Work Text:
Cindy saw the guitar before she saw Jennifer.
It lay across the kitchen table beneath an old wool blanket, its neck extending beyond the folded edge and nearly reaching the chair at the far end. The blanket was one Cindy had noticed in the Fischer house during winter, brown with two faded red stripes and a place along one corner where the binding had come loose. It had been wrapped around the instrument several times, though part of the dark wooden body remained visible near the table’s edge.
Bart stood beneath it with his nose raised.
He couldn’t reach the guitar itself. Brandon had tied his lead to the leg of the sideboard before opening the back door, leaving him enough room to greet Cindy but not enough to put his paws against the table. The moment she entered, he abandoned his examination of the blanket and came toward her, tail beating against the cupboard.
Cindy closed the screen behind her.
“You’ve been put away from something.”
Bart pressed his head beneath her hand.
His lead pulled tight when he tried to circle behind her. He looked toward the table, then back at Cindy, as though the restriction and the covered object were plainly connected and required investigation by anyone newly arrived.
Nicola lay near the stove with her front paws together. The morning had grown mild enough that the stove was cold, but she remained in her accustomed place. She lifted her head, watched Cindy remove her coat and lowered it again.
Brandon stood at the counter pouring coffee into a thick cup.
“Jennifer’s washing,” he said. “She’ll be down in a minute.”
Cindy looked at the blanket.
Brandon followed her gaze. “That’s it.”
She didn’t ask him to uncover it.
“Did they bring it home yesterday?”
“Near supper.”
“Did she play it?”
“Until April told her fingers wouldn’t improve by losing their skin.”
Cindy glanced toward the stairs.
From above came the faint movement of water in a basin and a drawer closing. No music had greeted her from the lane that morning. She had wondered whether the purchase had failed at the final moment, whether Mr. Miller had found another buyer or discovered some new fault requiring more money. The partly covered body on the table answered without ceremony.
Cindy stepped closer.
The exposed wood was darker around the edge, almost brown-black where the finish remained thickest. Toward the centre it faded to a warmer colour worn pale beneath years of hands. Scratches crossed the lower face in several directions. One ran deep enough to show a thin lighter line through the finish. Near the bridge, a patch had been rubbed dull until the grain appeared uneven beneath the varnish.
The bridge itself was darker than the surrounding wood. A narrow repair line showed along one side where it had been fixed back to the body.
Cindy kept her hands at her sides.
Bart returned to the limit of his lead and stretched his nose toward the blanket.
“Leave it,” Brandon said.
Bart looked at him.
Brandon drank his coffee.
Footsteps crossed the room above and came down the stairs.
Jennifer entered the kitchen with her braid still damp and one cuff of her blouse unbuttoned. She fastened it while walking, saw Cindy beside the table and stopped.
Cindy looked toward her.
Jennifer’s eyes went immediately to the blanket, checking the visible corner, the neck and the position of Bart beneath it. Only then did she look back at Cindy.
“You came.”
“It’s Saturday.”
“Yes.”
Jennifer crossed to the table.
She didn’t uncover the instrument at once. She untied Bart first and led him to the back door. He mistook the movement for the beginning of a walk and surged toward the yard.
“Outside for a little while.”
Bart went through willingly. Jennifer brought Nicola as well, though the grey dog looked back once from the threshold before following. She fastened the screen and checked the lower latch after Bart put one paw against it.
“He’ll scratch,” Cindy said.
“Only until he finds something.”
Bart’s nose had already gone to the ground.
Jennifer returned to the table.
Her fingertips were red.
Cindy noticed when Jennifer took hold of the blanket near the guitar’s neck. The pads of the first three fingers on her left hand looked flattened and tender, with a small pale line crossing the index finger where the string had pressed most deeply.
“You hurt them.”
“They’re only sore.”
“Can you still bend them?”
Jennifer curled her hand.
The movement was careful near the end.
“They’re stiff.”
“April was right.”
“She usually is.”
Jennifer unfolded the top layer of blanket.
