Small Town Sonata

by Jamie Fessenden

  “Um… I have a list,” Aiden said, holding the paper up.

  Mrs. Butler hurried to him, not at all slowed by her advanced years. She snatched the list from Aiden’s hand and peered at it through her turquoise horn-rimmed glasses. “Oh, how lovely! You’re a painter!” She waved both hands in the air in an expansive, theatrical gesture that took in the entire shop. “You’ll find everything you need in my emporium. What do you paint? Portraits? Nudes?”

  Aiden found it mildly disturbing how much enthusiasm she put into the word “nudes.” “No… I don’t actually paint myself. These things are for my mother.”

  “Your mother?”

  Oh, terrific. If he’d wanted to stay anonymous on this shopping trip, he’d just blown it. “Helen Scott,” he replied, not wanting to lie about it.

  “Helen!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands together in joy. “Does this mean she’ll be entering my art show?”

  “The one on the Fourth?”

  “Yes, that’s it.”

  “I believe so.”

  “Wonderful!” The old woman’s face took on a pensive expression as she stepped back to regard Aiden with one scarlet enameled fingernail pressed to her chin. “Then you must be….” She held her hand up to stop him, when he opened his mouth to speak. “Don’t tell me! Let me see… yes! Aiden!”

  Aiden smiled and nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You’re the boy who went off to study piano,” she said, clearly delighted.

  “That’s me.”

  She clapped her hands together again, brimming over with excitement. “Oh, I do hope you’ll play for us on the Fourth!”

  That was exactly what Aiden had been fearing since he’d returned to town—people pushing him to perform. It was understandable, but the thought of stumbling through even a simple piece on stage in front of the entire town filled him with dread. He fought down the urge to bolt for the door and tried to bring the conversation back to its original purpose. “We’ll see. But I should get home soon. My mother is expecting these supplies.”

  “Yes, of course. Come this way!”

  With a flourish, Mrs. Butler spun around and literally danced off down the aisle. Aiden followed her, his stomach churning.

  Chapter Six

  DEAN spent the entire next day searching for his clarinet. He was sure the last place he’d seen it was in the attic, but the attic was enormous and full of several generations of his family’s junk. He kept meaning to sort it out and get rid of a bunch of it before the ceiling collapsed on him or it all spontaneously combusted or… something. But whenever he thought about throwing any of it away, he felt guilty. He was the last of his family line, apart from some distant cousins he’d never met, and somewhere buried in that mess was his heritage.

  More importantly, some of it had belonged to his parents. And to Opa.

  For that matter, the entire house still felt as if it was Opa’s. The old man had passed away almost ten years ago, but Dean still didn’t feel as if it was really his house. For one thing, the two-story farmhouse and attached barn was just too much space for a man living on his own. It was drafty, nearly impossible to heat, and it creaked in the middle of the night for no good reason. The property taxes were also pretty steep. Dean kept thinking about selling it, but… it was Opa’s place.

  He gave up on the attic and came downstairs to fix himself dinner. Only after he’d eaten a bowl of Progresso’s Italian Wedding soup with grated cheese, did he remember he’d stashed the stupid clarinet in the living room closet.

  He retrieved it and looked it over. The reed was kind of gray and nasty, so he tossed it aside. Fortunately he had a new one. He placed that in his mouth and sucked on it while he applied a small amount of cork grease to the ends of the sections and assembled the instrument. Then he attached the reed to the mouthpiece.

  Christ, he was rusty. That much was obvious from the first note he played. But he managed to get through “The Birth of the Blues” and “Black Coffee.” Barely.

  I’m never gonna pull this off. Why the fuck did I agree to this?

  He carefully disassembled the clarinet and put it back in its case. At least it wasn’t broken. That was something. But that thought just reminded him of the dismal state of Ben Tyler’s bass, and made him unhappy again.

  Fuck this shit. He couldn’t stand being cooped up in the house for another minute. He needed to get out of there.

