November Blues (24 page)

“Girl, that child has more clothes than I do, thanks to you. You don't know how much it meant when you brought all those baby gifts that you collected from the kids at school.”

“No sweat,” Olivia said, brushing off the compliment. “So where's my girl?”

“She should be up soon.”

“Hey, Geneva sent you some of her homemade chili. It's delicious,” Jericho told her as he placed the bowl on the kitchen table. “Why do women think they have to send food all the time?”

“She probably figured if she didn't give it away you'd eat it all!” November joked. The three of them laughed.

“Probably so.” Jericho sat on the sofa, exhaling deeply as he sank down. Olivia went and sat next to him—not touching, but close. She looked ridiculously happy.

“That's some nice music you've got playing,” Olivia said as she relaxed into the sofa cushions. “I like the blues.” She closed her eyes.

November nodded. “I used to think it was dumb, old-timey music. Maybe you gotta deal with some stuff before you can really feel the blues.” She looked at Olivia, and the two girls exchanged knowing glances.

“Mellow,” Jericho said as the harmonies surrounded them.

“I see you brought your trumpet,” November observed, pointing to the leather case Jericho had in his hand.

He rubbed his hand across the dull sheen of the leather. “I polished it up last night. The case and the horn,” he added.

“I'm glad you got it out again,” Olivia told him.

“Yeah, I been hiding from the music for way too long.” Jericho slowly pulled the gleaming instrument out of its case. “Do you think it would bother the baby if I play?” he asked November.

“I think she likes music,” November replied. “I bought her a couple of those classical CDs and she seems to quiet down when they're on. Music is one of the few things that stops her crying.”

Just then the baby whimpered. November jumped up and ran to the next room, picking up her daughter carefully. After changing her diaper and wrapping her in a soft yellow blanket, November came back into the living room, the tiny infant's head barely peeking out of the blanket.

“Hey, Miss Sunshine,” Olivia said softly. “You look pretty in yellow.”

“Looks like she's grown since we saw her last,” said Jericho.

“She's a full five pounds, one ounce now,” November stated proudly.

“What's the latest from the doctors?” Olivia asked.

“We won't really know if she'll have any problems for a while, at least. Her hearing and eyesight seem to be fine, so there's at least that to be thankful for. Her doctor told me that if she doesn't roll over, or try to sit up, or try to grab for things in the next few months, then she'll be a little concerned. But right now we have hope.”

November warmed a tiny bottle of milk and fed Sunshine while the three friends sat in the living room, listening to the soft blues music. The baby gave a soft burp and smiled at November as she rocked her. No one said much. The baby did not cry.

Jericho got up off the sofa, looked at November to see if she minded, and turned off the radio. He put his trumpet to his lips, then brought it down. “This song is for Sunshine,” he told them.

He picked up his horn, inserted the mute, and, ever so smoothly, began to play. Bright sweet notes flowed from the instrument, clear and pure. He played his own kind of blues—a soulful version of a song they'd all learned in grade school, “You Are My Sunshine.”

November hummed along as she rocked her baby girl, her baby girl with the shaky future.