a jazz band. So he does play for people sometimes . IfAaron could play his trumpet for everyone, they’d be amazed and tell him how wonderful it sounds and how great it is that he’s here. Then Aaron’d see that he didn’t have to give up being a musician — even if we don’t have a jazz band.
“There’s nothing like a trumpet for patriotic songs,” Mrs. Varney agrees. “And for ‘Taps,’ too! That’s always so moving. That song was played at my father’s funeral. Did you know that? He was in World War II. It’s been a while since I’ve heard that song played, but it always brings tears to my eyes. It reminds us of all those people who’ve sacrificed their lives for our freedoms, and — Where is my cell phone? I’m sure I put it in here.”
As she hunts through her basket, I back away, smiling.
My work is done.
T he next day, Dad, Aaron, and I’ve been fishing on the Tess Libby for about three hours when Mrs. Coombs’s voice blasts over the boat’s VHF: “ TESS LIBBY! ARE YOU ON, JACOB?”
Mrs. Coombs never seems to understand that the radio’s microphone means people’ll hear her fine. She thinks she has to yell loud enough for people on the far side of the bay to listen in without even turning on their radios.
“JACOB BROOKS! I HAVE A QUESTION FOR YOU!”
The radio fizzles with static and then Uncle Ned’s voice says, “Jacob, for pity’s sake, answer her before we all go deaf.”
“NED BROOKS! YOU KEEP YOUR NOSE OUT OF THIS! I’M TALKING TO YOUR BROTHER!”
“Shirley, this is Jacob.” Dad turns the volume knob down. “What can I do for you?”
“Doris Varney said that boy of yours plays the trumpet. Is that true?”
“Ayuh,” Dad says.
“I’m in charge of the entertainment for the Fourth of July picnic,” Mrs. Coombs says. “The Ladies’ Aid Society wants him to play us some stirring patriotic tunes while Reverend Beal cooks up the chicken barbeque.”
Aaron stares at the VHF, as shocked as if it had burst into flames.
“You may as well say yes,” I tell him, smiling. “Because Mrs. Coombs isn’t really asking. She’s just telling you to be there.”
“‘You’re a Grand Old Flag’ and ‘Rally ’Round the Flag, Boys!’” Mrs. Coombs continued. “That’s what we need, Jacob. None of this modern-day screaming nonsense like we had last year with Donnie Burgess and that electric guitar! It’s a wonder Mrs. Ellis is still with us. It was enough to give someone her age heart failure —”
I slide my hand behind my back and cross my fingers for good luck. Say yes, Aaron. “It would mean a lot to everyone. Wouldn’t it, Dad?”
He turns to Aaron. “What do you think?”
Aaron’s eyes flash around him, like he’s looking for a place to run. But unless he jumps overboard, he can’t go anywhere. “I don’t have any sheet music for those songs,” he says finally.
“Can you find him some music to follow?” Dad asks into the mic.
“Of course!” Mrs. Coombs says. “I have a songbook here at home that’ll do just fine. Send him over tonight after supper, Jacob. I’ll have it all marked with what I want him to play.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning as Dad hangs up the mic.
“Let’s check how your traps are doing over near Sheep Island, Tess. Watch your feet, kids.” As the boat pulls away, Dad pushes a trap off the rail, and I watch the rope attached to it unwind off the deck until it reaches the buoy tied at the end. The rope yanks the buoy into the water, marking the trap.
Across the waves lies the low, hazy hump of Sheep Island. The spot I’ve been fishing has proved okay, but I think there’s a better one. “Today I’ll move one of my traps a little ways farther into the channel between Sheep Island and Dead Man’s Island,” I tell Dad as he guns the engine.
Though both islands have been deserted for generations, Dead Man’s is pitted with cellar holes — and a few even have stone chimneys still
“There’s nothing like a trumpet for patriotic songs,” Mrs. Varney agrees. “And for ‘Taps,’ too! That’s always so moving. That song was played at my father’s funeral. Did you know that? He was in World War II. It’s been a while since I’ve heard that song played, but it always brings tears to my eyes. It reminds us of all those people who’ve sacrificed their lives for our freedoms, and — Where is my cell phone? I’m sure I put it in here.”
As she hunts through her basket, I back away, smiling.
My work is done.
T he next day, Dad, Aaron, and I’ve been fishing on the Tess Libby for about three hours when Mrs. Coombs’s voice blasts over the boat’s VHF: “ TESS LIBBY! ARE YOU ON, JACOB?”
Mrs. Coombs never seems to understand that the radio’s microphone means people’ll hear her fine. She thinks she has to yell loud enough for people on the far side of the bay to listen in without even turning on their radios.
“JACOB BROOKS! I HAVE A QUESTION FOR YOU!”
The radio fizzles with static and then Uncle Ned’s voice says, “Jacob, for pity’s sake, answer her before we all go deaf.”
“NED BROOKS! YOU KEEP YOUR NOSE OUT OF THIS! I’M TALKING TO YOUR BROTHER!”
“Shirley, this is Jacob.” Dad turns the volume knob down. “What can I do for you?”
“Doris Varney said that boy of yours plays the trumpet. Is that true?”
“Ayuh,” Dad says.
“I’m in charge of the entertainment for the Fourth of July picnic,” Mrs. Coombs says. “The Ladies’ Aid Society wants him to play us some stirring patriotic tunes while Reverend Beal cooks up the chicken barbeque.”
Aaron stares at the VHF, as shocked as if it had burst into flames.
“You may as well say yes,” I tell him, smiling. “Because Mrs. Coombs isn’t really asking. She’s just telling you to be there.”
“‘You’re a Grand Old Flag’ and ‘Rally ’Round the Flag, Boys!’” Mrs. Coombs continued. “That’s what we need, Jacob. None of this modern-day screaming nonsense like we had last year with Donnie Burgess and that electric guitar! It’s a wonder Mrs. Ellis is still with us. It was enough to give someone her age heart failure —”
I slide my hand behind my back and cross my fingers for good luck. Say yes, Aaron. “It would mean a lot to everyone. Wouldn’t it, Dad?”
He turns to Aaron. “What do you think?”
Aaron’s eyes flash around him, like he’s looking for a place to run. But unless he jumps overboard, he can’t go anywhere. “I don’t have any sheet music for those songs,” he says finally.
“Can you find him some music to follow?” Dad asks into the mic.
“Of course!” Mrs. Coombs says. “I have a songbook here at home that’ll do just fine. Send him over tonight after supper, Jacob. I’ll have it all marked with what I want him to play.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning as Dad hangs up the mic.
“Let’s check how your traps are doing over near Sheep Island, Tess. Watch your feet, kids.” As the boat pulls away, Dad pushes a trap off the rail, and I watch the rope attached to it unwind off the deck until it reaches the buoy tied at the end. The rope yanks the buoy into the water, marking the trap.
Across the waves lies the low, hazy hump of Sheep Island. The spot I’ve been fishing has proved okay, but I think there’s a better one. “Today I’ll move one of my traps a little ways farther into the channel between Sheep Island and Dead Man’s Island,” I tell Dad as he guns the engine.
Though both islands have been deserted for generations, Dead Man’s is pitted with cellar holes — and a few even have stone chimneys still
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