Now THAT will put a lump in your throat, right? On the way there, I alternated between running (so I could find out the news fast) and trudging (so I wouldn’t have to know yet). Either way, my mind never slowed down for a second: “Oh, geez. Grandma fell and broke her hip. Oh, God. Dad is here to kidnap me so I can’t be at the concert. He’ll probably set me up with a slide rule and a pile of tax returns in some cheesy motel by the interstate. All he has to do is hold me for about six hours, and it will all be over. My hopes, my dreams, my big conga solo—ruined! Plus, I hate math.”
And while these surface thoughts were providing some distraction, I knew that the other nine-tenths of this mental iceberg, the deadly part that was hidden below, was all about Jeffrey.
When I got there, my mom and brother were standing by the chairs that bad kids sit in while they’re waiting to get reamed out by the principal. My mom was chatting calmly with one of the secretaries, while the other was giving Jeffrey chocolates from a big jar on her desk. Naturally, I had been going to that school for three years without ever being offered candy from that lady’s desk—but whatever. Jeffrey spotted me right away.
Steven, guess what? Today is your concert!
Yeah, buddy, I know. What’s going on? Are you all right? Was your blood work OK?
I don’t know. I’m only five. There was a clown in my hospital room today. He was pretty cool. He painted my face so I could be Spider-man. I wanted Green Power Ranger, but the clown said he didn’t have enough green face paint. Isn’t that weird? He wasn’t such a prepared clown, I don’t think.
I needed some facts, and I needed them pronto. Mom.
Don’t interrupt, Steven.
Mom! Is everything OK?
Sure.
Then why are you here? Why did you page me and give me a heart attack?
We were on our way home, and I thought you might like to spend some time with your family on your big day. So we picked you up. Don’t be so dramatic.
I’m not being dramatic, Mom. I was worried.
Well, worry no more. Your mother is on the scene, and everything is under control.
Yeah, things had been completely out of hand before she stepped in to rescue me heroically from my long, painful bus ride WITH ANNETTE AND RENEE.
Thanks for the thought, Mom. But you know, I AM entitled to a complimentary bus ride home at taxpayer expense. And I’d hate to disappoint the taxpayers, so I’ll just be on my way, then.
Steven, wait! I want to see you. I missed you. They did me a spinal tap. It was scary!
Sigh. So long, my girls. Hello, my boy.
On the way home, my mother briefed me about Jeffrey’s treatment. His counts still didn’t look good, and Dr. Moses had almost kept him in the hospital for another few days. But when my mom told the doctor about the big concert, he had agreed to discharge Jeffrey with another specific warning to rush to the E.R. if anything didn’t seem right. I was grateful to my mom for going to bat about this; with my dad refusing to attend, my fifteen minutes of fame would have been pretty lonely without her and Jeffrey. I mean, I would still have known, like, half the audience, and my grandparents weren’t going to miss this for anything. But still, it was nice to know that I’d have a couple of relatives there who didn’t need to chug a can of Geritol to stay awake for the whole performance.
For his part, Jeffrey did seem kind of wiped out. On the other hand, he was also definitely all psyched up to see me play. My mom had explained to him that the concert was going to raise money for his treatment, that he should thank people for coming, that he should behave himself like a gentleman, blah blah blah. But he hadn’t been particularly interested in any of that; his big goal for the evening was to shout out, “Yay, Steven! THAT’S MY BROTHER!” every time I hit a drum.
Back at the house, we still had about an hour and a half to kill before I was supposed to be at the high school. I was a madman. I paced back and forth in my room, laying out, refolding, and double-checking my clothes (All-City Jazz Band T-shirt and black jeans), as if there were a way to screw up the putting on of a uniform. Then I stalked downstairs to the kitchen and laid out three different snack cakes, agonizing over which one would provide the best musical energy boost. “Well, the chocolate-covered, chocolate-filled chocolate doughnut provides both sugar and caffeine. Yet the vanilla snack cake is even sweeter, for that quick burst of power. And what of the classic apple pie? It is individually wrapped in waxed paper for freshness and probably provides traces of at least one vitamin.” In the end, my mother walked in and insisted I eat a yogurt, as if THAT were food. I knew the band would be having the traditional post-concert pizza delivered to the rehearsal room, but honestly—was I supposed to survive on nothing but bacteria-laden milk solids for the next several hours?
