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  He nods. “Both. Please.” He’s apparently one of those people who can eat a meal once an hour.

  I’m in the kitchen and Robert’s walking around the parlor, looking at books, looking at Grampa’s war medals, taking in the family photos. “This is you, right? The skinny girl in the middle?”

  “Aha—he plays the trumpet, and he’s also an expert at flattery.”

  He grins. “I meant to say, are you the slender brunette with the dimples and the smoky eyes?”

  I nod my approval. “Yes, and that’s my family. They live in West Virginia, near Charleston.”

  “Which explains your accent—not what I think of when someone says she lives in New York.”

  “Accent? What accent?” I say, drawing out the vowels for him.

  Maybe it’s because I know he has a girlfriend. Maybe that’s why I suddenly feel like I can flirt a little. Because that’s not like me. But he doesn’t know that. At this moment, I think I know more about him than he knows about me.

  He flips a thumb toward Grampa’s door. “Your grand-dad’s room?” I nod, and he points at the case where Grampa’s Purple Heart medal is on display. “He’s not going to come charging out here with a bayonet, is he?”

  “No chance.”

  The phone rings on Grampa’s desk in the study. It’s too late for my mom to call, and I don’t want to talk to anyone else. I keep making the sandwich, and Robert says, “You want me to answer that?”

  “The machine’ll get it.” Then I remember again: Every phone call could also be Grampa. And I hold my breath, hoping.

  But after the beep it’s Uncle Hank, and he’s talking so loud, I can hear him from the kitchen.

  “Lawrence? . . . Pick up. . . . Blast you, Lawrence! . . . Pick up your phone. . . . Okay, so it’s late. But you call me tomorrow at home. I’ll be out in the morning, so call me at noon. I tried to call today, and then I come all the way there, and I let myself in to wait, and then Gwen shows up and breathes some fire, and she boots me out—said she’d call your lawyer if I didn’t leave. That girl’s got some spunk—wonder where she gets that from, huh? Anyway, you call me tomorrow about the house deal, or else I’m gonna have to show up there with the cops . . . so I can check up on my eighty-five-year-old brother who’s not answering his phone. This is the wrong time to try to ignore me. And please, tell little Gwennie to stay out of my way, okay? I need that money, Lawrence, do you hear me? I need it. So you call me.”

  Uncle Hank slams down his phone, there’s a dial tone, and the machine shuts off.

  Robert looks uncomfortable. He manages a smile and says, “Your grandfather’s a sound sleeper.”

  I put his plate and glass on the table, and as Robert sits down, I tell the truth. “Actually . . . my grampa’s not here.” Because it seems to me that a person who’s not involved, who’s just a visitor from Chicago, someone like that would be exempt from what Grampa said. About not telling anybody.

  Robert’s eyebrows shoot up. “So something is going on? Like that guy said?”

  I hesitate, then decide. “Can you keep a secret?” Because I want to tell him the rest of it.

  His eyes are greenish blue and there’s nothing hidden, and he nods. “Keeping secrets is one of my best talents. Right up there with trumpet cadenzas. And flattery.”

  He follows me into the study with his sandwich and milk. I push the button on the answering machine, and I click back through all of Friday’s messages from Uncle Hank, from Kenneth Grant, from Jason the fourth-floor tenant. And I play him Grampa’s message from Thursday.

  At the part where Grampa says, Please don’t tell anybody I’ve gone. Especially Hank, Robert looks at me and nods.

  When the message is done, Robert says, “And you don’t know when your granddad’s coming back?”

  “Right.”

  “And the man who just called, that was Hank?”

  “Right again.” And then I tell Robert about the invasions and the yelling, and about how they both own the building, and about Uncle Hank being in the house this afternoon.

  “He really scared me—and he did it on purpose. He’s so . . . inconsiderate.” Which wasn’t the first word that came to my mind. But I’m trying to do what Grampa said and not judge Uncle Hank. It isn’t easy.

