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

by, a sea of red headed toward the Great American Ball Park. Miriam laid Blaise’s notebook and a pencil on the swing beside her and removed Teo’s guitar from its case. Behind her, the city roared; in front of her, a steamboat chugged beneath a bridge, its decorative wheel chopping the water.

But the slow, languid movement of the swing resisted the chaos. It felt good to sit here and just be.

“I need your phone,” Dicey said.

Miriam unlocked it. She’d missed quite a few notifications, including an Amber Alert. Something about a kid in a stolen car. Poor parents.

She cleared the screen and handed it over. “I hope it’s legal to play music down here.”

“You worry too much.”

She slid the guitar strap over her shoulder and adjusted Talia’s straw hat. While she tuned, Dicey rigged the phone on a stone planter behind her shoulder. “Don’t look at me,” the younger woman said.

Miriam fingered the wireless mic clipped to her lapel, which Dicey had materialized this morning. “I’m not sure about this, Dicey …”

“It’ll be great, I promise. Film studies, remember?”

Miriam sighed. “What do you want me to do?” she asked meekly.

“I don’t know, play something. Didn’t you say you wanted to … what was it you said?”

“Work on chord progressions.”

“Yeah, that. Do that. Whatever it is.”

“It’s the structure of—”

“Yeah, yeah. I don’t care, just do your thing.”

Miriam smoothed the notebook open in front of her and started analyzing chords. If she could get a sense of the big picture instead of getting lost in the interplay of melodic themes, maybe she could sketch out a road map.

She stuck the pencil between her lips and strummed the chords. She wished she could recall the snatches of brilliance that fell from her fingers last night. If only Dicey had been recording that.

“One of these days, we really should do a livestream,” Dicey said.

We. Not you. Miriam cursed her heart for the way it leaped at the idea of keeping Dicey with her. She should have done this with Talia while she was alive. Not now, with a near-stranger.

She’d forgotten what soul-killing work analyzing chords could be. Maybe a few of Teo’s Argentine folk tunes could help get the creative juices flowing.

On those sticky summer nights, Teo and his jam buddies used to go through five gallons of sweet tea and a cooler full of beer. She’d been so focused on hosting, she’d never realized how relaxing it could be just to sit with the music. She closed her eyes to summon the melodies she’d never seen written, but had only absorbed, the music seeping in as perspiration seeped out.

Miriam couldn’t match the flair and style of Teo and his band of Argentine expats. But she heard the ghost of their presence in the vibration beneath her fingers. One night, when Talia was about eight, she’d suddenly started singing harmony on this song.

Blaise never sang. He had a lovely voice, but it made him self-conscious to use it. He just …

Wait a minute. That chord progression resembled a spot on the second page of the sonata. How had she never noticed it before? Of course; it made sense that Blaise had absorbed the Argentine music, just as she had.

The mystery melody bubbled up again. She began to hum, playing with chord variations. It worked for the sonata, but it cried out for voices. She could almost hear the words. Almost. And she really could hear a voice singing it back to her as she paused to scribble ideas.

She looked up. A small child, three or so, stood nearby, dressed in a Superman shirt, mimicking her. Perfectly on pitch. Uncannily so.

She took the guitar pick out of her mouth. “Hello there. Where did you come from?” She was startled to realize she’d attracted a handful of listeners. But their body language didn’t indicate that he belonged to any of them.

Dicey, who had left Miriam’s phone to record, circled the perimeter with her own in hand. She motioned to keep going.

The boy stared at the guitar, rocking gently. Miriam started another Argentine folk song, and the rocking stopped. The moment she finished singing, he sang it back, note for note, but without words.

Amazing. What about opera? She hummed a snippet of Puccini. Again, perfect. She’d never seen anything like it.

The crowd was growing, people stopping to watch and listen. They seemed appreciative—all except one woman. She held a plastic cup in her hand, and she kept looking at her phone, scowling at Miriam, and looking again. It made Miriam nervous.

But the boy had started rocking again. She hesitated. He didn’t seem verbal. Was he autistic? Had he wandered away? There had to be a panicked parent somewhere on the waterfront.

But at least he was safe while he was with her, and as long as he remained riveted to the music, he wouldn’t wander elsewhere. A child in one place would be easier to find.

Besides, she was curious. Just how good was he? She knew how to find out: Mozart’s Queen of the Night aria. She couldn’t sing it—she’d always thought it sounded like Mariah Carey hopping mushrooms in some video game—but she picked the notes from the strings.

He nailed it.

Miriam’s insides felt squirmy. Squirmy in a good way. Happy! That’s what this was. She felt like doing a little dance … until she caught the eye of the woman with the cup. She hadn’t imagined the hostility there.

Miriam returned her attention to the boy. Just one more. And only because of his shirt. If the parents hadn’t shown by then, she’d find a policeman.

Teo used to play the Superman theme for Blaise at bedtime, to ward off the monsters under the bed—a ritual Miriam found irksome on days when she felt strung out and stretched thin, and Teo had worship commission or ministry training at church. But she’d learned to do it. Not with Teo’s flair, but enough to banish the monsters.

She started the iconic theme. Instantly, the little boy stood up straight and put a