Beyond The Precipice - Sample Chapters

Copyright © 2012 by Eva Blaskovic. All rights reserved.

Cover Artwork Copyright © 2012 by Jody Bronson Deslongchamps.

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ISBN-10: 0988163812 ISBN-13:

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“Music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and life to everything.”—Plato

The Cello Girl

In the hallway of the university music building that afternoon, he followed the lone cello, a ribbon of sound that compelled him forth as his eyes still adjusted from the brightness outside. He had no business wandering around by the practice rooms after first year registration—especially now that he’d fulfilled his promise. It was done. The course of his future was set, his father’s last wishes honored.

Except the cello resonated in his heart, drowning out the hunger rumbling in his stomach. It was Beethoven’s 9th, after all—“Ode to Joy”—something that simply could not be ignored.

His cell phone bleeped with an incoming text. “Where are you?” “Still on campus. Be back soon,” he typed back to Scott, sent it, and pocketed the phone. It wouldn’t have been so annoying having his roommate check up on him if his brother, Drake, wasn’t doing it all the time. Stepping into the rectangle of sunlight that cast into the hallway, he saw the girl. She drew her bow across the cello, eyes on sheet music, face stern, jaw set, fingers working the vibrato. Her body leaned into note after note—until she noticed him. The eyes, green as jade, flicked up for the briefest moment, and she frowned. Her fingers fumbled and she shook her head, finally addressing him with an edge in her voice. “Hi. Coming in to practice?”

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Practice? Him? “What instrument do you need?” she went on. He walked up to a violin case that lay flipped open on a chair beside her. “Can I play this?” “Sure. It’s the Faculty’s. You can play it until Elise gets back.” He ran his finger across the strings. It was mostly in tune. Dropping his backpack on the floor with a thud, he took out the violin and finished tuning it. “Beethoven?” he said, casting a sideways glance at her. “Sure.” She positioned her bow. “Want the notes?” “No.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “Okay…” He stood with the violin on his shoulder, bow at the ready. She began the cello segment, bow flowing like silk, and he came in, taking over the melody; smoothly, fluidly gliding with her counter-melody until the crescendo gave way to crisp, powerful downbows and retakes, the instrument an extension of himself, moving effortlessly through the medium of musical harmony.

Now that—that was Beethoven! So much better than when he played it alone. “Hmm,” she said afterward, her lips working into a hint of a smile. “You put a lot of feeling into your playing.” Even as something in his chest fluttered, a chill clenched his lower spine. “How many years of music do you have?” she asked.

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“I don’t know. Lots.” “What do you mean you don’t know? What programs did you take?” “I didn’t. I’m self-taught.” She squinted at him. “Really? So how’d you get into this program?” “I’m not in Music.” “You’re not? What are you in then?” “Science.” “Oh.” She looked down at her cello, her finger tracing its form. “What are you going to do with it? Go into Med School or something?” “No. I don’t know.” She shuffled her music, shaking long bangs clear of her eyes. “How about you?” he went on. “I’m going to try to get into the Calgary Philharmonic.” “Holy crap!” “Yeah. Pretty good goal, eh?” “I’ll say.” “So why are you in Science if you don’t know what you want to do with it?” He shrugged. “It’s bound to lead somewhere.” “That doesn’t make a lot of sense to me. Ever thought of switching to Music?” He started laughing. “Have I thought about it? Of course I’ve thought about it!” Her stern look shared none of his amusement. “Then why don’t you?” Turning to face her straight on, he braced his arm on the seat’s backrest. “Because it’s not that simple.” Her eyes locked with his for a moment,

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then were drawn away as an Asian girl entered, her obsidian hair glistening all the way to her waist. He stood, holding the violin out by the neck. “Yours?” Elise reached for it. “Thank you.” “I was just on my way out.” He flipped his backpack over his left shoulder and started toward the door. “Do you have a name?” the cello girl said. “Bret. It’s Bret.” He gestured a greeting to both of them. “Nice to meet you, Bret. I’m Nicole.” He gave the slightest nod and stepped out, continuing onward until he was out of the building. He’d just forget he was ever there. It never happened. Except that every time he blinked, he saw green eyes focused on cello strings whose notes he still heard in his head, mingling with the sound of a violin. The progression of cars with their hazard lights flashing stopped traffic on Whyte Avenue. He looked past the hearse, forcing his quickened breath back into a steady rhythm as he did during a run. At the corner he turned away, instead taking the next street over through an old residential neighborhood, where some of Edmonton’s tallest trees locked branches in an arch overhead. Lone yellow leaves, blinking as they swayed in the breeze, warned of the approaching fall like lighthouses tracing a perilous shore. His father had worried too much. If only he could have seen this day. Bret kicked a stone into the grass.

