A Song for the Road by Kathleen Basi (classic literature books txt) 📕

Thinking about that convention provided welcome distraction. “I expected to be miserable that week. Everyone I knew had always thought I was a weirdo.”

“Why?”

“I don’t care about sports, and I don’t keep up with TV shows. I had nothing in common with people. I got laughed at when we did those ‘all about me’ worksheets and I said my favorite music was Rachmaninoff. And my parents thought studying music was a waste of time. They worked the assembly lines in Detroit. They wanted us to get out, and they didn’t see classical music getting me there.” The darkening air flashed blue; a clap of thunder signaled an uptick in the rain. The women picked up the pace. “I mean, I get it. We always lived hand to mouth. I remember one day the day care was closed and Mom had to work, so she sent me to stay with a family from church. They spent most of the day shopping for clothes. It was hard pretending I wasn’t jealous. I’m sure that’s how my parents felt all the time. But still.”

The doors to the Walgreen’s swooshed open. Not a moment too soon. Miriam glanced over her shoulder at the steady, driving rain once again pounding the asphalt. “Anyway, all those church music people ‘got’ me.”

“They were classical musicians?”

“Not necessarily. They were just really good at what they did.” They wandered down the first aisle. “Making music together has a way of building community. When you’ve got three or twenty or a hundred people all working on the same piece of music, it’s like all the things that divide us don’t matter. You need high voices and low voices. The guy with the power voice who can’t read music ends up being the anchor for the guy who reads music but isn’t as good at matching pitch. And the guy who can’t sing at all rocks the accessory percussion. Music lets us connect with each other at a level so deep, you can’t even put words on it. You know, after all the years my choir has been singing together, they’ll pick up a brand-new piece of music and sing the exact same wrong rhythm? How does that happen?”

She paused to catch her breath and stole a glance at Dicey, self-conscious. She’d gotten carried away. “Anyway. When the music is centered around something else you share in common, like faith, it’s really powerful. Teo was helping with the youth track at my first convention. A lot of the people I met that week became our friends. A bunch of them came to Atlanta to do the music for the funeral.”

“So was Teo a piano player too?”

“No.”

Dicey drew a soft breath. “The guitar. That’s his guitar. Right?”

Miriam smiled and nodded. “He taught me to play it … a little.”

“How many instruments do you play?”

Miriam shrugged. “I can get by on several. But the piano’s my thing.”

“Then we need to find you one.” Dicey stopped walking to devote her energy to a single, forceful cough.

The store rattled beneath another clap of thunder.

Dicey pulled out her phone and tapped the weather app. The radar screen was red with purple specks. She zoomed out twice before the green came back. “Maybe this is a good time to stock up on road trip snacks.”

They wandered toward the snack aisle. “So what was Teo like?” Dicey asked.

Miriam had never had to describe him before. Everyone she’d known had also known him. Except in college. She’d kept her church life totally separate from school. “He was kind,” she said. “Thoughtful. Totally authentic. Rarely said a bad word about anyone.”

“Not super sexy, in other words.”

Miriam shoved down a swell of defensiveness. “There are more important things.”

Dicey heaved a sigh. “That’s true. I should know.” She rested her hands on her round belly.

Time to focus on Dicey now. “Have you picked a name?” Miriam asked.

Dicey scowled.

Miriam raised her hands defensively. “Sorry, I just thought, for someone who’s into names, that would be a big deal.”

“It is a big deal. It’s a big decision.” The younger woman stopped walking, surveying a shelf filled with scrapbooks and supplies. She picked up a book with a pink cover and a photo frame on the front. “I should make a scrapbook for her. So she knows what I was doing these last few weeks. Like meeting up with you. One of the coolest things that’s ever happened to me.”

“You’re sweet.” But Miriam didn’t miss that Dicey was trying to shift the subject away from herself.

She tried again. “What did you study in school?”

“Film and media studies.” Dicey fingered the selection of pens as she went on. “Well, until this.” She patted her swollen midsection, her face darkening.

Miriam wanted to tell Dicey she understood the younger woman’s frustration and fear. But it was more important to get Dicey talking about herself. “Where do—where did—you go to school?”

“William and Mary.” Dicey shook her head. “I just wanted to get as far from home as possible. I should never have taken on that much debt.”

“But …” Something didn’t add up. “Then what were you doing in Green Bank, West Virginia?”

Dicey’s face shut down. “Breaking up with an asshole. Anyway”—she turned away from the scrapbooking paraphernalia—“you know what? I’ll bet you can do scrapbooking online. That would be easier in a car.”

A phone dinged; Dicey had hers unlocked before Miriam identified whose it was. “Come on, Mom,” she murmured, typing with her thumbs.

“I’ll just be over here.” Miriam motioned toward the snack aisle. Dicey didn’t acknowledge her.

Miriam loaded a cart with trail mix, whole-grain crackers, and protein bars. Then she got in line at the photo counter. She opened her phone case; the photo of her with Teo peeked over the floral card. Hesitantly, she slipped an older picture from behind it—a poor-quality snapshot of the two of them, arms draped over each other’s shoulders, taken the last day of the convention.

He looked so young. He’d been three years older, but his face was still