History of the

TUBAA short story by

Will Binder

THE wooden balcony creaked as the old man walked across it. He was watching, as he did everyday at this hour, a parade

of young children working its way down the street, each one playing a brass instrument, and his attention was primarily focused on the young boy at the end of the line. This particular boy was struggling to keep up and the reason was apparent: Of all the young musicians in that parade, he was the lone tuba player. And unlike the two trumpeters marching up front, he was left to bear much more than just the heat of the afternoon. The instrument was heavy and awkward and it would occasionally slide about his shoulders pendulum-like. It coiled around his torso, the tuba. A golden python with its mouth opened wide above his head in constant anticipation of its next meal. And when the boy would blow on its tapered tail releasing a deep and sorrowful moan that would rattle the panes in the old man’s cloudy windows, he did so not out of desire, but out of desperation, as if it were the only means in which to keep this monster at bay.

Such a burden, the old man thought. Why would any child volunteer himself to this? But children at this age and in this city regularly pursued such challenges. They welcomed these instances to prove self worth, to show to their friends, as well as themselves perhaps, that they were relevant, that although they might be overlooked, they nonetheless should be preserved. And deep down inside the old man knew this for he too was a child once roaming these very streets, and, more significantly, he too was a young tuba player.

As was the case most of the time in New Orleans, a young boy rarely had a chance to choose the instrument he plays. That is, if there was a boy playing a dented old trombone, it was probably because his father played that same trombone, which in turn was passed down to him by his father. So on and so forth. Or if a boy was banging on the piano, it was only because his mother was a madam and in the French parlor where she worked sat a grand

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piano, in front of which he was placed at a very young age while his mother tended to business. On the unique occasion when the child didn’t come from a long line of trombone players, or his mother’s place of business didn’t have such an extravagant parlor, he then had the envied opportunity to choose the instrument he wanted to play. And more often that child chose the tuba. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that when a young boy and tuba coupled for the first time he immediately doubled in size, where the puniest child suddenly towered over his peers. Or maybe it was because, with the tuba, the child’s speech became a booming bellow far deeper than any grown man could ever naturally produce. Now even the faintest of voices could be heard. Whatever the reasons, the tuba was brawn, and brawn, of course, grabbed attention and secured entitlement. It was empowering.

Even now, at such an old age, the man watching that parade of children could remember clearly the strength he felt when he first breathed into the tail of the golden beast. He had stood no taller than the instrument itself when, as a child, he selected it among the other instruments littering that brass graveyard of a shop. He recalls the shopkeeper laughing and telling him to come back when he got a little taller. How about this nice cornet for now? But the old man persisted and he pulled out a wad of bills from his pocket and fanned them in front of the shopkeeper, who, upon this, raised his frosted caterpillar eyebrows and withdrew the splinter of wood he had been chewing on. Where’d you get that kind of cash? he said. The old man shrugged and, once more, pointed to the tuba. Oh, I see. No questions asked, as they say. I know a little something about that, he said and winked. The shopkeeper turned and undid the piece of wire that secured the tuba to a wooden post and he picked it up and he looked down its bottomless mouth. As he did so, he said, I was wondering if I’d ever get rid of this here thing. Is it yours? the old man had asked. No. Not really. Except when I got it in this here shop, I guess. I never

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played it regularly, though. Nope, this here was my pap’s for a bit. He passed it on to me, but I never wanted it. So, I fixed it up and put it in here with all the others. Don’t worry, it works good and everything. I made sure. It just came with too much – and here the shopkeeper had paused and looked around in search of the right word, before resuming – association, if you know what I mean. But the old man had given no indication whether or not he did and the shopkeeper continued: But my pap did tell me that this here once belonged to the best tuba player in Storyville, that he won it off him playing cards. I don’t believe it, though. He never was any good at cards, even if he was a cheat. He probably killed him for it, if you ask me. I guess this here tuba’s got a long history. Some of which I know, though most of which I don’t. The shopkeeper then blew into the instrument and pressed the valves. See, I don’t lie. It works good and fine. And he finally handed it to the old man, who thanked the shopkeeper and paid him. Once outside, he climbed into the giant instrument and tested it himself. This first note the tuba expelled for him was nothing less than a bawl to the gods and at once he knew that as long as he had this instrument he would forever be authorized with some sort of divine communication.

