The Flute

“Oh Daddy. Look. A flute. Let’s go in and look at it.” The street lights had just come on and Amy and I were rolling past a stop sign next to a corner pawn shop with a well lit window where a flute was displayed in a black-lined velvet case. I was tired and felt melancholy, but I parked. I wrapped Amy in blankets to protect her from the cold and drizzle, and lifted her into the wheelchair. I pushed her into the store.

The store man retrieved the flute for Amy and told us it was a Gemeinhardt. She fingered the ornate keys and delicate tube. The polished silver reflected bright lights into her gray eyes. She blew across the opening of the flute and for about three seconds, sounded a pure perfectly pitched note. The mere fact that she could make the sound was remarkable for an asthmatic that struggled each night for breath. The note bled away. Breathless, with a happy smile, she replaced the instrument in the case and handed it to the man. She said, “Thanks for stopping, Daddy. Let’s go.”

Amy’s happy look changed to one of concern as I asked the man the price of the flute. As I handed him our rent money, she gasped.

I said, “Don’t worry, Baby. That was the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.” I hadn’t been able to shelter Amy from the many collection phone calls from hospitals, doctors and creditors, but this was the one thing I could do. Silent, she clutched the case as I rewrapped her in the car and lifted the wheelchair into the back.

Conflicting me, over the long months as Amy deteriorated, were Amy’s needs and the demands of my job. Amy was attended by home nurses and tutors, while my job forced me to spend daylight and evening hours away. As other children entered junior high school, Amy was trapped in a crumbling apartment, furnished with breathing apparatus. Most times, a nurse was her only playmate and company. Sometimes late at night, after she left, I noticed Amy caressing the keys of her flute, but most evenings it remained in the case beside her bed.
We acknowledged Amy’s condition, knowing it was terminal. That lightened our times some. During those long nights, as she fought for air, we shared thoughts of fear, hope and mortality.
She said, “Daddy, the nurse said that at the end, narcotics will make it less painful and I won’t feel panicked. But she said we need to talk now, because then I will be sleeping a lot.” So we played games, read books, made up stories, and talked. I sensed my daughter becoming a parent.

One evening, she asked to go and hear an upcoming performance by the civic orchestra.

I said, “Baby, you know what happens. You choke up in cold air.”

She said, “It’ll be okay, Daddy. My nurse said so. Besides she already bought the tickets.”

The following week, when the evening arrived, I was startled at the elegant formal dresses of Amy and her long-term nurse. The nurse had carefully arranged Amy’s long brown hair in an elegant bun with a silver comb. Attached to a silver chain around her neck, a purple pendant fell midway between the high neckline and waist of the gray velvet floor-length dress. The nurse said, “A daughter of my friend outgrew this recital dress and gave it to us. Amy and I altered it last week.”

At the concert hall, as prearranged, the usher escorted us and pushed Amy’s wheelchair to the front of the middle aisle. The nurse and I were seated in the first two seats next to Amy, seats normally reserved for notable patrons. Amy shivered. I asked the nurse, “Should you sit next to her?”

She said, “I think it’s okay as it is, sir.”

Amy’s eyes glistened and she squeezed my hand. I eased the oxygen tubes in her nostrils and her breathing eased. Then, from the orchestra pit, came a cacophony of plucked strings, horns and drums. I was braced, somewhat for music, but not for that. Until that moment I hadn’t realized how angry I was at was losing Amy. I wanted to smash windows and scream. Brass horns blatted. An oboe honked. Finally, the lights dimmed.
The sunken stage rose slowly. Gradually, the scrolls and peg boxes of bass strings, the podium and the tuxedoed, gowned and somber orchestra came into view. All was silent except for Amy’s faint wheeze.

With military elegance, the white-haired conductor strode to the podium. Applause erupted, but just as suddenly, stopped as he bowed and then raised his arms. With flair, he did an about face, turned the tails of his tuxedo to us, and stepped onto the podium. Suspense lingered until a kettledrum thundered and the orchestra exploded.

Amy drank the sound. Hands folded under her white lace shawl, she smiled at me with each emotional rise and fall of sound. How had I been blinded to this girl’s love for music? Familiar confusion and the new fury overwhelmed me. I remained in this state through several musical numbers. Then, I became aware of Amy watching me. I tried to mask my feelings behind attentive gestures. I straightened the oxygen tubes and smoothed her shawl. Not fooled, she noted that the next piece was the last before intermission. We had agreed that we would leave then.

Amy’s eyes closed as the conductor guided the strings through a song of tender love and the orchestra through a passion. For the first time in my life, this music awed and consumed me. I was lost in Beethoven’s lush garden of harmony. The conductor moved hypnotically. Slowly, my guilt and fear drained away. I wanted the moment to last forever, but the sound slowly diminished to a whisper. Then a statuesque, gowned flutist rose and the orchestra paused before beginning the final melody.

Suddenly, from my right, a series of breathy precise notes emerged from Amy’s flute. Somehow, the usher had slipped her the flute and supported her as she stood. I shivered at those few crystalline notes. They continued for just a few bars. The conductor turned to the audience and folded his hands. The flutist remained poised to continue. In that moment Amy, eyes closed, became a woman in the caved body of an invalid. At a delicate musical moment of tension, Amy opened her eyes and smiled at me. With the usher’s help, she leaned into my arms and shivered. The flutist finished the piece and the conductor brought the orchestra through the concluding bars. He then turned and bowed. Amy sat. The overhead spotlights reflected on the flute and flashed into her brimming, gray eyes.

Carefully, she set the flute in the black-lined velvet case, smoothed the coverlet and snapped