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At the apartment, Scott looked rather scholarly in a button-up shirt and his steel-rimmed glasses. “So? How was registration?” “Fine.” He filled the espresso maker with water and finely ground coffee. He still couldn’t believe his mother had let him take her beloved machine. “Really?” Scott said, studying him. “I can see you chickened out. Serves you right. You’ll live to regret it.” “I’d regret it either way.” His cell phone went off in his pocket. He flipped it open to find his brother’s name displayed, as the melody of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony in D chimed on in his hand. Scott rolled his eyes. “Checking up on you already?” The ringtone played out the entire segment and started again. He could see Nicole in deep concentration, small fingers spreading wide as they walked up and down the neck of her cello, a vibrato on every note. “Give the man a medal for perseverance,” Scott said. He snapped out of it and pushed the answer button. “What?” “Registered?” “No, Drake. I just walked to campus and back for the fresh air.” There was a measured silence before Drake spoke. “Did you do what you were supposed to?” “I might’ve.” Drake exhaled audibly. “You’d better have.” “Science, okay?” It was more interesting than Business. But, more importantly, it would keep

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him clear of Uncle Galan. “Oh, you would make Dad proud.”

Inside the espresso maker, the pressurized water neared its boil. “Shut up, Drake. I just might change it.” “You know that wouldn’t be a good idea.” He took a deep breath to loosen the vice on his chest. “Anyway,” Drake continued. “Why I’m calling. One of the gutters is coming loose and Mom can’t reach it.” “No need to check in with me, Drake, really. I have complete faith in you.” “You’re such a dick.” “You’re already there, so fix it.” “Ah, ah, ah. That’s not part of our agreement, now, is it, Little Brother? Besides, I already told her you were coming by and would be more than happy to do it.” Tarry liquid dripped into the four-cup carafe. “Your thoughtfulness is unsurpassed.” “Tell him to go screw himself,” Scott cut in. “You live here now.” “Don’t push me, Bret,” Drake continued into the phone. “You really don’t want me in a bad mood. I tend to—lose judgement, you know? Might accidentally say things.” Steam rose into the air and the espresso maker exhaled its last breaths as the carafe filled. “Fine! I’ll be there tomorrow.” He hung up. Scott spread his arms out in a “What the hell?” gesture. “It’s nothing, Scott.” “When will you ever stand up to him?”

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“Don’t worry about it.” “No, really. When will you?” Bret busied himself by opening the fridge and retrieving the milk, half filling his mug with it, and adding the market honey. Hunger rumbled in his stomach but he had lost his taste for food. Not that he had much in the fridge anyway. “Just leave me alone, Scott.” He poured the coffee into the prepared mug and took it to his room. “Did anyone ever tell you that putting honey in coffee is weird?” Scott called down the hall. Bret closed his door. On the dresser, the photograph stared back at him. The last photo of the four of them.

Galan’s Visit

He glanced up from his cereal. Scott Lère’s bedroom door had opened, casting morning light into the hallway.

A tomcat grin was on his roommate’s face. Good. Whoever he talked to last night would keep him focused on his own matters. Scott flicked his bangs off the top of his glasses. “So—you know that chick I met last week? Well, I called her last night.” He paused dramatically. “Dinner and a show this weekend. She said yes!” The eyebrows rode up and down his forehead a few times. “That’s great.” Bret rinsed his dishes and returned the cereal box, which was marked with the date he opened it, to the cupboard. “Knock yourself out.” “She has friends, you know. Hot ones.” “How many of them do you need?” Scott rolled his eyes. “I meant for you.” “I know what you meant.” “So?” “Thanks for the thought, but not this week.” “That’s what you said last week. You know, I think I remember a time when you were fun.” Bret peered across the top of his coffee cup at his roommate. “Give it some thought, man,” Scott went on.