The young tuba player now rattling the old man’s windowpanes didn’t have such a choice. But his father did. And this was what the boy was now left with. He didn’t share the same feeling of entitlement the old man had when he was a child. Rather, the boy’s was one of burden more than anything else. One of such a nature that its yoke is not easily slackened. And so this was why every afternoon he could be found swaying in the heat and blowing until his stomach aches and cursing it so.

Eventually, the parade turned the corner and was out of the old man’s sight. Yet he could still hear the boy and his tuba bringing up the rear, its grunting drowning out the shrills from the rest of the line and he knew that, despite this daily burden, the boy

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would return the next day with that same tuba and that same spot in the back of the parade.

It was as hot as the day before and the old man, caught in the web of humidity, was dozing close to those glaucous windowpanes. Earlier he was faced with a dilemma: Either latch back the hurricane shutters and open the windows with the hope of channeling some wayward breeze off the river and into that sticky room, or keep those shutters closed and let the darkness do its best to cool the place. The old man eventually settled on the former and now he lay in the sun unsuccessfully trying not to move and he did so until he heard the slow crescendo of the daily parade begin to march its way down from the far end of the street. The music started out softly. At first, just the trumpets, like two persnickety birds harking in the shade. Then, as they continued to march closer, the trombones glided in, like the river into the delta; their fresh chops mixing well with the now salty sounds before them. And finally, when the parade was just a few blocks away, the tuba bullied into the commotion drowning out melody and subjecting all to its basso roar. At once, the old man was up and out on his balcony. He watched the parade snake its way through the street below. He again watched the young tuba player sway in the heat. And when the children were out of sight, if not entirely out of sound, the old man walked out of the apartment, down through the courtyard and into the street. But not before he opened the bureau drawer, took out his pistol and wrapped it in a yellow handkerchief.

The next day the parade approached as before, but with one conspicuous variation: There was neither sight nor sound of the young tuba player. And this vacancy was certainly felt in the chaotic, dissonant music the children now played. It was music unorganized and untethered by absence of rhythm. It was sound left to roam wildly in search of its soul. The boy and his tuba were

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in fact nearby, and he could hear the effect his departure had on the band.

Sounds different, don’t it? the old man asked, but the boy didn’t answer. Instead he chose to stare out of the open window. For the first time, the old man wasn’t on the balcony when the parade line approached. Rather he sat in the shadows of the room smoking a cigarette. His hand rested on the yawning mouth of the boy’s tuba.

How come you don’t holler out that window? the old man asked.

It took awhile for the boy to answer, but then he said quietly, Cause you’ll shoot me.

No I ain’t.The boy looked at the old man, then turned back to the

window. The parade was directly under them now. The boy opened his mouth, but hesitated. Perhaps he wanted to yell down to his peers on the street, scream for help, but nothing came out. Or maybe he just didn’t believe that the old man wouldn’t shoot him. Either way the parade passed without the boy ever saying a word. And the old man laughed at such helplessness.

For about 24 hours the boy, the old man and the tuba had been sharing this space together. It all started with a whisper. One in which the boy could hardly hear. But in the end, he heard it all the same: Say, King, the old man had hissed the day before. The boy raised his head, but didn’t turn. He was sitting on a bench in a shaded square, his tuba lay on its side next to him. He sat by himself quietly, exhausted, while his fellow band members ditched their instruments on the yard and chased each other all over the park. He intended to join them eventually; he just needed to rest for a while.

