…..As we approach the gate of her apartment complex, Sara slows her pace and turns to me, slips her fingertips from three layers of sleeve and pulls down her scarf. Her nose is cherry-red, her lips dry and cracked. Her breath condensates around the words, “Do you want to come up?”
…..For three months we’ve walked the same route home after work, near each other if not together. We were neighbors before we were co-workers, and now we are friends—albeit work friends—on the precipice of becoming more.
…..In the entryway we tap the toes of our boots against the baseboards, knocking off clumps of snow. I unwrap my scarf, pull off my gloves and hat, and self-consciously run a hand through my flattened hair.
…..“Jean, your hand! It’s purple,” she says.
…..“I ought to buy better gloves,” I say, laughing, thrusting my hands into my coat pockets.
…..“Come on,” she says, “you can run them under some warm water upstairs.”
.
Henri
.
…..Hunched over the kitchen sink, my son unhooked a safety pin and held it over a flame. Then one by one, opened the blisters on his right index and middle fingertips. Then those on his four left fingertips.
…..I couldn’t see his face, only his broad shoulders, relaxed, and his pale hands working, still loose and nimble. I should have suspected that it started when he hauled up his old double bass from the basement, ordered new strings and began practicing every day, late into the evenings again.
…..He played in the high school orchestra twenty years ago. He’d auditioned on cello but didn’t get a seat, so I went down the next day and—had a talk with them—despite his mother’s protests. His older sister was the star singer in the school’s jazz choir, so they made him an offer: that he could play if he switched to bass. And it was a fine compromise. He was tall, my boy—and tall was what they needed to hold up such a large instrument—with big hands too, wider than a wax LP. Big steady hands, like mine, though I didn’t get the musical gene. I am—was—a carpenter. Not by trade. It was just a hobby, until the fading got bad.
…..In fact, I built nearly everything in this apartment: the mahogany counters and table, the swinging doors and C-shaped handles on the cabinets and drawers made to hook an arm under and pull. I still had a few good years after the fading began, and I made the most of them so that I could make the most of this place. For both of us. Just in case.
…..“Son,” I said, reaching a hand toward his back. But I stopped short of laying it there, limp and lifeless. Surely, I had already laid enough on his back.
…..He looked over his shoulder at me, feigning pain. “Bass blisters,” he said.
…..“It’s so nice to hear you play again. Was that some Miles Davis you were working on?”
…..“Yes. Well, Paul Chambers—” he said.
…..“Of course, So What, right? One of the best bass lines of all time,” I said.
…..He paused, set his hand on the countertop leaving four prints, red as wine. “It isn’t a bass line,” he said, “it’s the melody. The only track on the album—most albums—where the trumpet, saxophones, keys—everybody else—steps back to let the bassist play the melody. And it’s the best one on the record.”
…..“So What.” I nodded.
…..“Yeah. So what,” he said.
~
Continue reading in the March, 2026 Issue of Jerry Jazz Musician