Years later, the cello still sounds like velvet and fine red wine, and even I can tell the difference in the quality of sound when she takes it out of the felt-lined case. Mom’s “everyday cello,” as she likes to call it, is perfectly functional and much less expensive. She uses it for teaching lessons and trying new music.
“You’re so clueless,” Jonathan says coldly.
“What do you mean?” I sit back on my haunches to watch my brother wrestle with himself. This is unfamiliar territory for us—Jonathan and I are never at a loss for words, and rarely fight. Suddenly the distance between us feels like a chasm.
“Forget it.”
“Hey,” I plead. “What’s going on?”
Jonathan rubs his hands over his face, leaving behind a streak of mud that cuts from cheekbone to jaw. He looks exhausted and sad, and I want to step over the plants between us and wrap him in a hug. I don’t dare.
“I’m stressed,” he says finally. “Tired. We’ve put in fourteen-hour days this week.”
It’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for his current mood. But I don’t buy it. Jonathan is annoyingly easygoing, optimistic to a fault. Seeing him like this—as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders—isn’t just unusual, it’s unnerving. “Does this have something to do with the Murphys?” I ask.
“Does what have something to do with the Murphys?”
I jump at the unexpected sound of a voice from someone just behind me. Whipping around on my knees, I find Cal Murphy standing in the row a couple of feet away, hands in his pockets and a sheepish look on his face.
“Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s fine,” Jonathan answers for me. He’s already on his feet, brushing dirt off his palms. “We were just about to take a break.”
I giggle, hand pressed to my heart. “You scared me!” I accuse. The conversation has unraveled, and I’m grateful that Cal doesn’t press me to explain why we were talking about him. Jonathan reaches over the row and pulls me to my feet, and I wobble a little unsteadily on the mulch, heart still racing.
“Sorry,” Cal says again. “I should’ve called. Beth is working on some paperwork and I thought I’d walk over to see if I could catch Rebecca. Is she around?”
I slide my gaze to Jonathan and realize that he doesn’t seem surprised by Cal’s request as much as he seems angry. His mouth is a thin white line. “My parents are in town,” he says.
“Do you know when they’ll be back?”
I’m about to tell him that they just ran to the hardware store—with maybe a quick stop for a few groceries or a coffee at Cunningham’s—but one look at Jonathan stops me short.
“We’re pretty busy today.” He puts his hands on his hips.
“Well,” Cal says, “maybe tomorrow, then.”
I can tell Cal is as confused as I am by Jonathan’s behavior, but he smiles and appears to shake it off. “The garden sure looks good.” He crouches down and brushes the tops of a row of bean sprouts with his fingers. “Heirlooms?”
“I think so,” I say, when it becomes obvious that Jonathan isn’t going to field this one.
Many of the seed husks are still attached to the new sprouts, and Cal carefully lifts one off a green bud. “Those labels might have gotten mixed up,” he tells me, holding out the shell in the palm of his hand. It’s light brown and speckled like a cardinal’s egg.
I shrug. “I’ll let her know.”
“Does Rebecca use chemicals?” Cal asks. He pushes himself up, brushing his hands on his jeans and leaving behind dark smears.
I’m not sure how to answer this question to his satisfaction, but I don’t have to consider my options for long. As I watch, a fast line of red snakes out of Cal’s left nostril and begins to slip off his upper lip. The first drop lands in a splotch on his T-shirt, a crimson oval that looks almost exactly like a bullet wound. I can’t quite register what I’m seeing, but Jonathan leaps forward.
“Cal! You’re bleeding!” Jonathan reaches him in a second, but there’s nothing he can do. He fumbles in his pockets for a tissue, for something, anything, but comes up empty-handed except for a bit of loose change and a crumpled gum wrapper.
By now, Cal’s nose is bleeding freely, his T-shirt a ruin of red and his mouth slick and gory. I’ve had bloody noses before, but this is shocking. The thought flashes through my mind that he’s dying before our eyes, of an aneurism or some horrific and unnamed disease. But Cal is unfazed.