“The Contentment of the Tuba,” Story, Darrin Doyle.
An ideal evening for Dottie Crandall, according to her own words, was sinking into the recliner with a coffee mug of Glenlivet on the rocks, while Higgus, seated on the sofa, blew the deep, somber tuba line from Hayden’s Symphony No. 7 until she passed out. Usually this was at nine in the evening. Then Higgus would tenderly pry the glass from Dot’s fingers, pack up his instrument, climb into his Escort, and drive twenty minutes down winding, dark roads to his house, where it was as silent and solemn as a museum.
*
Nobody dreams of the tuba. No child feels a chill at the base of the spine for the tuba player. The glory goes to the soloists: violin, piano, trumpet, flute, clarinet. The cello, while not the main attraction, resonates with the chill of mortality, its notes like dreams in the corners of your mind. The same can be said for the French Horn. It emerges from the piece of music like a zombie hand, telling you there is hidden life under this soil, a life that could signify both rebirth and horror in the same breath. Either way, you are dazzled.
The foundation is never more thrilling than the embellishment. Is there anything dazzling about the floor beneath DaVinci’s David? The dirt beneath a rose bush? The butter in the cake?
*
Higgus Fleming was the tuba for the town of Warm Plains, Ohio. He was the tuba. There was no other.
Also troubling to Higgus was the fact that there was no easy way to describe his role in the community. There was only the indelicate mouthful – tuba player. Everyone could bring easily to their lips cellists, violinists, pianists, flautists, percussionists. These words were sonorant and rhythmic. He was glad no one could call him a tromboner, but this was cold comfort indeed.
He taught private brass lessons at Randy’s Music. Most of Higgus’s students were elementary-age children who wanted to learn the trumpet. Second most popular was the trombone. He had one French horn pupil and one boy with terrible psoriasis who studied the flugelhorn.
*
Dottie Crandall was Higgus’s closest friend, and he was in love with her. She was a 57 year-old teacher at the Warm Plains Home for the Blind. Like her students, she was also blind, having lost her sight at the age of five from a severe case of trachoma. She and Higgus spent many afternoons together eating lunch, walking by streams and rivers, booing the Cleveland Guardians on Higgus’s widescreen television. She loved to listen to him play his tuba. She told Higgus that he was destined for more than teaching 30-minute lessons to kids he would never really know.
“You’re too big for that,” she said once. “I can hear it in your phrasing. You need to reach more people. I don’t mean a symphony. I don’t mean fame. I mean more than those follow-the-dots lessons you’re teaching now.”
Follow the dots? Was she making a pun with her own name? Was she suggesting that he was spending too much time with her? You’re too big for that? Big, as in large? Was she commenting on his weight problem? Higgus was afraid to ask – his insecurities could spiral like this at any given time – so he kept his mouth shut.
*
At night Higgus stared into the black windows of night and watched himself watching himself in his reflected living room. No cars passed on County Road 462. No streetlights cut the darkness. He battled the silence by playing classical music records. He studied his thumbs, thought about Dot, and imagined how he might someday enjoy kissing her lips. He practiced the tuba and wrote an email to his parents in which he used the word “fine” a dozen times.
One evening while trying on new clothes in front of his mirror, Higgus removed the pin from one of the shirt collars, held the pin at arm’s length over the wooden floor, and dropped it.
*
He nurtured no special affection for them, but the children of Warm Plains were Higgus’s bread and butter. The youngest students – age 5 – had runny noses, cocky or indifferent attitudes, and they sometimes wept at the slightest correction. The older students brought their own sets of problems. The teenagers’ cheeks bore painful-looking pimples, and when their instruments didn’t squeak, their vocal chords did. Owen Flich, the psoriasis-riddled flugelhornist, emptied his spit valve onto the floor when he thought Higgus wasn’t looking. Higgus bore his burdens with a smile.
*
Everyone in Warm Plains was connected: the man who fixed your car had a mother who managed the truck stop café (evening shift); the kid who pumped your gas at the truck stop was friends with the sheriff’s son; the sheriff’s wife sold Tupperware to the wife of the man who fixed your car.