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“I thought you were gonna crack down and focus on getting into Law School.” Scott shrugged. “Yeah. Can’t work twenty-four seven though.” “Well, if you’re not doing anything Saturday morning, want to go to the market?” “You just go to see the buskers. Admit it, Mozart.” “I need more honey.” “I bet you do. Well then. Depends on what kind of honey you have in mind.” “Give it up already.” Scott shook his head and ducked into the lower cupboard, where he tugged the frying pan out from under two other pots, tipping them over and sending them clattering off the shelf. Bret squeezed his eyes shut against the assault on his ears. Scott righted the pots and slammed the cupboard door on them, then set the pan on the stove’s element and took the egg carton out of the fridge. “So are you going in to play with the lab toys today?” “Mm-hm.” “That Willoughby guy is pretty high profile, eh?” “What do you mean?” “Like, half the campus knows his name.” “I feel much better now about walking into his lab knowing jack shit.” Scott rolled his eyes and smiled lopsidedly. “So speaketh the gifted one who never has anything to worry about.” Bret’s jaw clenched. “I told you never to use that word.”

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“Oh, puh-lease. You act like it’s some kind of sentence or something.” He threw more coffee down his throat. “It is.” “Yeah. Sure. That’s because you don’t know what it’s like for the rest of us mere mortals.” Scott stuck out his palm to prevent any backtalk. “But you know what we should do, Mozart?” “Stop calling me that.” “We really should give some thought to starting up a new band.” “Then you’re going to want to play for people.” “Yeah. Yeah, usually that’s how it works.” “Mozart was a genius, Scott. How many times do I have to tell you? He wrote music in his head and it came out—well, finished.” “He could also play anything he heard.” “I still don’t see how it applies.” “Stop fricking hiding from yourself.” Bret twisted his face up at Scott and went for his shower. Before going to meet Lauren at the university for his first day of training, he pulled up in front of his mother’s bungalow to fix the gutter. He wore his oldest clothes, but at the lab they wouldn’t care what he wore. He’d made his impression, and now it was time to heed the warnings about acid drips and other casualties that clothes met in a lab.

He leaned the aluminum ladder against the side of his mother’s house and climbed up, blocking the sun with one hand. The gutters and downspouts needed to be replaced, but that wasn’t about to

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happen anytime soon. Reattaching this one wasn’t a real problem except that he had to erect the ladder on a slope that dropped into the alley, making the top of the bungalow feel a lot higher. In spite of his mother’s firm grip on the base, electric sensations ran from the bottom of his feet through the length of his legs and into his stomach, where they coiled. His fear of heights had held him back in just about everything, even well-paid construction jobs. Even climbing in the Rocky Mountains with his father. When he climbed down, his mother was smiling. Her whole face smiled, especially her brown eyes, and, for that single moment, it always made the world a better place. Red highlights caught in her chestnut hair, now probably colored to hide the gray. She passed the ladder to him and he retracted it. “Thanks for coming out to do this. I asked Drake but he’s been so busy.”

He carried the ladder effortlessly into the garage, where he hung it up on its hooks. “Come and have something to eat.” He welcomed this, as it was her food, after all, that had inspired his own interest in cooking. It was peaceful in the house without Drake around, except for the cologne that lingered in several rooms—a constant reminder of his presence. Bret sniffed the air, scrunching up his face. “That’s bloody awful.” “You know Drake,” Mom said tactfully. He rolled his eyes when she couldn’t see his face. “I hope it was important.” “I suspect it’s a girl. He left all done up, new clothes and everything.”

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He would have made some gesture of vomiting if he were talking with anyone but his mother. “He’s always got new clothes. That doesn’t mean anything.” She had made bacon, eggs, and homemade scones, which he gulped down as fast as they hit the table. “I’ll give you some of these to take to work,” she said, setting some aside. “Are you sure you’re getting enough to eat?” She paused to study him. “Yeah, fine,” he said quickly with his mouth still full. “Well, if you need anything, call me.” “I’m eighteen, Mom.” “That doesn’t mean you stop being my son.” He knew he’d never ask her for food, as tempting as it was sometimes.

When the doorbell rang, she left the table and went to answer the front door. He listened from the kitchen. “Galan! What a surprise!” His heart fell through his stomach. He stopped eating at once, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Hello, Kyra,” came the elated voice. “I was in town, so I thought to myself, ‘I should go see how Kyra’s doing!’ So, here I am. May I come in?”

“Of course,” his mother said. Bret stepped around the wall of the kitchen and stood at the edge of the living room with his arms crossed across his chest. “Hello, Uncle Galan.” Looking at his uncle was like seeing a reflection of himself. Galan’s hair was dark and

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neatly cut. The brown eyes, straight nose, and solid features were probably considered handsome, except his build seemed to get chunkier every time he saw him. He could have passed for his mother’s brother, but he was, in fact, his father’s.

