Night Music in the Park

Once again, thanks to Ada Stuart for feedback after a beta read or three. Her suggestion of a briefer introduction made for better overall story.

I hate grocery shopping with my kids. Probably more than they hate grocery shopping with me. At eleven, eight, and six they always manage to turn it into a war of attrition. Usually, one of us stays home with them while the other shops. They're old enough to prefer any number of activities to following a parent around while haphazardly filling the shopping cart. I had to watch their every move so none of them squirreled foodstuffs into the cart they know were strictly forbidden by their mother. Each makes repeated demands to know when we'll be done. It's worse than the endless cries of 'Are we there yet?' when we're going somewhere. Just the thought of grocery shopping with the three of them was enough to fray my nerves nearly to the breaking point.

My wife, their mother, was away for a few weeks. My mother-in-law was recovering from foot surgery and was on strict doctors' orders to stay off her foot until the cast came off. She would get a boot to wear in two weeks that would allow her to gradually begin walking again. My wife was helping because her father was on tour. It was fortuitous that her mother's surgery coincided with an annual plant shutdown that allowed my wife to take the time off.

I was a little jealous that I couldn't go, too. Carol's parents and siblings are all accomplished musicians. My father-in-law makes his living playing saxophone. He fronts his own band and does session work. Including for some prominent and successful recording artists. You'd never believe the list of people I've been lucky enough to jam with just because we were visiting my wife's parents.

But I just couldn't go. The kids had school. And Spring soccer games on Saturday. I was expected to show up to teach my high school history and government classes. I worked with the consolidated middle school band, too, which kept me at school a couple hours after dismissal two nights a week. So, while Carol got a well-deserved break, of sorts, I had our three bundles of joy. I've never understood how they can be so exasperating for us but so well-behaved when visiting friends or in the care of a sitter. My wife has been known to only half-jokingly inquire about an exorcism.

Don't get me wrong. We love our children. They're good kids. They do well in school and are reportedly well-behaved there. They're good sports on the soccer field. They're often well-behaved at home. But like all siblings, they bicker. Torment the hell out of each other. Play the ask Mom first and then ask Dad if Mom's answer isn't to their liking. One on one, they're a delight. But get them together? My parents can barely keep a straight face when they visit. I swear they come just to be entertained by our children driving us to our wit's end.

At any rate, back to the supermarket and groceries. I had the three of them trapped between me, the shopping cart, and the meat counter. Ethan was bickering with his sister Jodie and the youngest, Lizzie was standing on the side of the cart threatening its stability. A familiar voice, one I hadn't heard in nearly fifteen years intruded on my search for a small pork roast.

'Hi, Gabe. I heard you lived here and wondered when I'd run into you,' she said.

My kids all turned their heads in the direction of the voice and fell silent. Their silence is never a good thing. It inevitably meant trouble. During tonight's phone call, Carol would hear all about the pretty lady none of them knew that Dad talked to at the supermarket. Three times from them and again when she asked me about her.

I turned my head in the direction of the voice and immediately recognized Rebekah Turnbull. She looked exactly like I would have imagined. Her auburn hair still had those amazing copper highlights. She wore it the same way. I nearly drowned the first time I looked into the soothing fluid of her liquid honey-brown eyes. She had a little girl with just a few wisps of strawberry blonde hair, maybe seven or eight months old, facing toward me in one of those slings that held the baby securely to her chest. Rebekah was smiling brightly. The baby was flailing her arms and legs looking around to explore her surroundings.

'Rebekah! It's nice to see you. I didn't know you lived here. How have you been?' I asked. I was genuinely pleased to see her. I wasn't sure Carol would be. She became a little sensitive the few times she'd met one of my old girlfriends. Part of the reason for that is I never had an acrimonious breakup. Exes and I somehow always parted on good terms. Ex-girlfriends were always genuinely glad to see me and almost never hesitated to give me a friendly hug. Carol had nothing to worry about. No reason to think I'd ever take up with another woman. She knew I wouldn't. It was just her nature, I guess. A genetic inclination to get her dander up a bit when someone intruded on her turf. It never turned into more than a passing look of exasperation. But I always knew it bothered her a little.