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I said ‘King,’ the old man whispered, louder this time. Like a specter, he came up from behind the boy out of the thick Spanish moss. When the boy finally turned around, the old man was standing over him. Why ain’t you out there fooling around? The boy shrugged. That your tuba there? The boy nodded. It sure is old, ain’t it? Look like one I had. Where’d you get that thing? It was my daddy’s, the boy finally spoke. You was in that parade, weren’t you? Yessir, the boy said softly. He was no longer looking at the man. Instead he returned his attention to the activity in the square. Y’all march everyday, huh? He nodded and the old man sat next to him on the bench. How come? Huh? I said ‘how come ya’ll march everyday.’ It’s a club, the boy said. For after school. Where’s your teacher at? The boy shrugged. Don’t know.

He just leaves ya’ll here for afterwards.The boy nodded.

You like doing it? The boy looked at him. Marching in the band, King? You like doing that? The boy nodded and once again stared past the old man. How many parades ya’ll march in? The boy shrugged. Well, ya’ll march in Jazz Funerals? How about Mardi Gras then? No. Just after school.

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Maybe ya’ll get to play in a real parade someday. Sure, and that would be something, right? Yes, sir, King. You like playing this tuba? Yessir. You know, I played a tuba look just like this here one? I know it. You done told me already. Do you mind? The old man gestured at the tuba. Just for a second? I ain’t going to blow my lips on it. I swear it. Just try it on, you know, for a second. The boy hesitated, then said, all right. The old man suddenly came to life as if being manipulated by a puppeteer from above. At once, he had the boy’s tuba wrapped about his body. He pressed its valves and massaged its swollen neck, and even though he never blew into the instrument – as promised – he inflated his lungs and flexed his diaphragm all the same. When the old man was satisfied he pulled the tuba over his head and rested it back on the bench next to the boy. Appreciate it, King. It’s been a while. The old man then told the boy that for allowing him to try on his tuba he had something to show him. The boy stared at him, blinking.

Wanna know what it is?But he remained silent.Well either you do or you don’t. What is it, King?The boy nodded, and for the first time that afternoon, he

was giving the old man his full attention.Okay. The old man was almost on top of him now. All

right. He pulled out the yellow handkerchief from his pocket and unwrapped it in front of the boy’s face. His eyes widened when the pistol was finally revealed. Looky that, he said.

Apart from when the old man had waved the boy on with his pistol and told him to come on, very little else was said, with even less movement. The boy climbed into his tuba, as it was the only way for him to carry it. The old man walked a pace or two

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behind the boy, fingering the pistol in his pocket. They walked out of the square and through the Quarter to the old man’s apartment without any incident. To a casual observer they must have looked like nothing more than a father and son quietly walking together.

The old man was at the stove cooking some red beans. Hungry? he asked.

But the boy didn’t answer. He was sitting in the corner. His hands were bound behind his back and his leg was tethered to some exposed plumbing. Here, the old man said and slid a plate of the stuff in front of the boy. I ain’t going to undo your hands, so if you want to eat you’re going to have to do it like a dog. The boy didn’t touch the food. Eventually he would. Eventually he’d have to. When the hunger would overcome him, he would have no choice but to eat like some lesser animal. But this was only the second night in captivity, and until then he didn’t eat anything the old man slid in front of him. The old man and the boy hadn’t spoken much since their initial conversation in that shaded square. When they first arrived at the apartment, the old man had immediately bound the boy’s hands and tied his leg to the pipe, releasing him only twice: Once to go to the bathroom and once to watch his marching band. The old man tried to engage the boy on that first night. What’s your name, King? he had asked him, but the boy didn’t answer. He lied crumpled by those exposed pipes and sniffled. Not going to tell me, huh? That’s all right. I already know it. I know everything about you, King. You believe me? You believe me when I tell you that? The boy didn’t know what to believe. His shoulders ached – not from the tuba, he was used to that – but from the awkward way his hands were bundled behind his back. He was uncomfortable and scared and he couldn’t keep a steady thought in his head. He didn’t want to entertain the old man’s questions. Eventually the

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old man rose and moved toward the boy. Here, he had said and flung his tattered seersucker jacket at him. Use this for a pillow, if you want.

