Norah's Ark. Judy Baer
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Street assumes I am the go-to girl when something concerning Auntie Lou comes up.
She loves music and can get a little carried away with the volume on her little old portable stereo in the store. She plays her LPs as loud as she can—until someone sends me over to tell her to turn it down. Sometimes I catch her in the back of the store, eyes closed, humming, shuffling her feet and communing with Lawrence Welk and his friends. She also likes Elvis, but people seem to get less tired of his voice emanating from the back of the shop. Mostly I’m delegated to talk to her about not feeding the gulls in front of her store or leaving mannequins bare except for elaborate hats, in the store windows.
“You don’t think there’s a danger of something like that happening again?” His forehead creased in genuine concern.
“Oh, I didn’t say that. She’ll probably do it sometime. At least she keeps her cell phone beside her—even in bed.”
The frown went away. “Good. I’d hate to think of her lying there, waiting for help….”
“That’s very sweet of you. Is this your duty as a police officer or as a concerned neighbor?”
“A little of both. I have grandparents, too, you know.” He smiled then, really smiled and I saw how truly handsome Nick is. He doesn’t smile often but when he does…let’s just say, it’s worth the wait.
“Where did your grandparents live when you were a child?” I asked, intrigued.
“On an island in the middle of Lake Michigan. Gramps was a fisherman.”
“And you saw a lot of them?”
“I stayed on the island every summer and worked for my grandfather.”
“So you like the water.”
Nick turned to look out at Lake Zachary, still as a mirror rimmed with a frame of lush trees and lawns dotted with large lake homes. “I do. This is an ideal location for me.”
“Then I’m glad you’re here.” I surprised myself with my enthusiasm over his good fortune. I guess I’m glad he’s here, too.
We carried on a rambling conversation about the lake, the weather, favorite foods: His are prime rib, mashed potatoes and corn. Mine are milk chocolate, dark chocolate and white chocolate. And hobbies: Nick is rebuilding a 1969 Camaro in his garage. My hobbies are the same as my business—animals, animals and more animals.
It was a rather cozy tête-à-tête until Joe walked out the front door of the coffee shop and noticed us. As he walked our way, I could see that he looked troubled.
“Hey, Joe, everything okay?” I patted the seat of the chair next to me and invited him to sit down.
He accepted the offer by dropping heavily into the chair. “Just the usual. Somebody wants vacation time and I don’t have anyone to cover it so that means I’ll be working nights next week. The espresso machine is trying to express itself in ways that make me think I’ll have to have it repaired. Same old, same old.” His gaze darted between Nick and me but he didn’t say any more.
“Nick was just asking about Auntie Lou,” I offered. “About her health,” I added vaguely.
“I’m not sure she has much time left at the shop,” Joe said bluntly.
“Do you know something I don’t?”
“Of course not, but she’s old. Old people lose steam, that’s all. She should be somewhere she can take it easy instead of working like she does.”
“Put her out to pasture, you mean?” For some reason, the idea of Joe suggesting that Auntie Lou’s “steam” was dwindling upset me.
“Hardly that. But I worry about her sometimes.”
“She is a little frail,” Nick added, trying to bridge the gap that had broken open between Joe and me, “but she’s got lots of spirit.”
“I think it’s great that both of you are concerned, as I am, but Auntie Lou isn’t finished yet.” I pushed away from the table. “I have to get back to work or I won’t get my order in on time. Nick, thanks for the coffee.”
He started to rise, but I waved him back into his chair. Such a gentleman.
Joe cleared his throat. “Don’t forget about my niece’s violin recital on Friday.”
I crossed my eyes at him. “If it’s as bad as last time, I’m bringing earplugs.”
“My sister says she’s improved a little.”
“Only ‘a little’? Joe, I suffered hearing loss at her last recital. I’d rather listen to a bagful of cats fight than Mozart’s Adagio in E major played by a nine year old.”
He shrugged helplessly. “My sister is expecting you.”
“Only for Maria, then.” I grinned and turned my back on them, reminding myself to stop at a drugstore to buy myself some cotton balls to plug my ears. I left the two of them together to find something to talk about.
The recital was even worse than I imagined it could be. Joe’s niece blistered out a classical piece that no doubt had its composer turning over in his grave, if not trying to claw his way out to rip the violin from the child’s hands. And she was one of the better ones. Even Joe’s comforting arm around my shoulders didn’t help. Throughout it all, the music teacher sat with a blissful smile on her face, nodding and looking proud.
“Is that woman attached to reality at all?” I whispered to Joe after the wailings and screeches were done. “If I had to listen to those shrieking sounds all day, I’d be deaf as a post.”
I moved a little closer to the buffet table where the prodigies’ mothers were serving pieces from a cake shaped like a violin. Accidentally, I bumped into a tall woman who hovered over the cake plates. “Excuse me, I didn’t mean…” She turned toward me. It was the guilty party. The one who’d taught all those innocent children to play like coyotes howling at the moon, like tires squealing on wet pavement, like turkeys having their tail feathers plucked…. There should be a law against what this woman does to music.
She smiled at me with that serene, unearthly smile. As she did so, I noticed a tiny earplug protruding out of one ear. She didn’t answer but gestured me to move forward through the line. No fair! Couldn’t she be penalized for using illegal equipment? Surely wearing earplugs was frowned on by a Teachers of Musical Instruments Association or something. There’s got to be an organization to prevent cruelty to parents.
“I’ll buy you dessert to make up for this,” Joe said later. At least I think that’s what he said. I’m new at lip reading, having had to start it only this evening, after the concert.
“Bribery won’t work. You owe me more than a crummy piece of pie for loss of hearing. Don’t ever do that to me again, Joe. Never invite me to anything where your family plays, sings, acts or orates. Promise?”
Joe smiled and took my hand in his. A dark curl fell onto his forehead and his eyes were mysteriously shadowed by the light of the streetlamp. “‘Love me, love my family.’ Isn’t that what you say?”
“I say ‘Love me, love my dog,’ Joe. And Bentley doesn’t play a violin.”
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