The guitar appeared gradually.
Its body was broader than Cindy had judged from the visible portion. The lower curve nearly filled the width of the table space before Jennifer. The neck was long and narrow, the dark fretboard marked by years of fingers. Small dents showed along one side. A repaired split ran a short distance from the edge near the bottom, held by a thin line of glue darker than the wood around it.
The strings looked newer than the guitar.
They crossed the sound hole in six clean parallel lines, bright where the morning light reached them. Above the fretboard they sat higher than Cindy expected, leaving a noticeable gap between metal and wood.
Jennifer placed one hand beneath the neck and another beneath the body.
The guitar was large against her. When she lifted it, the lower curve covered much of her blouse and extended beyond her elbow. She adjusted her hold twice before carrying it to the chair near the window.
Cindy remained by the table.
Jennifer sat and turned the guitar across her lap. The upper curve rose almost to her shoulder. Her right arm rested over the body while her left hand reached beneath the neck.
“It looks heavier than it is,” she said.
“Is it heavy?”
“After a while.”
Cindy looked at the strings.
Jennifer touched one lightly with her thumb.
A low note filled the kitchen, rough at its beginning and fading unevenly through the old wood.
Bart barked once from the yard.
Both girls looked toward the screen.
He stood several feet away with his head raised, staring at the house. Nicola had lifted her head from the grass but remained lying down.
Jennifer touched the same string again.
Bart’s ears moved.
He didn’t bark a second time.
Cindy came nearer to the chair. “Was that the lowest?”
“Yes.”
“What happens if you do all of them?”
Jennifer drew her thumb slowly across the six strings.
The sound emerged too sharply. Several notes rang together, while one produced a dry metallic buzz. The chord hung for a moment and fell apart.
Bart barked again.
This time Nicola raised her head higher. She looked toward the kitchen, listened through the remaining vibration and then lowered herself back to the grass.
Jennifer’s face tightened slightly.
“He doesn’t like it,” Cindy said.
“He doesn’t know it.”
“He knows the sound.”
Jennifer adjusted the guitar against her lap. “It isn’t supposed to sound like that.”
“What is it supposed to sound like?”
“Together.”
“It was together.”
“Not properly.”
She placed the fingers of her left hand along the fretboard.
The first finger pressed one string. The second came down on another. She looked from her hand to a small open book lying on the table. The book had been borrowed from the library and held open beneath a jar so the pages wouldn’t close. Diagrams showed a guitar neck marked with dark circles and letters.
Jennifer shifted her middle finger.
“This is meant to be G.”
Cindy looked at the diagram. “Your finger’s on the wrong line.”
Jennifer checked.
“No, that’s the second string.”
Cindy turned the book slightly. “It looks like the bottom because the picture’s upside down from how you’re holding it.”
Jennifer examined the printed neck and then her own.
“It’s shown facing you.”
“Yes.”
Jennifer moved her finger.
She strummed.
The sound came out uneven again, though different from the first. One note rang clear. Another buzzed. A third scarcely sounded at all.
Jennifer lifted her hand.
The red fingertips had grown paler beneath the pressure.
“You’re not pressing this one enough,” Cindy said.
Jennifer looked at her index finger.
“I am.”
“It sounded stopped.”
“The book says near the fret, not on it.”
Cindy leaned closer without touching. “You’re farther back than the picture.”
Jennifer moved her finger toward the metal fret.
She tried again.
The deadened note opened into a clearer tone, though another string caught beneath the side of her finger and failed to ring.
Cindy listened until the sound had gone.
“That one changed.”
“Better?”
“It lasted longer.”
Jennifer looked at the neck.
She pressed each string separately with her right thumb. The first rang. The second buzzed. The third sounded clean. The fourth made almost nothing.
“My finger’s touching it.”
Cindy nodded.
Jennifer lifted her index finger slightly, curved it more and pressed with the tip.
The string sat high enough that the effort showed through her wrist.
She drew her thumb over the chord.
Four notes emerged together. Two still failed, but the sound had gained shape.