The main industry in town was Mott and Crane Plastics, a factory that produced chess and checker pieces for companies like Milton Bradley. Most everyone had a relative who worked there.
Higgus blended in, despite his size. There was an anonymous quality to him which made his induction so seamless that locals occasionally asked him if he’d been living there his whole life. This was how he preferred it. He wanted to be nobody, and thus, paradoxically, be everybody.
He kept his distance, but not too much; he got involved, but only superficially. The behavior of the other residents seemed to confirm these stances as proper. Small talk – about the lack of rain, too much rain, Warm Plains High football (Badger Pride! Division C Champs, 1996), or the extra fifteen cents they were charging for lemon meringue pie at Seaver’s – was an art form perfected daily in Warm Plains. The town thrived on its torpid pace, its simplicity and innocence. Things here were black and white, easy, unmarred by the chaos of Chicago where Higgus had often been ridiculed and, even among the throngs of people, isolated. In Warm Plains, it was okay to be overweight. It was okay to be quiet. It was okay to play the tuba with no dreams of making it big. With no dreams whatsoever.
*
In the spring of Higgus’ fifth year in Warm Plains, John Spelling, the band conductor for both Warm Plains Elementary and Warm Plains High, collapsed in his shower. He was rushed to Cleveland Mercy, where he fell into a coma. The cause was unknown. The following Saturday, Higgus was approached by the Superintendent of Warm Plains Public Schools, who pulled into Higgus’ driveway in a Ford Bronco the color of dried blood.
“Mister Fleming,” the Super said, extending his hand. “Don’t know if you remember me, but we met two years ago at the ribbon cutting for the new Home of the Blind building. I realize I’ve shed a little weight since then. You might not recognize me. My wife’s got me on some ridiculous diet. God, I miss biscuits. Hope I’m not bothering you. I was in the area, thought I’d swing by.”
“Sure I remember you, Mister Chancelor,” Higgus said. He felt ashamed of the worn jeans he was wearing, but the Super didn’t appear to notice.
They sat at the kitchen table, sipping ginger ale. In the living room, Beethoven’s 4th was approaching its final crescendo.
The Super didn’t waste any time. “Folks have been saying you’re the tuba in this town, and if that’s the case, I’ve got an employment opportunity for you.”
With the untimely incapacitation of John Spelling, the Springtime Concert would have to be cancelled. Higgus started to speak, but the Superintendant hushed him with a fan of his hand.
“No, no, don’t worry. It’s too late for anyone else to step in. The concert’s in three days, and out of respect for Mr. Spelling, the PTA and teachers have voted to abort the mission. However, we’ve still got Summer Band Camp to think about. And if you’ll have it, you can be the man for the job.”
*
The concept was simple: a busload of 45 children, ages 11 to 14, would drive 200 miles north to Arbunkle Lake, where a cluster of cabins would serve as their home for two weeks, during which time Higgus would conduct sectionals, full band practices, games, and activities designed to inspire a love for music (as well as a feeling of bonding and camaraderie which would forever shape their future lives). At the end of the two-week camp, the children would give a Grand Finale performance to all of the parents, under the stars. Higgus would be paid $1,000 for his efforts.
*
As a child in Chicago, Higgus had no intention of studying a musical instrument. From his earliest days, when “flames” were something his daddy described as “the tongues of Satan,” Higgus had dreamed of becoming a firefighter like his father.
Unfortunately, a clinical and paralyzing fear of fire, which, strangely enough, behaved like a genetic defect, nullified his ambition. This phobia had shown itself at age 11, on a ride-around with his dad in the short fire truck. When they arrived on the scene – a dumpster pregnant with flames – Higgus went numb. The blood rushed out of his head; he fainted. After they revived him with smelling salts, he couldn’t speak for two days. That’s when his dad told him that his Grandpa had the same problem.
After high school, Higgus set his sights on police work, envisioning himself as an anonymous and dedicated cog in the gears of justice. He enrolled in the academy and promptly flunked out. Again, his genes worked against him; at 255 pounds, he was simply too heavy.
