The Note
A holiday story about an unexpected gift exchange
(Content alert: This story follows a gay man practicing a hymn to sing at Christmas mass. If anything in that description turns you off – proceed accordingly.)
December 11. Two more weeks. Two more weeks and it would be all over. He would—or wouldn’t—hit the note. That impossible, bloody note.
Douglas sighed and rolled to face the clock: 5:45. Time to get up and get ready for his day. Another day closer to hitting—or not hitting—that stupid note.
Shifting to lie on his back, he scolded himself for being foolish. How many years—decades, now—had he been doing this? (And since when had he started measuring his life in decades?) Midnight mass, “O Holy Night.” A song that—among all the Christmas carols he despised—he actually liked. As long as he didn’t have to sing it. Solo. At one in the morning, a time he was never, ever awake. Except for this one night a year.
Any other year, the whole experience was merely an annoyance—the inconvenience, the cold, the fatigue. He’d never worried about the performance itself—it was a slam dunk. This year, however, since the sinus infection he’d picked up at Thanksgiving—from his brother’s snotty granddaughter, he was absolutely sure—his voice had gone south and had yet to fully recover. He could get by in the choir, and he had no trouble with the basic, unchallenging melodies of the “holiday hits” show he was part of at the local dinner theater. With plenty of decongestant and the YMCA steam room, he could manage all of that just fine. But for three weeks, nothing he had tried had cleared him up enough to make the octave jump from the first to the second syllable of the final “di-vine.” To hit that suddenly unreachable note.
Another sigh. Lying here worrying certainly isn’t going to do any good. Nothing for it but to get up and get moving.
“Healthy Heart Program. How can I help you?” Douglas grimaced at the response—another caller wanting information about Cancer Survivors United. Didn’t they even listen when he answered the phone? And what was up with the Y, anyway? When were they going to update their directories with the new, correct numbers for each program? Although Douglas had worked at the organization in some capacity or another for years—everything from front desk to personal trainer—he’d only been at this particular job for two weeks. And for every call he got for Healthy Heart, the program he actually served, he got four or five more for the one that was no longer connected to this number. Another bother.
While Douglas sat glaring at the office phone, waiting for it to ring again with another misdirected caller, his own phone buzzed. David. “Meet tonight. Seven.”
Douglas took a long breath in, expelling it slowly. He knew three things. Number one, that the correct answer to the text should be “Can’t, sorry.” Number two, that the more complete, totally honest answer was “I’m not meeting you again until you stop texting me in the middle of the afternoon, on a day when you’re finally free, and expect me to drop anything I might have in my schedule just to see you.” And number three, that the actual answer—which he’d typed before even completing the thought—was going to be “Sure.”
Message sent, Douglas leaned back in his chair, staring at the painting of the old powder mill on the opposite wall. David. What to do about David. On the plus side, he was twenty-seven and cute in a (very tall) teddy-bear way, with soft eyes and longish wavy brown hair and honest-to-God dimples when he smiled. He was also sweet, when he wanted to be. And their sexy-spanky time, which began soon after meeting at a New Year’s Eve party last year, was, well, sexy. (Plus, it didn’t hurt that David regularly told him how hot his “silver fox” hair and trim cyclist’s body looked.)
On the minus side, he was…twenty-seven, which made him roughly half Douglas’s age, and cute, with all of the flakiness, thoughtlessness, and self-centeredness that went with that. Oh, and let’s not forget—what is his name again? Right. Douglas. The other Douglas. David’s long-term, considerably older, committed but not monogamous, partner. Douglas.
The phone buzzed again. A thumbs-up icon. Douglas shrugged, stood up, stretched. He should be—he was, right?—happy that he would get to see David tonight. Sexy-spanky time was fun! And anything to get his mind off worrying about that maddening note.
So why did it feel like his anxiety was multiplied rather than assuaged?