Cindy looked toward the book.
“Again.”
Jennifer played it a second time.
The lower note buzzed more strongly.
“That wasn’t the same.”
“I know.”
“Your hand moved.”
Jennifer looked at the fretboard. “Which finger?”
“The middle one, I think.”
“You couldn’t see it.”
“I heard a lower sound the first time.”
Jennifer played each pressed string separately.
When she reached the fifth, it rattled against the fret.
“That one,” Cindy said.
Jennifer shifted her finger.
She tried again.
The note cleared.
Neither girl praised it.
Jennifer rested her sore fingers away from the strings and flexed them once. “Books make it look smaller.”
“The hand?”
“The spaces.”
Cindy looked at Jennifer’s hand against the neck. Her fingers were slight, the span between the first and third stretched close to its comfortable limit. The guitar’s neck wasn’t especially broad, but everything about the instrument became larger beside Jennifer.
“How did you play it at the shop?”
“Badly.”
“Mr. Miller still sold it.”
“He wasn’t selling my playing.”
Cindy looked at the repaired bridge. “Did he tell you how?”
“He showed me how to hold it. He knows some chords but not much more.”
“What did the library book say?”
“How to tune it. Where the notes are. How to sit.”
Jennifer adjusted the chair with her heel. The seat stood a little high for her. Her feet reached the floor, but not firmly enough to support the instrument’s angle.
She shifted forward.
The guitar slipped slightly along her skirt.
Cindy reached instinctively, then stopped before touching the wood.
Jennifer caught it.
“It moves.”
“You need the other chair.”
“The seat’s lower.”
Cindy drew the straight-backed chair from the table and set it beside Jennifer.
Jennifer stood while holding the guitar against herself.
The body covered enough of her that she had to look around it to see where she placed her feet. Cindy kept the chair steady. Jennifer sat again and tried arranging the instrument across her right thigh.
The change helped, though the guitar still tipped outward.
“Hold it for a minute,” Jennifer said.
Cindy looked at her.
Jennifer lifted the guitar from her lap and placed it carefully across Cindy’s.
Only then did Cindy touch it.
The weight settled wider than she expected. She put one arm over the body as Jennifer had done and supported the neck with her left hand, careful to keep her fingertips from pressing the strings. The wood was cool along the outer edge and warmer near the place Jennifer’s arm had rested.
The old finish felt uneven beneath Cindy’s sleeve.
“Don’t let the neck fall,” Jennifer said.
“I have it.”
“It pulls to that side.”
Cindy adjusted before the weight could turn.
Jennifer moved the first chair away and positioned the lower one near the window. She folded a narrow cushion and placed it at the back so she wouldn’t sit too deeply.
Cindy looked down at the guitar.
From that position the dents became easier to see. One near the upper curve was deep enough to catch a shadow. The sound hole’s edge bore several small chips. The strings crossed above it with no sign that the instrument cared how many years had passed through its wood.
She didn’t strum.
Bart had come back to the screen. He looked through at Cindy holding the object that had made the sharp noise.
His nose touched the mesh.
Cindy looked toward him. “You can’t have this.”
Bart wagged once.
Jennifer finished with the chair and turned.
“You can try a string.”
Cindy shook her head. “It’s yours.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t touch it.”
“I’m already touching it.”
Jennifer looked at Cindy’s hands, one beneath the neck and one steadying the body.
“Play the low one.”
Cindy used her thumb.
The string resisted slightly before releasing. The note came out fuller than she expected and vibrated beneath her forearm. She felt it through the body before she heard the whole of it.
Bart gave a low uncertain sound but didn’t bark.
Cindy waited until the note faded.
“It moves.”
“The wood?”
“Yes.”
“That’s how it makes the sound larger.”
Jennifer took the guitar back.
Their hands overlapped briefly beneath the neck while the weight transferred. Cindy released only after Jennifer had the body securely against herself.
Jennifer settled into the lower chair.
Her feet rested properly now. The guitar no longer slipped forward. She looked at the open book, placed her fingers again and attempted the G chord.