  “So if you can’t reach your grandfather to tell him to call Hank, then he’ll use that as an excuse to come blasting in here tomorrow with the police, and then he’ll find out his brother is missing, and then he’ll take charge of the house. And then little Gwennie will have to go away.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “It’s bad timing.”

  Robert nods. “The worst.” And then he’s quiet, because he understands how much work, how many years of preparation it’s taken me just to get in line for auditions at good music schools—much less get accepted at one. Not to mention get a scholarship.

  Then he says, “So what are you going to do?”

  “About which part?”

  “About your uncle coming here tomorrow. And maybe bringing the police.”

  I shrug. “There aren’t any good choices. And I don’t want to start telling a million lies. I should probably just call Grampa’s lawyer. He’ll know what to do.”

  Robert shakes his head. “If you do that, then he might go to the police himself if it really looks like a missing-person case. Lawyers are officers of the court.”

  And I wonder how someone like Robert would know a thing like that. Another surprise from the trumpet man.

  Then I have another thought. “But maybe the police should be involved. What if my grampa’s really in trouble? I have no idea where he is, and I keep imagining the worst. Like, what if he went out yesterday afternoon, and he fell down somewhere, and the police just scooped him up and thought he was a wino, and they took him to Bellevue, or to a jail somewhere?”

  Robert looks at me, and his eyes seem so deep and clear. He says, “Well, you should absolutely do whatever you think is best. But on that tape it sounded to me like your grampa knew what he was up to. And it also sounded like he wants you to keep on with your own work. And he wants you to keep Hank in the dark about everything else. So . . .”

  Robert’s quiet again, and then he says, “Look. You need about two weeks, right? To get done with your auditions?”

  “Only half that to finish the most important ones.”

  “Okay, so you just need to stall your uncle for seven days. And all you’re doing is what your grampa asked. He said to keep his house going for him while he’s away. This is his place, and you have his permission. His brother can’t just whip in here because he leaves for a while. And your grampa left you in charge. Are you eighteen yet?”

  I shake my head. “No, seventeen.”

  Robert wanted a different answer.

  “Well,” he says, “even if you’re a minor, you’re still old enough to be left at home without supervision. And you’ve definitely been left in charge.”

  “Right,” I say, “but Hank’s going to stir up trouble, and that’s enough to ruin everything. If I can’t stay focused on my final prep work, I might as well not even take these auditions. I should just buy a bus ticket and go home.”

  “Oh, well, that’s clearly the winning attitude.”

  “Don’t be sarcastic.”

  “Then don’t talk like a dropout,” he snaps. Then, gentler, Robert says, “Look, let me hear that message again.”

  I point at the machine. “Be my guest.”

  He ignores the frost in my voice and sits down and plays Grampa’s message. Then Robert swivels the chair toward the bookcases and starts to talk, pretending that he’s on the phone. “Hank? This is Lawrence. What do you want?” And then he coughs. “Me? I’m fine. I just don’t want to talk to you, and that’s that. So stop bothering me. Now good-bye.”

  I stare at him, and my mouth is hanging open because Robert is using Grampa’s voice—not perfect, but really close.

  I say, “How did you do that?”

  “Gwennie
? Is that you? I need you to keep the house going for me while I’m away.”

  “Quit it! How did you learn to do that?”

  He grins at me. “Mostly from this stupid game I play with my girlfriend. When we’re out, like maybe to eat or at the mall, sometimes I try to make her think someone else is talking to her. It’s gonna sound sick, because she’s actually blind.”

  My mouth is hanging open again. “Your girlfriend’s blind? Really? And you trick her? With fake voices? That is sick.”

  He’s laughing now. “No, but it’s not, not for us. It’s just a game—really. And when I start using some new voice, sometimes she knows it’s me, but she pretends she doesn’t know, and she goes along with it, and then she zaps me. And sometimes I get everything perfect, and she really thinks I’m somebody else. And sometimes I do it when I call her on the phone. So I’m in practice. And I am completely awesome at prank phone calls. So I think your grampa needs to give mean old Hank a call. Tomorrow about noon.”