  He wasn’t sure where he’d go—just out. It was going on eight, and the sun would be setting soon. Most of the town had already shut down for the night, apart from a couple of gas stations and Morey’s, the local bar. Dean had no interest in going there. He still drank occasionally, but not when he was down. The last time he’d done that, he’d gotten drunk on cheap wine until he puked. Fortunately he’d been home, so he could just roll into bed, but he’d learned his lesson.

  Never again.

  Somehow he found himself on Birch Street. He hadn’t been thinking, just driving around the streets at random, but something had guided him to Aiden’s house. He’d come here often after dark when they were in high school. Aiden used to sneak out and meet him in the backyard gazebo, where they’d make out.

  Dean pulled his truck up in front of the Scotts’ house and shut the engine off. The sun had set, but it wasn’t quite dark yet, and he felt like an idiot. What if Aiden or one of his parents looked out the window and saw the truck parked there? Would they think he was stalking Aiden?

  What the fuck am I doing here?

  The temptation to go out back and look at the gazebo was strong. He had a lot of fond memories of that last summer together, those beautiful, warm nights, the softness of Aiden’s lips and the heat of his skin….

  But trespassing in the Scotts’ backyard would be even worse than parking in front of their house. If he had any sense, he’d get moving before he got caught.

  As he reached for the key to start the ignition, he heard something that stayed his hand. It was coming from the open window of the ground floor music room, soft and delicate and beautiful.

  Aiden’s piano.

  AIDEN forced himself to finish Brahms’s “Intermezzo in A Major,” even though it had been awkward in several places and he was incredibly frustrated. The only thing keeping him from pounding on the keyboard in frustration was the fact that he could never abuse a piano like that—especially not a beautiful, perfectly tuned Steinway grand like this one. His parents had paid a small fortune for it when he was twelve, and even while he was away, they’d had a man come in once a year to tune it and care for it.

  And I never came home. Not after going away to college.

  The best he’d done was send his mom and dad a card for Christmas and call on their birthdays. He’d been too caught up in his life in New York.

  Too caught up in himself.

  It was growing dark. He’d barely noticed, since he had the piece memorized, but if he’d been trying to sight read a piece of music, he would have had trouble in the gray light. He stood and walked across the room to the light switch.

  Before he could flip it on, he noticed something through the open window—a truck parked in front of the house. The same truck Dean Cooper had been driving when he came to the house. What the hell is he doing here?

  Aiden left the light off and went to the window to peer out. Dean was sitting in the driver seat, just staring at the house. Aiden unlatched the screen and lifted it so he could step across the sill onto the front porch. Then he snuck across the porch and quietly let himself out onto the front steps.

  The door of the truck opened, and Dean stepped down onto the sand that marked the boundary between the lawn and the road.

  “What are you doing?” he laughed. “Did your parents have you locked in the piano room?”

  Aiden made a hushing motion with his hands as he approached. “Mom and Dad are watching TV in the living room. They would have heard me go out through the kitchen door.”

  “So?”

  “So I felt like s
neaking out without them knowing,” Aiden said, as if that was explanation enough. “What’s your excuse for sitting in front of our house spying on us?”

  Dean looked uncomfortable. “I… wasn’t trying to spy on anyone. I was just bored and driving around.”

  “Last I heard, ‘driving around’ implied movement.”

  Dean smirked at that, and the mischievous look on his face brought back a flood of memories. God, he’d been cute when they were teens. He was cute now. “I just… guess I got a little nostalgic. And then I heard you playing, and I had to listen for a while. It was beautiful.”

  Aiden was embarrassed to know Dean had been listening to that terrible performance, but he was still touched. It had been a long time since anyone had said that of his playing. Well, apart from his parents. Louis had stopped appreciating it years ago, and the professional musicians he worked with tended to nitpick. That was nice, Aiden, but could you pick up the tempo a bit more when we get to this passage? And try to be more expressive! It was simply the way things were, when making music was a job.

