The Last Solo

By Haniah Duerkson

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June 12, 1854  

She’s late.  

He glanced at his watch for the hundredth time that hour. It was seven minutes to one, an hour past  their agreed meeting time. His heart stuck in his throat even as he told himself that she’d come. She  would. She had promised five years ago 

Wiping the thin layer of sweat off his forehead, he pulled his coat closer around him. Even though it  was mid June the wind gusting in from the ocean was cold. Or perhaps it was the permanent chill that  sent shivers down his spine, only to be stopped by the horrible heat that left him bedridden.  

His lips tightened, cutting off this train of thought. This is about Joan, not me. He could focus on  himself after he saw her again. After he’d sent her back home. She needn’t know.  

Goodness, where was she?  

She’d promised. No matter what happened. They knew what money meant then, even though they’d  been young. He knew what it meant to have less, and she knew what it meant to have none. Yet even  still she’d promised to scrape and save until she had enough to get back to him.  

He had never left Ireland like she had. Though even his family had moved away. To Dublin. He ran  away from there, his parents would have never let him come otherwise, and boarded a train. Now he  was here.  

But she was nowhere to be found.  

He swallowed, finding that his legs now struggled to hold him up. Collapsing heavily on the shore, h splayed his legs out in front of himself. He ignored the pain that it caused his tender muscles.  

Sitting here, among the rocks and the gray skies, smelling the salt breeze, he could almost hear Joan  singing. She’d sung often when they were children. Edward supposed that he was still a child, though  he wore men’s clothing and hadn’t had a childhood since he was eleven. A year before Joan had left.  

The crash of waves against the shore and the singing echoing through his memory brought him back  to his childhood, not so long ago, but so, so much different. For then he had someone at his side.  

July 27, 1848  

Joan hummed out the melody to a song that Edward knew well. How he wished he’d brought his fiddle to harmonize. Mam always said that bringing his fiddle out into the sea air would cause it to rot. He thought that was rot. It would be well worth buying a new fiddle i  it meant making Joan happy with some music.  

Lying back on the sandy bank behind him, he sat and listened to her. The soft humming was sure to  turn into singing soon. Sure enough, she began to sing the melody. It was wordless, but her voice lifted  and fell so perfectly that it sent shivers up his spine. It was haunting, echoing over the sound of the  waves like a siren’s song, but it was beautiful.  

“Joan?” Edward said, sitting up so suddenly that it made the world spin for a moment.  “Yes, Ed?” She cocked her head at him, but otherwise didn’t comment on his interruption.  “Do you think we could be traveling performers some day?”  

Laughing, she slipped to a seated position beside him. “Of course. With your violin we could be  world-famous.”  

“Don’t you mean with your voice?”  

They laughed together. They both knew they were talented, but they did prefer each other’s way of  things.  

“Shall we just agree that we shall both make us famous?” Edward asked, leaning back on the bank  once more.  

“Oh, alright. Where shall we perform first? I was thinking– 

But Edward’s hacking cough cut her off. It was the type that started in his throat, but rocked down his  spine and ribs. Oh, how it hurt.  

“Should we go back to your house now?” Joan asked, her voice hushed. He didn’t want to, but as he  tried not to be an obstinate boy, he agreed.  

August 6, 1849  

“We’re leaving.”  

Edward couldn’t say that he was surprised. He’d heard the talks. He’d seen all the others leaving.  Fleeing, really, on boats to far o lands. New York…that was all the way across the ocean. And then he’d  seen her coming across the field to their secret spot on the beach. There were tears on her face. H could see her shoulders shaking. This left no doubt in his mind.  

His lips formed a thin line as he tried not to follow her into tears. “When?” he asked.  She scrubbed a hand across her nose. “Next week.” 

Edward’s stomach flipped. So soon 

Suddenly, he knew he had to ask. “Joan?”  

“Yes, Ed?”  

“Do you think we could be traveling performers one day?”  

Joan sighed. He didn’t like that sound. He didn’t like her hesitation.  

“We’re only just twelve, Ed. I think that our dream was a little prematurely made.”  Heart sinking, he pulled his knees up to his chest. “I don’t see how a dream can ever be premature.”  

“We didn’t think it through.” She wasn’t looking at him now. She was toying with a tuft of grass  poking out through the sandy rocks. “We’re too young. Too inexperienced. I don’t have any money or  food and you have both of those things. I’m leaving now. To New York. That’s too far for members of  the same troupe to be.”  

“But…” But what? There was nothing he could say to that. It was true. He swallowed. “Just promise  me something, alright?”  

“It depends on what it is.”  

Ignoring her, he plowed on. He had to get this out. “You promise me that you’ll come to visit, Joan.  Promise me that you’ll be here, five years from now. On my birthday, as a present to me. Be here, a our special spot, at noon precisely. Promise?”  

She looked at him, worrying her lip between her teeth. For a moment he thought she wouldn’t say  anything, but then her small voice broke the silence.  

“I promise. Even if I have to scrape and save for years, I promise to be here.” Edward reached over  and hugged her tight. She returned it with full force.  

“Sing for me?” he asked, finally pulling away 

Nodding, she stood up. The wind whipped her dress around her thin frame. Her golden hair blew out  behind her. Even though she was small, underfed, and dirty, Edward still thought she looked like a  faerie, or perhaps, a siren.  

Her voice lifted and fell, carrying beautifully over the sound of the waves crashing on the shore. She  was singing their song again. The one that he knew so well. Oh, how he wished he’d brought his fiddle 

June 12, 1854 

Edward couldn’t tell if it was the salt spray of the sea or his tears that were making his face wet. If they  were tears, he couldn’t really tell why they were there.  