The old man now took his red beans out to the balcony. He sat in the sweaty night with his plate on his lap, scooping up his dinner with one hand and swatting away the mosquitoes with the other. Few people roamed the streets below him. It was that hot. The ones that did were probably drunk. They staggered down the middle of the road occasionally stopping to collect themselves against a light post and to curse away the ghosts that continue to harangue them. The old man figured most people were either down by the river or just glued by the humidity to their courtyard chairs. After sitting for awhile, he smoked a cigarette and then returned inside and retrieved a bottle of whiskey. He sat with the bottle between his legs and stared at the boy. He brought it to his lips a few times and then finally spoke. I don’t care if you don’t eat, King, he said with a slur. I don’t care. I don’t care if you starve yourself. The old man caught a belch in his throat and then took another swig. Save me the bullets. He sprung out of the chair nearly forgetting about the whiskey bottle between his legs, and shuffled to the boy. The boy squirmed to the corner.

If you think I’m going to put my pistol to your head and say ‘eat boy’… well I ain’t. Like I says, ‘I don’t care.’ The old man picked up the red beans he had slid under the boy. He tilted the plate to its side and the food-paste barely moved. He brought it into the kitchen and scraped it in the sink. This’ll bring roaches for sure, he mumbled. I don’t care. The old man returned to his chair and had a few more drinks before he picked up the boy’s tuba. What do you say we have some entertainment round here, huh, King. The old man then breathed into the tuba and the instrument moaned to life. He paused and then laughed something like a hiccup. It’s been some

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time. It’s been some awful time. The old man played for awhile. But he didn’t play any songs. Just notes. Notes long and low. And the boy crouched in the darkness just starring at the old man, watching him play his tuba, his father’s tuba. The old man stopped. He stared at the boy who was barely visible in the darkness. What’s the matter, King? You don’t want me playing this? Not at all? Huh? The form in the darkness didn’t move. This here was your old man’s and you don’t want me playing with it a bit. Nope. Not one bit. Why? The drunk old man continued. You going to tell me? You going to tell me to stop? Nope. You ain’t going to say a word. The old man took another swig from the bottle and he closed his eyes as if in devotion and then took a breath and blew back into that tuba. He played just one note, a deep sorrowful one, and then he stopped and he tried unsuccessfully to make the boy out through the fuzz of darkness. He pointed toward where he figured the boy to be and said, Know where your old man got this here tuba? I bet you don’t. The boy was silent and still as the air, as the fuzz of darkness. Sure you don’t. But you know what? I do. I know the history of this tuba. It’s got a story like you. Me. And your old man. And everything else too. The old man pulled himself out of the chair and the tuba fell to the floor. This crashing noise startled the boy. I guess you still alive over there, the old man said. He flattened the wrinkles in his shirt and smeared his hands over his sweaty face. That’s okay. That’s okay, King. All you got to do is ask. I’ll tell you all about it.

The old man turned out the one gaslight on the other side of the room, enveloping them in an atmosphere so dark, it was grey. But you got to ask me first, his voice said as it faded into the bedroom.

When the boy woke the next morning the old man was sitting in his chair twirling the pistol on his finger. Skeeters get you? he asked. The boy shook his head. They will, the old man

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predicted. Only a matter of time. He rose and went into the kitchen. You hungry yet? he called to the boy, but again no answer. Okay, I guess that’s a no. I tell you what, King. Until you tell me when you’re hungry, I ain’t going to ask no more. Got that? He returned with one fried egg and sat in his chair and ate it quietly in front of the boy. The boy continued to crouch in the corner watching him. For the first time he was really able to get a good look at him. His vision was no longer impaired by darkness or fear. The boy watched the old man fork a piece of runny egg into his dusty mouth. His hands were crinkled and dry like two brown paper bags and they moved slowly and deliberately. When the old man finished eating, he looked up at the boy. What’s the matter, King? What are you looking at? The boy released his stare. I tell you what, King, the old man said and approached the boy. Turn around, he ordered. The boy shied away, but ultimately did as he was told. The old man untied his hands and leg and then returned to his chair, leaving the boy in the corner to slowly readjust his cramped body. I ain’t going to tie you up during the day no more, he told him. But you ain’t going anywhere, he laughed, waving the pistol. It was just after dawn. Through the windows the pink sky dissolved into blue. On the streets below the boy could hear a group of kids, perhaps classmates, taking their time getting to school. Donkeys clomped by. After another night of stagnation, life began to simmer once more. Above, in the old man’s apartment, life began to return to the boy’s limbs, as well. He stretched out his arms and turned the kinks out of his wrists. He then grabbed a hold of the pipes and attempted to pull himself up, but his legs were numb and didn’t hold him long, and at once, he was back on the ground. The old man curiously watched the boy the entire time. Man, King. You don’t look so good, he observed and forked another piece off egg into his mouth.