The first try buzzed.
The second produced one dead string.
The third sounded close to the earlier clearer version.
Cindy sat opposite her at the table.
She brought the exercise book nearer but didn’t read it continuously. She watched Jennifer’s left hand, then closed her eyes for several repetitions so the small changes in finger placement wouldn’t influence what she heard.
Jennifer played.
The chord sounded rough at its beginning, but all six strings spoke.
“Again,” Cindy said.
Jennifer lifted and reset her fingers.
The next attempt was thinner.
“Different.”
“Which part?”
“The bottom sound was stronger before.”
Jennifer tested the low string.
It buzzed.
She moved her second finger closer to the fret.
Again.
The note cleared.
She strummed.
“That’s nearer.”
Jennifer looked at her. “Nearer to what?”
“The one before the bad one.”
Jennifer considered the sequence.
She tried again.
The chord broke apart under uneven pressure.
Cindy opened her eyes. “No.”
Jennifer’s mouth tightened.
She released her hand and rubbed the fingertips against her thumb.
“They hurt.”
“Then stop.”
“I only started.”
“You started yesterday.”
Jennifer looked toward the clock.
They had been working for less than twenty minutes.
“The book says the skin grows harder.”
“It can’t do that all in one morning.”
“No.”
Jennifer rested her hand for several breaths. She didn’t put the guitar down.
Cindy opened her geography exercise book to a blank page.
“What are you doing?”
“Keeping the sounds.”
“You can’t write them.”
“I can mark which one was better.”
She drew six short lines to represent attempts. Beside the third she placed a small cross. Beside the fifth she put a second mark, slightly lower.
“That doesn’t tell us anything.”
“It tells us the third and fifth were closest.”
“They may not have been the same kind of close.”
Cindy looked at the marks. “Then say what was wrong.”
Jennifer tried to remember.
“The first buzzed.”
Cindy wrote it.
“The second had no fourth string.”
She wrote that too.
“The third was nearly clean.”
“How nearly?”
Jennifer looked at her.
Cindy waited.
“One string was quiet.”
“Which?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then we listen again.”
The work continued in that fashion.
Jennifer attempted the same chord. Cindy listened for the sound of each string within it. When one disappeared, they found it separately. When a buzz returned, Jennifer checked whether her finger sat too far from the fret or touched the neighbouring string. The diagrams in the book gave positions but no means of forcing Jennifer’s hand to maintain them.
The high strings cut deepest into her fingertips.
She tried changing the angle of her wrist. The guitar tipped. Cindy held the lower body steady until Jennifer found a position that didn’t require her shoulder to rise.
“Don’t keep doing that,” Cindy said.
“What?”
“Lifting here.”
She touched her own shoulder rather than Jennifer’s.
Jennifer lowered it.
The chord changed again.
“That was better.”
“It felt worse.”
“Then don’t keep that one.”
Jennifer looked toward Cindy’s notes. “You said better.”
“It sounded better. You can’t play an hour with your arm there.”
Jennifer flexed her wrist.
The simple pattern in the book used two chords.
One was G. The other was C, which required Jennifer to move every finger and reach farther across the fretboard. The first attempt at C produced three separate noises and a muted scrape.
Bart barked from outside.
Cindy looked toward the screen. “He agrees that was worse.”
Jennifer’s expression didn’t change enough to become laughter, but the tightness around her mouth eased.
She reset her hand.
The next attempt rang more clearly in the middle strings and failed at both ends.
Cindy made another note.
“You don’t need to write every one.”
“I won’t remember which finger caused what.”
“I don’t know which finger caused what.”
“Then find it.”
Jennifer tested the strings individually.
The highest one sounded clean. The next failed. The third buzzed. The fourth was clear. The fifth rang, though faintly. The lowest was meant to remain open and sounded without trouble.
“Your first finger’s touching two,” Cindy said.
Jennifer curved it.
The second string opened.
She strummed.
The chord remained uneven, but its notes belonged together.
Cindy sat still until it faded.