'I'm doing well. Tom and I moved here about three years ago. We bought a house over in Chatham Riverside after he got transferred here,' Rebekah told me.

I had no idea who Tom was, though I surmised it was likely her husband. There was no engagement ring or wedding band when she adjusted the sling holding her daughter. 'We're practically neighbors,' I told her. 'We're in Deer Shores.' The two developments were two hundred feet apart but on opposite sides of the river running through the center of the city. There was at least a forty-minute drive between them. 'What have you been doing with yourself? Besides the obvious,' I asked, while smiling and nodding at the little one that was now flirting with Lizzie, who was flirting back.

Rebekah laughed softly. 'I have a son that turns six next month. I'm on family leave this year. I teach music and band in the elementary schools. I see you've been busy the last few years,' Rebekah said, looking over at my three who were still paying way too much attention to my conversation with Rebekah. Their nondisruptive behavior and focused attention worried me. I almost wished they'd start bickering again.

Rebekah and I talked for ten minutes or so. The kids listened closely while still fidgeting impatiently. Rebekah was markedly different from the quiet, reserved girl I first met in high school. I was surprised to learn she'd never married despite having children with Tom. We talked briefly about music. I mentioned I played my trumpet and sax with a group of guys that did weddings and an occasional club gig. Rebekah also kept up with her music but hadn't performed since moving. When we said goodbye and got on with our groceries, I decided to see if she was on Facebook. If she wasn't, we worked in the same school system. I could probably reach her through the school system email. It would be nice to have someone to talk trumpet with. Maybe she could fill in for me on occasion when there was a gig I couldn't make.

Rebekah made an indelible impression the moment I first saw her. It was Monday of the second full week of senior year. I was already seated with the rest of the trumpet players in the band room. There were six of us. I noticed there was an extra chair though didn't think much of it. Chairs got shuffled around when the custodial staff cleaned the room. Most of the rest of the band was there, too. Mr. Hadden arrived to the usual cacophony of band members warming up before practice began. There was a small red-headed girl right behind him. I'd never seen her before. The school was big, but not so big I wouldn't have noticed her. Especially, pretty as she was.

Mr. Hadden said something to her and pointed her in our direction. She made her way over to us and sat in the empty chair. She put her music book on the stand and took out her trumpet. I was jealous the moment I saw it. She had a vintage silver-plated professional Vincent Bach. She muttered something to herself about taking the wrong case. My first thought was she was a rich kid whose parents went overboard when they bought her instrument. It wasn't an opinion I clung to for long. At the next practice, she had another older Vincent Bach trumpet, just like mine. One meant for a student.

'I'd like you to introduce our newest band member, Rebekah Turnbull. This is her first day at Roosevelt. Please make her feel welcome. I think she'll fit right in with us. Now, let's get down to business . . .'

Mr. Hadden was spot on about Rebekah fitting right in. She fell right in like she'd been playing with us forever. She barely missed a note all through that first practice. Her tone was amazing. Her playing as sweet and clear as anything I'd ever heard. I was first chair. An All-State Band member as a junior. I wondered how long it would be before I was second chair.

Mr. Hadden was a great teacher. But a demanding one. You got only recognition you earned. He didn't hesitate to interrupt a piece of music when someone missed or misplayed a note or passage. He didn't mince words but was never harsh. And he could be subtle if he wanted us to figure out what was wrong on our own. His criticism was always instructive. If he felt he had to get on your case, it was one-on-one. Never in front of the rest of the band. I'd only been subjected to one of his motivation talks once. As a freshman. I never wanted to hear another. But he also didn't hesitate to compliment us as a group when we played well. Or individually when warranted. In four years of band, I never heard anyone say a bad word about him.

I wanted to talk to Rebekah after that first practice, but by the time I convinced my friend Tom Rigney, a talented alto sax player, I had to get going, she was long gone.

Even though Rebekah was at every practice, it was two weeks before I finally got to exchange more than a cursory greeting with her. She seemed nice though it was hard to tell since I couldn't engage her in conversation. She didn't wear makeup like most of the girls in school. But it didn't matter. She was gorgeous. Auburn hair with these cool copper highlights cropped to a length not much longer than my own dark brown hair. I fell speechless if I made the mistake of looking into her honey brown eyes. She was slender, almost willowy. Her smallish breasts perfectly complemented her five-three frame. I didn't realize it, but I was already smitten even though I had barely talked to her.