A compromise was reached, and I am pleased to report that vanilla yogurt makes quite an edible topping for apple pie.
I bounced around the house, trying not to wake Jeffrey, who had dozed off on the living-room couch. I read Modern Drummer Magazine for five-minute stretches. In between, I paced some more. Occasionally, I peeked out the front window in the hope that my father had changed his mind and was at that very moment pulling up to the house. But who was I kidding?
The time crawled by like a tortoise with arthritis, but finally the kitchen clock said 5:17. It was time to roll out. I shouted for my mom, woke Jeffrey up, ran upstairs, changed into my concert clothes, put on my shoes, and was standing by the door to the garage by 5:19—chanting, “Let’s go! Come on!” (Feel free to try that at home, by the way; moms love it!) I practically hurled Jeffrey into his booster seat and dove headlong into the car after him. I was in the mood to peel out, burn rubber, lay the pedal to the metal—I wanted my mom to SKID her way to the concert. Like, maybe we could get pulled over for speeding and my mom could tell the officer, “But, sir, do you know who’s in the backseat? That’s Steven Alper, the second drummer for All-City Jazz Band…and his concert starts in less than an hour!” Then the cop could dash back to his car, call headquarters, and get us a motorcycle escort to the high school.
Or my mom could just putt there at her usual, stately 31 miles per hour while Jeffrey and I bounced and chattered in the backseat like two bald monkeys on a sugar high.
Either way, I suppose, we wound up at the school. Jeffrey insisted on coming with me into the band room, which was his right, since the concert was for him. When we entered, I almost had a heart attack: Every single member of the band was wearing a matching red baseball cap. Did I miss a memo or something? HAD I screwed up my uniform after all? My mom looked at me. I looked at my mom. Jeffrey ran around the room, oblivious. And then somebody spoke. It was Biff, of all people.
Jeffrey, I have something to tell you. We, the members of the All-City jazz ensemble, would like to present you with a gift in honor of your courage, your good cheer, and the inspiration you give to all of us.
Well, that was laying it on with a trowel, but OK—he had our interest, anyway.
So, Jeffrey, we hereby proclaim you to be an honorary member of the band. It is my pleasure to give you this official All-City T-shirt AND this very special All-City ball cap.
He took off his own cap to give to Jeffrey. Underneath it, he was bald. Biff had shaved his head in tribute to my brother! Just as I started to get a mental grasp on this, everyone else reached for their hats, too. At a signal from Annette, who was standing with Renee by the piano, they all whipped off their hats as well. My mom was the only person in the room with hair long enough to comb. I flashed back to Annette and Renee’s matching super-short dos, and suddenly, it all made sense. Suddenly, too, I had a huge lump in my throat. Jeffrey was running all over the room, hugging everyone, rubbing players’ heads for good luck, and my mom was standing there next to Mr. Watras (whose natural baldness had excused him from the pre-show razoring festivities). There were unquestionably tears welling up in her eyes, but she also looked happy. Honestly, when I saw that look on my mom’s face, I practically ran over to
Biff and hugged him myself.
We hung out for a while. Jeffrey ran up to me and buried his head in my stomach. I sort of wrestled free; he looked right up into my eyes and whispered, You’re the best drummer in the world. Then my mom started walking out with him so they could find their reserved, front-and-center seats in the auditorium. When she pulled open the door, my dad almost fell into the room. He had made it after all! When he saw the roomful of bare scalps, though, he immediately got kind of a grim facial expression. He gave me a little half-wave, mumbled, “Good luck,” and wheeled right back around to lead my mom and Jeffrey to their seats.
