Ichecked the latch on the courtyard gate and slid a bakery box onto the kitchen counter when I came back inside. The sound of brass began before noon.
At first, it was only a trumpet somewhere off Magazine, a phrase cut short and picked up again, the sound that might have belonged to a man practicing scales with the windows open. By eleven-thirty, it had thickened into an ensemble. A snare came in. Then distant voices. A second line was underway.
The twentieth anniversary of the city’s celebration of survival had begun.
I set out special coffee for Dominic. The French press stood on a tray beside a small plate with half a baguette and butter. He entered the kitchen a minute later in dark trousers and a white shirt, sleeves unbuttoned. He was calm and composed, the way he was on any performance day.
“A second line already,” he said.
“It began about ten minutes ago.”
“It’s a day of celebration.”
He poured the coffee and drank while standing at the counter. He nibbled at the baguette. On performance days, he rarely ate much.
Thiago passed the kitchen doorway with his phone to his ear and a folded seating chart in one hand. He wore jeans and one of the shirts he’d bought on Magazine. He caught my eye briefly and kept moving.
He had set his go-bag at the base of the stairs that morning. I had noticed it on my way through the hall before six, packed, zipped, and positioned.
With both Eamon and Thiago in residence, the house was busier than usual. Not crowded. Alert.
Dominic set down his cup.
“You’ve checked the programs?”
“At eight-thirty.”
“And the car?”
“Thiago’s driving.”
I heard a slight sigh from Dominic. “Of course he is.”
The bullet hole remained in the salon plaster. Dominic had refused repairs twice. I’d stopped offering.
The front bell rang a little after ten. I dried my hands and crossed the hall. My mother stood on the front steps in a pale yellow linen dress and low-heeled sandals, a structured handbag hanging from one wrist.
“You’re early,” I said.
“You’re alive. That’s a fact worth confirming in person.”
I stepped aside. “Come in.”
Dominic heard us from the salon and immediately joined us. He greeted my mother warmly, took both her hands in his, and kissed her cheek.
“Solange,” he said. “I’m glad you came.”
“I wanted to see the man who’s making my son lose sleep.”
Dominic’s mouth shifted, not quite a smile. “I apologize for the inconvenience.”
She waved that away. “Survive the evening and we’ll call it even.”
They exchanged a look. My mother had met him before at several fundraisers and one funeral reception years ago. She respected his precision in addressing grief. He respected the same quality in her.
He excused himself a moment later and returned to the salon. My mother followed him only as far as the doorway. Then she stopped.
She turned her attention to the wall above the Steinway.