As it turned out, it wasn't at band practice that we first spoke. Mrs. Conciatore, another English teacher with an AP Lit class, took leave suddenly. Rumor had it she was terminally ill, but I never heard anything official. But she didn't return to school that year. Her students got split among the other three AP Lit classes. Rebekah got reassigned to the one I was in.

I had my nose in my book bag, looking for my notes for the upcoming class discussion when I was suddenly in shadow. I looked up to see Rebekah standing near me.

'Hi, Gabe, right?' she asked. I nodded. 'I'm Rebekah,' she added, almost like she wasn't sure of her name.'

'I know. I remember when Mr. Hadden introduced you.'

I sat near the back of the classroom, hoping to be inconspicuous. AP Lit wasn't my best subject. I was rarely confident about what I took from the assigned reading. But it didn't matter where I sat. Mrs. Packer called on me regularly. There were only twelve of us in the class. Hiding wasn't in the cards. There would be sixteen now. Maybe I'd get a few more breaks from having to speak. Rebekah took the desk to my right. Mrs. Packer returned from wherever she'd been, closed the door, and launched right into our discussion. Care to guess who got called on first?

At the beginning of Rebekah's third week with the band, Mr. Hadden rearranged the trumpet section, moving Rebekah into the seat next to me. Over the next month, we slowly got acquainted. My first impression was right. She was nice. Reserved, shy, quiet. A bit distant but not unfriendly. She was new to school. I figured she was probably still trying to get her bearings. We were both seniors though I was year older. My family moved to Kenya for my father's job when I four. We came back to the states when I was seven, mostly because the Kenyan school I attended wasn't good. I was placed in first grade instead of second when we returned to the states.

After about a month of sitting next to Rebekah in AP Lit, we were comfortable with each other. We could joke and tease each other some. I got comfortable enough that I asked her out. She turned me down, saying 'Maybe another time.' I didn't run with the 'popular' kids in school and didn't ask out cheer leaders or the athletics groupie girls. But I was mostly liked and rarely turned down when I asked a girl out. There hadn't been that many. I didn't go out with a different girl every week, but I did okay. My folks had raised me to be polite and respectful. Girls knew I wouldn't pressure them into something they didn't want. Even though initially disappointed that Rebekah turned me down, I learned she said no to every guy that asked her out. Always using the same phrase, 'Maybe another time.' I tried not to let her rejection bother me and mostly succeeded. Our friendship continued to blossom, if not in the direction I hoped. But it was strictly limited to class, band practice and the occasional cafeteria lunch together.

Rebekah and I stood out among the trumpet players. She was really good. I had to work hard to keep up with her. It was a challenge. I wanted to remain first chair. Rebekah made me a much better trumpet player, though she probably didn't know she was motivating me. I was doing something right because Mr. Hadden kept giving me the solos like he had the previous year. But he also gave the same practice assignments to Rebekah. Just before our holiday concert, he stopped me after practice for a quick talk.

'Gabe, I'm keeping you as first chair. You've earned it. Rebekah is every bit as good as you. Maybe a little better but it's hard to pick between you. I can't justify taking first chair away from you. Your playing has improved markedly this year. But don't slack off. I'll give first chair to Rebekah in a heartbeat if you do.' He patted me on the shoulder. 'Keep it up. I'm proud of how much you've improved. You might want to thank Rebekah, too. If she hadn't joined us this year, you might have rested on your laurels and not grown as a musician.'

The day after the holiday concert, I decided to take Mr. Hadden's advice. I had only a general idea where Rebekah lived, which is to say I knew what bus she rode. I talked to Gessica 'Jessi' Berger, Rebekah's best friend. I'd known Jessi since fourth grade. I convinced her to give me Rebekah's address. Jessi was suspicious but we'd known each other so long, she trusted me when I told her I wasn't up to anything she'd object to. And Jessi dropped a small surprise. She told me I was the only boy Rebekah ever mentioned when they talked about guys.

