“Did he say my name?”
The man shook his head. “No.”
Stephen looked disappointed and relieved at once. The memory supported the possibility that Harold had hoped to play with him, but it still did not transform the page into a posthumous explanation.
“Good,” Stephen said eventually.
Lucas raised an eyebrow.
“I don’t want every loose end tied by witnesses,” Stephen said. “Some of it was just between us, even if we never fixed it.”
That was the first time Lucas heard Stephen speak about the unfinished relationship without sounding as if unfinished meant worthless.
Several months after Harold’s burial, the community band held a small memorial concert. They planned to play one of Harold’s favorite pieces. Anne asked Stephen whether he wanted to attend.
“Attend? Yes.”
“Play?”
“No.”
A week later he changed his answer.
“One line,” he told Lucas. “I’m playing one line.”
They arranged for Stephen to join only on the marked duet passage. No speech. No explanation to the audience beyond his name in the program.
Backstage, Stephen nearly left.
Lucas found him by the exit holding the trumpet case.
“I can’t feel my hands.”
“That’s inconvenient.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. Want to go?”
Stephen stared at the door.
“No.”
“Then breathe before you need to.”
Stephen looked at him.
His father’s penciled instruction.
“You did that on purpose.”
“Absolutely.”
Stephen laughed and swore at him.
When the piece reached the duet, Lucas played Harold’s line from the second row. Stephen entered.
His first note split.
