Thirty-three, thirty-four . . . But it was still there. I’m taking Cole. That’s just the way it works. E flat to F to G to A to B flat. I lowered my mallets to where they were suspended right above the shiny bars of the glockenspiel. The trumpets came in right on time, just two measures ahead of me, the shiny brass blasting fortissimo notes across the room. I looked up at Jeff ’s conducting once more, making sure I was in sync with his three and four, and then tapped out the first of my notes. Tap-tap . . . tap-tap-tap, but now louder, tap-tap . . . tap-tap-tap. E flat to F to G to A to B flat. Easy part, but it had to be loud, had to perfectly parallel what the trumpets were playing. I waited a few more measures for my next entrance, but then a strong blast of wind blew my music everywhere. I bent down, scrambling for the papers, and noticed that Carol and Jill had resumed their little tug-of-war, this time with force. Though the gong was now there, dangling from its stand and ready, there apparently had been no compromise, for both of them had their hands on the mallet as if it were the last drumstick at the Last Supper. They were bickering back and forth, but it was Carol’s voice that I mostly heard, and I remembered that Carol, as our section leader, could really lay it down when she had to. There was another gust of wind, which convinced me to quickly grab a few clips from Herman’s stand and fasten my part to my stand. All of the instruments had now joined in on the push towards the final drive, and the end was not far off. It looked like seniority had won out. Jill was now rolling back through the doorway of the percussion closet. “Whatever,” she grumbled loudly, audible despite the roaring melodies of the music. Carol was at the bass drum holding both mallets, getting ready for the finale. Apparently she had lined the gong part out to Jill; but where was Jill going? Carol’s face was all flushed and strained from having to be so firm, and as she looked over the music to find her place I felt so badly for her I wanted to go over and give her a hug. I looked back at my music, regaining my focus. I picked up my mallets and got ready for my last part. There was a celestial moment, one of those dashes of beauty within musical time that help me forget about things such as the better orchestras in which I’d played, my home and how I lost it, how much I missed my son. It was the briefest of all moments but there was something about those tiny seconds that helped me savor my existence and my appreciation of all of the great music in the world, of all the time that I’d put in as a percussionist. The wind had picked up even more, and was now sailing through the windows, enveloping the climax of “Dark Castle Night,” pulling me down into the deep, delicious valley of some lost part of history, far from the little rehearsal room and far from Fort Worth, Texas. I played my last three measures, again perfectly aligned with the trumpets, and smiled as I put my mallets down; the shiny notes rang across the room, the fullness of that final B flat reaching the rest of the
(32)
MOUNT HOPE