At least he had his ride home. Annoying wrong-number phone calls aside, there were two things Douglas really liked about his new job. One was the part-time, ten-to-three schedule, which meant that even now, with winter approaching, he could bike there and back in full daylight. Yes, it was chilly—but until temperatures dropped below freezing or sleet and snow arrived, he was happy to bundle up and make the ride. The second was the location. By taking a roundabout way, he could get from home to work and back by passing along the river and through a wooded area. (Over the river and through the woods, he thought. Another Christmas song. Shit.)
As he rode along the riverside path, Douglas imagined how nice it would look in spring, when the azaleas would show off their pinks, purples, and oranges. Not to mention the daffodils and tulips that would make their annual appearance. But even now, in a dormant state, the bare branches of the sycamore and maple trees created scenes of austere beauty.
After a couple of miles, Douglas arrived at the base of the Brandywine Bridge. From there, the main path continued straight ahead to the riverfront area, containing the zoo, the rose garden, and the outdoor amphitheater. Douglas’s route home instead took him off to the right, along a smaller path that angled upward until it met the street at the corner. Then came his least favorite part of the journey: roughing a six-block stretch of traffic until he could turn off into a wooded development, its wide, quiet lanes winding through increasingly suburban, affluent neighborhoods—lanes that eventually led to his home. He looked forward to warming up in his simple yet tasteful apartment that, thanks to the income from investments his father had set up for him, he could easily afford working part-time.
As he exited the sidewalk cut onto the street, he smiled at the thought of a snifter of cognac, maybe some Mahler this evening. Or Ravel? In an instant, the music in his head was replaced by a cacophony of sounds coming all at once: a trumpet blast, a car horn, a siren, a screech.
“Hey. Are you okay?”
Douglas opened his eyes. He was on his back, lying on grass.
“I…what happened?” His eyes were not completely focused, and he couldn’t see the face attached to the young male voice very clearly.
“It was pretty scary, sir. Right when you rode off the curb, a car cut across in front of you to catch the last second of the yellow. And an ambulance was coming up over the hill from that side, full speed.” A fuzzy finger pointed away from the direction Douglas had been traveling in. “There was a bunch of noise, you hit your brakes hard, and boom—you flew over the handlebars.”
Douglas blinked, trying to remember.
“You want me to call 911 for paramedics?”
Douglas shook his head. He blinked again at the boy—man?—leaning over him and said, “I think I’m fine. Just a little scraped up. Lucky I landed on this grass median.”
“And that you were wearing a helmet.”
“Always.”
Douglas sat up. “Any idea what happened to my bike?”
“It’s over there.” A copper-colored hand, clearer now, pointed again. “I moved it back into the park on my way to you. It didn’t get hit or anything.”
Douglas stood up. Brushing off his hands, he extended his right. “Well, thank you. Thanks very much. I’m Douglas.”
“Oh, no problem, sir. I didn’t really do anything. Just in the right place at the right time. Curtis.”
“Well, Curtis, you got my bike out of danger and came to see if I was okay. That’s two things a lot of people wouldn’t have done. I’m grateful.”
Curtis didn’t respond, so Douglas took a few tentative steps. He checked his bike, decided both he and it were none the worse for the wear, and took off. He remained hyperfocused on traffic along the main street, and only after he had turned off into the neighborhood did he allow his mind to wander a bit.
Curtis wasn’t exactly a stranger to him. At the corner of the park where he fell, there was a series of mismatched curved concrete benches in pastel colors—something some designer had convinced the city would look chic and welcoming. In the weeks Douglas had been riding past them, he’d never seen anyone sitting there. Nobody, that is, except for this kid.