  His cell phone rings, and I jump a mile. Robert takes a look and says, “It’s Alicia—that’s her, my girlfriend.”

  So I nod and leave the study, pulling the door shut behind me. I can hear him talking, then laughing. And I can picture his smile.

  Nothing’s really changed here. Grampa’s still missing, Uncle Hank is still yelling, and my auditions are one day closer. But I feel better anyway. I don’t know if Robert can help me or not, but I do believe that he really wants to try. And I don’t feel like I’m on my own anymore, at least not the way I was this morning.

  So many surprises.

  On Friday, a little before midnight, I realize that instead of those poems by Yeats, I ought to be rereading Robinson Crusoe. Because that’s more like my story—me, alone on an island. Manhattan is not a tropical paradise, but Grampa’s ship is lost at sea, and Uncle Hank is doing a good job playing the part of a hostile native. And me, I’m the castaway.

  In Defoe’s novel, Robinson Crusoe finds a helper, and he names him Friday. And the castaway is sure that this helper has been sent to him by divine Providence.

  So if I’m Gwendolyn Crusoe, then maybe Robert is going to be my man Friday.

  Who has a girlfriend.

  chapter 7

  BUYING TIME

  Friday night ends when Robert leaves around one A.M., and before he goes, we’ve got a plan. I walk him to the door, and he says, “You sure you’re okay here? Alone and everything?” And the look on his face makes me think he wouldn’t enjoy it, himself.

  “Me? Sure. I’m fine. And the place has great locks. Very secure.”

  “Good. So, I’ll see you tomorrow.” And he’s gone. Because I’ve convinced him that I’ve got everything under control.

  But once I’m ready for bed, Gwen the brave one seems to be missing in action. This house is older than my violin, and the place breathes and creaks and clanks, especially when the furnace goes on and off during the night. I finally get to sleep by locking the door of my room and leaving the closet light on, and then saying the twenty-third psalm to myself about fifteen times. But I still have bad dreams, except now they’re about Grampa.

  As we planned, Robert comes back to the Page family brownstone around eleven on Saturday morning, still carrying his trumpet, and I’ve got some chocolate crois sants and fresh orange juice ready for our breakfast.

  It’s another bright February day, warmer than normal. I’m warmer than normal too. I can’t quite believe what Robert’s going to do, and I’m feeling feverish.

  After we eat and then sit in the parlor reading the Saturday paper awhile, it’s still about twenty minutes until noon. So I say, “Bring your trumpet and I’ll show you my practice room.”

  He picks up the padded case and follows me to the ground floor where I left my violin, and then we go downstairs to my studio.

  “This is great.”

  He’s right. It’s not a big space, but the lighting is good, and the acoustics are perfect.

  “My grampa had it built special. First he drove the carpenter crazy, then the electrician, and then the painter. It’s my favorite place in the whole world.”

  “And no one can hear you play down here?”

  “No one,” I say, “at least not the violin.”

  “Then it’s time to give it the trumpet test. Better shut the door.”

  He sets up his horn, and with no warm-up, he takes off into the last movement of the Haydn trumpet concerto. It’s all from memory, clean and classical, a silver river—almost five minutes with no letup. And it’s very good.

  And then, effortlessly, he’s playing a jazz solo, something I think I’ve heard before. And it’s cool and glassy on the surface, hot and liquid underneath. He leans into the notes, fingers on the pearl buttons, turning the air different shades of blue. It could almost change the way a girl feels about jazz.

  Before he stops, I have my violin out, and as he finishes, I cut in with the runs from the middle of caprice number 17. It’s his turn to listen. And having watched him so closely, now I’m aware of every move I make, each dip of my shoulder and slash of the bow. And I know Robert’s watching my fingers dance the way I watched his.

  And I get so flustered that I have to stop.

  He says, “No, keep going—please.”

  I’m blushing, and I say, “Could you maybe not look right at me when I play? It makes me nervous. It’s . . . it’s a problem I have. I hate playing solos, and if I ever get the orchestra job I want, I’ll never have to play solos. But you know how it works. Because before I get that job, I’ll have to do a jillion auditions. And every audition means I have to play a solo. So it’s a problem.”