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The boy ignored him and once again tried to climb to his feet. This time the boy braced himself against the wall. His legs once numb, now tingled with circulation. He lifted a foot and tried shaking it, but couldn’t. It felt foreign, not like a foot at all. And heavy. Much too heavy to do anything with. But all this would soon pass and the boy knew that. So he stood patiently against the wall and waited for the blood and muscles to re-acclimate themselves. Well all right, King, the old man applauded. Thirsty? He didn’t wait for an answer and returned immediately with a glass of water for the boy. Bet you are. The boy, now standing freely on both of his feet, took the water and drank it without hesitation. Damn if you wasn’t. Want another? The boy nodded and wiped his mouth with his forearm. The man took the glass and went back into the kitchen. When he returned he found himself looking at the barrel end of his pistol. The water slipped out of his hand and crashed on the floor. The boy was standing by the old man’s chair. His outstretched hand trembled as he fingered the trigger. The two stood there for what seemed like a long while, but really only lasted a matter of seconds. They stood still and silent. The old man’s watery pink eyes were at maximum exposure. While the boy’s were just the opposite: narrow hate-filled slits that told the man it wasn’t a matter of if, but rather when. The old man ended this eternal minute finally with a smile. His cracked lips pulled tight over his yellowed teeth and he shook his head in shame and laughed. Well, he said. Damn, you quick, King. I mean I’m not trying to excuse myself for forgetting that pistol in the chair, but … Damn, you quick. Why you was just barely able to stand over there and now …You must of snapped on that pistol like some kind of gator. He laughed again. I know you’ll pull that trigger. I know it as the truth. Ain’t it?

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The boy nodded slowly. That’s right. You ain’t afraid are you, King? No. You ain’t afraid to kill me. It ain’t inside you. Shoo … I bet the only reason your hand’s shaking is cause you’re probably scared about what might happen if you don’t kill me. Cause one of us got to die. Ain’t that right, King? The old man laughed. You’ll pull that trigger. I know you. Like I says, ‘I know everything about you.’ Want to know something else? The old man lowered his voice, almost to a whisper. Huh, King? You going to pull that there trigger, but you ain’t going to kill me. Understand? You can’t kill me. The old man took one step toward the boy. And, as predicted, the boy pulled the trigger.

This wasn’t the first time he did such a thing. He had found his father’s pistol once. In the mouth of the tuba, in fact. The boy was much younger and when his father wasn’t around, he and a few boys from the neighborhood were taking turns blowing into the tuba. Eventually, one of them, out of curiosity, reached his small arm into that big dark opening, as all young boys would want to do, and returned holding a pistol. At once, the boys ditched the tuba. They wrestled for possession of the gun and chased each other to a nearby courtyard where it eventually ended up in the young boy’s hand. Shoot it, they coaxed him. And he did. He pointed the gun straight into the air and pulled the trigger. The report was deafening. The kids all scattered including the boy, who had dropped the gun immediately after he fired it and never returned to retrieve it.