“Drake said something about you moving out,” Galan said. “I’m just visiting. No worries. I’ll be on my way soon.” “That’s a shame.” Galan’s eyes locked with his briefly before they looked away. “Anyway, I’m sure Kyra can spare a few moments for her brother-in-law. Mmm, something smells good!” “Sit down, Galan, and have something to eat.” “Don’t mind if I do!” Galan stepped into the kitchen and looked around. “Where’s Drake?” “He’s out for the day,” his mother said. “Oh, that’s too bad! I really wanted to talk to him. Well, perhaps he can call me.” No need to use the phone. Drake would hear him all the way from Leduc. Galan sat down without hesitation. Mom quickly got him a plate and cutlery, and he reached for the bacon and eggs at once. “Mmm. These are just a little cold. Would you mind warming them up, Kyra?”

Bret had to turn away. “So, what’s up with you, Bret? Mommy’s not around to look after you so you dress like crap?” “I had such a hard time deciding which designers to wear,” he said. “You know how it is.” “Galan!” Mom snapped. “Don’t start. He’s here for yard work.”

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He leaned against the counter and just stared at his uncle. “I’ll let that one go.” Galan’s voice ground like machinery choked by sand. “For your mother’s sake.” “Don’t forget the scones, Galan.” She pushed the plate closer. “They’re homemade.” “Character building, yard work is.” Galan’s muted voice struggled around a mouthful of scone. “Good for you, Kyra.” As his uncle cleared all the plates, making the meal but a memory, his mother’s eyes warned him. He hid a balled fist under his arm. When Galan could find nothing else to consume, he turned to Bret. “’Cause, you know, people do actually pay attention to how you present yourself.” “Tea or coffee, Galan?” “Tea would be just lovely, Kyra.” Of course Galan wanted tea. He drank both, and there was coffee in the coffee pot, but why use that? Kyra could just run around and wait on him hand and foot, after all. “With cream, if you have it.” “I didn’t know you were coming, Galan. Milk is all I have.” “Ah, well,” Galan said. “I’ll just make do, then.” Bret had heard enough. “I’m heading out. Enjoy your stay in town, Uncle Galan.” Galan mumbled something unintelligible. His mother wrapped some scones she’d rescued in tinfoil and followed him to the front door. “Hey, you still working at that useless little

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drugstore?” Galan called from the kitchen. Bret’s eyes locked with his mother’s as he replied. “What if I am?” She shook her head. Galan presented himself in the living room, wiping grease from his face with a napkin. “You really should look into something else. That kind of job won’t get you anywhere in life.” Bret stroked the stubble on his chin. “Hmm. Are you sure? I thought I was living my dream.” “Galan, Bret really has to get going,” Mom said. She turned him toward the door, stuffing the wrapped scones into his hands. Galan’s expression darkened. “Kyra, I’m talking about the boy’s future. With his father gone—”

Bret’s heart sped up involuntarily. “He’s not a boy, and he’s doing just fine, but thank you for your concern.” “Oh, Kyra, you just don’t see what’s in front of you. As always.” Bret stiffened, and resisted his mother’s forward motion. “Ignore him,” she whispered. But when he looked back over his shoulder, Galan was already walking towards them. “Self control was never one of your stronger traits, was it, Bret? A man can achieve a lot by controlling his own impulses. Often the fate of others rests with a single phrase, a single deed—a single act of cowardice—” Bret’s throat tightened, cutting off his breath.

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“Honestly, Galan. No need to get so dramatic,” his mother scolded. His breath returned as Galan lowered his eyes. “Insult me all you want,” he said, “but stop insulting my mother. She’s not your personal servant!” Galan laughed. “Oh, Bret, honestly. Such tough words. Kyra, I must commend you on the job you did with Drake, but for whatever reason, the lesson about respecting one’s elders seems to have been lost on Bret.” “Galan, you promised,” his mother said through pursed lips. Bret fought to do nothing, say nothing. As much as every ounce of him resisted the idea, he knew he had to walk away quietly. Galan sighed audibly. “I did, didn’t I?” “Goodbye, Uncle.” Bret stepped toward the screen door. As he glanced back, Galan moved. Bret caught his mother flinch and then relax, as if she were overriding a reflex. He blinked, hesitated, unsure of what he saw. Galan stood close beside her. A sick feeling stirred in the pit of his stomach—some old unpleasantness, a vague memory or dream, or something. He couldn’t place it. But he was overcome by the urge to fight it off, beat it down into its dark hole, and put a lid on it. He took long strides to his car. His mother came down the steps after him. “Will you be all right with him here?” he asked her.