Douglas thought of him as a kid, even though he had a tall, lanky, not-quite-filled-out frame that could have belonged to someone anywhere from their midteens to midtwenties. He always seemed decently dressed, and his glasses—which Douglas had just seen up close for the first time—looked expensive. But the most notable thing about him was unrelated to his wardrobe or his age. It was the fact that, while sitting on one of those concrete eyesores, he was always playing a trumpet—a quite nice-looking, polished silver trumpet. And he was, as far as Douglas could tell in his brief passes by, not busking for money. Douglas never saw an open case or a hat out—and anyway, there were never any people around in this part of the park. The kid was, as far as Douglas could tell, simply playing for practice or enjoyment, or both.
Douglas had passed him many times in the afternoon on his way home from work but had never paid him much mind. At most, he took in a few seconds of the music when stopped at the light. Not being anything he was familiar with, the music hadn’t really been a focus, let alone the musician. It was a momentary background, soon forgotten in the face of more pressing matters.
Curtis.
That evening with David couldn’t have gone worse. It started on a rotten note when Douglas told David about the accident, and his response was, “You flipped over the handlebars? Wow. That’s never happened to me.” Even for David, the lack of a single “Are you okay?” or “Were you hurt?” was notable—and not in a positive way.
Douglas kept his mouth shut the rest of the evening. He went through the motions of playtime—David didn’t seem to notice anything was off, and attacked the session with his usual gusto—but Douglas’s heart wasn’t in it, and his thoughts were elsewhere.
Starting the next afternoon. Douglas made it a point to stop for a few minutes on his way home from work and listen to Curtis’s playing. The first time, Curtis stopped midtune to ask how Douglas was feeling. Nice that somebody cares, he thought. And when Douglas replied, “Perfectly fine, just some minor bumps and scrapes—thanks for asking,” Curtis gave him a thumbs-up and resumed playing at exactly the point where he had left off.
As these stops continued over the next week or so, Douglas began noticing details about Curtis that he had previously overlooked. The younger man was always dressed in a navy peacoat, with a knit cap the color of orange sherbet. Each day, a different collared shirt peeked out from the coat: always brightly colored and patterned, sometimes paisley, or floral, or plaid. And on his left pinky, a medium-width gold band inlaid with different-colored stones. As the ring glinted in the sun while Curtis played, the effect could have appeared gaudy. But to Douglas’s eye, it came across as stylish, even classy.
These little check-ins gave Douglas something to look forward to after dealing with callers who ranged from anxious about their health to angry at being redirected. By comparison, he could relax while he and Curtis engaged in pleasant chit-chat about how Douglas was feeling and the tunes Curtis was playing. Some Douglas recognized, standards like “Misty” or “My Favorite Things.” But the majority he didn’t know. Curtis teased him sometimes. “You don’t recognize ‘Freddie Freeloader’? You need to catch up on your Miles Davis, sir.” But for Douglas, whose musical world was centered around the great vocalists of opera, classical, and yes, jazz, even iconic instrumentals were out of his arena. At the same time, he was impressed by the clarity and smoothness of tone in Curtis’s playing. He was even more impressed that this young guy would come out here, every day, just to play—motivated, it seemed, purely by inner desire.
He, Douglas, needed a structured setting and an audience. Picturing himself singing in an empty room, he shuddered. He brought this up indirectly to Curtis one day. “Do you ever perform anywhere? Maybe as part of a group at your school, or…?”
Curtis cut him off with a brief laugh. “No school, sir. I’m twenty-one years old. I go to work, I take care of my business, I play.”
Well, that answers one question.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to offend. When you get to be my age, you’ll be happy if people think you look younger.” Douglas let out a chuckle, to which Curtis didn’t respond. Embarrassed, Douglas continued quickly, “But do you perform at all? Nightclub, open mic, that kind of thing?
“No sir, I’m not good enough for all that. Sitting out here and playing? That’s my thing. I couldn’t do it in front of other people—that would freak me out.” Now it was Curtis’s turn to look embarrassed. “Not you, I mean. You’re cool. I mean, could you ever do anything like that, get up in front of a bunch of people and perform?”
