny sits on one. He looks at his watch, then points to it, nodding and holding up a finger, telling me to wait.
We sit together in the little room. The minutes tick by. I’m trying to figure out the best way to leave when Lenny looks up at me. He points to his watch again, then takes a pair of dirty earplugs out of his overalls pocket. He offers me a second pair with a silly look on his face, then stuffs them back in his pocket, almost doubled over laughing at his own joke. I indulge in a smile. Why in the world did he bring me down here?
All of a sudden, a deep vibration shakes the ground, the stool, the sac around my heart, the space between my cells. I leap to my feet, eyes wide, heart pounding out of my chest. My feet feel unsteady on the ground and Lenny is looking at me, grinning. Someone is playing the organ. A vast, low note.
All of a sudden, I feel the note shift! The vibration is… lighter somehow. It doesn’t move me at my core, but it tingles in my extremities. It’s a higher note than the one that was just being played! I can feel it! I’ve felt thumping bass before. I’ve felt dull, indistinct changes at loud concerts where everybody’s screaming and it feels like the air is charged with electricity.
But this. This is all around me. It’s like I’m swimming in it. Or it’s a sauna and it’s thick around me. And all of a sudden, I feel it. There are more notes. There are hundreds and thousands of notes, and they’re all being played in different times and rhythms but they all fit together and it’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before.
My chest grows tight and images flash through my mind—Trina as a baby when my parents brought her home, the old couple that lives up the street who’s been married for sixty years, the sunset from my window seat on the plane overlooking the Atlantic.
Seeing Robin for the first time.
The music might have something to do with it, but it’s just the first domino in a chain reaction. It’s proof of the inkling that there are things out there bigger than me—love and beauty and life—the things that compose a soul sense. And I don’t have to hear music in order to feel love, but one enhances the other.