Trumpet

THIRD PLACE SUDDEN FICTION truMPet

M. J. KELLEY

My Dad calls. What’s wrong? he asks. I don’t know, I say, I don’t think it’s working. You want to come home? he asks. I don’t know, I say, I don’t know anyone here, nothing’s working. Wait, hold on, son. Can I call you back? I have a customer here. I’m the only one working today, he says. We hang up, and I stare out the window: there is a fence separating the two side yards, and then there’s just the wall of the house next door. No light, no plants – empty. The phone rings. I’m sorry, son, he says, It will get better for you. I guess, I say. Remember when I used to hum to you when you were a baby? No, Dad. I used to hum to you and hold you in my arms until you fell asleep. Now you live up in the city, he says, I can’t believe it. OK, Dad, I say. I have another customer. I’ll call you back. I look out the window again: there is a snail inching its way up the fence, its dark brown shell slightly, slowly swaying, its antennas poised, a transparent trail marking its passage. After a few minutes the phone rings. OK, son, he says, This is a song called “Can’t Help Falling in Love” by Elvis Presley. Ready? What are you doing, Dad? It’s OK, no one’s in the store. I hear the thud of him putting the phone down. My Dad hums and for a moment I’m afraid he’ll sing. Then comes the smooth ring of his trumpet, a deep brassy bellow echoing out of the phone. I’m struck with

memories of him playing when I was a little boy, the feel of the brass when running my hands over its cold surface. The instrument was warm after he’d been playing. Now, he accelerates the song, pitching high, and then slowing, falling low. I see him sitting there, in the mattress store he manages, alone, sitting on one of the display beds near the phone, playing his trumpet, eyes closed, his shirt and tie loosened, the music reverberating off the high ceiling and glass doors. His cheeks puff out and lungs retract, fingers tapping those three valves. I see him tapping his right dress shoe on the floor: one, two, three. At the end, he holds one last note, reaching for harmony, his breath almost gone, but the sound slowly fades away alone. I find myself on the floor of my room, hand locked on the phone, not wanting to let go. That was from “Blue Hawaii,” he says.