“Could I? I do it all the time.” And Douglas explained his “other life” in the choir, musicals, community singing performances, even the occasional opera.
“That’s amazing,” Curtis said. “I can’t believe that kind of thing doesn’t stress you out.”
“Not usually,” Douglas replied. He hesitated, then admitted, “But it’s funny you should say that, because I’m actually feeling pretty stressed out right now about a really simple performance. You know the Christmas hymn ‘O Holy Night’?”
“Of course. Everybody knows that.” Curtis picked up his trumpet and played the opening four-note phrase:
Daaaa…daa…da…da
“So the very last part—the final ‘O night divine.’ That high note? I can’t hit it. I’m singing it at midnight mass on Christmas Eve. I’ve been doing this for twenty years with no problem. And now…I get close, I crack. I’m just not able to do it. It’s totally messing with my head.”
Curtis rubbed his chin, looking thoughtful. “Well…I know that what’s true for one person isn’t always true for someone else. But for me, I know that when something is causing a problem in my life, it can affect my playing. I know the song by heart, but my head is focused on the other issue. So maybe something else is causing you stress, and it’s gotten into your head. And now you can’t sing right.”
As he was listening—amazed by the wisdom coming out of this young person’s mouth—Douglas flipped through possible causes of anxiety. There were the frustrations of his job, of course. And the ongoing debate with his ninety-year-old mother about whether it was time for a live-in aide—Douglas in favor, mother opposed. But if he were being honest with himself, he knew what the real issue was.
Curtis’s next words echoed this revelation. “Maybe there’s some gu—person you’re having problems with or something.”
He knows, Douglas thought. Before he could stop himself, out it came. “Well, in fact…” And the next thing Douglas knew, he was spilling out the whole David story: the attraction, the letdowns, the manipulations and frustration. Throughout his monologue, a critical mental voice ran an ongoing commentary, questioning why he was doing this. After all, unburdening himself about a twenty-something to an even younger twenty-something—whom he had only just met—didn’t make a whole lot of sense. But when it was done, he said, “Thanks. That really helped, to get that off my chest.”
“No problem, sir. People always tell me I’m a good listener.”
“Well, they’re right.” Douglas checked his phone. “I’ve got to run, but I’ll see you tomorrow?”
Curtis smiled. “This is my time and place, pretty much every day.”
That night, lying in bed. Douglas reflected on the unlikelihood of his situation. He had a flaky, emotionally unavailable, young friend with benefits—and now he’d met a kid several years younger than that who seemed much more open and understanding. Curious but strangely content, Douglas slipped into deep sleep. His dreams that night were musical.
The next day was December 19. In the afternoon, arriving on his bike at the “time and place,” Douglas said, “I have a question for you. I assume you know how to play the full song of ‘O Holy Night,’ not just those first few notes.”
Curtis nodded. “Yes, sir. I can play pretty much anything you name.”
“Perfect. So, could you play it, and I’ll sing along with you? For some strange reason, I feel like that might help me relax into the song and make it easier to hit the note at the end.”
Nodding, Curtis replied, “One ‘O Holy Night,’ coming right up. I’ll do a four-bar intro, then the melody will start. I’ll signal you.”
“Got it.”
Curtis started a slow intro, then gave the thumbs-up. Douglas joined in, carrying the “easy” part of the tune with his typical grace and richness. At the end, the first “O night divine” went off, as usual, without a hitch. And then…
“Nailed it,” Curtis said, right after they finished.
“What a relief. That was great. Could we do one more run-through?” One more turned into several, and each time, Douglas easily, smoothly hit the high note. He was ecstatic.
After the fifth or so take, Douglas’s good mood was interrupted. In the middle of him exclaiming, “That was—” his phone buzzed, showing his mother’s number.
