by Mary Amato
Lyla’s eyes sparkle. “So my vibrations want to connect with vibrations that are in tune with me? And when something feels really right to me—like a song or the way the red leaves of the maple tree are shining—it’s because that song or those leaves vibrate with a frequency that matches my frequency?”
Tripp smiles and shrugs. “Why not?”
She nods. “I like it. Maybe it explains something.”
“What?”
“Maybe it explains the reason why one person likes another. It’s because their souls both thrum at the same frequency.”
They are leaning in toward each other, knees almost touching, the smile between them as intense as a flame. “To resonance,” he says, and they tap their pencils as if they are glasses of champagne.
NOVEMBER 6. THURSDAY.
BROODY’S RUG & CARPET; 5:31 P.M.
Tripp/I’m at my mom’s store. Remember the blasty rug?
Lyla/Yeah. Poor Henry!
Tripp/I checked the orders on the computer and found his address. I’m thinking about making a special delivery tomorrow night.… Want to join me in some criminal activity?
Lyla/Yes! Yes! Yes!
NOVEMBER 7. FRIDAY.
THE ALLEY; 7:31 P.M.
The alley is narrow and dark with a rivulet of black, oily liquid running down the center and lined on either side with Dumpsters and empty cardboard boxes.
Tripp is waiting by the back door to Broody’s Rug & Carpet, under the light. Lyla appears at the far end of the alley, sees him, and runs toward him. The collar of her short coat is turned up. She’s wearing black mittens, a black beret, and, even though it’s dark, big black sunglasses.
She starts laughing as soon as she is close enough to see him clearly.
“I like your disguise, Bonnie,” Tripp calls out. “Why are you laughing? I’m supposed to look criminally exciting.” He adjusts his black knit cap and fake mustache.
“You look criminally insane. I like it.”
“Here’s the goods.” He pats a rug, which is rolled and wrapped in plastic.
“Oooh. I want to see it!”
He rotates it so she can see the pomegranate-colored label.
“How did you get it out?” she asks.
“When my mom was busy, I set it out here. Then I told her I had to go and walked out the front door.”
“Is she still in there? What if she comes out?”
“She never comes out back here. She’s afraid of rats.”
Lyla starts looking around nervously, and he laughs.
He pulls a piece of paper out of his back pocket. “Our destination is 830 Bradford Road. I mapquested it, and it’s four miles away. That’s a long walk.”
“We shall take a cab!” Lyla announces.
“You keep suggesting that. Have you ever done it?”
“Not by myself. But my dad and I have done it in New York.”
Lyla takes off her mittens and picks up one end of the rug, and Tripp grabs the other.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Tripp whispers.
“It’s like a dead body!” She starts laughing.
“Shh!”
By the time they walk the rug to the main street, they’re breathing hard. “This way, so my mom doesn’t see us through the window.” He pulls her to the left.
“It’s so cold, I can see your breath,” she says. She brings two fingers to her lips as if she’s smoking a cigarette. “Bonnie and Clyde always light up after a heist.”
After a few minutes, they manage to flag down a taxi. As it pulls over, Lyla takes off her sunglasses and points to Tripp’s mustache. “Quick! We have to look normal or he’ll freak.”
He pulls it off and winces, and she laughs again.
The driver, a man with a bright orange turban, leans over as the passenger-side window rolls down. He looks at them suspiciously and says, “Show me, please, you have moneys.”
They pull out enough money between the two of them and get in, the rug on their laps. It’s slightly too long, so they roll down the window and stick one end out.
“One extra dollar for window,” the driver says, accent thick.
“For opening the window?” Tripp asks.
Lyla elbows him. “Fine.”
“We are going where?” the driver asks.
“830 Bradford Road,” Tripp says.
As the cab pulls out, Lyla whispers, “It’s a magic carpet ride.”
The cabdriver looks in the rearview mirror and asks if they went rug shopping, except with his accent, it sounds like he says rug chopping.
Lyla and Tripp smile at each other. “We are redecorating,” Lyla says.
“Indeed,” Tripp adds.