Hmmm…
Mr. Watras gathered us all around, gave us a big pep talk, and led us downstairs onto the stage. The curtain was closed, so we had a few minutes to set up before everyone would see us. We all busied ourselves with the little things musicians do right before they play: testing spit valves, applying last-minute drops of valve oil, checking the lugs on the snare drum and the height of a cymbal. In short order, we were ready. I was nervous but glad that the big night was about to get started. I sat down behind the drum kit (I was playing set for the first tune), adjusted the sheet music on its stand, wiped my hands on a grubby little towel I always kept in my stick bag just for that purpose, and took a deep breath. Mr. Watras tapped his baton on the podium. The curtain opened.
When the shiny heads of the entire band became visible in the stage lights, the audience was dead silent. Then, as they began to realize what they were seeing, I could hear a buzz of whispers, then gasps, and then a slow-building crescendo of applause. Before we even played a note, we got a standing ovation. Mr. Watras let the applause rise, then fall a bit, and then—BAM!—he counted us right into the first tune: “Mambo No. 5” by Perez Prado. I don’t really remember playing a single note of the first five or six songs; I can only recall the nonstop swell of emotion that we were all feeling—the band, Mr. Watras, the audience, and, I hoped, Jeffrey. Every song went better than the one before. Every solo got hotter and hotter, more and more beautiful. The fast numbers were a riot of energy, and the ballads put the entire place into some kind of powerful, floating dream state. I’ve never experienced anything like it, but I knew that the entire point of playing music was to hope that once in a while you could bring this feeling to an audience of people.
When the curtain closed for intermission, the place went up again. It was great! We all took our time onstage, getting our instruments squared away, slapping fives, rubbing heads (weird sensation, by the way), and just basking in the success of the first set. Then Mr. W. told us to go back up to the band room to get drinks, hit the restrooms, and relax for a little while. I set up the congas at the height I liked; I was tired and thirsty, but I couldn’t wait to come back down and play the Latin pieces I had been sweating over all year. Brian tapped me on the shoulder and gestured with his thumb toward the stairs. We walked up.
At the top of the steps, just outside of the band room, my mom was having what looked like an intense discussion with Mr. Stoll—maybe even a “discussion.” She turned to me with the alarming fake-sweet smile she only uses when she’s got me totally busted for something.
In the syrupy voice that always goes with the smile, she spoke to me. You’re playing very well tonight, Steven.
Thanks, Mom.
Very well.
Ummm, thanks again.
Especially for a kid who hasn’t paid for a drum lesson in over a month.
Ouch!
Then she surprised me, Mr. Stoll, and possibly even herself by grabbing me up in a bear hug.
You are a wonderful son, and a wonderful man.
Yet another parent busting forth with the “man” thing! I’d have to check my chest for signs of hair when I got home. Mr. Stoll broke the moment by pounding me on the shoulder.
You are rocking the joint, kiddo! I loved the big triplet fill in “Satin Doll.” And your four-limb independence is really coming along. I can’t wait to hear the Dizzy Gillespie tune.
Then Mr. W. called all the band members into the room, so I thanked Mr. Stoll and hurried in. My dad and Jeffrey were there. Mr. Watras got everyone quiet, and then gestured to my dad. Evidently—and I couldn’t believe this—my father wanted to address the band. He cleared his throat twice, paused for a long, uncomfortable moment, then spoke.
I almost didn’t come here tonight. I’m a proud man, I guess, and I didn’t like the idea of accepting charity.
I looked around and saw that the other kids and Mr. W. were looking rather nervous.
Even my wife couldn’t get me to come. I was all ready to go to work, bury myself in a pile of paper, and tell myself I was helping my family by earning more money. But at about 5 o’clock, as everybody else in my office was leaving for the weekend to go home to their families, I realized that…
He faltered for a moment, and again I saw that people just didn’t know how to take this speech.
I don’t know…I guess I realized that my family needs a dad more than they need a few extra bucks. Jeffrey, my sweet little boy, needs me to be around to support him when he isn’t feeling well. My wife over there needs me to be around to support her—all the time. And my big, talented boy over there, the one who’s trying to stare at his shoes until I stop talking…
At this, there was some laughter.
He deserves to have his father see what an amazing musician he is. He’s also an amazing brother and just an amazing guy. I know you all call him the Peasant…
More laughter.