Immediately after the boy pulled the trigger on the old man, the hammer clicked and the secret of that pistol was revealed: There was no round in the chamber. Unlike the startling crack heard by all during his first firing years ago in the courtyard,

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this sound was empty, a mere staccato snap of a musician keeping time. The old man didn’t even flinch. He continued moving toward the boy without any pause, laughing the entire way. The old man was right. The boy did pull the trigger without the slightest hesitation. And, no, this didn’t kill him. The old man held out his leathery palm and the boy handed over the pistol. He opened the chamber, spun the cylinder and emptied it into his hand where a single bullet now rested. The gun had, in fact, been loaded, but the boy would have had to the pull the trigger five more times before it fired at the old man. Old trick, he told the boy showing him the bullet before closing his palm. Now you know it. And now I’ll have to be more careful. The boy started biting his lower lip and trying, unsuccessfully to hold it all back, but tears spilled over his cheeks all the same. Suppose you think I aim to kill you now. For taking my pistol and everything. Well, I ain’t. Not yet anyways. But I am going to have to tie up them hands again. The boy sat against the wall with his hands bound and his stomach turning over itself. Eventually, it was too much. I’m hungry. His voice could barely be heard. I’m hungry, he repeated. Was that you? The old man laughed. ‘Hungry’ you say? Okay. Let’s see what I got. After several minutes, the old man emerged from the kitchen with a plate of rice drowned in a dirty etouffe sauce and slid it in front of him. The boy’s stomach turned at just the sight of it and he had no choice but to get on his knees and slurp the food up like a dog. He licked the plate and smacked his lips. He burped. And he blew out the rice stuck in his nostrils. The old man sat in his chair with his pistol in his lap and unplugged the bottle of whiskey. He poured a long drink down the back of his bird throat and

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recorked the bottle with the butt of his hand. The old man shut his eyes and stilled himself. He allowed his stomach to extinguish the fire where his throat had failed. He lit a cigarette and brought it to his lips and then asked if the boy knew where his father was. Still alive, do you know?

The boy nodded eventually. The old man laughed. You know as well as I do that that your old man’s not alive no more. Ain’t that right. He died in prison, didn’t he? You probably ain’t never seen him once he got locked up. How you know about him? The old man looked wide-eyed at the boy. King, what I been saying to you? Huh? You’ve got to believe me when I tell you I know everything about you. Bet you I know more about you than you do. What do you think about that, King? The look on the boy’s face didn’t so much concern whether or not the old man knew everything about him, but rather how he had such knowledge. Let me ask you something, King. What was your old man locked up for anyways? The boy looked down and toed the floor. Huh? The old man pointed the pistol at the boy. Say something, King. If you don’t know, say so then. But you’d better say something, though. For killing. The boy’s voice cracked. The old man smiled and nodded. How so? The boy looked at him. Huh? The old man jerked forward in his chair. Come on, King. How so? Did he drown somebody? Stick somebody under the water? Did he chop someone’s head off? Did he… He shot him, the boy interrupted.

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The old man sat back and nodded. That’s right. That’s right. This is kind of fun, huh, King? Like a game. How about this one: You know how he got caught? The boy squinted at him. What are you trying to say? You don’t know this one? I bet you do. I bet you know that they found his gun, the cops did, the one he used to do the killing. Found it just setting there in some courtyard smelling and smoking like it had just been fired, setting on the ground in the blue daylight like that was where it was exactly supposed to be. I bet you knew that, but that’s okay. The two sat quietly for a moment breathing in the wet thick air.

They found his fingerprints on that gun, the old man broke the silence. And matched up the bullets too. Who’d he kill, anyways? Do you know?

The boy looked away.The old man placed the pistol on his lap. That’s okay, King.

You don’t have to answer that one. Even if you do know. The old man scratched at the stubble on his face. Bet it was for something real important though, he said. To just point a gun and, pow.

The old man uncorked the bottle and had a drink and he recorked it. He turned to the tuba, which was still next him, and picked it up. You ain’t played this since you been here. You miss it?

The boy eventually shook his head.The old man laughed. You might if someone took it away

from you for good. You just might. He replaced the tuba and, once again, uncorked the bottle, took a drink and then recorked it. You believe in ghosts, King, he said after a while. The boy shrugged. Sure you do, King. Sure you do. He looked at the boy. If you don’t you should. They everywhere. Them ghosts. You should know, King. You living proof.