*
Higgus signed beside the large X. “I’ve never taught anything but brass instruments,” he said, handing the contract to Superintendant Chancelor. “I don’t know about teaching those sectionals.”
“Just give them a little prompting. Encouragement. You know the routine. Heck, you could probably do it blindfolded.”
*
They left just after sunrise on the third Saturday of June. Boys chased each other around the school parking lot. Girls did the same. Mothers and fathers huddled together in circles, sipping coffee, hands in pockets: “Clay! Get off the lawn!” “James, put that down, you don’t know where it’s been!”
Higgus stood at the side of the bus, helping Carlos the driver stuff the cargo hold with suitcases, tote bags, backpacks, and instruments.
“This is the first year without Smelly Spelling,” Carlos said, wedging a trombone case between two duffel bags. “Kids used to call him that.”
“Seemed nice enough to me,” Higgus said.
Carlos sneezed. He wiped his palm on his jeans. “Nice enough for what?” he asked. Sweat poured from Carlos’ wiry hair.
“I only met the man once,” Higgus said.
Carlos pulled a handkerchief from his jeans and pressed it to his face. “Never did anything to me personally,” Carlos said. “But the guy had a reputation, put it that way.”
The Home for the Blind van pulled up beside the school bus. Dottie Crandall eased out of the passenger seat, suitcase and cane in hand. She said goodbye to the driver and made a few tentative steps towards Higgus, swinging her wooden radar.
“Over here, Dot,” Higgus said.
“I know. I could smell you from the Amoco station,” she said.
“That was probably me,” Carlos said.
“I could smell you from my house,” Dottie said, and all of them had a good laugh.
At exactly 8:00AM, the bus pulled away from the school, flanked by parents whose waving arms and multitudinous “Bye!”s made them look and sound like a colony of birds.
Before they even hit the highway the kids were out of control, climbing on the seats, running down the aisles, engaging in games of who-can-scream-the-loudest. Higgus knew only a handful of them by name and had never been in a position of authority before. He sat at the front behind Carlos with his hands folded in his lap, hoping the noise would just go away. Carlos flashed him two malcontented eyes in the rear-view mirror.
Dottie took charge. She lead the children in a string of songs, some tolerable, some terrible, all repetitive. But Higgus was supremely grateful. He watched Dottie with admiration and thanked his better judgement that he’d invited her along.
She was a heck of a woman. Raised by an alcoholic father, twice divorced from philandering husbands, she radiated a confidence and passion that most people couldn’t find in themselves with a microscope. She was a true teacher: caring to a fault, selfless, direct. She could make anybody obey – child or adult – without them feeling that they’d compromised their behavior. In the two years of their friendship, Higgus had never seen her show weakness, except of course for scotch.
*
By changing keys, the tuba can transform any series of notes from a joyous to a tragic melody. It’s an ambience, a mood. It’s the wind rustling the trees; waves caressing the shoreline; a heartbeat giving rhythm to your life. Should the sound of one ocean’s waves be wetter than another’s? Should one sparrow’s flapping wings sound more fluttery than the next? Should that blade of grass grow more gorgeously than the one across the prairie?
No: anything more or less than expected would be jarring, unnerving, even unnatural. The goal for a tuba player is to go unnoticed. If a listener hears the tuba on a conscious level, then the player has made a mistake. So in a sense, to be the most mediocre tuba player is to be the best tuba player in the world.
*
Yes, he fawned over her. He was in love. During their weekly Cleveland Guardians games, they’d shared his sofa, eaten Orville Redenbacher popcorn, and drunk Wiedemann’s by the can. Higgus’s belly crackled with pubescent fireworks whenever their ankles met on the ottoman. Dottie was a small woman. Her hands were thin. She weighed, in Higgus’ conservative estimation, 170 pounds less than he. So whenever a romantic yearning gripped his heart, whenever his nose was treated to a dose of her sweet perfume, whenever he wanted nothing more than to guide her face toward his and kiss her on the lips, he shrank away.