  Aiden smiled at him. “Would you like to go out back for a bit?”

  “Out back?” Dean’s eyebrows went up. “To the gazebo?”

  “Not to make out.”

  “Damn.”

  Aiden laughed, then glanced quickly back at the house to see if anyone had noticed them out on the lawn. It was starting to get seriously dark now, so he doubted it. “I meant to talk a little. Catch up.”

  “Sure.”

  Chapter Seven

  DEAN was unaccountably nervous as he followed Aiden around to the backyard. It wasn’t as if they were going to fuck in the gazebo or anything. Aiden had already vetoed making out, which was reasonable. But Dean had thought about him a lot over the years. After a couple of years had gone by with no sign of Aiden returning to Springhaven, even for just a summer, any delusions Dean had had about them running off together had died a painful death. But, yeah. Dean had still thought about him. And his thoughts hadn’t always been pure.

  Now, Aiden was walking just a few feet ahead of him, and he’d grown up to be sexier than Dean’s most lurid fantasies. My God, look at that ass!

  The gazebo was octagonal, with one side open and the other seven enclosed by a waist-high white wooden railing. Three curved benches formed a semicircle in the center, underneath a conical roof. The gazebo rested in the center of the lawn surrounded on all sides by a small, artificial frog pond, and that was surrounded by more of Mrs. Scott’s rosebushes. The scent of the flowers hung heavy in the warm evening air, and a chorus of crickets and spring peepers serenaded the men as they crossed the small, arched bridge and climbed the short flight of wooden steps.

  As a boy, Dean had thought the Scotts must be millionaires. He knew that wasn’t the case, now, but they were certainly well-off.

  “I’m tempted to light the TIKI torches,” Aiden said, grinning. “But I suppose Dad would come barreling out of the house, demanding to know who was screwing around in his yard. Either that, or Mom would be worried I was out here moping.”

  “Moping about what?”

  The shadows inside the gazebo were deep, so Dean couldn’t see Aiden’s face clearly, but there was a sadness in his voice. “Nothing. I guess I miss New York a bit.”

  Dean could tell that wasn’t the real reason, but he doubted he’d get much more out of Aiden by prying.

  A firefly drifted into the gazebo and they watched its slow flight until it landed on the railing. It sat there, blinking a soft greenish-yellow.

  “You really liked it there?” Dean asked at last.

  “I guess so. It was busy. Exciting. And people treated me like….” He trailed off.

  “Like what?”

  Aiden gave out a faint, wistful little laugh. “Like a movie star.”

  “Just because you play piano?” Dean realized he was probably being insulting. “Sorry. I mean… you play great. I love listening to you. But are you saying people wanted your autograph and shit like that?”

  Aiden was silent for a long time, and Dean was afraid he was going to turn around, go back inside, and that would be the last time Aiden ever bothered to talk to him. Why the fuck did I have to say it like that?

  Eventually, Aiden said, “Sometimes.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t know shit about stuff like that.”

  Another long silence. Then Aiden said, “Mom tells me you play clarinet now.”

  “Uh… yeah. I’m not that good, though.”

  Aiden sat down on one of the benches. “You play in the town fair?”

  “Sort of.” Dean sat beside him, praying Aiden wouldn’t immediately get up again. The bench was small, so they were forced to sit close together. Dean could feel the heat of Aiden’s arm against his own, but Aiden made no move to put distance between them. “Remember Bart Robinson?”

  “The math teacher?”

  “Well, he was when you and I were in high school. He retired ages ago. And he put the Springhaven Septet—that’s what we called the band—together. We played every summer, until he passed away a couple of years ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah.” Dean sighed. “So this year, they’re making me do it.”

  “The band? Who’s making you do it?”

  Dean held his hands out in front of him in a gesture of surrender. “The Ladies of Lilac Lane.”

  “The… what?”

