Pitch Change

Henna, age 17

And then, as we rounded the corner, there he was. Leaning against the cafe wall.

I smelled his cigarette before I saw it. When he glimpsed us out of the corner of his eye, he tugged it from his lips and stubbed the glowing tip into the bricks behind him.

“Oh,” he said. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I said.

Daily grabbed the loose elbow of my sleeve, tugging, her signal for “we should probably leave right now.”

I pulled away, my signal for “it’s fine, you’re fourteen so act like it.”

“You look nice,” Julien said.

“Oh.” I looked down at my flower-print summer dress—it looked straight out of a brochure for a cruise to Spain or Italy. “Thanks.”

“I thought you quit smoking,” Daily said.

“Oh, hey Daily,” Julien said, dropping the cigarette.

Daily stared at the place where he’d dropped it like it might come alive and attack her.

“We—” I motioned at the glass door. “We should, maybe, get inside?”

“Right, right.” Julien spun, grabbed the door handle, and ushered us in. “Losing my mind, I tell ya.”

We stepped into the buzz of happy diners. Syrup and sugar and coffee were thick in the air, and suddenly I wasn’t hungry at all.

Daily, determined to get this over with as quickly as possible, claimed the first empty booth she saw. I slid in next to her, the red vinyl cool through my thin dress. Julien seated himself across from us and picked up a menu.

“So—” I took my cloth napkin into my lap, spilling the silverware onto the scratched formica table. “How’s your job at—at—”

He looked up. “Michael’s?”

“Michael’s, yes.”

“Holding steady.”

“So—you’re getting paid alright?”

He smiled a little. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

“I’m not—I’m not worried, I just—well, we don’t hear much from you—”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

We went back to staring at our menus and listening to the clinks of people finishing up breakfast around us.

Daily tapped me on the arm. “Can I have this?” she said.

“What?” I was looking blankly at my menu, the words blurring dizzily in front of me.

“This.”

I shook myself out of my daze and looked. “The apple crepe? Sure.”

“Thank you,” she said.

She laid down her menu. I went back to mine. My palms were beginning to sweat.

“How’s Cyrus?” Julien said, abruptly.

“He’s fine,” I said, laying my menu on top of Daily’s. “He’s gone back—he’s still working at the factory. He’s keeping up the garden…” I trailed off, unsure how much he wanted to know.

“Look,” Julien said, “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it out for Grandma's funeral.”

I swallowed. “It was small anyway.”

“Look,” Julien said.

Daily sat up straight beside me. “He had a heart attack, Julien.”

“Daily,” I started, but then a waitress dropped her hand down on our table and asked what she could get for us this fine morning.

Daily leaned forward, pursing her small red lips. “I’ll take the apple crepe, thank you. With milk. Thank you.”

I wiped my wet palms on the cool vinyl. It left marks.

“And you?” the waitress said.

“Oh,” Julien said. “Yes, I um—I’ll have the country omelet?”

“With a side of—”

“Bacon,” Julien said.

“And—”

“Coffee, please. That’ll be all.”

“And you?” the waitress said to me.

“I’ll have a water,” I said. “That’ll be all.”

Daily stretched across the table with the stack of menus. The waitress took them and whisked away, leaving us in smothering silence.

“What?” Julien finally said to Daily.

“What what?” she said. “Oh. Grandpa had a heart attack, over a week ago. In the factory. They took him to the hospital and gave him a treatment.”

“Why didn’t I know about this?” Julien was talking to me now.

“I didn’t think—” I started.

“He’s fine, now,” Daily said, quickly.

“Look—” Julien said.

“The doctors said he’s fine now,” Daily said, rearranging her silverware. “He works in his garden, and chops up chickens all day and comes home and helps us cook dinner.”

Julien shook his head. “He shouldn’t be working in that factory. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it—”

“Who else is going to keep the house paid off?” The twinge of bitterness in my tone surprised me.

Daily stopped spinning her fork and looked at me.

Julien laid his hands out flat on the table, palms down. “Look,” he said. “I know you’re angry at me.”

“I’m not angry,” I said.

“You’re angry for leaving you alone with them.”

I stared at him.

“I’m angry at you for smoking,” Daily said.

“I’m not angry at you for leaving me with Grandpa and Grandma, if that’s what you’re saying,” I said. “I love living with them. Or—with Grandpa, now, I guess.” The old rock lodged in my throat again.

Julien nodded. “You’re angry at me for missing the funeral.”

“I’m not angry,” I said, my voice rising.

“Don’t yell,” Julien said.

I clenched my napkin so tightly my knuckles almost burst through my skin. “I don’t care where you go or what you do. It’s your life.”

“Look, I just wanted you to know that I get it if you’re angry.”

“I’m not angry,” I said, my voice level but tight.

“Alright,” he said.

“Alright,” I said.

He glanced out over the restaurant and started drumming his spoon on the edge of the table.

I looked down at my lap. Suddenly, I was cold.

“Stop, please,” Daily said.

Julien laid his spoon down on his napkin.

I took a deep breath and smoothed my dress across my knees.

“So,” Julien said. “How’s school, Daily?”

“Depressing,” Daily said. “I’m getting A's in everything again.”

“Shouldn’t they move you up a grade?” Julien said.

Daily shrugged. “Can’t until next year.”

“You should come down to Bridgewater,” Julien said. “They’ve got some great schools down there. Lots of advanced classes, and great science electives I hear.”

“I like it in Hopkins,” Daily said.

“Grandpa couldn’t pay for that, anyway,” I said.

“I understand that,” Julien said.

I looked up at him through my eyelashes. “How well does your job pay?”