Lyla’s phone buzzes, signaling a text message. “Daddy checking in … he’s asking if I’m warm enough,” she says. “I’m cozy. Bake sale going well,” she says as she texts. “Selling lots!” She leans toward Tripp and whispers, “Should we feel guilty for …”—she looks at the rug on their laps—“rug chopping?”
“This rug has been in our store for five years and nobody has bought it.” He whispers. “So we are really doing the rug a favor.”
Lyla laughs. “It will be loved by Henry.”
“Henry is a little man with a mind of his own. Just my style.”
“Henry’s little mind is about to be blown.”
Silently, they watch the passing lights out the window. After a while, Lyla starts to hum.
The driver smiles, warming to them, and says loudly, “Singing is a much pleasing thing.”
“Indeed,” Tripp and Lyla both say at the same time and try to keep from laughing.
“My cousin is a rock star in India,” the driver says.
“Does he play the guitar?” Tripp asks.
“Sitar,” the man says. “Strings, but not a guitar.”
“We have a band,” Lyla says. “It’s called the Thrum Society.”
“No kidding me?” the driver exclaims. “You are famous?”
“Not yet. But we have a gig.”
“Sing me a song!” He stops at a light and looks back at them.
Lyla starts singing their waltz song, and Tripp joins in. The light turns green. The driver’s head nods to their song.
“That was good!” he exclaims when they’re done. “That was really good!” He hands Lyla a card. “My name is Aamod. Call me if you need a ride to your music gigs. No extra dollar for the window.”
“How much would it cost for you to take us to Loblolly, Maryland, and back?”
“Never heard of this place.”
“There’s a theater there called the Pomegranate Playhouse,” Lyla explains.
“Call me with the address and I can price you the quote.”
Tripp and Lyla look at each other and smile.
The driver turns down a side street and slows down. “Which one is it?”
Tripp peers out. “Um … it’s number 830.…”
“That one,” Lyla says. “The one with the porch.”
They pool their money and pay, then Lyla slides out with the rug, and Tripp follows. “Wave and look natural, like this is our house,” Lyla whispers as the cab pulls away.
“I don’t think people wave good-bye to their cabdrivers,” Tripp says.
“He’s not just our cabdriver. He’s our fan.” She waves.
The cab turns the corner, and the street is quiet. The air is freezing, and they both shiver. “What now, Bonnie?”
“We put it on the porch and run.”
“We need to write his name on it.”
“No, that’ll seem like we’re stalking.”
“All right. How about ‘From Santa’?”
Lyla laughs. “From the Thrum Society.”
The porch light in the neighboring house goes on and Tripp panics, lunging toward the shadowy part of the lawn, pulling the rug and Lyla with him. His foot hits a skateboard and he goes down while the skateboard flies out from under him and bangs against the bottom step of the porch.
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“Are you okay?” Lyla whispers, laughing.
“Ssh! Duck!”
Lyla crouches down as a man from the house next door walks to the street and gets in his car.
“If he looks up, he’ll see us,” Lyla whispers.
“Make like a lawn troll and freeze.” Tripp’s face takes on a ridiculous frozen grin.
Lyla laughs.
“Shh! Trolls don’t laugh,” he says through his teeth.
After the car disappears, they pick up the rug. When Tripp hits the first stair, it creaks noisily.
“Shh!” Lyla says.
“I can’t help it,” Tripp says. He sets his end of the rug on the porch and they slide it the rest of the way.
“Knock!”
“No. You knock!”
“Shh!”
“Same time.”
They both tiptoe up, look at each other, start laughing, knock, and run.
Tripp looks back twice. The second time, he sees the front door open and someone step out. They run past houses, parked cars, and piles of fallen leaves. He pulls Lyla down a side street. A dog barks and they run faster, laughing.
“Do you know where we are?” Lyla asks, breathless.
“I think we need to turn left on the next street.”
A police car enters the next intersection and turns toward them.
Lyla grabs Tripp’s arm.
“Don’t run,” Tripp says. “Look completely natural. It’s going to pass right by us.”
