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The first song is the ditty he liked so much. But an upgraded version with a solo from the oboe that, in a word, is epic. And though my piano work isn’t as precise as I’d prefer, the whole effect is a strange combination of exciting and haunting.
It’s only since he brought up Jerry Majors that I realize how suited my music is for the movies. Epic scenes require music that sends chills down a viewer’s spine or that’ll lull them into a false sense of security. I can do that. I know I can.
I watch a smile dance on his lips, his fingers tapping on the wheel to the beat before I stare out the window to hide my anxiety.
Being timid about my music is new to me.
Damned inconvenient too, I think, as he turns up the volume and lowers our windows. In sync, the autumnal wind blusters in, making the chords dance in time to nature.
When I see his reflection in the side mirror, there’s genuine enjoyment etched into his features—a kind of sweet sorrow that makes me realize how tense he usually is and which is in response to the rather piercing English horn solo. This would befitting of a war scene, I think to myself—the aftermath. When the injured are gathered and the dead counted.
I relax some, sensing his genuine appreciation, and settle back for the ride.
It’s surprisingly nice to sit with him. No talking. Just listening. The road in front of us an endless prairie that invites a person to never stop, to carry on, to let the destination decide itself because life’s all about the journey.
There are more signs of summer drifting into fall, and as I so often do, my mind shifts onto what he once wrote in a letter about Inuvik being beautiful around this time of the year.
As I watch an amber-hued leaf tumble to the ground as we drive past it, he lowers the volume. “This is magic, Tee.”
My cheeks blossom with heat. “Oh, hush.”
“No, I mean it. I always loved music, but this is... I’m not sure how you did it. It’s eerie and poignant but joyous and vibrant too. You played all the parts?”
Blushing harder than ever, I mutter, “Yeah.”
“I didn’t realize you could play the piano.”
“I have a rudimentary talent with it as well as a love/hate relationship.”
“Doesn’t sound like it to me. This is what you’ve been working on since you moved home?”
“No. A good chunk, but I rerecorded some of them. A few are quite old. Mrs. Frobisher... she made me think of my original stuff. It was quite nice to revisit them.”
“You want me to get in touch with Sundance yet?”
“No, they’re not ready.”
“Sure, they are. You can’t polish perfection.”
“They’re not perfect.” I laugh, though I don’t have a problem hearing it.
As we drive along the highway, a glint in the mirror has me frowning.
When it’s tacked on by a rumble that has nothing to do with thunder, I recognize the noise.
“Cody?”
His hands tighten around the steering wheel before he taps a button that lowers the volume. “I hear them.”
The small speck that glinted in the distance suddenly splits, like bacterium in a petri dish, binary fission making their numbers double, triple,quadrupleuntil there are thirty of them on the horizon.
‘Them’ being motorcycles.
“Donotget out of the truck.”
My head whips around to face him. “What do you mean?”
He turns off the music completely. “They’re here for me.”