He’s afraid. Unfortunately, Grammie Atti’s pep talk didn’t put his fears to rest. It’s like what Mama said about Jubilation bein’ dangerous to the ones we love. But I know in my heart I am incapable of hurting him. How can I make him believe that?
“I’m not sure I can say much except that I’d never do anything to hurt you. The scary stuff? It’s only for worst-case scenarios. When I’m in real danger. Or someone I love is. So, if you never attack me with your fists or any other weapons, you got nothin’ to worry about.” It’s the best I can offer, and I hope it’s enough. I don’t think I could bear to lose Clay. I need him to trust me.
He gives me a crooked smile. “You are somethin’ else, you know that?”
“Yes.” I grin back, relieved. He seems to trust me for now. He goes back to judging the dirtiness of the library, and I think his fears have melted away.
“You sure you don’t wanna whip this place into shape with your unique gifts?”
“Yeah, I’m sure,” I laugh. “Why are you so obsessed with fixin’ it up? It’s fine as it is.”
He shrugs. “I get restless. Always get like this when it rains real hard.” Then his face lights up; he has an idea.
“Be right back,” he says.
“You ain’t goin’ out in that mess,” I tell him. As I say it, lightning illuminates the whole room for an instant.
And he just runs out in it like a looney tune! I shout after him, but my voice gets lost in the clatter of the downpour. I don’t feel like usin’ magic right now, but I don’t want him to catch a cold, either. Cuz if he’s gettin’ a cold, I’m gettin’ a cold! I sigh and try to focus, but before I can do anything, he bursts back in soaking wet.
“Look atcha! Why’d you do that?” I say to him.
“No big thing. Ain’t made a sugar,” he says.
“Clay!” He’s taken his shirt off. Out in the pourin’ rain in twilight hours with no shirt. “Have you lost your mind?”
He sets down the thing he’s cradling in his arms. What he used his shirt to cover. His trumpet case. A bit damp, but mostly protected by his sopping-wet shirt.
“You could catch pneumonia,” I tell him, wiping a few raindrops from his forehead.
“Not with you takin’ care a me, m’lady.”
I can’t help but smile at that.
He opens the case and assembles his instrument. This is a rare occasion, cuz he’s never played it around me before. Wait a minute….
“Clay? How come you ain’t never played for me before?”
“Haven’t I?”
“No, you haven’t.”
He glances up at me, and now he’s blushin’.
“Mighta been nervous.”
“Cuz a me?”
“Yeah, cuz a you. I also was—well—I been workin’ on somethin’, and it’s takin’ me a while to get it right. I should probably keep on practicin’ before givin’ you a concert, but what the hell?” He clears his throat. “When I’m done, can you tell me what you think of it?”
“Uh-huh,” I say. I must admit: it is not the easiest thing in the world to talk to Clay and listen to him when he’s standing before me, naked down to his waist, skin glistening from the rain. I wanna grab him right now, but I know how important his music is to him. I do my best to focus.
He begins to play. A simple melody. A few simple notes in a minor key. And then it gets more complicated, surprising, but still gentle. This is a sad piece. Not quite funeral sad, but sad. The sad you feel when you get old and you look around yourself and realize you haven’t lived the life you longed to live. How could I know what that’s like? How could Clay? I can’t say, but it’s right here in his music.
A warm tear slips down my nose. I try to hide it. There’s something I can’t explain or avoid in this piece of music. A beauty that none of us can ever hold on to.
He finishes it and stares at me without saying anything. My tears keep coming. I give up tryna hide ’em.
“It’s beautiful, Clay,” I tell him. I don’t know what else to say. I don’t know how to tell him what this piece has made me feel.
“Didn’t mean to make you cry,” he says. He wipes some of my tears away.
“No. It’s a gorgeous piece. What’s it called?”
“ ‘Evalene,’ ” he says, as if I should’ve guessed.
“Wait a minute. Clay? You wrote it?”
He nods bashfully, his cheeks gettin’ rosy again.
“Clay! You have so much talent! I knew you were the best trumpet player around, but if you can write music like that… you could go all over the world!”
He snickers. “I don’t know about all that.”
“I DO know!” That music he just made is better than anything I’ve heard on any radio station. Why is he still here when he could be out makin’ himself famous?
“Have you played it for anybody else?”
“No. I wanted to know what you thought first.”
I grab his face and kiss it. “I think you’re brilliant.”
“You think I’d make it up in Chicago?”
“What’d I just say? Of course you could make it in Chicago! Or New York or—Clay!—you could go play in Paris! The one in France!”
A slight shiver ripples through him. Oh yeah, he’s probably gotten chilly without a shirt. I have a little sweater that I try to wrap him in, which barely covers any of him. Then I hug him, rubbing his arms to get the warmth back in them. There’s a loud clap of thunder, and a bolt of lightning strikes something in the near distance.
“So? You ready to conquer the world?” I ask.
“Nah. I think that’s your job.”
Us huggin’ turns into us kissin’ turns into our slow merge into each other. Always the gentleman, after the rubber’s on, he eases inside me as carefully as possible, and I
