Small Town Sonata

by Jamie Fessenden

  Dean came up behind him and laid his hands gently on Aiden’s shoulders. His body pressed against Aiden’s back, warm and soothing, and incredibly intimate. His cock was hot and partially hard against Aiden’s spine, which Aiden found enormously erotic. But he sensed Dean was too tired to follow through on the promise his body was making. “Do you need anything?”

  “I’m just going to play for a while, until I get tired. You can go back to bed.”

  “Is it okay if I lie on the couch?”

  “Sure.”

  Dean curled up on the sofa beside the keyboard and seemed to fall asleep immediately. The position he was in gave Aiden a terrific view of his ass and the family jewels, which he’d tucked between his legs in a way that was both lewd and adorably unselfconscious. Aiden found it an enormous turn-on. He thought about jerking off but continued playing until the feeling passed.

  Then he went on into another ballad.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  DEAN woke to find himself naked on the living room sofa except for the blanket someone—presumably Aiden—had tossed over him. The smell of coffee permeated the air, and Aiden was speaking quietly to someone in the kitchen. Dean sat up and placed his bare feet on the wooden floor. It was ice cold. It was late June, and it would probably get hot later, but the mornings could still be chilly. Dean wrapped the blanket around himself to keep out the chill and protect the sensibilities of whoever Aiden was chatting with, but when he entered the kitchen, Aiden was alone at the table, holding his cell phone to his ear.

  “Thanks,” Aiden said. He gestured for Dean to sit, then got up and walked to the coffee maker. “I’ll be there. Goodbye.”

  Dean sat down and was pleased that the blanket was long enough that its folds lay on the tile floor under the chair. He put his feet on it to warm them. Aiden placed his cell phone on the counter and poured Dean a cup of coffee.

  “That was Martel,” Aiden said, bringing the cup to him.

  “You didn’t get fired, then.”

  “No. He’d rather not go there. It would be a huge setback for the orchestra to lose their pianist now.” Aiden sat opposite him. He didn’t seem cold, but he had socks on and a pair of Dean’s sweatpants. “He understands I have… limits. It’s up to me to tell him when I’m done for the day.”

  Dean held the coffee cup in his hands to warm them and sipped at it. “You didn’t feel you could tell him yesterday?”

  “I was an idiot. I didn’t want to them to see….” He shrugged. “Well, anyway, I made it worse than it had to be. And now they’re all concerned about whether I can do the performance.”

  “Can you?”

  Aiden looked at his hand as he tapped his fingers on the Formica tabletop. “I should be able to.” Then he laughed and changed the subject. “So somebody stripped me last night. I wonder who?”

  “I wasn’t molesting you,” Dean said defensively. “You were kind of stoned after the Ultram. You staggered into the bedroom, pulled off your shirt, and dropped trou. I just removed your shoes so you wouldn’t have to sleep with your pants all bunched up around your ankles.”

  “I’m just teasing.”

  Dean nodded, but he got the message: no more questions about what had happened at the rehearsal.

  DEAN kept an eye on Aiden for the next few days, but he seemed fine. Unless this was the way Aiden acted when he was depressed. Dean had no idea. He wasn’t a therapist. But Aiden seemed… fine.

  In fact, he seemed pretty upbeat. He continued to practice every day, though he preferred the grand piano to the electric, so Dean dropped him off at his parents’ house in the mornings and picked him up again in the afternoons. Then the two of them would have dinner together, have sex, and fall asleep in Dean’s bed. Sometimes dinner was in a restaurant, but more often they’d just cook spaghetti or a frozen pizza at the farm. Dean had initially worried that Aiden’s tastes wouldn’t be satisfied by Springhaven cuisine, but Aiden insisted he loved spaghetti with sauce out of a jar as much as Dean did. It was a waste of money to eat out every night.

  Aside from being certain this domestic arrangement couldn’t last, Dean was deliriously happy. The sex was wonderful, but the warmth of Aiden’s body in his bed afterward, when their arms and legs were entwined, Aiden’s breath brushing his skin as they settled down into sleep… that was heaven. Dean wanted more than anything for that to go on. He couldn’t bear the thought of it ending.

