Behind the couch was an alcove with the tallest windows I’d ever seen—at least nine feet in height, and they started two or three feet off the ground. The glass had colorful leaded panels, and light streamed in, beaming a kaleidoscope prism of colors across the room. Beneath the windows were built-in bookshelves. I checked out the titles—you can tell a lot about a person by what they read. Steve Jobs: American Genius, Stephen King, David Baldacci, a few classics, and…Our Endangered Values: America’s Moral Crisis by Jimmy Carter.
Huh?
Now dressed, Chase came into the room and groaned when his cell phone immediately rang. He apologized, saying he needed to take an overseas call. I really didn’t mind. I’d intruded two hours early, and snooping at glimpses of his private life was fascinating to me. He was barking at someone on the phone from the other room when I picked up an old, beat-up Gibson acoustic guitar that was leaning against the corner of the alcove.
I strummed lightly, and the sound brought back old memories. Owen and I used to have the same guitar when we were kids. Instinctively, my fingers began to press down on the chords to “Blackbird” as I strummed. It had been years since I played, yet it still flowed from my memory with ease.
When I was done, I found Chase standing in the archway, watching me. His face, which was usually easy to read, was impassive, stern almost. He just stood there, staring at me. Maybe I’d overstepped my bounds by picking it up.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have touched it.” I gently placed the guitar back where I’d found it, leaning in the corner.
“It’s fine.” He turned abruptly and walked out of the room.
I opened my mouth to call after him, but could find nothing to say.
When he came back a few minutes later, he smiled, but still wasn’t his usual flirty self. “Come on. I’ll make us a bite to eat.”
I followed him into the kitchen. The historic architecture of the brownstone had been carefully maintained, yet the entire kitchen was stocked with high-end, modern appliances and granite. Somehow the old and new blended together beautifully.
“Wow. This is amazing.” I looked up at the soaring ceilings and all the tile-work on the walls. There was an island with copper pots and pans hanging from a rack above it. Chase grabbed a pan and started taking things out of the refrigerator.
Without looking at me, he spoke. “Paul McCartney or Dave Grohl?”
He wanted to know what version I’d had in my head as I played “Blackbird.”
“Paul McCartney. Always.”
“Big Beatles fan?”
“No, actually. But my brother is. He knows every word to every song.”
Chase finally turned around. His face had softened. “Your brother who’s deaf.”
“Only one I have.”
“Do you play often?”
“It’s been years since I played. I’m kind of shocked I remembered the chords. My fingers just started playing it—probably because I played it about ten thousand times when we were kids. I only know four songs. ‘Blackbird’ was Owen’s favorite before he lost his hearing. I learned to play it for him after he’d completely lost all audio reception. He would hold the guitar and feel the vibrations and sing along.”
“That’s cool.”
“Yeah. Oddly enough, music was a big bond between us growing up. We used to play this game where I would hum songs, and he would touch my face and try to guess the song from the vibration. He was really good at it. I mean really good at it. I only had to hum a few bars, and he would know the song. Over the years, it became our secret little language—a way of communicating what I was thinking to him without anyone knowing. Like, sometimes we would go to our Aunt Sophie’s house, and she would sneak and pour gin into a coffee mug. She thought none of us knew. But after her third cup of ‘caffeine’, she would start to slur a bit. So when she called our house, I’d answer, give our mom the phone, and then hum Pink Floyd’s ‘Comfortably Numb’. Owen would hold my face for two seconds and then guess who was on the phone.”#p#分页标题#e#
Chase laughed. “That’s great.”
“Except I often still do it, and I don’t even realize. I’ll be in the middle of something and notice I’m humming a song that expresses my thoughts.”
“Well, hopefully you won’t be humming Johnny Paycheck anytime soon.”
“Johnny Paycheck?”
“Sings ‘Take this Job and Shove It’. I’d rather hear some Marvin Gaye flowing from those lips.”
“Let me guess, ‘Let’s Get it On’?”