  He nods. “I was like that, scared to be out front. I’m playing with the jazz band, and Mr. Stojis points at me to take a solo, and the drums and the piano have this great rhythm cooking, and I lift up my horn . . . and nothing comes out but little squeaks. Happened over and over. Pitiful.”

  Remembering the way he played for John Lennon, I say, “But you’re not shy now. Because I saw you last night, right there with people all around us. So how’d you get over it?”

  This unsettled look zips across his face, just for a second, and then Robert leans toward me and he says, “The truth? A couple years ago . . . I mean . . . well, no. It’s a really long story.”

  He smiles, then looks down and clicks the valve buttons on his horn. It’s the first time I’ve seen him look flustered.

  And once again I have the feeling that my trumpet player is full of surprises. Plus a secret or two.

  Then he says, “But let’s try something.” And he reaches over and flips off the light. Which is, in fact, another surprise.

  This room is fifteen feet underground, with a double-thick door and no windows. Complete darkness.

  And Robert’s voice says, “Now. Just play.”

  “Is . . . is this what you did, play in the dark? To stop feeling shy?”

  “Sort of. But don’t talk. Just play.”

  And then another thought, a big one. “Is it because your girlfriend’s blind, is that it? The darkness?”

  “Just play, okay?”

  So I do. I take a deep breath, and then the burst of notes that starts the caprice comes winging out of nowhere, filling the space. The staccato runs, the sharp double-stops, the rush and the flutter and the punch, and it’s all as if the music is happening without me.

  My fingers love the dark. They know where they need to be, and they know what they need to do. And this piece sounds so strong. The music is powerful, and so am I, here alone in the dark.

  But I know I’m not alone. Robert’s three feet away. Or three miles. Hard to tell.

  I’m still playing, whipping my bow from string to string, slashing toward the end, and now I understand why he did it, why Robert shut off the light: So he’d disappear. And me too. Because that’s what needs to happen, with or without the light. You have to let yourself disappear.

  After the Paganini, it’s still for a moment. Then
, because I truly am from West Virginia, I make my violin speak like a fiddle, and I begin playing “The Water Is Wide.” It’s an ancient tune, deep and dignified. After one verse, his trumpet reaches out and takes the melody, so I weave a simple harmony through the inky air, first high and then from beneath.

  The folk song ends, and the silence is dense and peaceful. I have not felt so much at home in a long time.

  Out of the darkness, he says, “Nice.”

  And I whisper, “Very nice.”

  And then sitting in the dark suddenly seems too weird, so I fumble for the lights, and as we both blink and smile, I say, “Your teacher’s right. And your girlfriend. You really are good.”

  “You too.”

  “Thanks.”

  He dries out his trumpet and puts it away. And as I pack up my bow and fiddle, I love my practice room even more.

  Then Robert looks at his watch and says, “It’s show time.”

  I’m following him up the stairs toward the parlor, and I say, “Do you really think we should do this? I mean, couldn’t we get in trouble?”

  He stops and turns to look down at me from the top step. “I don’t think there’s much risk. And getting your uncle to back off for a week or so doesn’t seem wrong—not at all. You’re just trying to keep the house going for your grampa. Which is what he asked you to do, remember? And I know just what I’m going to say. I’m not going to tell any lies. I’m going to make simple, true statements. And I’m going to use an old-man voice. So it’s like I’m making a prank call. And what Hank decides to make of it, well, that’s his business.”

  I shake my head. “Some smart attorney would love to hear you say all that—and then she’d tear you up into tiny bits and feed you to a judge.”

  Turning and walking into the study, Robert says, “If everything works out right, that’ll never happen. I’m ready to dial.” Then using Grampa’s voice, he says, “Now where’s that darned telephone number?”

  I can’t bear to stay in the study, so I pace back and forth in the parlor. It’s not a speakerphone, so I can only hear Robert’s half of the conversation. He sounds exactly like Grampa.