“Nursing Home Tour!” said Novie, crossing her sticks over her head, followed by a drumroll and a cymbal crash.
“Gotta start somewhere, right?” said Dylan.
While there was some humor to the circumstance, it truly was our first gig as a band, as well as my first time playing in front of a crowd. We wanted to sound good, regardless of the audience.
“Who’s going to be there?” I asked. “Besides the residents, I mean.”
“Pretty much our whole family,” said Novie. “Mom, grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends. Most of our cousins.” Novie paused and wagged her eyebrows at Dylan. “DeeDee will be there.”
“You know I have a girlfriend,” said Dylan from behind his guitar.
“She asked how you’ve been,” Novie replied, still moving her eyebrows.
“No way,” said Dylan. His phone dinged in his pocket. “See? Anna’s listening from across the country. She just texted. Be right back.” Dylan hurried across the basement to attend to his phone.
“Who’s DeeDee?” I asked.
“Our second cousin. She met Dylan a couple years ago and totally had the hots for him,” said Novie. “Unfortunately, she inherited the Kowalczyk crazy genes. She’s tenacious.”
“And persistent,” added Axl.
“She’s tenaciously persistent,” said Novie.
“Completely nuts,” said Axl, accentuating his point by slapping a string on his bass, which sounded like a spring flying loose.
“Batshit,” said Novie, twirling a drumstick in a circular motion next to her head. “So, Zeus, how are things with Rose? Is she back yet?”
“Things are good. She gets back in a couple days. I’m playing a song with her too for this shindig, if we have enough time to learn one.” I almost hoped we didn’t. The thought of playing music with Rose still flustered me.
“Sweet,” said Novie.
Dylan groaned from across the room. We all turned to see him slowly making his way back to the practice space. He looked as if he might barf. “Dr Pepper me. Now.”
“Are you okay?” asked Novie.
Axl reached in the fridge, popped open a can, and handed it to Dylan. “What’s wrong, dude?”
Dylan collapsed into the couch and took a long swig. He belched. “Anna dumped me.” He belched again. “For some other camp counselor in Maine. She said ‘he’s really nice’ and that I’ll have to meet him.” Dylan mumbled a series of profanities, then took another drink. “Two years down the drain. I knew it was a bad idea for her to go away this summer.”
I looked at the twins out of the corner of my eye for a reaction. They were doing the same to each other.
“That sucks, dude,” Novie finally said.
“We should have seen it coming,” Axl added.
“I didn’t even see it coming,” said Dylan to no one.
“Are you sure you read the text right? What did it say, exactly?” I asked.
Dylan pulled out his phone and started scrolling. “Blah, blah, ‘I think we need to spend some time apart,’ something about having our whole lives ahead of us, then ‘You’re a really special person and I hope we can stay friends.’”
“Ouch,” said Novie.
“Yeah, she definitely dumped you, man,” said Axl.
I nervously picked at a string, then scratched at a spot on the guitar with my thumbnail, suddenly finding it incredibly interesting. Novie popped a bubble of chewing gum. Axl scratched his head.
“She dumped me,” Dylan said. “She dumped me,” he repeated, emphasizing every word.
“Screw Anna, Nursing Home Tour!” Axl yelled with a fist pump.
Dylan looked at him blankly.
All this girlfriend talk drove my thoughts into their favorite rest stop—Rose. What was she doing right then? My gut twisted at the thought of the entire island of Saint Thomas admiring Rose in a swimsuit. I’d never even seen Rose in a swimsuit. What the hell. What if she met someone else, like Anna did? I wasn’t sure how well I could handle that news. Not nearly as well as Dylan had, anyway.
The film rolled in my mind.
Action!
Wide aerial shot of a crowd gathered on the beach. Next shot, from the ground. A helicopter approaches from the horizon. Zoom to a close-up of my face. A five o’clock shadow shows the hardships of my travels. I lean out the door and the wind blows my hair. The pilot asks, “Are you ready, Mr. Gunderson?” I lower my Ray-Bans and reply, “I’m always ready.” One final check of my straps and I swan dive from the door. As I plummet toward the ocean, I see the heads turn—the heads surrounding the girl in the canvas beach chair. I’d heard tales of her beauty. Just before I hit the water, the bungee catches and my tear-away clothes fall off, revealing my bulging Speedo. The crowd on the beach gasps as the sun reflects off my copper, washboard abs. I ascend from the recoil, reach the apex, then tumble into a ball while simultaneously releasing my harness. Three flips and a jackknife later I return to meet the water with a splashless dive.