  So he tried not to think about it. He’d enjoy the time they had left and pretend the summer would last forever.

  At the Thursday evening rehearsal, Ben was looking unusually presentable. He arrived with Lisa, his beard neatly trimmed, wearing a blue pinstriped suit that had seen better years but was clean and ironed.

  “Well, look at you, all dolled up,” Rick laughed.

  For a second Ben looked as if he wanted to make a run for it, but then he drew himself up and said stiffly, “Is there something wrong with a man dressing nicely?”

  “No,” Dean said, giving Rick a playful shove. He worried for a moment his relationship with Rick wasn’t yet casual enough for him to shove the guy, but Rick just laughed and shoved him back. “You look good, Ben,” Dean added.

  “Thank you.”

  Nothing more was said about it until about two hours later, when the arrival of the pizza—dropped off by Lisa’s husband, Paul—temporarily halted the rehearsal. During the feeding frenzy around the kitchen table, Ben handed Dean a slice of cheese pizza on a paper plate and said, “Can we talk on the porch a minute?”

  “Sure, Ben.”

  Once they were outside, Ben seemed incredibly nervous. He took a bite of his own pizza, chewed it while he paced around on the porch a minute, then finally swallowed and said, “I need some help.”

  “With what?” Dean asked.

  “I need to get to Berlin on Monday nights for a while, hopefully starting tomorrow at seven. I already asked Lisa, but she has some kind of book club meeting at her store on Monday evenings.”

  “I could probably take you,” Dean said. “At least for the next few weeks.” He hesitated, then asked, “Where would we be going?”

  Ben looked away, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. “It’s a place on 12th Street. I’ll have to look up the exact address. It’s… for AA.”

  Dean’s eyebrows crept up his forehead. “Alcoholics Anonymous?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Dude… that’s great.”

  Ben let out an embarrassed laugh. “Yeah, well… we’ll see how I do. But I realized… I don’t want to just sit around drunk in that pigsty anymore. Bernice would be ashamed of me. I used to have a life. I used to go out and do shit. Like the septet.”

  “Anything I can do to help,” Dean told him seriously, “just let me know.”

  “Well… we can start with a ride.”

  “You got it.” Dean clapped a hand on his shoulder, and Ben smiled awkwardly at him. Then they went back inside.

  “IF you don’t use a longer cable, it’ll never reach the stage.”

  “I swear, Dean, if you don’t shut up, I’ll take my lunch break just so’s I can watch you have a nervous breakdown for an hour.”

  “Charlie, you’re being paid for….”

  Aiden lost track of the argument as he wandered away from the gazebo. He knew Charlie would get the wiring problems sorted out before the celebration. Dean was just being Dean—fretting and micromanaging everything. It was sometimes his best trait, sometimes his worst. He got things done either way. He would have preferred to do the electrical work himself, and Aiden didn’t doubt he was capable, but the town council had shown good sense and demanded he bring Charlie Davis in. Charlie was a licensed electrician and, perhaps more importantly to the town council members, he was insured.

  The lawn in the town park was lush and green, tempting Aiden to lie down for a nap, but he walked along the cobblestone path between the gazebo and the large fountain. Beyond that was an area set up for picnicking, and off to his left w
as a small baseball diamond, directly in front of Town Hall. Aiden wondered if they still launched the town fireworks display from there. They always had when he was a kid. Birch Street was more or less aimed in that direction, so there were some years when his parents hadn’t felt like dealing with the chaos in the park and they’d set up lawn chairs in front of their house, right in the middle of the street. They’d had no trouble at all seeing the fireworks.

  On the other side of the gazebo, Railroad Street and the train tracks marked the northern edge of the park. Dean had told him the train hardly ever ran through these days, but when they were younger, it had rattled along those tracks every couple of hours. It had to go slow in town, and Dean had loved grabbing hold of the ladders at the ends of the freight cars and riding a ways before dropping off. Aiden had never dared. It was illegal, and they’d heard horror stories about kids falling and getting ground up under the wheels. But Dean either hadn’t cared or had wanted to impress him.