He’d always been fat. Not chubby. Not plump. He was pale and unmuscled and enormous, and shorter than the average man. His chin was paradoxically both nonexistent and tripled. His penis was like the Loch Ness Monster, popping its head up from the lake of his belly only a few times a year, its existence only confirmed by the touch of his hands. He slid pine boards beneath his queen-sized mattress to help preserve the springs. In Chicago, small children had feared him. Bigger ones had laughed behind his back. The biggest ones laughed in his face.
Here in Warm Plains, however, the children had either learned to respect him or were better trained in the art of subtlety. He guessed the latter. Sure, he’d been asked the obvious question by children who batted innocent eyes: “Why are all tuba players fat?” He fielded this with his trademark humor and patience. “You have to be strong. You have to have lots of excess air.” It was a lie – flautists needed more lung power than a tuba player – but to children, the answer made perfect sense.
*
Two hours into the trip, nearly all of the children were asleep. The bus was mercifully silent. Higgus and Dot shared a seat near the front. It was not yet noon, but Dot was sampling her flask of scotch. Purely as a formality she offered Higgus a pull, which he declined. Spread open on Higgus’ lap was the blue binder he’d been given by Superintendent Chancelor. It had belonged to John Spelling and consisted of a detailed day-by-day itinerary for the two-week Band Camp.
There were maps, diagrams, charts, sketches, marginal notations, meaningful doodles. Higgus stared into the tangle of lines as if it were a bundle of twigs from which he had to decipher meaning. He cursed himself for his procrastination and lack of planning.
While Dot and the students napped, he succeeded in making some sense of the DAY ONE plan. They would deboard the bus at 11:45. There would be thirty minutes to find their assigned cabins and settle in. Lunch would be served at 12:15 in the picnic area (weather-permitting). At 1:00PM, icebreaker activities would be held in the recreation area near the lake (weather permitting). 2:30 was full band practice (just an introduction, really, where the sheet music was handed out and “a mood of joviality and spontaneity should be emphasized”). 4:00PM was recreation time (volleyball and kickball facilities provided). 5:30 was dinner in the mess hall, 7:00PM a hike around the lake (see maps: Appendix II), 9:00PM the campfire (see instructions, Appendix VII) complete with ghost stories and singalongs (included in Appendix IV), 10:00PM retirement to the cabins, 10:30PM lights out.
The remainder of the two weeks would follow the same basic pattern, except the days would be longer. Wake-up was at 6:00AM, followed by breakfast at 7:00AM. At 8:00AM the students were to divide into sectionals – woodwinds, brass, and percussion in separate groups so they could each learn their individual parts for the final concert. 10:00AM was Arts and Crafts, split equally between painting, Native American Headress/Totem Pole making, beadwork, glue art, and T-shirt screening.
In all, these were distressing details. Higgus figured he could fake his way through woodwinds, but percussion? How could he supervise three sectionals at the same time? And totem poles?
Tattooed throughout the pages were persistent mentions of a Mrs. Farnfall and a Mr. Weisglass, both of whom, unless they were phantoms created by John Spelling’s madness, were people who had played key roles in the smooth operation of Band Camp. Higgus didn’t recognize these names. He asked Dot; she said that they sounded familiar. No one had mentioned these folks to Higgus. In fact, no one had said much of anything. He’d agreed to the proposal, was handed the binder and sheet music by Chancelor’s secretary, was told to show up at the school packed for a two-week trip (“The art supplies and sports equipment are already at the camp. Just bring a major credit card for the volleyball net deposit. And don’t forget your tuba!”), and here he sat today. Perhaps Superintendent Chancelor had assumed he’d done this before, being The Tuba and all. Whatever the case, he was now about to drown.
*
With two years of lessons, he’d been mediocre. With five, pretty danged good. His teacher suggested trying out for the big one: the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. Higgus politely declined. He wasn’t out for glory. The tuba wasn’t a glory instrument. Higgus felt that the tuba’s very nature demanded a low profile. It wasn’t that he lacked confidence; it was that the tuba’s goal was subtlety, reserve, anonymity. Being bad would, of course, be bad. But being great or amazing or magnificent would also be bad – it would steal spotlight from the more deserving instruments. Let those who sought fame try out for the Chicago Symphony. He would be happy playing in his room, where anonymity was guaranteed.