New shot, from the beach. I reemerge being pulled ashore by two dolphins, one on either side. The crowd is applauding. Slow-motion shot of me walking out of the water onto the white sand, approaching the camera. Water drips from my body. The crowd parts, and Rose lies before me, glistening in the sun. One man remains. He releases his blue hair from its knot and it spills to his shoulders. He peers menacingly at me through yellow-framed glasses. He looks at Rose, licks his lips, then nods to me. “What are you going to do about it?” he asks. I calmly approach him and remove my Ray-Bans. “Step away, or deal with this.” I point to myself with both thumbs. His face turns craven and he bows away, apologizing. The crowd cheers. The girl looks at me. “Mr. Gunderson,” she says. “Miss Santos,” I say. She extends a hand, which I take. I tuck a lock of her black hair behind her ear, then gently tilt her head back with a lift of her chin. I lean in and—
“Ground Control to Major Zeus, do you copy?” said Axl.
I blinked a couple times and looked around, reacquainting myself with my surroundings. Axl was looking at me. He had asked me something. I should reply. I scanned my brain for context. None. Shit. Say something neutral and noncommittal, I thought.
“Oh, well, you know how that goes.”
Axl made a face and looked at his sister, then back to me. “I said, are you free to practice tomorrow night?”
“Oh, right. Yeah, sure.”
“Cool, we’ll pick you up.”
Dylan made a groaning sound that startled Agatha awake from her dog dreams. He appeared to be rereading the text on his phone.
“Maybe we should . . .” I motioned toward the stairs with my head.
“Right,” said Novie. She and her brother stood.
Axl slapped Dylan on the shoulder. “We’re here for you, bud. You don’t need her anyway. Same time tomorrow.”
“I’ll let DeeDee know you’re coming,” said Novie as she walked past Dylan, patting him on the head.
Dylan dry heaved.
We practiced every night that week. The songs sounded mediocre at best, with our guiding light suffering from acute heartbreak. But I’d like to think our presence helped with Dylan’s overall morale, at least a little bit.
After the ten longest days of my life, Rose returned home on a red-eye flight. I biked to her apartment before my deliveries just to see her.
We met with a long embrace.
“I missed you,” Rose said.
“I missed you, too.”
I could still smell the ocean in her hair.
TWENTY-SEVEN
AFTER WEEKS OF POSTPONEMENT, MOM FINALLY SCHEDULED OUR annual trip to see Aunt Willow, an art teacher and painter by trade. My aunt’s cottage was only a two-hour drive north to Wisconsin on Geneva Lake, but when I found out we were leaving the day after Rose returned from Saint Thomas, it may as well have been the Arctic Circle. I know, I know, what’s one or two more days when it’s already been ten, right? But when has logic ever trumped the heart?
So, after some pro-leve
l negotiating, I’d gotten Mom to allow Rose to join us under the strict guidelines that we’d sleep in opposite corners of the house. Got it, Mom.
We met Saturday in front of the café after Mom had closed everything up. The plan was to return Monday morning in time to open. Mary had dropped Rose off with her things, but not before a full debriefing. Mom assured Mary she’d keep an eye on us, and that all would be well, as if we were on our way to the moon, not Wisconsin.
Mom had worked out a deal with Mo the psychic to borrow her SUV in exchange for free lunch the rest of the summer. The Lego had developed a suspicious rattle and would be spending the weekend at the mechanic’s infirmary.
“Thanks again, Mo, we really appreciate it,” said Mom.
Mo waved it off. “Keep that delicious food coming and you can use it anytime.”
“Anything we should know before we leave?” I asked. “Potholes to avoid? Traffic jams? Bad spirits?”
Mo lowered her gaze at me. “I’m a palm reader, not a fortune cookie.”
“Duly noted,” I replied.