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Why? I’ll tell you why. The old man sucked in a breath and said, When a man dies, you see, not everything goes away. Sure his skin and bones turn to dust. His blood dry up. But everything else sticks around. All his creations and destructions. All the results of his decisions. They stick around and haunt those that he’s left behind. A man’s burdens never die with him, they always get passed along. On down the line, I suppose. This is what I’m talking about when I talk about ghosts. The old man paused and studied the boy. What do you think about that, King? The boy remained silent. When your daddy died, he did ever leave some haunts for you. Some heavy burdens that’s for sure. And you know what, King? You’ll do the same when you die too.

The boy woke and heard faint music from an approaching brass line. He sat with yesterday’s etouffe sauce crusted about his face and blinked his tired eyes and listened carefully. It couldn’t be his band. It was much too early in the day for them. And more importantly, even at such a far distance, the boy could tell that this band was composed of well-rehearsed musicians. You hear that, King, the old man said coming from the bedroom. That sounds good, don’t it? What do you figure it is? The old man made his way toward the window. It didn’t take long before he was able to recognize it. The line was not yet near the street below and the long, slow, sorrowful mood of its song could barely be heard, when he said, Oh, I know it. I know what this is. Sure. He turned to the boy who was still sitting against the wall. How about you, King? You know what’s coming, don’t you? The boy shrugged. Come on. Sure you do. Take a guess. But the boy sat as silent and still as his tuba across from him.

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The old man dismissed the boy’s silence with a wave and then climbed out of the window onto the balcony. The head of the line eventually rounded the far end of the street and continued its slow approach. The old man’s poor eyesight didn’t allow for any sort of initial definition. To him the whole scene was just a smudge, an ink stain slowly growing in size. But relying on past experience he knew exactly what there was to see: Leading the way, of course, was the grand marshal. A squat, teakettle of a man dressed meticulously in a black tuxedo. His face was stone, frozen in forlorn, framed between thick grey sideburns. He walked down the street without ever bending his knees or lifting his arms. His legs swiveled about his torso, out to the side, pulling him in the opposite direction with each long measured pace. He rolled down that street, a gait of both sorrow and meditation. And he was surrounded on all sides by people experiencing similar grief. Women in black dresses on the precipice of swoon fanned themselves underneath their big brimmed hats. Men walked with their shoulders proudly pulled back tight, holding their hats with both hands down about their waists or up close to their hearts. A few members lazily twirled parasols on their shoulders and shook their heads as if this somehow could spell the ache that was in their hearts. The old man knew that surrounding all of them was the brass band, serving as this parade’s physical and spiritual membrane, each member moving in such an independent fluidity that could only amount to a greater togetherness. Like those they enveloped, their bodies radiated an aura of defiance, yet their expressions spoke of much dourer certainties. And they moved, these musicians, without ever lifting a foot off the ground. They slid, back and forth, moaning when they weren’t playing, as if the music they expelled was in control and they were merely holding onto the reigns for dear life. Often the tuba players slumped over and blew their sound toward the ground, perhaps in order to scare

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away any urchins from the underworld coming to make a claim. And when the trumpeters pointed their instruments to the sky, sending forth their cranky yelps, it wasn’t too difficult for one of the many onlookers who had now gathered to construe such as blasphemy. The march was still a few blocks away, but the old man didn’t need to see it yet to know that at the center of it, hoisted into the air by quaking, spindly arms of young men, who would sooner let the swarming horseflies take chunks out of their faces than to remove a hand to swat them away, was a wooden casket primed for inter. At last, the front of the line reached the old man. You won’t even recognize them, King, when they come back around, he shouted with childlike giddiness. He was already anticipating the parade’s return trip: The transformation into the celebratory second-line, after the mourners have lowered the casket into the ground and set back down the streets just passed in a flourish of parasol bobbing, hat waving and high stepping all in time with the brass band, which at once is liberated from the bondage of despair. I wonder who’s in there, the old man said. Man. Woman. Maybe child. What do you think, King? The old man turned around but couldn’t see anything through those cloudy windows. King? He patted his pants pocket making sure the pistol was still there and then stuck his head inside the apartment. You there? The boy was gone. All that was left were sinewy ribbons of what was once the rope used to tether the boy to captivity and, across the room, the tuba. It stood there right where the old man had placed it a few nights ago. After chewing through the ropes while the old man was waiting for the funeral, the boy, in his haste to escape, ran right past his instrument without ever once glancing down at it. The old man wiped his face in disbelief and focused his eyes on the tuba now awash in sunlight from the wide open door. He