  Goofball.

  Thankfully, he hadn’t been killed or maimed. And despite disapproving of dangerous stunts like that, Aiden was warmed by the memory. Dean had always had to prove how tough he was, as if Aiden wouldn’t like him otherwise. It was adorable, though he probably wouldn’t have been happy to learn Aiden thought so.

  The small ticket station near the tracks had received a new coat of paint recently, but otherwise it hadn’t changed in seventeen years. Neither had the smell of freshly cut grass, the warm breeze drifting through the park, the sounds of kids playing on the swings and inside the old cement truck mixing barrel someone had mounted on a rotating metal platform long before Aiden’s time. The kids might be different, but their shouts and laughter were the same.

  I love this town. Aiden had spent so much time and energy escaping from Springhaven, he’d never given much thought to what he’d left behind. Now he realized he’d left more than his family and Dean and the town—he’d left part of himself. Not all, not the part that craved public recognition of his talent or longed to see the world, but a part he’d forgotten was there. That part loved the coziness of living in a town so small he recognized everybody when he walked down the street; loved the rows of quaint suburban houses, each one surrounded by more grass than he’d seen in the past year in New York City; loved the smell of clean air coming off the mountains….

  Loved Dean.

  The thought of leaving Dean behind was killing him.

  What am I going to do?

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Three Weeks Later

  THOUGH he listened to classical music at home, Dean had never been to an orchestra performance and he felt very out of place. He’d donned his new clothes, but that only helped somewhat. As he glanced around at the other people in the lobby, he still felt like a country hick—just one in a new set of clothes. Manchester was still in New Hampshire, so there was the usual assortment of blue jeans, T-shirts, and college students in whatever they could scrounge up, but a lot of the older men and women were wearing suits and evening dresses. The Scotts apparently kept their formal attire up-to-date for college functions and the rare times they’d been able to fly to New York to watch Aiden perform. Mr. Scott looked pretty snazzy in his tux, and Mrs. Scott had on a very nice lilac dress.

  Dean couldn’t resist touching his cheek to make sure he’d remembered to shave off his scruff.

  “You look gorgeous, sweetheart, as always.”

  Dean glanced at the speaker in surprise. It wasn’t Aiden, who was backstage with the orchestra, but the man Dean had seen sitting in the back of the theater during rehearsals. He was handsome up close, and very distinguished. Perhaps in his sixties, he wore a tweed suit with a fedora, though they were inside, and of all things, a purple paisley scarf draped about his neck. He carried a silver-handled cane, though Dean had the impression it was less to aid him in walking than to complement his ensemble.

  “We haven’t been introduced,” the man said, extending his hand. “I am Theodore Wilde—no relation to the esteemed playwright, though I like to think we share an affinity. Gregory Martel is my husband. I believe you were expecting these.” He pulled an envelope out of his breast pocket.

  Dean took it and peered inside. Tickets. “Thanks. Aiden told me he’d have them for us.”

  “He’s backstage, awaiting his grand entrance,” Theodore said with a dramatic flourish of his hand. “So is Gregory, of course. Hence, I have become your humble errand boy.”

  “Thank you,” Mr. Scott said. “We appreciate it.”

  “Now I must away. If you need me, you know where to find me.”

  He spun about, which would have been very dramatic if he’d had a cape. Dean suspected he longed for one. A moment later he was lost in the crowd.

  THE seats Aiden had picked out for them—if he’d been allowed to choose—were in the balcony. Dean had no idea if they were good acoustically, but at least from there they could see the stage clearly.

  Theodore was, in fact, exactly where Dean could easily find him. He’d staked out his usual seat in the back of the theater, though not in the balcony. Leaning forward over the railing, Dean could just see the top of his fedora.

  “Sit down, Dean,” Mrs. Scott said, amused. “You look like a child who can’t sit still for five minutes. And I keep imagining you plummeting to your death.”

  Dean sat down, but he countered, “I wouldn’t die. There’s a nice cushion of bodies down there.”