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She smiled. “It’s not your job to protect me.” He dropped into the driver’s seat, but set the wrapped scones on the seat beside him with care. He rolled down the window before closing the door. “I can handle him.” She leaned in and hugged him. “Look. I know you’re fed up.” He rolled his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell him about the campus job?” “Why should I?” “It would have been honest.” She kissed his temple. “Call me if there’s a problem.” “There won’t be a problem.” She patted his arm and withdrew from the window. “Thanks for coming out.”

Galan was showing up more often. He seemed to be particularly interested now that Drake was twenty-one. Bret started the car but didn’t put it in gear. “Can’t you ditch him?” His mother squeezed her eyes shut, and at once he regretted his utterance.

“Honey—” “I know, I know. I’m sorry.” “We owe him.” “Yeah,” he said quietly, shifting into gear.

Kern’s Lab

Several people passed him in the hallway of Medical Science. Some ignored him as the stranger he was, while others glanced his way, inspecting this new arrival in their department. The hallway was long, tiled, and the color of butter. Even the institutional paint had yellowed into a dingy pallor, but over the summer the tiles had been buffed to a shine. “Bret, come in,” Dr. Willoughby motioned. He returned the gaze of the Indiana Jones look-alike, who peered at him over the top of his reading glasses. With a head full of disheveled hair still more sandy than gray, only the glasses, sitting slightly askew part way down his nose, betrayed his age.

Bret felt a presence at his shoulder, and turned. Lauren, who was likely in her mid-twenties but only reached his chin, hooked bangs behind her ear as she listened in.

“Lauren will show you everything you need to know,” Dr. Willoughby said. “I have to run across to the hospital.” He nodded as the doctor stepped around him. “Thanks, Dr. Willoughby.” “Kern,” the doctor said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “It’s Kern.” With a wave to both of them, the doctor disappeared out the door. “No one around here calls him Dr. Willoughby,” Lauren said.

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Bret’s eyes converged on her ski-jump nose. It added a playfulness to her sophistication that made her easier to approach. “He says that’s for patients.” She led him to a rack of lab coats, took one off a hanger, and handed it to him. “How much of Kern’s research are you familiar with?” “Just what I could find online.” He tried the white coat on. She smiled. “Does it fit?”

He checked the length of the sleeves and did up some of the snaps. “Yup.”

She kept smiling. “What? Does it look funny?” “No, it’s perfect.” “Then what?” “Kern likes you. Now I can see why.” He stopped moving, not sure how to respond. Lauren didn’t know a thing about him. Or did she? And why was she telling him this about Kern? She stretched up to look taller, put one hand on her hip, and waved a finger in the air. Making her voice deeper, she said, “‘You’ll like him, Lauren. He didn’t bullshit me. He has no experience, but it’s nothing you can’t handle. Besides, he has a good handshake.’” “You’re kidding me.” “Kern knows people. He can tell things about them.” A shiver ran down his spine. “So, that said, I expect you’ll ask if you don’t know something rather than dump two hundred dollars’ worth of enzyme down the sink.” Her tone grew more sober with each word.

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“Did someone do that?” “You would marvel at the stories from our Hall of Shame, some of which, I’m sure, you’ll hear about. Let’s take a walk.” She motioned with her head for him to follow. “These garbage cans here, with the orange bags, are biohazard. Any cell or tissue culture we use goes in there when we’re done. There’s the fume hood,” she pointed. “Bunsen burners and gas lines there. Just make sure the gas is always shut off properly. Glove boxes are on the benches, but if you need more, they’re all kept in here.” She opened a lower cabinet and closed it, then pointed to various glass door cabinets and labels. “Petri dishes, pipettes, glassware. If you need solutions and buffers, they’re in here. Pipette tip boxes are up there, sterile of course, so don’t leave them open, and the culture plates are in the cold room. Agar and nutrients to make them up are in this cupboard. And you’ll need weigh scales.”

She walked him over to a separate counter with digital scales accurate to four decimal places that were encased in glass with sliding doors.

“Weigh boats, tin foil, and all that stuff are in this drawer.” She glanced up at him. “So that’s basically it, to start with. What you’ll be doing is collecting the glassware and washing it down in the dishwasher room. You’ll also be autoclaving some of it. But we can get you making sterile plates, media, and stock solutions as well. How familiar are you with that kind of stuff?”