…but I think he’s a prince. Thank you, Steven, for watching out for your family, even when your father wasn’t. And thank you, All-City members, for a great concert, a marvelous show of support, and…uhhh, listening to me ramble.
Once more, laughter. My mom walked over, holding Jeffrey’s hand, and kissed my dad. It is always a little weird watching your ‘rents kiss, even when it’s not in a room full of people who actually KNOW you, but this was kind of nice. It occurred to me that that was the first time I’d seen them kiss in a while. Then I looked down at Jeffrey, who had a really miserable look on his face, like he was tasting something vile. Turns out, he was. The next moment, he ran over to the trash can and vomited into it. I ran over to him and got my arms around him. Just then, the lights blinked: Annette and Renee were at the door, bringing glad tidings of box office and bake sales. Without all of the receipts having been counted yet, the running total for the evening was already over $21,000. Half of the room cheered, while the other half—the half that had noticed Jeffrey’s run—was just standing around, looking edgy once again. I wasn’t really worried yet; Jeffrey’s meds made him nauseous all the time. The real danger sign would be a fever. So I felt Jeffrey’s forehead. It was really hot. I hated to say what I said next; I knew it was going to cause some trouble. But I also knew what the doctors had said about not delaying treatment at this point.
Uhhh, Mom. I think Jeffrey has a temp.
This set off a little wave of alarm. My parents knew somebody had to go rushing out of there with Jeffrey to the E.R., but who? One of them? Both? And was I supposed to skip out on the biggest moment of my life and go with them? Jeffrey looked at me.
Steven, I feel really bad. And Matt Medic is at home again. Please come with me. I’m scared.
You know how sometimes, when you have a high-pressure decision to make, you feel like everybody is looking at you? Well, in this case, everybody really WAS looking at me. Annette. Renee. Mr. W. Mom. Dad. Jeffrey. Four trombone players, for God’s sake! Was I supposed to walk out on the music for my brother? Or was I supposed to stay and play the concert?
I looked at all of the faces. I wasn’t sure. I whipped my head in every direction, searching for some clue in the eyes around me. And then I got my clue, from a girl I had only ever met once. “Stay with your brother, Steven. Stay with him. No matter what. Do you promise?” I had promised Samantha I would be there for Jeffrey. There would be other concerts.
Mr. W., I have to…
> I know. Go!
My eyes started to well up. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I was supposed to be your big star.
Steven, you have never been MORE of a star to me than you are at this moment. Go. Take care of your brother. We’ll be fine here.
Mom was on her way out the door; Dad was right behind her, carrying Jeffrey. I started after them, but Renee and Annette were right there in front of me. Renee hugged me and wished me luck. Then Annette put her casted hand on my shoulder. I wasn’t sure what to say.
Some team we make, huh, Annette? You can’t play the concert, and I could play but have to run out!
Then she put her good hand on my other shoulder and gave me something to wonder about.
She said, I think we make a GREAT team! And she kissed me on the cheek.
As I ran out of the room to chase after the distant backs of my parents, my mind was reeling. Annette had kissed me.
Who would’a thunk it?
THE END
An ear infection. Jeffrey had an ear infection. I missed the highlight of my year because Jeffrey had an ear infection.
Thank God. It could have been so much worse. We spent pretty much the whole night at the local emergency room, until Jeffrey’s blood work came back at around 2 a.m. His white counts were low, but the doctor said that was probably just a response to the infection. His liver-function test results actually looked better than they had in weeks. So this was going to be just the usual, routine week-of-IV-antibiotics-in-Philly sickness; Jeffrey would be transported down there around two in the afternoon the next day. He had asked that I be allowed to ride down in the ambulance with him, and I was willing. They hadn’t exactly said yes yet, but I had a feeling it was going to happen.
My dad and I went home to sleep for a few hours and pack my stuff. I collapsed into bed with my clothes on and didn’t wake up until after 11 a.m. As soon as I went downstairs in the morning, I noticed that the answering machine was blinking. We had slept through a lot of phone calls! There were about a million messages from people who had been at the concert, wishing us well and checking on Jeffrey’s health status. Here are a few that jumped out at me:
Drums, Girls & Dangerous Pie Page 14
