From Yonder Comes

By Joe Ducato

Lopez dragged his cello case down the sidewalk.  He passed some boys running through gushing water from a fire hydrant then the aroma shop where the calico cat was on the fence, its tail swaying like the pendulum of a grandfather’s clock.  Not so far away sunlight blanketed the side of the mountain lighting up the wild flowers.

He stopped at the Brownstones, let go of the case, wiped his brow and looked at the back of his hand where he’d written an address, but he couldn’t tell if he’d written a 6 or an 8.  His 6s and 8s were like the DNA of identical twins.  He decided it was a 6, walked up to the door and rang the bell.  A pretty girl answered.  Behind the screen, she looked like a painting.

” Oh!” the girl put her hand to her mouth.

 “Hot one today,” Lopez wheezed.

“I have ice water inside for you,” the girl offered. 

“Can I see him first?” Lopez asked politely.

“Of course,” the girl smiled.

She picked up his case and led him down a hall to a small room that was empty except for a single bed with a sleeping man in it and a wooden chair at the end of it.  The girl propped the cello case up against a blue wall with paint so cracked it reminded Lopez of broken sky.

“He’s got another niece,” she said, “…but nobody’s heard from her in years.”

She removed rolled up papers from her back pocket, uncurled them and held them up.

“That’s his hand writing,” Lopez said, leaning in.

The girl pointed, “Right there.  A bed, a chair…and you.  That’s all he wants.  No 

hospital, under any circumstances, no hospital.   I’ve tried my best to get him what he wants.”

Lopez leaned closer, “Yes, that’s my name there.”

“He’s not a bad man,” the girl quipped, “…just odd.”

Lopez nodded.

 “There at the bottom,” the girl pointed, “It says he wants your playing to lift him up to the angels.  That’s quite a thing, don’t you think?”

Lopez looked down, then up at the girl.

“I can’t play,” he said, “I haven’t been able to in 10 years.  I lost my ear for the music – or maybe it was taken for something I’ve done.”

“Couldn’t you relearn, brush up?” the girl asked.

“I never learned,” Lopez replied, “It just came to me one day when I was a kid and I was fussing with my uncle’s cello.  I heard a piece of music over his radio and it was like a lightning bolt hit me.  After that, my hands just knew where to go and what to do.”

He looked out a curtainless window at the side of the mountain.

“From yonder comes, yonder goes I guess.” 

He lowered himself into the chair and stared at his dying friend. 

“I will try.  For him, I would do anything.”

He shook his head.

“We had some times, we did,” he remarked.

 “I know,” the girl replied.

 “I’ve finished the hull!” the man in the bed suddenly shouted making Lopez jump.

“Always with the grain,” the sleeping man continued, “Always with the grain.  The rocker is next. So many curves, so many challenges.”

The girl knelt next to Lopez.

 “He goes in and out.  Doctors said he would.  He’s building a boat.”

Lopez nodded.

“His hand.  It’s moving.” 

“He’s sanding I think,” the girl whispered.

“So smooth,” Lopez noted.

 “I know,” the girl replied, “He doesn’t have long.  Hours the visiting nurse said this

morning. That’s why I called.”   

Lopez pulled the cello case close and laid it at his feet.

The man in the bed whistled a tune as his hand moved.  Lopez opened the case, removed the bow, ran his hand over the hairs, then lifted the cello by the neck and propped it up against his body.  He dragged the bow across the strings producing a note.  

“Such a beautiful instrument,” the girl said.

“My uncles’,” Lopez said.

He rested the end of the bow on the floor.

“Will you leave me with my friend?”

‘Of course.”

“I’ll check on you,” the girl said then walked out.

She felt bad that she had asked someone to do something they could no longer do and bad that Lopez had lost his ear for the music.  Her uncle had, many times, talked about how beautifully Lopez played.

The girl went to the living room and settled in her comfy chair, the one she sometimes slept in.  She hadn’t realized that she had shut her eyes but the next thing she knew, 3 hours had passed.  The sun had nearly set.  She looked out the window.  The calico cat was on the sidewalk in deep thought.  She heard cello music coming from the other room.  The playing was choppy and off key.  She walked down the hall and peaked in.  She saw her uncle sitting up in bed.  Lopez stopped playing and turned.  

“He said he’s starving,” Lopez told the girl, “He wants a steak as thick as a log and 2 buckets of liquor to wash it down with, hard liquor.  I think my playing has chased away the angels!”

Lopez re-rosined the bow.  The girl’s uncle laid back and resumed his sanding.  The girl went back to the living room.  She thought, “Who could die to that?” and laughed.  She didn’t want to but she dozed off again.  She remembered that she hadn’t slept in days. 

She emerged from her doze to the most beautiful cello playing she had ever heard.  She tiptoed down the hall and stood outside the door, listening for 20 minutes.  The music engulfed her soul.  She opened the door and saw her uncle sitting up in bed again.

Lopez stopped and turned.  He smiled like a shirtless boy running through fire hydrant water.

“What was taken, was returned.”

“It’s beautiful, the gift,” the girl said then looked at her uncle, turned and went back to the living room.  She was happy, grateful for the blessing Lopez had received.

She thought she couldn’t possibly sleep again, but she did.  This time she fell into a deep slumber and walked through lush gardens with tall fountains.  

When she awoke, it was only hours before the dawn.  Silence filled the space where music had been.  She looked out the window.  The light was on in the aroma shop and it reflected in the puddles around the fire hydrant.  Soon, shirtless boys would run.

 She walked down the hall and peaked in.  She saw Lopez slumped in his chair, his cello against him.  She thought that he must have played himself into exhaustion, but when she got closer, she saw that he was dead.  Her uncle was sitting up, smiling.  He laughed.

“That son of a biscuit took my boat…” her uncle cracked, “Jumped right in it and rowed off like there was no tomorrow.  Ha!  No tomorrow!” 

He laughed again.

“And it sailed beautifully, balanced like a tight rope walker.   That’s craftsmanship.”  

He then laid back and shut his eyes.

“Life!  Ain’t it something!”

The girl nodded.  Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw that the calico cat had perched on the window sill, its tail swaying in perfect time.  Behind it, on the mountainside, under all the dark, the angel-trumpet flowers started to open.

Joe Ducato lives in Utica, New York.  Previous publishing credits include; Adelaide Literary Magazine, Santa Barbara Literary Journal, Modern Literature, Avalon Literary Review and Bangalore Review among others.