On Saturday morning, I went to a florist and sent Rebekah a nice, if modest bouquet. I added a note that said, 'Thank you for everything you've done for me this year. I'm so much better for having met you.' I signed my name to the card, paid the bill and went on my way.

It didn't work out well.

Rebekah didn't come anywhere near me during our next class together. She sat as far away from me as she could. At band practice, she took a seat at the other end of the trumpet section. Mr. Hadden noticed but he never asked about it and didn't move her back. It's not like he'd never seen high school friends have a falling out before. But I had no idea why Rebekah avoided me.

No matter what I did, Rebekah wouldn't talk to me. After a week went by, I sought out Jessi, who I saw only occasionally because we weren't in any classes together and she had her own car. 'What's wrong with Rebekah,' I asked. 'She hasn't talked to me since before the holiday concert.'

Jessi shot me an icy glare. 'I trusted you. What did you do, Gabe? She got in a lot of trouble at home. Her parents blew their fuses when she got the bouquet you sent. She's grounded. I can't even call her. Her Mom took away her cell phone privileges except for emergencies. No personal calls at all.'

I was at a loss. 'I didn't do anything. At least not anything that would get her in trouble.'

'What did you do?' Jessi wasn't convinced.

'Mr. Hadden told me he was keeping me as trumpet first chair. He said I should thank Rebekah. He thinks I got much better as a player because I worked so hard to keep with her. Rebekah is so good he could easily have given it to her. He said he could have made her first chair but thinks I deserved to keep it. All I did was send the flowers with a thank you note. Why should that get her in trouble?' I asked.

'What did the card say?' Jessi asked.

'Nothing bad. Thank you for everything you've done for me this year. I'm so much better for having met you. And I signed my name. That's it.'

'That was probably enough, Gabe. Her parents are weird. They don't let her date. They're uber-religious. They made me uncomfortable the one time I had dinner at their house. They tried to push me into converting to Christianity. Joining their church. I told them I'd be happy to go with them one Sunday to learn about their beliefs. But my family is Jewish. We go to temple every week and I'm not interested in converting to Christianity. Rebekah and I are still friends, but I haven't been invited to her house again.'

I came away feeling terrible. But how could I know sending flowers would get Rebekah in trouble? She never told me anything about her family. Neither of us had talked about our families. Rebekah knew I had a little sister. Carrie was freshman. Rebekah and I sometimes ran into her on the way to band practice. Carrie was mad at me the first time it happened. She made a face and stuck her tongue out at me when we passed each other.

'The last girl you went out with?' Rebekah giggled.

'My little sister,' I told her. 'She's mad at me over something stupid. I'm not even sure what.'

She laughed. 'Yeah, I'm sure you're completely innocent,' she said facetiously. 'However, I do believe you have no idea why she's mad.' She gently poked me in the ribs. The first time there'd ever been intentional physical contact between us.

I wasn't sure how to get Rebekah out of hot water. I decided to send a letter to her parents, praying it wouldn't make matters worse. I labored over it for an entire evening.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Turnbull,

My name is Gabriel Harris. Rebekah and I have a class together at Roosevelt High School. We also play trumpet together in the school band. I'm the boy that sent flowers to her.

Rebekah is an outstanding trumpet player. I've been in competition with her for the position of trumpet first chair since she joined the band. I was first chair last year and wanted to earn it again this year. Rebekah is an outstanding musician, Mr. and Mrs. Turnbull. I admire her playing immensely. Mr. Hadden, our band teacher, told me my playing has greatly improved since last year. I have been practicing and working very hard to improve my playing because Rebekah is so good. I was sure Mr. Hadden would give first chair to Rebekah. I would have been disappointed to lose the position. But I would have been happy for Rebekah because she is as deserving as I am.

Mr. Hadden told me I should thank Rebekah. He thinks I would have rested on my laurels and would not have improved if Rebekah hadn't pushed me into working harder. When I thought about it, I realized he was probably right. Rebekah didn't know she was helping me. But she was. Her talent and hard work drove me to improve. She gave me a motivation I was lacking before she joined the band. That was why I sent flowers. To thank her for making me a better trumpet player.