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moved as quickly as he was allowed to the door and looked down into the courtyard, but the boy was not there. Back through the entrance, he crossed the room and returned to the balcony. On the street, the band continued to moan, the people continued to sway. King, he shouted and scanned the action below as best he could. Through his old eyes, he thought he saw the boy scamper contraflow to the churning crowd, only to disappear behind – what else – one of the teetering tuba players. At this point, the casket was directly below the old man, and one of its bearers turned and looked up at him, but the old man paid him no mind. King, he raised his head and shouted one last time.

The evening settled in. From the inextinguishable heat, the sun melted across the bayou and now all the remained was its buttery light dripping over the city and into the river. In the decay of the afternoon, the shadows of the Quarter at once enlivened and fell upon the boy like spirits. Perhaps coincidence, or maybe due to some otherworldly mechanism not unlike an invisible reel bringing in an invisible line, but for whatever reason he took refuge under a tree in the very same square where he first encountered the old man. He arrived out of breath and his clothes were soaked. He spent the first moments with his hands on his knees, panting and dry heaving, breaking occasionally to stare down the alley where he expected to see his captor emerge. But the old man never materialized and eventually the boy slid his back down the trunk of the tree to the ground where he now sat and recouped his wits. While doing so he watched through the open-air window of a restaurant across the square a young man shucking oysters. The man had tattoos on his forearms and he shucked the oysters barehanded with such rhythmic experience, wiping the slimy blade on the thigh of his pants and smiling at the customers who had given pause to watch him work. In one quick motion he sawed open the mouth of the shell while at the same time severing

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the mooring adductor muscle of the creature from its outer husk. He cut straight through, seemingly without care or hesitation that such momentum might carry the knife through both oyster and palm. Once he opened one, he would flick its top shell into a watery bucket and then placed the oyster, still in its bottom half shell, next to the others on a big bed of ice in front of him. When there were enough oysters prepared, the man stuck the blade of shucking knife into the ice and wiped his hands on the thighs of his pants and disappeared somewhere in the restaurant. The boy continued to watch the space where the man had been and after a few moments he lifted himself.

The door was ajar and the darkness from within glowed out of the slim opening as would the most radiant light source. All was silent and, while gripping the shucking blade, the boy slowly pushed open the door with his fist. Being as quiet he could, he entered. He expected to see the formless silhouette of the old man in front of the balcony windows, a glowing ember from his cigarette rising and falling. But the old man wasn’t there. The boy turned and looked into the darkened kitchen. Empty. He then moved silently to the back bedroom. He pushed open the door with his finger. Nothing.

The boy returned to the front room where he’d spent those past few days tied up in the corner. In the fading light he noticed how dusty everything was. He didn’t remember it being like this. The room was blanketed in grey. Particles frenzied in the light from the windows. In the dust on the floor, the boy saw his own footprints charting his earlier escape. The chair, where the old man had spent a good portion of the time, looked as though it hadn’t been sat upon in years.

In fact the only thing that wasn’t filmed by dust was the tuba, which stood exactly where it was left, right there next to the chair, waiting for his inevitable return, this eternal bequeath

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between a father and his son that the boy was now beginning to realize was much more than just property. He dropped the blade onto the chair and picked up his instrument. He hugged the tuba out of the apartment and into the young night where he climbed into the behemoth and once again felt its weight on top of his shoulders.

© 2008

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