  “As a rule, bodysurfing is frowned upon at classical music performances.”

  Dean nodded seriously. “Act stuffy. Check.”

  Mr. Scott leaned in and said in a low voice, “Don’t worry, Dean. If you do something to embarrass us during the performance, such as belching or shouting ‘boo-yeah,’ we’ll simply change our names and move to another state. I’m sure one of the other forty-nine will overlook our shame.”

  Mr. Scott was obviously joking, but Dean sat up straighter, as if he were in church.

  It seemed to take forever for people to seat themselves, but eventually the members of the orchestra began to wander out onto the dark stage. Then the house lights dimmed and the stage was brightly illuminated. The piano bench was empty, but Aiden had already explained that he wouldn’t be present for the first half of the concert.

  Martel walked out from the side, and Dean joined in on the applause. He expected the conductor to introduce the program, but apparently everyone was expected to know it or look at the printed program in their hands, because Martel merely bowed and took his place on the podium—Aiden had insisted it was called a “rostrum”—and raised his baton. He waited until the applause died down, then nodded to the orchestra and began the performance.

  Over the past few weeks, Aiden had only been needed when they rehearsed the concerto—not when the orchestra went over the other pieces in the performance. Since Dean was his ride, he’d been a captive audience for that, but he hadn’t heard the other pieces in the program. Now he was finally hearing it from the beginning.

  The Peer Gynt Suite was familiar. Dean had heard bits of it in cartoons over the years, especially “Morning.” When it came to “The Hall of the Mountain King,” he thought he might die of asphyxiation as he struggled not to burst out laughing. Not that it wasn’t a good piece of music. But it was so funny.

  Bum-bum-bum-bum ba-dum ba-da-dum!

  Ba-dum ba-da-dum!

  Ba-dum ba-da-dum!

  In low bassoons and plucked cellos. It was sneak music. Dean was sure he’d heard it while cartoon characters were scampering through the shadows in something or other.

  God, I’m so unsophisticated.

  Fortunately, the Holberg Suite was more serious, at least to his ears. It was very pretty, but he was about ready to jump out of his seat and run screaming through the theater. The tension of waiting to see whether or not Aiden did well was killing him. He knew Aiden had the talent, of course. He was fucking brilliant.

  But would his hands betray him at the last moment?

 
AIDEN wasn’t nervous, exactly. He rarely was before a performance. It was as if some part of his brain shut down, and his focus was entirely on the music. But he was aware that his career was on the line tonight. He’d spotted Robert Harrison in the balcony when he peered out to see if Dean and his parents had found their seats. The man was unmistakable with his scarlet hair—no longer natural, since he was in his sixties—and love of turtleneck sweaters. Julie must have gossiped among their acquaintances about Aiden performing at last after his long hiatus. Manchester was out of the way for most of them, but somehow Harrison had found his way there. Aiden had performed with his orchestra in New York, and the man had a fair amount of influence in musicians’ circles.

  Whether he liked it or not, Aiden’s career was on the line. If he managed to impress Harrison, doors could open again. If he failed… it was unlikely he’d have a second chance.

  But no pressure.

  He couldn’t think about it, so he did his best to force it out of his mind. The music. That was all that mattered.

  At intermission, the members of the orchestra came backstage for drinks of water or coffee. Aiden generally avoided drinking more than a sip of water before he went on. He could handle being thirsty while he performed, but having to pee would be incredibly distracting.

  “Did you see who was in the audience?” Martel asked him excitedly.

  “Dean and my parents? Theodore?”

  Martel waved a hand dismissively. “No. Well… yes, of course. But I meant Robert Harrison. The Robert Harrison from New York.”

  Aiden abandoned his pretense. “Yes, I saw him.”

  “This is so exciting! It would be so wonderful to hobnob with him for a minute or two after the concert. I can’t believe Robert Harrison is watching one of my concerts!” A cloud seemed to come over him, and he put a thoughtful hand to his lips. “Oh… of course. He’s not here to see me. He must have heard you were performing.”