One thought permeated his mind. She didn’t come.  

A thousand reasons galloped through his head, all of them plausible. But none of them really  mattered. The only thing that did was the fact that she wasn’t there.  

He stood up from his place on the beach, leaning against the sandy bank. Stretching his fingers h reached down and flipped open his fiddle case. His fingers shook slightly as he picked it u checked the tuning. He then tucked it between his chin and shoulder as he tightened the bow. He took  comfort in the meticulous process. It calmed his nerves.  

When he finally placed the fiddle beneath his chin, he didn’t need to think to know what to play.  fingers found the notes on their own, age-old muscle memory for a song he had never needed to writ down the notes to.  

It was their song–the one he knew well–and it was not possible for him to ever forget how to play it.  

He had played many solos since his Mam had first given him a fiddle. It was a violin, she had t him, but he’d never enjoyed playing it as such. It was somehow different. A violin held the secrets to  the old masters, the symphonies and sonatas. But a fiddle? Oh, a fiddle held the sound of home if knew how to coax it out. This song, their song, sure knew how to do that.  

Yes, this was not the first solo he’d played, but it was definitely the least solo-like. As his finger across the strings, his bow moving at just the right speed to keep up, a harmony was going on around  him. The waves beating against the rocky shore. The wind whispering through the grassy field behind him. The crunch of his boots on the pebbles as he swayed with the music. His heartbeat pulsing  through him. His pocket watch ticking out the perfect rhythm. The sound of a siren’s song, echoing  through memory and time to find him. All around him a song was playing, and not just through hi fiddle. This was more than just coaxing the sound o  home out o  the strings. This was finding h and harmonizing with it.  

All too soon the song was over. He could almost hear the echo if he listened hard enough.  

Edward found that he was breathing heavily. He reached up with his hand and wiped the sweat from  his brow with his bow hand.  

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, listening one last time over the sound of the ocean, hoping  beyond hope to hear singing. When he heard nothing, he crouched by his fiddle case, gingerly laying i to rest.  

Tears obscured his vision as he snapped the case shut. He tried to swallow around the lump in his  throat, but couldn’t. Instead, a choked sob escaped his lips.  

She hadn’t come. This had been his last chance at seeing her again. His last chance at hugging his best  friend and telling her goodbye. His last chance at his dream. And now that chance was gone.  

He straightened and squared his shoulders, staring one last time at the endless ocean, as if he could  see her all the way in New York. 

“Farewell, Joan,” he whispered to the wind. He prayed that somehow it would be carried to her.  He could almost hear a siren’s song echoing back to him across the ocean.  

June 23, 1854  

“There’s a letter for you, sir.”  

“Thank you,” Edward said. His hands shook as he took the letter, but he did his best to ignore it. He  knew what it meant. It had only always been a matter of time. Breaking the seal on the envelope was  harder than it had any right to be, but he finally managed it. Reading the first line was difficult i dark room and the handwriting was nearly illegible. His eyebrows shot up.  

Flipping over the paper, he read the address on the envelope. It was marked New York.  

Dear Edward, it read. The handwriting wasn’t Joan’s. Hers had always been neat, if not a little childish,  in all their correspondence. This handwriting was spiky and uneven.  

You can probably tell that this isn’t Joan writing to you. It’s me, her sister, Bey. I must say that I am greatly sorry for  the circumstances of my writing.  

I know that Joan wanted to meet you there on the beach. She told me so herself, in those last days. She’d even saved up the  money to do it. But she couldn’t, you see. She made me promise to write to you and tell you sorry for her.  

Anyway, I suppose you want to know how it happened–  

But Betty hadn’t even said anything? How was Edward supposed to want to know how anything  happened if he didn’t even know what it was?  

It was the tears springing to his eyes that brought understanding. Joan was gone.  

He wanted to laugh at the irony. Joan was the first to go. That’s not how it was supposed to work. He was the one who had always been sick with heaven knows what. He was the one who was never lively  or running around like the other children. 

Suddenly, he realized that he did want to know how it had happened. How on this beautiful earth that  Joan had been robbed of life before him.  

Anyway, I suppose you want to know how it happened, so I’ll tell you. The doctor said that the Famine took its toll on her. I wanted to slap something at those words. The Famine took its toll on all of us. He said she got sick with typhus. We  see a lot of that over here. It’s not the same as in Ireland, even with the Famine.  

You’re the first we’re letting know. Because you were her friend, I suppose. I just thought you should know that.

God be with ye, Betty Gallagher  

Sickness. Sickness. That was rich–utter rot! –written to him. A cough raked his body before the sob building up in his chest could do the same.  

So, this is how he would die? His time running out just after his best friends? He supposed it was fitting, though he would have preferred to be the first to go. It would save him this ache in his chest No, that was wrong. He would have preferred to be the only to go. His body ached as he shifted in bed, curling in on himself.  

He was glad, he supposed, to have had that last hurrah at the beach. His clock hadn’t just been  ticking down the seconds waiting for her. No, they had been counting down the hours until he was to  die. That steady rhythm, so perfect at the time, had been his bane after all.  

There was to be no dream fulfilled. There was to be no seeing Joan, not in this world, in any case There was only the sound of his watch, ticking away his last minutes here on earth.  It was only a matter of time, Edward thought.  

Perhaps he and Joan would be able to play together after all, forevermore, to the glory of their King.