  That was right. The ladies hadn’t formed their little cabal before Aiden left. “Well, they’re kind of a… bunch of old women who boss people around a lot. Especially me.”

  Aiden laughed and nudged him with his arm. “I didn’t think anyone could boss you around.”

  “Yeah, well… I guess I let them.”

  “Why?”

  Dean shifted uncomfortably. He wasn’t sure if he could explain it in any way that made sense to anyone else. “Do you remember Mr. Whitaker?”

  Aiden sighed, a wistful sound. “Oh, yeah. I was thinking about him this afternoon, when I went uptown.”

  “He kind of saved my life.”

  Aiden huffed out a breath. “By making you mop his floor?”

  “He told me that night, ‘Springhaven is a small community. A place where people still trust their neighbors. A lot of us don’t even lock our doors. But you’ve got the power to change that. If you want to live in a town where people always have to lock up and keep their eye on each other, well… all you gotta do is keep stealin’ people’s stuff. You’ll make it happen.’”

  Aiden seemed to think about that for a while. Then he said, “Not that I’m saying you should have kept on stealing, but even if you didn’t, somebody else could.”

  “Yeah,” Dean replied, nodding. “But I decided it wasn’t gonna be me. I liked the fact that everybody could trust their neighbors here, and I wasn’t gonna be the one to destroy that. I never stole another thing after that day. A while later Mr. Whitaker hired me for some yard work and started recommending me to his friends. That’s how I got started doing handyman stuff. And the old people in this town? They’re the best friends I ever had.” Then, without thinking, he added, “’Cept for you. But you left.”

  He hadn’t meant to say that last part. It had just sort of slipped out. He knew then that, as much as he thought he’d gotten over that brief teenage romance between them, he hadn’t. Not really. The memory of how alone he’d been during the last years of high school was still painful to think about.

  God, I’m pathetic.

  To his surprise, Aiden reached out and covered Dean’s hand with his. He didn’t say “I’m sorry” or anything else. He just quietly took Dean’s hand and held it. They sat in silence for a long time, and Dean was grateful he didn’t have to speak, because a lump had formed in his throat. If he tried to say anything, he’d probably embarrass himself.

  THE hurt in Dean’s voice when he said “But you left” hit Aiden like a slap in the face. He’d been upset when he left Dean behind—it had felt almo
st unbearable at the time—but Dean had been the only thing in Springhaven Aiden thought he’d miss. For so many years, he’d been frustrated at having to rely upon Mrs. Martin’s inadequate training. He’d liked her. She was sweet and encouraging. But she hadn’t been able to give him much more than basic piano exercises. That first year at Interlochen, he’d been surrounded by people who understood him, who challenged him. When one of his new friends had invited him to stay with his family in Michigan over the holidays, rather than fly back to New Hampshire, he’d accepted. The thought of coming back and facing Dean again, knowing they’d only be able to snatch a few fleeting moments together—or worse, discovering Dean didn’t want to spend time with him, hadn’t missed him at all—that had filled Aiden with dread. So he’d chickened out.

  Taking Dean’s hand right now had been instinctive. He never would have done it if he’d paused to think about it for even a second. They hadn’t seen each other for seventeen years. They couldn’t even claim to know each other anymore. But something deep within him responded with tenderness when Dean was hurting.

  “Did you… were you waiting for me?”

  Dean shifted uncomfortably. Then he cleared his throat. “It was a long time ago.”

  “I didn’t think you… I mean….” Aiden hesitated. What did he mean, exactly? “You were always the tough one. I figured you probably forgot about me, after a year or so.”

  Dean pulled his hand away and stood. He went to the railing and leaned upon it, looking out at the fireflies drifting over the pond. He cleared his throat. “You know, I’m having a bitch of a time putting this band back together. One guy moved away. One guy is drunk all the time, and the idiot sat on his instrument. It’s in pieces! I don’t know what the fuck I’m gonna do about that. I don’t suppose I could interest you in performing with us? Bart was our keyboard player.”