When life stumped Charlie, he retreated into music. That’s
what he wanted to do now.
He stood fidgeting in the feathered shade of the cedars at the edge of the creek and
sniffed the sun-splattered earth. Water breaking over the rocks struck five distinct
tones, the first three and fifth and sixth pitches of the B-flat scale. The sound
reached his ear in random variations, never the same order of tones, never the same
rhythm, patterns blurring into patterns. He closed his eyes and shook his head.
There you go again. Admit it. You’re stumped.
From behind him came the plink plink (F-sharp) of Boyd pounding in tent pegs.
Boyd, his beautiful son, was so unlike Steve, his strong son, that sometimes Charlie
wondered if their mother, Evelyn . . . Don’t get off on that.
He meandered back through the trees, ducking low beech branches heavy with June’s
fresh growth. Ashes from campfires lit for countless years in this spot grayed the
red Maryland earth. The smell of burned wood, male sweat, and the untroubled
Catoctin forest made him grin. He saw dirty feet and skinned knees and pint-size
swim suits hung on limbs to dry. They’d started coming here when the boys were
little because it was the only vacation he could afford. They’d never stopped.
Once past the clearing where Boyd, cross-legged and barefoot, was tapping
in the last stake, Charlie stopped by Steve’s car, a rented candy-apple red
Thunderbird. Sweet car. He opened the door to his own ‘83 Ford pickup of no
particular color and took his acoustic Martin from behind the seat. He sat on the
folding chair by the camp table and plucked.
Boyd looked up and smiled. The Bible had it wrong. It should have said, “It
is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a beautiful man
to enter into the kingdom of heaven.” Boyd was beautiful. Too beautiful for
the word “handsome.” He was tall and angular with the kind of grace
that always made Charlie think of an eagle full to the wind, yet thick enough from
working out that his body was manly. His hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes were the
color of tarnished brass, his skin just tawny enough (granted, from sun lamps) to look robust, his wide-set eyes a May-sky blue.
Charlie picked a slow B-flat scale and compared the tones to those from the creek.
His relative pitches were truer, but he’d tuned a hair sharp. He damped the
strings and blew the air from his lungs. This wasn’t getting him anywhere.
What was he going to do?
TOM'S TALES