Answering the call, Douglas was surprised to hear an unfamiliar voice. It was his mother’s neighbor Dorothy, calling to tell him that she’d come to his mother’s house for tea, and a little while ago, his mother had closed her eyes and slumped in her easy chair, unresponsive. Dorothy had called for an ambulance, which had just left, taking his mother to St. Francis Hospital. She’d found his number in his mother’s phone and wanted to alert him before heading to the hospital herself.
Douglas thanked her, told her he would be there as soon as possible, and hung up. With a quick “Family emergency, gotta go” to Curtis, he sped off.
Douglas’s next three days consisted of an unvarying routine: work, stop at home, stop at Mom’s house to feed the cats and water the plants, and spend a few hours in the evening with her at the hospital before heading home to sleep. Covering the distance between all of these points wasn’t feasible by bike, so he used his mother’s car instead. David texted, once—an invitation for a quickie. When Douglas responded, “Can’t, Mom fell, is in hospital,” there was—predictably—no response.
There was also no time to rehearse, let alone stop by the park. So in the rare moments when Douglas wasn’t worrying about his mother, or fuming about David, he was continuing to stress about the note. Everything had come together so effortlessly in those few minutes of practicing with Curtis. Who knew what would happen now?
Douglas’s mother came home on the evening of the twenty-second. The final test showed nothing seriously out of sorts, no major damage. So she was home free—although that didn’t prevent another heated exchange on the drive back to her house where Douglas again argued for a live-in aide, and she countered with a scolding about the dangers of Douglas’s biking home in the dark, headlight or no headlight. Douglas would usually put up a protest, but given his recent tumble, he gave in on that one. They agreed that he would keep the car until Christmas Eve, when he would come to the house in the evening for dinner before going to midnight mass. He’d return and stay overnight, and then bike home after Christmas lunch. As part of making that agreement, a plan was forming in Douglas’s mind.
The twenty-third was Douglas’s last day of work before a three-day Christmas holiday. As part of his plan, he had driven in, and now he took the long way home—the route along the river. As he had hoped, when he reached the corner where the riverfront path angled up to the road, there on a bench sat Curtis. Douglas parked, walked over, and waved.
“How’re things with the family emergency?”
How nice. Someone remembers and cares.
“It was Mom. She’s fine—thanks for asking. Just a fainting spell, luckily nothing more serious.”
“Good to hear,” Curtis replied, and then he lifted his trumpet and let out a rapid-tempo, cheerful fanfare.
“So listen,” Douglas said before he could talk himself out of it. “I haven’t had a chance to practice ‘O Holy Night,’ with my mother and all. And when you and I worked on the song together the other day, that was really helpful. The rest of my afternoon is free, would you…” Come on, just say it. “Would you want to come over and help me rehearse?”
Curtis dropped his instrument to his side, dropping his head in parallel. After a long pause, he looked up and stared Douglas directly in the face.
“Come over…to your place.”
Douglas nodded. “Yeah, I have the car today, and—”
Curtis stood up, eyes wide. “No, sir. It’s not like that. I’m not trying to… Oh, wow. Umm, I need to go.” Trumpet in hand, he hurried past Douglas down the path to the river.
Douglas was surprised that his immediate reaction was curiosity. Did Curtis go right, toward the attractions and the more exclusive sections of downtown, or left, past the Y into what “proper” folk called—privately only, among themselves—“the hood”? But he didn’t bother to turn around to see. Did it even matter? Instead, he shook himself, sighed, and walked slowly back to the car.
Douglas spent that evening lying on his bed, staring at nothing. What had just happened? What had he done? A little before seven, his trance was interrupted by a text message buzzing on his phone.
“Meet in 30 for some holiday cheer, if you know what I mean.”
He set the phone down on the nightstand, facedown. Questions flooded his brain, riding a torrent of feeling that threatened tears. How many times in one day could he have a messed-up encounter with a young man less than half his age? In fact, how many times was he going to do this over the remainder of his life?
He picked up the device.