Obeying this desire for obscurity, Higgus, at the age of 35, after stints in Salvation Army bands and Polka Bands, had said goodbye to his parents and his few friends in Chicago and moved 300 miles southeast, to Warm Plains, in order to sell real estate, paint houses, sell tacos – he didn’t care. He needed to carve himself a place in the world, so he chose the most insignificant town he could find.
*
All things considered, Day One turned out better than Higgus had imagined.
There were some bumps. Soon after the bus pulled into the camp, tantrums erupted over the housing assignments: Owen Flich wanted to room with Barry Lentz, and Jennifer Gibbons protested bunking with her arch-rival Lori Conway. Dot shrunk these crises to the size of aspirins, which she then coaxed the children into swallowing.
Because of a lack of both funds and parent/teacher participation, there weren’t any adults to supervise the individual cabins. However, Carlos went beyond the call of duty and volunteered to stay in Boy’s Cabin Number One. Dot took the Girl’s Cabin, and Higgus dumped his belongings into Boy’s Cabin Number Two. Each cabin contained fifteen children.
A misty rain began falling, so the kids were moved into the mess hall for lunch. The cooks prepared a meal of green grapes, bologna sandwiches, and canned chocolate pudding. Within minutes, grapes were flying. Dot caught one in the eye, another in the neck. Soon after, pudding globs catapulted around the room, launched from the plastic spoons. Everyone was screaming. Carlos covered his head with his arms, his black eyes murderous. He stormed from the mess hall, lighting a cigarette on his way out. Higgus, splattered with pudding, sat dazed, unable to move. Dot tried to corral the group like she had on the bus, but her voice was swallowed by the hysteria.
Through the kitchen door Higgus could see the cooks making jokes to each other. Their irreverence struck him deeply. Were they laughing at the food fight, or were they laughing at him? Higgus bolted to the corner for his tuba. With trembling hands, he avulsed the cumbersome instrument from its case, took a deep breath, and unleashed the deepest, longest, most eardrum-rending C note he’d ever summoned from old Grandpa Fleming’s heirloom. The place fell silent.
It was clear that none of the children had heard a tuba before. Maybe on television they had, probably from their parents’ stereos, but not in the flesh. They were frozen in their seats, their startled eyes fastened on the gleaming brass machine in Higgus’ arms. A few girls started crying. Dot took advantage of the mass paralysis, soothing the criers and convincing the others to help clean up so they would be ready for the next activity. Fifteen minutes later, the children filed quietly out of the mess hall, staring up at Higgus in mute wonder. A few of them wanted to touch the tuba. Higgus complied. “Smelly Spelling never played that,” one girl said, her fingers brushing lightly over the lip of the tuba’s bell.
They returned to the mess hall at 2:00PM – an hour later than John Spelling’s notes dictated – for icebreakers. Spelling had outlined five activities “appropriate for the nurturing of a common Camp mindset,” but Higgus ignored the suggestions. Instead, he asked the children what they wanted to do. Somebody suggested Musical Chairs. A general cheer filled the mess hall.
“We don’t have any music,” Higgus said.
“Play your tuba!” someone shouted.
So Higgus played. They arranged 44 chairs in a huge circle. Higgus promised to close his eyes so there would be no favoritism, then ripped into the stomping bass line from “Polka Polka,” an old standard from his Chicago days. Every five minutes or so he switched up, from polkas to upbeat classical numbers, to swing standards, and even a few 19th-century Slavic romps. It felt incredible to play again. He hadn’t had a real audience in over five years. The game lasted two hours. When it was over, Owen Flich was crowned the champion. Higgus was shocked to see that it was 5:00PM. Nearly dinner time. It was only the first day and he’d already managed to butcher John Spelling’s time-tested formula. He hadn’t even distributed the sheet music for the final performance.