“That one.”
Jennifer looked at her fingers without lifting them.
“This?”
“Yes.”
Her hand had begun trembling from the pressure.
“Remember where it is,” Cindy said.
“I’m trying.”
Jennifer released and pressed again.
The position didn’t return exactly.
The following attempt lost the second string once more.
Jennifer breathed out through her nose.
She started again.
The girls moved between the two chords for nearly an hour.
The pattern required four slow strokes of G, a pause long enough for Jennifer to rearrange her fingers and four strokes of C. In the book the change occupied no more than a printed line. At the table it became a broad uncertain distance.
Jennifer could hold G with tolerable consistency if she placed each finger separately. She couldn’t form it all at once. C came only when Cindy reminded her that the index finger had flattened. When Jennifer rushed the transition, both chords failed. When she moved too slowly, the pattern lost any sense of continuation.
“Don’t stop the right hand,” Jennifer said after one attempt.
“You have to stop it while the other hand moves.”
“The book says keep rhythm.”
“The book’s hand isn’t sore.”
Jennifer looked at the printed diagram.
Cindy turned the page, searching for any note about beginning slowly.
“There.”
A paragraph advised changing between two chord shapes without strumming until the fingers learned the movement.
Jennifer read it.
“We should’ve done that first.”
“You wanted sound.”
“Yes.”
Jennifer placed the fingers for G, held them, then lifted and attempted C without touching the strings with her right hand. The movement was clumsy but easier to examine without the sharp evidence of each error filling the room.
Cindy counted slowly.
“One. Two. Three.”
Jennifer reached C on three.
“Again.”
G to C.
Four counts.
Back to G.
Five.
Again.
Three.
The work became quieter. Only the light taps of fingers against metal marked each change. Bart lost interest and disappeared from the screen. Nicola remained visible in the yard, asleep beneath the window.
Jennifer watched her hand.
Cindy counted.
When the movement reached three counts twice in succession, Jennifer tried adding a single strum after each change.
G rang clearly enough.
C buzzed but held.
Back to G, one finger landed on the wrong string.
Cindy heard it.
Jennifer corrected before she spoke.
The next pattern nearly joined.
It wasn’t smooth. The pause between chords remained large, and the second stroke of C caught a muted string. But the sequence carried from one shape to the other without collapsing entirely.
Cindy marked the line.
Jennifer looked up. “Was that the best?”
“Yes.”
“Again.”
The next was worse.
Cindy crossed the mark lightly but didn’t erase it.
Jennifer tried once more.
The G chord came clean. Her fingers lifted, searched, pressed and formed C after a pause. The first stroke rang. The second buzzed. The third cleared after she altered pressure. The fourth was thin.
“It changed inside the same chord,” Cindy said.
“I moved.”
“You fixed one string and lost another.”
Jennifer looked at her hand. “Which one?”
Cindy couldn’t say.
They tested each.
The high string had become muted by the edge of Jennifer’s index finger.
She adjusted.
The chord rang more openly.
Jennifer repeated it twice.
The third repetition failed.
She lifted her hand from the neck and stared at the reddened fingertips.
“That’s enough,” Cindy said.
“I can still do one.”
“You’ll make them worse.”
“They’re already sore.”
“That isn’t a reason.”
Jennifer kept the guitar across her lap.
Cindy closed the exercise book and placed the pencil on top. “You can read the next part.”
“I can read without the guitar.”
“Yes.”
Jennifer looked down at the old body beneath her arm.
The instrument showed no change from the hour. The scratches remained, the repaired bridge remained and the strings continued sitting high above the fretboard. Only the faint marks on Jennifer’s fingertips proved that anything had been attempted.
She brushed her thumb once across the lowest string.
The note sounded alone.
Bart barked from somewhere near the shed.
Nicola raised her head, listened and settled again.
Jennifer allowed the final note to fade before standing.
She carried the guitar to the table.
The old blanket remained spread there, folded back in several uneven layers. Jennifer set the instrument down with the neck supported by the cloth and began drawing the lower edge over its body.