Lyla’s hand stays on his arm. “We’re doomed, Clyde,” she whispers. “We have guilt written all over us. We probably have rug fibers on our clothes!”
As they walk fast, past the headlights, Tripp starts to hum Lyla’s guilt song.
“What are you doing?” Lyla whispers.
“I’m acting natural. People always hum a cheery tune when they walk down the street.”
As soon as the patrol car is gone, Lyla bends over. “I wasn’t breathing!”
“Come on.” Tripp runs across the street and pulls Lyla with him.
When they hit the sidewalk on the other side, Lyla stops. “Look!” She stares straight up.
In the glow of the streetlight, specks dance in the sky.
Lyla brings her hand down. There is a snowflake on her outstretched fingertip. She holds it out to Tripp. “Confetti!”
“Yeah.” He smiles. “The sky is throwing us a party.”
NOVEMBER 12. WEDNESDAY.
NOVEMBER 21. FRIDAY.
Tripp/I think you should add cello to your Little Room song.
Lyla/I heard a violinist at the metro. I’m applying for a permit for us!
Hey Mr. Odd,
Annie joined the Canticle Quartet which makes it a Quintet. Even though we’re still avoiding each other, I think it’s great.
—Ms. Even
NOVEMBER 22. SATURDAY.
THE POMEGRANATE PLAYHOUSE; 11:31 A.M.
In the clearing on the right are an ancient-looking stone house and a beautiful wooden barn. Above the front doors of the barn is a big, brightly colored hand-painted sign: THE POMEGRANATE PLAYHOUSE.
After the cab pulls away, Tripp sets down the guitar case and turns to Lyla. “I can’t do this,” he says.
She picks up the case. “Yes, you can.”
“You’ve played in front of billions of people. I haven’t.”
She pulls his arm. “Come on. We’re going.”
Cars are already parked on the grass next to the barn, and another car is just arriving. They head down a stone path decorated with pumpkins that have been scooped out and filled with wildflowers, catching a glimpse of water and a small dock with a rowboat through the woods. Inside the barn is a stage with an ornately painted proscenium and shimmering curtains that are pulled aside. A dozen people are already sitting in the audience. More are coming in behind them.
Lyla motions for Tripp to look on the walls. Large paintings of pomegranates line both sides of the room.
A man in a suit comes over, and Lyla explains who they are. “Mom,” he calls to an old woman talking to another woman by the stage. “The musicians are here!”
The old woman walks over, wildflowers in her hands. Although her face is lined with wrinkles, her eyes are blue and disarmingly clear, and a thick white braid hangs over her shoulder. Her dress is wine-colored with bright splashes of white and blue. “I’m Ruby. You’re the Thrum Society?” She is clearly surprised.
“If you don’t want us to play—” Tripp pulls back, and Lyla elbows him.
“Of course I want you to play!” A smile lights her face. “I’m delighted! So young! What talent! Come in, come in! I know we said we’d start at noon, but as soon as everybody’s here, we’re going to dive right in.”
“No rehearsal?” Lyla asks.
“You’ll be great.” She smiles, walking them up the side stairs onto the stage, where there are two chairs and microphones off to the right. A woman wearing a ministerial robe walks onto the stage, adjusting her collar, and Ruby introduces them to her. “Romeo is going to play the accordion for the entrance and the exit. So just sit tight. After the vows, Reverend Liz will give you a nod and you can play your waltz. How does this setup look? Need anything else?”
Tripp and Lyla look at each other. “Looks fine,” Lyla says.
More people come in, and Ruby squeals with delight and rushes off to greet them.
Tripp and Lyla sit down.
“I didn’t think we’d be on a stage,” Tripp whispers. “I feel like everybody is looking at us.”
Finally, just after all the seats fill, Reverend Liz stands in the center of the stage and looks at the doorway with an expectant smile. A tiny old man appears in the frame with a small button accordion, wearing a striped tuxedo with tails and a top hat. At first, it appears as though he is too frail to move, but he begins to play the accordion and does a funny shuffling dance up the aisle, stopping halfway to catch his breath. When he gets to the stairs leading up to the stage, he stops and gives a shrug and smile, saying in an Italian accent, “A long way up, no?”
