“Dude, that was incredible!” said Jake.
“That was amazing!” said Pink Shorts.
“How did you do that without music?” asked Yellow Shorts.
“She’s only been playing for three years,” I said. Let them chew on that little piece of trivia, I thought.
“Three years? I’ve been playing since I was three years old and can’t play like that!” said Yellow Shorts.
“How are you not famous?” asked Jake.
“I’m totally putting that on YouTube,” said Blue Shorts.
Rose was a good sport and did a short request set for Jake & Company, who by now were completely enamored. I sat back in proud admiration. After a while, Sylvia approached Rose and whispered something in her ear. Moments later, Rose began Dean Martin’s “That’s Amore” as Sylvia—this time literally—waltzed through the room. Everyone else soon joined in, except for Jake & Co., who filmed themselves with Rose, urgently posting to their social media accounts.
When Rose finished the song, she looked around the room to find me, then flashed that perfect smile.
That’s amore, I thought to myself.
The next morning, my wake-up call came in the form of Mom yelling “Rise and shine!” at four thirty.
I groaned, remembering we had to make it back to Buffalo Falls in time to open the café. Getting up that early should have been illegal.
Rose and I watched the sunrise from the dock while drinking coffee. A blanket of fog drifted toward shore, running for its life from the sun’s searching rays. The only other person on the lake was a fisherman who motored by. He waved. We waved back.
“Last night was fun,” I said, my voice extra deep from lack of sleep.
“It was.” Rose paused to yawn. “But you know what? I wouldn’t even know what to do with a house that big. I think your aunt’s cottage is just right.”
“Maybe it’s who’s in the house that matters, not the size.”
Rose sipped her drink, then kissed me. “Exactly.” Her lips were extra warm from the coffee.
THIRTY
THE FOLLOWING SUNDAY I WHEELED FIVE HEAPING TRAYS OF TRIPLE chocolate brownies into Hilltop, careful not to get any crumbs on my clothes. Letty had insisted everyone dress up for the occasion, so I’d spent the morning at Goodwill with Dylan, Axl, and Novie searching for outfits. Axl chose a black derby hat, Novie bought a black cotton dress and four-inch platform heels, and Dylan found a dark denim button-down shirt he somehow made look cool. I’d picked out a shiny black pair of shoes, wore my best jeans, and a shirt-tie-vest combo with the sleeves rolled up.
I have to admit—we looked pretty damn spiffy.
I’d asked Rose to join us shopping, but she already had something, and said it was a surprise.
Inside Hilltop, the volunteers had outdone themselves with the decorations. Candy was in charge, telling everyone what went where. Letty wore a cone-shaped party hat and followed Candy around, making sure things were to her liking. A dance floor had been cleared in the common room in front of the piano and band equipment, and a long table lined an outer wall, where all the food was to go. Though most of the guests hadn’t arrived yet, a buzz of excitement filled the air.
Once through the doors, Grub disappeared down a hallway toward Blackjack’s room, yelling something about the final mission. Unfortunately, Blackjack wouldn’t be attending the party. His condition hadn’t improved, and his nurses had advised he stay in bed.
As Grub scampered away, Mom grumbled something about “expressing himself” and “special snowflake,” still heated about the grocery-store lady. I had to hand it to her though—she’d really outdone herself with the menu. She’d whipped up a variety of hors d’oeuvres and desserts, and even some options for those with more restricted diets.
As I wheeled the trays into the room, Rose popped out from around a corner, nearly making me spill the tower of brownies. She wore a red dress with black polka dots, which looked incredible on her. It’s funny how just a couple months ago I’d have stammered and stuttered, forcing myself to keep eye contact with her. But today, I drank her in and it felt right.
“You look amazing, Rose,” I said.
“Aw, thanks,” she said, doing a half spin and exposing a bit of thigh. “And look at you, stud muffin! You clean up nicely,” she said, followed by a throat purr.
“Yeah, I think I found a new look,” I said, brushing fake dust from my shoulders and pretending to slick my hair back.
“So, are you ready for our big musical debut?”