“Oh,” he said, halfway laughing. “Oh, I didn’t mean that. I couldn’t. I mean, you know that.”

Neither Daily nor I made a sound.

“Michael’s isn’t some massive production company or anything,” Julien said.

We watched him.

He looked down, for the first time, probably. “Look—”

“No, you look,” Daily said.

“You missed a beat,” I said.

“A whole lot of beats,” Daily added.

“Look,” Julien said, “I asked if you were angry with me—”

“I’m not angry at you for not taking us with you,” I said, clenching my napkin again. “Only that you didn’t do your part.”

“No one leaves without doing their part,” Daily said. “Or we all miss a beat.”

“And it throws the whole song off kilter,” I said, softly.

Julien breathed in deep and looked at his hands splayed on the tabletop. For once, he didn’t say “look” or act confused. He just sat there for a minute, then turned back to us.

“I know I threw you off,” he said. “How’s that?”

“Threw us off like an old coat,” Daily said.

“No,” Julien said.

“Like a shirt that didn’t fit anymore,” she said.

“No,” Julien said. “I didn’t leave you behind.”

And then the waitress was back, setting Julien’s plate in front of him, then sliding Daily’s across to her before handing out the drinks.

Other than my murmured “thank you,” no one spoke a word until she left.

Julien broke a piece of bacon in half, then in fourths. “Not everything has to stay the same, you know. Some things change.”

“Change isn’t good,” I said, “unless you have the good of everyone in mind when you make it.”

“Grandma made you miss a beat,” Julien said, grabbing my gaze. “Didn’t she?”

“That’s not the same thing,” I said, the tightness creeping back.

“Although you might as well be dead for how much you care about us,” Daily said.

“I do care about you,” Julien said.

I slid my water to the side and leaned across the table. “This is the first time we’ve seen you in a year, Julien.”

“I—” Julien started.

“You don’t even call that often,” Daily said. “We could all be dead by now and you’d never know.”

Julien lowered his head into his palms, pushing his long fingers through his chestnut hair. “I knew this was how it would go.”

Daily stabbed at her crepe, the fork tinking against her plate.

I took a drink of water. My pale fingers were shaky around the glass.

Daily chewed viciously.

“I’m sorry,” I said to Julien.

He dropped his hands from his face and took a long, slow drink of coffee. His cup thumped back on the table.

Daily didn’t turn from her food.

I watched Julien trace the base on his coffee cup with his right pointer finger.

“I should’ve been at the funeral,” he said. “I’m sorry about that.”

“This isn’t about—” Daily started.

I pressed my foot into hers beneath the table, my signal for “just now is not the time for mean words.”

“I didn’t forget about you,” he said. “I’d never forget about—” He stopped tracing his coffee cup. “I just couldn’t keep living there, couldn’t keep showing up at that same factory every day, watching the machines that killed my da—”

“They didn’t kill him,” Daily said, quickly.

“You weren’t there,” Julien said.

“They only hurt him,” Daily said.

“It pulled him in,” Julien said. “By his arm. I saw the blood, everywhere, everywhere—”

Daily covered her ears with her hands. I was gripping my napkin even tighter than before.

Julien dropped his head again.

A full thirty seconds passed before he raised cloudy eyes to meet mine.

“I couldn’t go back,” he said.

I swallowed and nodded.

Daily pushed away her plate.

“I’m sorry,” Julien said, softly.

She shook her head.

A moment passed. I think we were all trying not to think about one thing.

“And—” Julien said.

I looked at him expectantly. “And?”

“And I missed a beat, right?” He glanced at Daily. “Right, Dale?”

“Right,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” Julien said, looking at me now. “I missed a beat. Knocked the record crooked for a few seconds. But sometimes it’s good to miss a beat. It isn’t always a bad thing. Sometimes—” He was tracing his coffee cup again. “Sometimes it’s leukemia or a heart attack, or—” He cleared his throat. “Sometimes it’s an accident, but—sometimes it’s not. And that’s okay, too.”

“But it knocks everyone off center,” Daily said.

“But don’t you ever want to miss a beat, even if it does stop the song for a second?” Julien was looking intensely at me now, desperately, almost. “Don’t you ever want to take a risk, or break a stereotype, or leave home—” He closed his fingers around the edge of the table, nails gripping the formica. “Change isn’t always a bad thing—sometimes it’s good. Life is made up of change, and skipping a beat—well, I don't know, maybe it’s part of the song. Maybe it isn’t even skipping a beat after all, but just a—a pitch change. One that the entire band has to adjust to, but something okay, something that works.”

Even Daily was watching him.

“Do you—do you get it?” Julien said.

“A pitch change,” Daily said,

“Something like that,” Julien said. “Something anyone can call.” He paused. “And even if it does turn out to be a mistake, that’s all it is—a mistake. And the band can turn back around and try again.”

A pitch change.

“That makes sense,” I said, slowly.

Julien relaxed back against the seat. “Thank you.”

I watched Daily thinking about it as Julien tucked into his food. We asked a few more questions, lighthearted, but I could tell Daily was deep in thought the whole time.

Julien paid the bill, with an actual check. Daily halfway smiled when she saw it. So did I. Closer was better than farther.

Outside the cafe, Julien hugged both of us, holding his strong arms around us for a few beats. The old familiar didn’t feel scary—just a comforting sort of grief.

“Will you come back?” Daily said, and we could hear her “for good” in the air between the question and the answer.

“Maybe,” Julien said. “I’ll have to see. But in the meantime—how’d you like to come visit me in Bridgewater sometime?”

I looked at Daily.

“Sure,” I said. “We could do that.”

Daily tilted her head.

“Without missing a beat,” she said.