Everybody laughs. Ruby’s son and another man get one of the chairs from the stage and bring it down to him. After he sits, they carry the chair, with him in it, up the stairs and set it onstage.
Romeo plays louder and everyone turns to face the doorway.
Ruby appears with the wildflowers in her hands. She smiles at everyone as she walks down the aisle and up the stage steps to take the chair next to Romeo.
“Can I kiss my bride now?” the old man asks Reverend Liz. “Because maybe I don’t make it to the end.”
Everybody cheers them on, and he and Ruby share a kiss.
“I didn’t think she was the bride,” Lyla whispers.
“Me neither,” Tripp whispers back.
While the minister tells the story of how Ruby and Romeo met in Italy when Ruby wandered into a gallery and saw his paintings of pomegranates, Tripp thinks about how perfect and happy they look together. Then it’s time for the vows, and he can feel the nervousness approaching like a tidal wave; at any moment, the minister will be turning to give them the cue to sing. But the way Romeo takes Ruby’s face in his hands and looks straight into her eyes catches Tripp off guard. He was expecting the standard recitation of vows; instead, Romeo is speaking in a voice that—even though Tripp can’t understand the words—seems to be springing directly from the old man’s heart. “Prometto di ascoltarti quando sei triste e di ridere con te quando sei felice.” Romeo puts his hand on his chest. “I feel you in here, Ruby. And no matter what happens, I will always love you.” He smiles and puts a ring on her finger.
Ruby wipes away a tear and kisses him and whispers, “How did I get so lucky?”
He shrugs and she laughs. Then, through her tears, she says, “I, Ruby, take you, Romeo, to be my husband. I promise to listen to you when you are sad and to laugh with you when you are happy. I feel you in my heart. And no matter what happens, I will always love you.” She puts a ring on his fin
ger.
They kiss.
The minister nods at Tripp and Lyla to play their song.
Tripp feels all the blood rush from his head as the room grows silent and all eyes turn to them. He cannot possibly sing, and then he looks at Lyla, and her smile is like a hand on his arm. He takes a breath and starts to play. They sing the first few notes, and the familiar sound of their voices together gives him an added breath of confidence. His body relaxes and he lets the song pour out, their voices surging in harmony. It is the first time they have ever played in a large, open room; and, as their sound fills the room, it seems to join forces with the love that is emanating from Ruby and Romeo and the love that is pouring out of the entire audience, and it fills a space inside Tripp’s chest and makes him feel more alive than he has ever felt.
When the last note ends, the silence that comes after it feels holy. He looks at Lyla. Her eyes are glistening, and she gives him a secret smile. They did it.
“I now pronounce you husband and wife!” the minister exclaims.
After Romeo and Ruby kiss, Romeo picks up his accordion and starts to play. Ruby’s son and other men jump onstage and lift up both Ruby and Romeo in their chairs and carry them around while everyone follows, dancing and clapping, in a line.
Lyla jumps up and grabs Tripp’s hand and they join the line. Lyla looks as if she couldn’t possibly be happier, and it makes Tripp laugh out loud.
“What’s so funny?” she yells over the noise.
He grins and shakes his head, unable to explain it.
The whole procession spills out of the barn, and when the song is over, Ruby invites everyone inside to eat lunch in the house, to return to the barn for more dancing, or to take the rowboat out for a ride.
“Let’s take the boat out before it’s time for the cab to come,” Tripp suggests.
Lyla grabs the guitar and they head down to the dock.
Bordered on all sides by pine trees, the lake is full of small inlets edged with marsh grasses. Tripp rows, and Lyla sits opposite him with the guitar in her lap. They glide, listening to the splash of the oars and the creak of the boat, and then she starts to play. When they get to the middle of the lake, the gathering clouds drift over half of the sun, creating a ray that illuminates a path on the water. She stops and gives the guitar to Tripp. He starts to play the chords she was playing, but plucks a rhythm that he has never tried before.