I wasn’t. We’d only rehearsed our duet once, so I’d written down the lyrics and chords on a piece of paper, which I’d stuffed in my back pocket.
“Absolutely,” I replied.
“You’ll do great,” she said, giving me a quick peck on the cheek.
And that’s all it took. It would be great.
By six fifteen, Hilltop Nursing Home had become a cacophony of conversation, laughter, and music. Letty’s guests piled in by the dozens, ranging in mobility from stroller to wheelchair. Having found the triple chocolate brownies, even Missy Stouffer seemed to enjoy herself, though she kept one eye out for misbehavior at all times.
After Letty opened her gifts, which included a life-sized cutout of Tom Jones, she and the Bettys stepped to the stage to perform “Stop! In the Name of Love” by Diana Ross and the Supremes, complete with choreography. Letty, in a gold lamé party pantsuit, was the belle of the ball, her hips swinging and bracelets jangling.
I sat with Dylan, Novie, and Axl, eating, talking, and watching. Dylan nervously scanned the crowd to keep an eye out for crazy cousin DeeDee, though she never did make an appearance. Dylan had been doing a lot better and seemed to be getting over his breakup with Anna. In fact, the number of times he’d checked his phone that morning at Goodwill made us wonder if there might be someone new.
We were all laughing and drilling him for information when Rose stepped up to the microphone. “Mr. Gunderson to the stage, please, Mr. Gunderson to the stage. If I could get everyone’s attention, we have a very special song for a very special lady: Letty Kowalczyk!”
Letty strutted to the dance floor with her hands in the air as the crowd cheered and applauded. Someone popped a party streamer at her, resulting in hair full of confetti. She didn’t seem to mind.
“Wish me luck,” I said to my friends.
“Good luck,” said Novie.
“Break a leg,” said Axl.
“You got this, man,” said Dylan. “Let the music play you, don’t worry about mistakes.”
“Thanks, guys,” I said.
I sat by Rose with my guitar and uncrumpled the paper with the lyrics and chords. Rose gave me a wink of encouragement, counted us in, and we began “The Way You Look Tonight” by Frank Sinatra. We shared singing duties, but Rose carried the song musically. Letty danced by herself at first, until one by one family members came out for a turn. Axl, Novie, and their mom, Crash, all had a spin with her, as did other relatives. George Larsen even stepped in for a couple steps before Lucille dragged him away by the arm. Letty looked to be having the time of her life, wiping an occasional tear from her eye.
And while the song was for Letty, Rose and I shared enough private glances to know that it was for us, too.
The party ended with Dylan, Axl, and Novie joining us onstage to perform our two songs, closing the night out with “These Boots Are Made for Walkin’.” The dance floor became a melting pot of wheelchairs, walkers, and youth, all intermixing and trading partners. Toward the end, a circle formed around Letty, where she executed the Robot, the Sprinkler, and a Michael Jackson kick-spin.
Upon the final cymbal crash, the crowd cheered and Letty took a bow.
Axl leaned over to me, offering a fist bump. “Great job, man!”
“For real. Solid playing,” said Novie.
“You, too!” I said.
“Seriously, guys, we sounded tight!” said Dylan. We high-fived and exchanged hugs, Rose included. We’d just
completed our first gig, and it felt great.
Meanwhile, Letty had stepped onto the stage and grabbed a microphone. “Ladies and gentleman of Hilltop, friends old and new, and my wonderful family—thank you so much. You know how to throw a great fucking party!”
Missy Stouffer sprung to the stage and snatched the microphone from Letty’s hand. “Thank you for coming, everyone, visiting hours are now over. All residents please return to your rooms. Candy, volunteers, please attend to the mess. Thank you.”
Letty tapped Missy on the shoulder. “Excuse me, Ms. Stouffer, but my personal volunteer will be escorting me to my room.”
Missy made a face at me that may have been a smile. “Of course.” And then she marched off to her office.
Letty stuck out her elbow for me to grab.
I turned to Rose. “Be right back.”
Rose wagged a finger at us. “You two behave now.”