There was no time to dwell on failure. After a dinner of hamburgers, potato salad, and Jell-O, the kids caught their second wind. They ran outside to play kickball and insisted on music for the game. The sky had cleared. A warm breeze from the lake brought the intoxicating perfume of summer. Dot and Carlos acted as captains, choosing the teams. Higgus, spread-eagled on a nearby boulder, emptied his spit valve. Then he played his tuba, summoning up the most dramatic pieces from his interior catalogue: he gave them Wagner and Brahms, Mozart and Tchaikovsky, and the children rose to the level of the music, giving a performance that bordered on legendary.
Throughout the game Dot sat with Higgus, occasionally touching his knee, telling him how beautiful he sounded. With a cigarette dangling from his lips, Carlos served as kickball pitcher. Dot cheered Carlos extravagantly. She couldn’t tell what he was doing, she said, but she knew it was good. It was after 9:00PM when the game finished. Higgus’ lips were numb. His fingers throbbed. He was happy.
After a campfire complete with roasted marshmallows and a vivid ghost story by Dot, the children, sleepy and mosquito-bitten, were ushered to bed. Higgus bid goodnight to Carlos and Dot, thanking them prolifically for their help. Carlos nodded, smacking his lips as if about to collapse from lack of oxygen, then disappeared into the cabin. Dot surrounded Higgus’ mid-section with an affectionate embrace. She raised her face to his. He could smell the scotch on her breath and stifled the impulse to kiss her.
“See you in the morning,” she said.
“Wouldn’t that be something,” he said. Her breasts brushed his belly.
*
When he was 24, living at home with a bachelor’s degree in Business from Loyola which he had no passion for using, Higgus’s grandfather’s ticker gave out. Grandpa Fleming’s will specified that Higgus should receive two things: a tuba, and $2,500 with which to pursue the study of said tuba. Everyone was a little surprised. Grandpa Fleming hadn’t played the thing in forty years. Even in his heyday he’d been nothing more than a replacement player in the Elk’s Club Polka Band. He’d never mentioned the tuba to young Higgus. The thing was buried in the old man’s attic under a mountain of furniture, lawn chairs, file folders and boxes. When Higgus’ father bestowed the dusty, moisture-damaged case upon Higgus, he said, “You can do what you want with it. The money, too. I think old Dad was senile.”
But Higgus would never go against his Grandfather’s wishes. He took the inheritance seriously, as he did most things in life. Besides, unlike the pyrophobia and slow metabolism, it was a gift passed down through the generations that could actually benefit him. He sensed a spiritual connection to the instrument his Grandfather had so lovingly breathed into. Music had always been a mystery to Higgus, and he could now begin to decipher its glories. He devoted his life to that tuba. He practiced daily and studied three times a week under the best teacher money could buy. After six months, the thousand dollars was gone. Using cash from his Real Estate job, he pressed onward.
*
Either Higgus’ alarm clock didn’t go off, or he’d forgotten to set it. He woke to the sound of a moose being disemboweled. He sat up, squinting against the daylight. The boys in Cabin Two cheered and applauded. Higgus saw Owen Flich proudly but tenuously embracing Grandpa Fleming’s tuba in his blotchy, twig-like arms.
“Good morning,” the boys said, in unison.
“What time is it?” Higgus said.
“Eight-thirty.”
They had missed breakfast. Dot and Carlos had also overslept. The grumbling cooks reheated the scrambled eggs, made up a fresh batch of toast and coffee, and the day began. Higgus sat with his two adult cohorts in a corner of the mess hall as the kids devoured their meals. Higgus flipped open the Spelling binder in a desperate attempt to refashion some semblance of structure, but Dot told him to forget it. Higgus covered his face with his hands. The John Spelling Itinerary was officially dead.
“Who cares?” Dot said. “You weren’t hired to be a John Spelling clone.” She tapped the open binder with her finger. “This isn’t the Bible. You’ve got to run your own show.”
“Yeah, man,” Carlos added, sipping from a small flask before shoveling a mound of eggs into his mouth. “Get you some breakfast, Tuba.”
*
Since Higgus was the only adult musician in attendance, they skipped sectionals and assembled the entire group in the band shell. Weather-wise, it was a miraculous day. Birds shot out of the trees into the boundless sky; grasshoppers lunged at the children’s ankles. Higgus handed out copies of the songs for the final concert.