--Block number--
Dropping the phone onto his bed, Douglas got up and went to his desk. He took a note card from the stack he kept for thank-yous to his colleagues in productions: the director and producer, his fellow cast members, and the like. It was high-quality, ivory cream stock—only the best. Using a permanent marker to make the message weatherproof, he wrote:
I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by that invitation. And you really are good enough.
He debated putting it into an envelope with a name but was afraid Curtis would just toss it without opening it. Better to catch him by surprise—assuming, of course, he saw it at all. Douglas never saw another soul in that part of the park, but that didn’t mean some vagrant, or even city worker, wouldn’t come by. And with tomorrow being Christmas Eve, who knew when Curtis would even go there next. Or maybe Douglas had scared him off, and he would find another practice spot entirely.
Oh well, there’s nothing for it, Douglas encouraged himself. All you can do is deliver. The rest is up to the fates.
The park was empty as expected. Douglas parked and, card in hand, went to the bench Curtis most commonly sat on. He found a stone small but heavy enough to weight the note without covering the text. Looking around as if the water or branches could provide a sign indicating whether he was doing the right thing, he turned and left.
In a rapidly gentrifying section of downtown, Caffe Trieste was a true holdout. Opened when the entire area was a flood of just-arrived Italian immigrants, the place was largely unchanged after almost a century in business. Any repainting over the years simply consisted of a fresh coat over the basic red-and-white-and-green color scheme. Bentwood chairs and small two-top tables randomly filled the space, with plastic plants and black-and-white photos of the Italian countryside the main décor. Espresso and house red wine were both strong, popular, and cheap. Tradition was the name of the game, and the café was regularly filled with old-timers.
One long-standing tradition was Tuesday night music with Al and Sal, a white-haired guitar and banjo duo. Their picks of folk tunes and light pop classics—always ending with a three-part singalong to “O Sole Mio/There’s No Tomorrow/It’s Now or Never”—guaranteed a full house on what was typically the slowest night of the week for restaurants.
In addition to their regular gig, every year Al and Sal did a special Christmas Eve performance, supplementing their traditional fare with more obscure holiday hymns and folk tunes from the motherland: “Buon Natale,” “Gesù Bambino,” and of course, “Ave Maria.” For many attending, the show was as much a part of Christmas as family gatherings, gifts, and mass.
Given the predictability of the event, year after year, more than a few heads turned when, on this Christmas Eve, the young man entered the café. His age alone made him noteworthy, never mind his race. And even those who missed his entrance were startled when, as Al announced a short break, the youth went to the stage and had a brief chat with the performers.
The older men looked at each other, Sal shrugged, and they both nodded. And so, as the next set began, Sal spoke into the mic: “By request, we’re going to do something a little different tonight. Also by request, we’re not going to make a big deal out of it. Which I guess I’ve already blown.” He laughed. “So, here goes.”
Sal began strumming his guitar, and Al joined in with picked chords a few bars later. A few measures after that, the young man raised his shiny, silver trumpet to his lips and began—tentatively at first, then more powerfully as the song went along:
Daaaa…daa…da…da
The church was quiet as Father McKesson handed out the last wafer, gave the last sip of wine. In accordance with the solemnity of the night’s ceremony, he took his time returning the bowl and cup to their gilded home. After taking a low bow, he returned to the altar, sat, folded his hands, and closed his eyes.
From his seat at the side, Douglas took his cue. He rose slowly and went to the podium. The organist in the choir loft began playing the introductory accompaniment, the sound barely above a whisper:
Daaaa…daa…da…da
A parallel tune played in Douglas’s mind—this one bright, smooth, and vibrant. Flowing out of someone who offered a helping hand, a caring ear. Who, maybe, Douglas would never see again, but who had helped Douglas out tremendously without even knowing. Who, if the fates lined things up, maybe Douglas had helped out in return.
The organist completed his introduction. It was time for Douglas to join in. Taking a deep breath, he opened his mouth.
He sang.