Letty winked. “No promises.”
I took Letty by the elbow and walked her to her room.
Once inside, she let out a long sigh and sat on the edge of her bed. She kicked off her shoes and rolled her feet around to stretch her ankles. “Pour me some water, kiddo.”
As I grabbed the water pitcher, I noticed a framed black-and-white photograph of a young man in military uniform on the nightstand.
“Is that your husband?” I asked.
“That’s my Dickey. Just before he got shipped off to France.”
He didn’t look much older than me.
“Did he . . . make it back?”
“Of course he did. How do you think I pumped out all those kids back there? They weren’t sending my Dickey home in a box, oh no sirree. The night he returned . . . well, I won’t bore you with the details.” She cackled softly to herself, then took the photograph from my hands.
As she gazed upon it, I tried picturing a young Letty and Dickey, their whole lives ahead of them.
She continued. “We didn’t have a pot to piss in, but the day he left, he gave me his senior class ring and a promise—a promise to replace it with a real one when he came back. I wore that class ring on my finger for sixteen months. Never took it off until the day he returned. He kept his promise and a month later we were married, then after a year, along came the first of five children. We were married twenty-three years, until his lungs gave out, and I haven’t been with another man since. I still have that ring, right there in the top drawer. It’s got little red jewels around the edge and says Class of ’42.”
I opened the nightstand drawer, but only saw some stationery, a half dozen pens, and a few loose photographs.
“I don’t see it,” I said.
Letty kicked her feet up on the bed and lay her head on the pillow. “I’m sure it’s there somewhere.” She yawned. “Too much dancing.”
“Here’s your water,” I said, handing her the glass.
She sat up and took a long drink. “Thanks. Now go on. You’re too young to be hanging out with this old bag of bones. There’s a beautiful girl waiting out there for you. Take her somewhere special tonight.”
“We’re going to the Route 34 Drive-In to see a movie. Axl is letting me borrow his pickup so we can lie down in the back.”
Letty nodded, then thought for a moment. “I have a better idea.”
“What’s that?”
“Take her out to Old Dump Road, all the way until the clearing. It’s far from the city lights, the darkest place for miles. You can see the whole Milky Way on a clear night. Is it clear tonight?”
“I think so.”
“Good. Go out there, watch the stars. No one will be around. Make some memories; they’re better than movies.”
Her eyelids started to drift shut. I turned out her lamp, dimming the room to the soft glow of a plug-in nightlight. Letty burrowed under the covers, pantsuit and all, and I tucked her in.
“Happy birthday, Letty. See you tomorrow,” I said.
Before I walked away, she grabbed my hand and looked me in the eye. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned in ninety years—remember the good stuff, kiddo. Nothing else matters.”
“I’ll remember, Letty.”
I quietly shut the door.
Rose and I bounced on the bench seat of Axl’s truck like two bobblehead dolls. Old Dump Road lived up to the “old” part, but Old Pothole Road would have more accurately described its current state.
Earlier, we’d helped drop off serving trays and catering gear at the café. Every last morsel of food had been consumed at the party, and everyone had raved about it, especially the brownies. Crash took a handful of my mom’s business cards and promised to pass them out at the Beauty Saloon. Mom was in such great spirits after that, she’d told us to leave everything in the kitchen, that she’d clean and put it all away herself.
The tall pines on either side of Old Dump Road rose like cliff walls, allowing very little moonlight through. The truck’s headlights illuminated thirty feet before us, but night swallowed everything else. After what felt like miles, the pines ended, opening into a field of tall prairie grass covered in dew, glistening in the moonlight. It looked like a painting.
“This must be it,” I said.
“It’s pretty,” said Rose.
I didn’t know why my heart was beating so fast. I did a U-turn so the truck bed faced the field, then turned off the engine and the headlights.
“Take a look?”
“Okay,” she said. I think she was smiling, but I couldn’t see her face in the dark of the truck.
We stepped out and craned our heads back to take in the cloudless sky.
“Letty was right,” I said. “That must be the Milky Way, right there.” I pointed to a dense band of stars that cut across the sky like a blurry scar.