None of the children seemed interested. They squirmed. They talked. The boys threw grasshoppers at the girls. The girls ignored the boys and made games of posing dramatically with their instruments. Higgus stood at the front of the group with his hands in his pockets.
“Can I have your attention?” he said. Nobody heard him. He looked over at Carlos and Dot, who were supine under a tree, swigging from Dot’s flask, engaged in an animated conversation which had nothing to do with the present situation. “Excuse me!” Higgus shouted. No response, not a turned head. He walked to his tuba, took it from the case, and ripped out an obnoxious blast. It shocked the children into silence. He saw Dot’s shoulders jerk, which made him happy. Then, before Higgus could say another word, the kids took up the chant, “Play! Play! Play! Play!”
“We have to practice,” Higgus said over the din. “Practice our songs!”
It was no use. He didn’t have the fight to tame them. Figuring that it was better than nothing, he treated the children to a solo performance of the music they held in their hands: Gonna Fly Now (Theme from Rocky), Suicide is Painless (Theme from M.A.S.H.), Theme from Superman:the Movie, Theme from Hill Street Blues, and a Kenny Loggins medley that included Danger Zone (Theme from Top Gun) and Footloose (Theme from Footloose). The songs were incredibly outdated. The children had never heard these pieces before, but he implored them to read along as he played. It was a weak and tedious performance during which plenty of attendants, including Dot and Carlos, fell asleep. At least they were quiet.
*
The first week passed in a sluggish fashion. Higgus’s sole triumph was corralling the kids for one more full-band practice. Music was the furthest thing from their minds. They wanted to play kickball, swim, hike – anything. They only craved the tuba: whether it was genuine interest or a snow job Higgus couldn't tell, but the children persisted in their desire. He blew for kickball games, swimming outings, hikes around the lake, and musical chairs.
Higgus’ joy gave way to anxiety. Nothing was being accomplished.
Worse still, Dot and Carlos receded deeper into their alcohol-soaked partnership, day by day leaving the work on Higgus’ robust but sagging shoulders. Beneath the trees they sat, legs touching, sharing the flask. During lunch and dinner they vanished into Carlos’ cabin for long stretches, emerging late in the day to finish their bottle by the campfire. Mornings found them side by side on the end of the dock, appearing as a single speck, the lake glistening before them like a shiny open wound. With the damaged heart of a 12-year-old, Higgus watched. His insides felt wrecked. He was alone now.
*
People underestimate it. They’re dazzled by the size of its bell or shaken by the thunder of its timbre, but in most pieces of music, the tuba is nothing more than a pulse. And nobody notices a pulse, not consciously. An aficionado in the crowd might focus his ears on the tuba line for a few precious seconds, like a parent who peeks his head into the room to make sure his son is still doing his homework. ‘Yes, everything seems okay. Now back to the baseball game.’
*
When Day Eight arrived, so did two guests: Claire Farnfall and Desmond Weinglass, the phantoms from the Spelling Notebook. They rolled noiselessly into Band Camp in a waist-high red Porsche. Behind mirrored sunglasses, dressed to strangled perfection in matching suits, they looked like a pair of CIA agents. Only Claire’s heavy limp and Desmond’s piano necktie ruined the illusion. They marched toward the kickball diamond, crushing grass beneath their shoes.
Desmond Weinglass selected a patch of ground on which to stop and survey the scene, then cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted, “Higgus Fleming, please!”
Higgus paused in the middle of Rocky’s fourth measure. He glanced around, hoping somebody else would claim ownership of his identity. When there were no takers, he laid the tuba on the ground and walked over. “I’m Higgus,” he said, extending a moist palm.
“Desmond Weinglass and Claire Farnfall,” Desmond said, accepting the hand with as much enthusiasm as he would a soiled sock. “We’re here to take over.”
“Take over?” Higgus said.
Claire stepped forward laboriously, walking as if her body was on two different steps at the same time. “The truth is, Mr. Higgus, that you should have consulted us well before DAY ONE.” She said DAY ONE as if it were in capital letters. “Apparently you thought you could do it on your own.”