We threw our bags in the back, then took our seats. Mom drove, Grub grabbed shotgun, Rose and I rode bazooka. As soon as Mom started the engine, a psychedelic, guitar-laced jam blasted from the car speakers.
“I should’ve known Mo was a Deadhead! I love these guys,” Mom exclaimed, turning the volume up even louder as we drove away from the café.
Rose and I shared an apprehensive look. While our musical tastes didn’t overlap much, clearly neither of us wanted to listen to the Grateful Dead for the next two hours.
Twenty minutes later we were heading north on the interstate, and the same damn song was playing. Mom drummed on the steering wheel. Grub had fallen asleep. I stared at the ceiling as endless guitar solos swirled around bouncy bass lines. After another ten minutes, I couldn’t take it anymore. “Do they ever actually sing? I don’t know how much more noodling I can listen to.”
“It doesn’t need words, Zeus. They’re improvising. Listen to what the guitar is saying,” Mom replied, weaving her head to the beat.
Rose chimed in. “It’s true. A lot of my favorite songs are instrumental.”
I jokingly rolled my eyes. “Okay, you two, but we’re on a road trip. We need something we can sing to. Something with words.”
“All right, we’ll take turns then,” said Mom. “Zeus, you first. Make it a good one.”
I plugged my phone into the auxiliary port in the back of the center console and played “London Calling” by the Clash. The opening guitar chords came crashing out with the drums. I played air bass as it joined in. Then I turned to Rose and mouthed the lyrics: “London calling to the faraway towns, now war is declared and battle come down.” Rose laughed at my obnoxious lip-synching but nodded her head along with the beat. When the song ended, I motioned with both hands palms up. “See? The Clash rocks.”
“Good choice,” said Rose. “Okay, Coriander, you go next. I’m still thinking.”
Mom played Bob Dylan’s “Baby, Let Me Follow You Down,” singing along loudly and out of key, which was saying a lot as far as Bob Dylan goes. When the song ended, Mom said, “No one writes songs like that anymore. Whatever happened to three chords and a message?”
“I hear what you’re saying,” said Rose. “But do you two know any songs written in this millennium?” Mom and I shared a look in the rearview mirror. Rose shook her head in amusement. “I’ve got the perfect song to bring you into the twenty-first century. Check it out.”
“Somebody That I Used to Know” by Gotye slowly crept out of the speakers like a genie from a lamp. It took a little while to gain momentum, but by the second chorus we’d started a new dance craze, as much as our seat belts would allow. I’d always assumed it was an older song, since in my mind, old music = good, new music = bad. But it turned out that good music had been written in the last few years.
For the rest of the ride we continued our rotation. I played the Sex Pistols; Rose played Of Monsters and Men. Mom played Widespread Panic; I played Naked Raygun. The two-hour ride flew by, marked by a few isolated thunderstorms and one quick bathroom break. Grub sat out the musical conversation, but I occasionally caught the top of his army helmet bobbing along.
Our genre swapping soon evolved into a new game: Musical Guilty Pleasures—you know, the one that inevitably ends with Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” or “Hey Ya!” by OutKast. As we entered the town of Williams Bay, Wisconsin, Mom rolled down the windows and we all chanted the swelling chorus to “Come On Eileen” by Dexys Midnight Runners.
“Come on! Eileen taloo-rye-aye, come on! Eileen taloo-rye-aye!”
The song faded to an end as we turned onto my aunt’s street. The lake came into view for the first time and I took a deep breath, taking it all in. The road led directly to the waterfront, where tall oaks guarded the shore like a fortress wall. My aunt’s cottage, six houses up from the lake, lay surrounded by lush greenery and flowers, all perfectly in bloom. As we pulled into the driveway, we spotted Aunt Willow on the front porch wearing a sun hat over her long, side-braided hair. She greeted us with warm hugs and crinkly-eyed smiles. After I introduced her to Rose, we headed inside to unpack.
While Mom, Aunt Willow, and Grub got caught up, I gave Rose a quick tour of the cottage. I explained how every single decoration and picture had a story—the wooden oar hanging on the wall had been made in 1873 and subsequently purchased from an antique dealer in Elkhorn; the small rocking chair in the corner was the very one Mom and Aunt Willow’s own grandfather had been rocked to sleep in; the blond-haired boy about to eat a minnow in the photograph was, in fact, me at the age of two before my hair color changed.