“In theory only. In practice? Not so much.” She hooked her hair behind her ear. “Well,

that’s fine. You can shadow me and you’ll catch on. Let’s start with prepping tips and glassware for autoclaving. Media and other liquids will go in

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separately, and you’ll have to make sure you leave the lids loose so they don’t explode. We can tighten them once they’ve cooled. Not to insult you, but you do remember your gas expansion and contraction theory, I assume?”

He stifled a laugh. “Yeah, it’s real funny until someone

forgets.” “I meant no disrespect. I was just—

imagining things.” He couldn’t quite remove his smile.

Lauren studied him. “A creative thinker with an imagination. Good.” She took him by the sleeve, dragging him behind her. “But we’ll get to the liquids. Let’s start with the dry stuff.”

Good? That’s exactly what got him into trouble at the last job. She showed him how to fill and stack the pipette tip boxes, how to tear tinfoil into squares quickly and efficiently using the edge of a counter, how to use it to cover the openings of the Erlenmeyer flasks, and how to wrap pipettes and burettes in foil for the autoclave. She loosened the screw caps on some 500-milliliter and one-liter media bottles and placed them in a separate plastic autoclave tub. He followed as she wheeled the cart down the hall to the autoclave room and showed him how to operate the machines, which were each the size of a large fridge with heavy, stainless steel doors. Before his shift’s end, he went through the lab’s safety procedures, loaded the carts with dirty glassware, filled all the empty tip boxes, and autoclaved enough glassware to refill the cupboards.

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Lauren made media and they autoclaved it together, and finally, because he asked, she let him pour plates. “Leave them on the bench to cool. Tomorrow, we’ll bag them in these.” She opened a drawer and showed him the empty Petri plate sleeves. “If you insist on bagging them yourself, make sure you put them in upside down and store them that way in the cold room.” “Why upside down?” “To prevent the condensation from running onto the agar.” “Oh. That’s smart.” She grinned. “And we’ll know soon enough if you contaminated them. If not, you may end up doing so many of these that you’ll be seeing them in your sleep.”

Crisp staccato skipped into the night, then smoothed into a streamer of fluttering energy. Notes undulated with dizzying haste, changed direction, teased, leapt over strings: a game of tag around pillars of fire. When he first discovered the Devil’s Trill Sonata, he had to learn it at once, if only for the challenge. The flitting notes ricocheted inside the old Ford—something trapped and agitated, in a frenzy to escape. He had driven out to his old school yard, and practiced in the back seat with the windows up to contain the noise. At least his neighbors at the apartment had nothing to complain about.

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A police car drifted past and registered somewhere on the fringes of his awareness. His fingers fumbled and he restarted the segment. Headlights pierced the car’s interior, unveiling him from the protective darkness, and a cruiser rolled to a stop behind him. He dropped his violin into his lap and waited to see what the cop would do. The police officer stepped out. He cranked the window down. The cycling of the police car’s engine drifted in with the breeze. Slow, deliberate footsteps crunched across the gravel. “Hi. How’re you doing?” the officer said. Too pleasant for the situation. And cops always had that look. Like a mask. “Fine, thank you.” “Can I see your license, please?” They were trained to sound non-confrontational, yet had that “Don’t mess with me” expression. Something about the eyes. “Sure.” He twisted around to reach his back pocket. The bow rolled off his knees and landed somewhere on the floor. His instinct was to rescue it from the dirt down there, but he fought the urge, and pulled the license from his wallet. The cop took it. “Thank you.” He bent over, panning his eyes over the interior of the car. “Who’s in there with you?” “No one.” “Waiting for someone?” “No.” “So what brings you out here at one in the morning?”

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He held up his electric violin by the neck. The cop’s eyes flickered for a split second as he examined the strange metal form. “Is that a violin?” “I’m practicing. This is the only place I won’t disturb anyone.” “I see.” The cop scanned the inside of the car again, this time with his flashlight, revealing the fallen bow, open violin case, battery operated amplifier, and a couple of empty coffee cups. The cop clicked off the flashlight and took the license to his car, turned on the interior light, and did some checking. While he waited, his heart pummeled in his chest. He did not know why, since there was nothing to find. Finally, the cop returned. “Go home. Stop hanging around schoolyards in the middle of the night. It makes people nervous.” He handed back the card. “Have a good night.” “Thank you. You too.” The officer walked back to his car and waited until he pulled his Ford out onto the street. Only then did the cruiser drive away, irradiating the sleeping subdivision with its arc of departure. His heart still thumping, Bret watched the school, where he’d finished sixth grade seven years ago, recede in his rear view. The teacher who’d fought to promote his talents had long since moved on.

Coming…

March 11, 2013

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