“Nobody told me – ”
“And then,” Desmond interjected, “we received word that the level of discipline had fallen far short of the standards set by Warm Plains Public Schools (not to mention John Spelling) and it’s our intention to return some semblance of order to what appears to be nothing short of a shambled ruin.”
“Shambled?” Higgus said, groping for words. He stammered, “I was, we’ve been, sheet music…” It was hopeless. One of the kids had apparently called home and given a detailed account of Band Camp’s rigorous kickball schedule. He had no defense. He had failed.
With heads lowered, the children abandoned the game and let themselves be led to their cabins to retrieve their instruments. Claire lined them up like soldiers. She counted them. She took roll call in a loud and serious voice, and then they began the march to the band shell. In Higgus’s mind was born the cinematic notion that the children would rise up as one mind, one will, in the style of Dead Poet’s Society. They would cast down their instruments and engulf him in a loving, protective swarm, and that one child, perhaps Owen Flich, would raise high the tuba to issue forth a flawless rendition of Wagner’s Flight of the Valkyries, eroding the stone of Weinglass and Farnfall’s faces into a gullywasher of grateful tears.
It didn’t happen. None of the kids bothered to look up at their dejected Tuba as they passed, none except Owen Flich, who cast Higgus a sneaky smile while digging his index finger deep inside his red nose.
Higgus catalogued his choices: he could call a cab and go home, or he could stick out the rest of the week, submitting himself to the inevitable hatred of the hundred-odd parents and teachers. A third option came to mind. It was exactly like the first, except he wouldn’t be alone.
Tuba in hand, soggy from the heat, he went to find Dot. Around each turn, there waited nothing but absences, spaces where Dottie’s presence lingered, spaces defined not by what existed but by what didn’t. He searched cabins, mess hall, dock, even the school bus. Passing the cafeteria, he saw Desmond Weinglass inside, talking on his cell phone. Higgus stopped, out of sight, to listen.
“I have it from Dottie that the kids weren’t even going to bed until eleven-thirty,” Desmond said. “I know, we’re working on it.”
It was hard to believe; it didn’t make sense; Higgus didn’t feel authorized to do anything other than slink away. He had one more place to look. He hiked around the lake.
The trapped itch of perspiration in his hair, the mosquitos swarming his face and arms, the rising swell of the distant band – his band, being brought to life by John Spelling’s goons – imbued in his steps the sensation of defeat. He clutched the tuba to his chest like a life raft.
He reached a clearing, and that was where he found them. They were passed out, or possibly just sleeping, on a ratty quilt, in each other’s arms. The rise and fall of Dot’s breast carried with it Carlos’s forearm. Her face bore a faint smile as if she were dreaming. Higgus wondered if she dreamed of images, of colors, of details her waking eyes could not see. Or did she dream of sounds, smells, touch, and taste?
Higgus genuflected in the dirt. He opened his tuba case. Fingers shaking slightly, he screwed on the mouthpiece, opened the valve, drained it for safe measure, then wriggled his rear end into a patch of grass until he was comfortable. The tuba fit his lap perfectly. Dot and Carlos lay ten feet from him, Carlos glazed with sweat and snoring, Dot matching him breath for breath. She looked so peaceful and content, as if she would stay that way forever.
Motionless, Higgus listened. The feeble, slightly out-of-tune strains of Suicide is Painless drifted over the lake, carried like a crippled bird on the wind. He heard a thousand leaves being shaken by that same breeze. The lips of water, gentle waves, kissed the shore.
He began to play, a quiet deep thrum. Dottie stirred on the blanket. A faint smile formed on her lips. He was right where he needed to be.
Darrin Doyle is the author of seven books of fiction, most recently the novella Let Gravity Seize the Dead (Regal House Publishing) and the novel The Beast in Aisle 34 (Tortoise Books). His short stories have appeared in literary journals such as Alaska Quarterly Review, The Macguffin, Spelk, and Blackbird. He teaches at Central Michigan University.