The fate of the minnow remained uncertain.
After the tour, we headed to the lakeshore to partake in a family tradition: carry-out spaghetti and meatballs. It was the one day of the year Mom ate meat. We sat in Adirondack chairs in a semicircle facing the lake, eating from our aluminum to-go containers. The water shimmered in the early evening sun like blue and white sequins. Across the bay, nearly a mile away, multimillion-dollar mansions jutted from the earth atop emerald-green lawns the size of football fields.
Aunt Willow, who’d seated herself between me and Rose, began one of her intense inquiries—not out of nosiness, but sincere interest.
“Cori tells me you’re a musician,” said my aunt to Rose. The way she said musician was the same way someone might say astronaut—full of awe.
Rose nodded with a mouthful of spaghetti. “Mm-hmm.”
“You know, Sol and I—that’s my late husband—we loved going to the Chicago Symphony Orchestra when we lived there. Have you ever been?”
“No, but I’d love to,” Rose replied.
“Well, maybe Zeus can take you there with all his hard-earned tip money,” said my aunt, patting me on the knee, then turning back to Rose. “You’re a pianist, yes?”
Rose nodded again. “I’m working on it.”
“She’s really good,” Grub said. “She’s going to piano school next year.”
Rose and I exchanged a look.
“Oh, lovely,” replied my aunt before we could correct him. “We had a piano growing up, didn’t we, Cori? Not that it got used much. We could barely pound out ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ with one finger!”
Aunt Willow continued telling stories about failed music lessons, making everyone laugh, including Rose. I’d known the two of them would get along, and I was happy to see them hit it off. But another part of me counted the seconds until I could have some alone time with Rose, which hadn’t happened since her return from Saint Thomas.
“Is this your first time seeing Geneva Lake, Rose?” my aunt asked.
“Yes, it’s beautiful!”
“There is something magical about it,” Aunt Willow agreed. “Tomorrow morning we’ll take out the boat first thing and give you a tour. Did you bring your swimsuit?”
“Yep, it’s in my bag,” Rose replied.
I tried to control my
breathing. Picturing her in a swimsuit had taken up most of my brain space for the past week.
My aunt continued. “And how was the drive up? Did you run into any rain?”
“A little,” Rose replied. “It was a great ride though. We all took turns playing our favorite music.”
“How fun!” said my aunt. She put a finger to her chin. “Let me guess, Zeus played his loud guitar music and Cori played her hippie music.” Aunt Willow leaned over and put her hand on Rose’s arm. “And you played them some real music.” I couldn’t see my aunt’s face, but based on Rose’s reaction, she’d just received one of Aunt Willow’s classic winks, which made you feel like you were the only person that mattered to her.
Rose shrugged with a grin. “It’s all real music, I guess, just a matter of taste.”
“It’s also a road trip,” I added. “You need songs with words on road trips.”
“Oh, nonsense,” my aunt replied. “Some of my best ideas come while driving and listening to the classics.”
“I guess I just don’t get classical music,” I confessed.
“Maybe it’s like broccoli,” Mom said.
“Gross,” said Grub. He’d finished eating his breadsticks and noodles—no meatballs or sauce for him—and had begun setting up miniature plastic army men in various formations on his chair.
“Zeus, when you were two you absolutely despised broccoli,” Mom explained. “The sight, the smell—the mere mention of it made you retch.”
My face turned red.
“Aww!” said Rose.
Redder.
Mom continued. “So everyone knows broccoli is a good source of dietary fiber. And Zeus used to get so constipated—”
“Mom!” I glared at her. Rose snorted and choked on her spaghetti.
“Oh, don’t be embarrassed, everybody poops,” Mom said, waving a hand dismissively.
“And your point is?” I asked.
“So I read somewhere that it can take up to fifteen tries to get a kid to eat broccoli before his taste buds acclimate to it. And that’s about what it took with you. You eat it now like it’s no big deal! My point is, maybe it’s the same with music.”