Title: The Musician
Author: Amber (Ambino1111@prodigy.net)
Spoilers: The Crackpots and These Women, ITSOTG, The Portland Trip, pre-Noel. I think that's it.
Archive: Anywhere, just let me know
Rating: PG for the fire
Disclaimer: Let's look at the word itself - (dis-kla'-mer) noun. A repudiation or denial of responsibility, connection, or claim. I think that pretty much sums it up.
Feedback: Yes, please at Ambino1111@prodigy.net. This is my first WW fanfic, so please be kind.
Summary: Josh muses about music.
Author's Notes: Wow! This one just flowed out of my brain to my computer screen. It is un-beta'd, so I apologize for any errors I didn't catch. I made up stuff about Josh's past and the Connecticut music scene- I was on such a roll that I didn't want to stop to get facts. My friend Akira and I were talking one day in English, and we decided that if Josh played an instrument it would be the trumpet. This is my little ode to that decision.
I'm a musician.
It's something very few people know about me. My mother knows, of course. And Sam. I'm fairly certain both Leo and the President found out long ago, and I might have mentioned it to CJ once, but I doubt she remembers. I haven't told Donna yet.
I don't know why I haven't. It's not like it's some gigantic secret, or something to be ashamed of. It's just that the fact that I used to excel at playing the trumpet doesn't usually fit into any conversations.
Except tonight. Tonight it would have fit perfectly. When Donna asked me if I knew Ainsley played the trombone, I very easily could have informed my dear friend and assistant that I was a trumpeter.
I could have told her I won awards - a superior (the highest possible ranking) in two state competitions. I could have told her I earned college scholarships before I was in high school, and I even performed at Carnegie Hall. She might have thought I was bragging, but it's all true. I could have told her all of it right then and there, but I didn't. I should have, though. I know I will, eventually.
My apartment is dark and deathly silent, and it sends a chill down my spine. I sit on the couch, sipping a beer and contemplating whether or not I should turn on the radio to drown out the silence. I can't.
Instead I pick up the phone and start to dial Donna's number. I hang up before I get to the sixth number, frowning at the blue numbers on my VCR clock. Donna's been home for two hours now - she's probably sound asleep. I shouldn't wake her.
I opt for staying on the couch in the dark, trying not to focus on the deafening silence surrounding me.
Ever since I was little I disliked silence. Before Joanie died, our house was always... noisy. Well, not noisy so much as musical. My dad was an outstanding piano player. He always delighted in the fact that both his children inherited his musical proclivity. One of my first and most cherished memories is sitting on his lap at our small, hand-me-down piano with Joanie by our side, watching in utter fascination as he taught her a song.
Dad bought her a secondhand trumpet for her birthday the next year, but she was already a pianist. Joanie never wanted to disappoint Dad, so she played the trumpet, but it always took a backseat to the piano. And then one day Joanie left the horn out on her bed, and I picked it up and blew into it. My mom came into the room, thinking I was Joanie, and let out a scream when she realized I wasn't. I was only five, and I thought she was mad at me. I burst into tears and she started laughing. Thus began my musical career.
I enrolled in trumpet lessons a few weeks later, and by my sixth birthday I had been instructed to find a more experienced teacher. Luckily my dad knew some music people, and a friend of his offered to teach me for free.
Max was a terrific musician and a great teacher. Under his guidance I obtained two superior rankings in the Connecticut State Music Competition (I was six and seven years old). Following his encouraging suggestion, I joined a brass quartet from the Hartford Symphony Orchestra. After only two rehearsals we performed at Carnegie Hall. I had never felt so nervous in all my seven and a half years until I caught Joanie's supportive smile in the audience and saw the pride on my parents' faces. I relaxed and poured my heart and soul into that performance. It was the last time I played the trumpet in public.
Two months after my national debut, my parents had to attend some party for my Dad's boss, and Joanie was left to babysit me.
My sister's favorite song was Schubert's Ave Maria. She used to play it over and over in her room, conducting an invisible orchestra. That night I joined her, not for the first time, picking out notes on her ex-trumpet as she waved her arms through the air. Joanie was a superb pianist, but an even better conductor. When the song ended she bowed, and I called her maestro. I had never seen my sister sport a brighter smile.
She suggested we go make popcorn and watch television. I wanted to help, so while she changed into her pajamas I snuck downstairs and plugged in the popcorn maker. I had just pulled on my pajama pants when I heard her scream.
I ran down the stairs as fast as I could and froze at the foot of the stairwell. Half of the kitchen was engulfed in flames, and the ceiling was growing black with smoke.
"Josh!" I heard her yell over the crackle of the flames. "Run outside! I'll be right behind you!"
I couldn't move for the longest moment, hypnotized by the fire dancing into the living room. Then I snapped out of it just long enough to do the stupidest, most regrettable act I have ever done: I ran back upstairs.
Joanie was yelling for me, but I bounded up the stairs and into her room. I stood for a moment, panic-stricken and stupefied, before grabbing the trumpet case on her bed.
"Joshua!" Joanie appeared in the doorway, her clothes sooty and singed.
"Joanie, I'm sorry," I said weakly, tears streaming down my face.
She smiled at me. I never learned how she could have been so calm.
"It's not your fault, okay? I still love you, silly. Now c'mon back downstairs, Josh. We have to get out."
I nodded and joined her side. She grabbed my hand and pulled me down the stairs.
"Keep your head low!" she called back to me as we wove in between the flames. The thick smoke made my eyes water, and I started to cough. We were almost halfway to the front door when I tripped. The trumpet case slid forward and I landed on my face next to a burning table, still clutching the handle. I squeezed my eyes shut and cried out for Joanie. A terrifying second passed before I felt hands on my arms.
"I got you, Josh!" she yelled, pushing me forward as a chunk of the burning ceiling fell behind us. I heard another board falling from above and this time it landed on Joanie's foot. She fell with a cry and pushed me forward.
"Go!" she choked out. The force of the push propelled me through the door and I landed on my stomach in our front yard, the trumpet case next to me.
I started coughing, and turned to wait for Joanie to come out. I yelled her name over and over, but she didn't answer. I heard the sirens of the fire engine approaching as I collapsed, coughing and crying, onto the cool ground. Trying desperately to block the horrible hiss of the fire and the wail of the sirens, I shut my eyes, covered my ears with my dirty hands, and started humming Ave Maria to myself.
When I opened my eyes I was in the hospital. Mom and Dad were there, and Joanie wasn't. Mom was crying and Dad was hugging her, and behind them on a table I saw the trumpet case.
I played Taps at Joanie's funeral, then buried the instrument in the bottom of my closet. I didn't see it again until Dad's funeral, where I played Taps yet again. Instead of leaving the old horn with Mom, I brought it to D.C. and hid it under my bed. It has remained there ever since, untouched by everything except dust.
I sigh into the darkness and place my empty beer bottle on the table. Moments later I'm on my stomach, dragging the singed leather case out from under my bed.
My hands shake as I undo the clasp and gently flip open the lid.
I stare at the trumpet for what seems like an hour, then slowly close the case.
I can't do it.
Not yet.
But soon.
Someday soon I won't feel the sizzling flames when I hear a piano.
Someday soon I won't see my crimson blood when I catch a song on the radio. Someday soon I'll be able to listen to Ave Marie without crying.
Not yet.
But soon.