“There’s Orion,” said Rose.
“Where?”
“There. You can see the three stars that make up his belt. There’s his arms and legs. He’s shooting an arrow.”
“I still don’t see it.”
Rose moved behind me. She pointed over my shoulder, resting her arm there. Her warm skin brushed my neck and sent a ripple of goose bumps down my back.
“There,” she whispered. Her face was next to mine, and I could smell the sweetness of her breath.
“Got it,” I said, although I didn’t.
It didn’t matter.
We stood like that for a while until she suggested we spread the blankets in the truck bed. I grabbed them from behind the seats and whipped them in the air, then smoothed them out. I lay on my back and wove my fingers behind my head. Rose curled up next to me and rested her head upon my chest. My heart pounded so hard it must have sounded like a kick drum.
“Are you nervous?” she asked.
“A little,” I replied. “Are you?”
“A little.”
I lay my hand on her side and felt it rise with her breathing, which quickened, as did mine—not out of fear, but the way it might at the top of a roller coaster before the big drop. Her hand found mine and our fingers interlaced. With my free hand I pulled the blanket around us and with the other, her into me.
We both laughed and we both breathed and we both lived. Nothing else mattered except us, right then.
THIRTY-ONE
THE FOLLOWING DAY, I SPENT MY VOLUNTEER HOUR CLEANING UP THE remains of Letty’s party. According to one of the Bettys, Letty was napping, still exhausted from her big night. As I stood atop a ladder pulling streamers from the ceiling, I replayed the whole evening in my head over and over, like a movie. From the band playing our first gig to my night under the stars with Rose, everything had been perfect.
Okay, more like imperfectly perfect. Or perfectly imperfect. No need to get bogged down in the details.
Rose and I had shared a look when I’d arrived, but it felt different than previous glances. By then I’d spent countless hours with Rose, but when I walked into Hilltop that afternoon, it felt like nothing needed to be said. We both knew what we both knew, and the private look
we exchanged summed it all up.
Grub helped me clean, holding an open garbage bag below my ladder. We’d just finished with the last of the streamers when Mary wheeled out Blackjack, his wispy hair still sleep-matted to his head.
Mary parked her charge, then squatted down in front of Grub. “Hey there, soldier. Blackjack keeps repeating something about a mission, but I’m not sure what he means. I was wondering if you could help me out?”
“Sure.” Grub faced the wheelchair and stood at attention. “At your service, sir!”
A scowl twisted Blackjack’s face. “Who the hell are you?” he rasped.
Grub’s eyes went wide. He looked up at Mary, then at me. He looked back to Blackjack.
“Blackjack, do you remember your friend, Private Grub?” Mary asked, enunciating very clearly.
“It’s me,” said Grub, taking a careful step toward the wheelchair.
Blackjack stared at him vacantly, then, almost in a whisper, said, “My medals.”
Grub paused and looked at us nervously. “Your medals?” he whispered back.
“My medals. They’re gone!” Blackjack shouted, lurching forward. Grub leaned back and glanced at me for reassurance, though I wasn’t sure what to say. Blackjack continued, his voice dry and scratchy. “Which one of you took them?” He eyed each of us with a ferocity that made my stomach turn.
Mary took over, grabbing Blackjack’s hand. “I’m sure your medals are right where they always are.”
“Get your hands off me. Someone took them. Which one of you?” A few heads turned in our direction. Blackjack pushed himself up on his wheelchair, trying to stand, but Mary held him down by the shoulders. “Get your hands off me!” he shouted again.
Grub backpedaled and hid behind me.
Mary tried to pacify the old man, but he had worked himself into a rage, red-faced and trembling. A few other nurses rushed over to assist.
Grub grabbed my arm. “Let’s go,” he said, tugging.
I tried to think of how to explain this to him. I squatted down. “I think Blackjack is having one of those bad days we talked about.”
“Who took them?” Blackjack’s voice had become distorted, almost as if he were choking. “Sino ang kumuha nang mga ito?”