Cindy watched the blanket shift.
The wool was wide enough but not shaped for the purpose. When Jennifer folded one side over the guitar, the opposite corner slipped away from the lower curve. She corrected it, only for the blanket to pull from the neck.
“It doesn’t stay,” Cindy said.
“It stayed last night.”
“You weren’t carrying it.”
“I carried it from the shop.”
“With April.”
“Yes.”
Cindy came around the table.
Jennifer lifted the guitar again while Cindy spread the blanket fully. One end had been folded inward twice, wasting several inches.
“Put the body here,” Cindy said.
Jennifer lowered it nearer the centre.
Cindy drew the bottom corner over the lower curve first, tucking it loosely beneath rather than pulling it tight across the wood. She brought one long side over the front, then the other, overlapping them beyond the strings.
“The neck still shows,” Jennifer said.
“It can’t all come from the middle.”
Cindy took the upper corner and folded it diagonally around the heel where the neck joined the body. The remaining cloth extended far enough to cover most of the fretboard.
“The tuning pegs are out.”
“They’ll catch if they’re wrapped.”
Jennifer examined the arrangement.
Cindy adjusted the blanket so the loose binding didn’t lie beneath the guitar’s weight. She pressed the folded layers together along the side.
“It needs ties.”
“String could scratch it.”
“Not against the blanket.”
Jennifer found two lengths of soft cloth tape in April’s basket. With the guitar still supported on the table, Cindy passed one around the body and tied it flat against the blanket. The second went near the upper curve, far enough below the neck that it wouldn’t press on the repaired joint.
Neither knot was tight enough to squeeze the instrument. They only stopped the wool from opening.
Jennifer tested the wrapping by lifting the guitar several inches.
The blanket held.
“One corner’s still thin,” Cindy said.
She folded a small square of worn flannel over the exposed place and tucked it beneath the outer layer. The guitar’s shape remained obvious beneath the blanket. No wrapping could disguise the broad body, long neck or protruding tuning pegs.
“It isn’t a case,” Jennifer said.
“No.”
“The cardboard won’t be enough either.”
“It’ll be more than this.”
Jennifer carried the wrapped instrument against herself.
Even beneath the blanket, its size overwhelmed her frame. The body extended from below her waist almost to her shoulder, forcing her left arm around it while her right hand supported the neck. She shifted once until the weight rested securely.
Cindy tied her schoolbooks and put on her coat.
The dogs had returned to the back step. Bart’s nose pressed against the screen, fogging a small patch of mesh with his breath. Nicola waited behind him.
Jennifer opened the door only wide enough to block Bart with one foot.
“You stay.”
He tried to move around her leg.
Jennifer held the guitar higher. “No.”
Cindy stepped through first and took Bart’s collar. “I have him.”
Jennifer followed, carrying the guitar.
Once outside, Bart inspected the blanket immediately. He smelled along the lower edge, then reached toward the loose flannel corner.
Cindy moved his head away. “That isn’t yours.”
Nicola approached more slowly. She smelled the wool once and looked toward Jennifer, appearing to accept that the covered object had joined the household.
Jennifer didn’t set it down while Cindy adjusted her scarf and gloves.
“You don’t need to carry it out,” Cindy said.
“I know.”
“The cold isn’t good for it.”
“I’m only at the porch.”
Cindy fastened her coat.
Jennifer remained near the open door with the guitar held firmly against her. The blanket’s red stripes crossed the front at an angle. One cloth tie had shifted slightly but remained secure.
Cindy looked at the hidden body.
“Your third G was best,” she said.
“The third before we changed chairs?”
“After.”
“The one with the quiet string?”
“Yes.”
“That wasn’t fully right.”
“No.”
Jennifer adjusted her hand beneath the neck. “The last C was closer.”
“The first stroke was.”
“The second buzzed.”
“Yes.”
Neither girl attempted to make the hour sound more successful than it had been.
Cindy stepped off the porch.
Bart moved with her to the limit of the lead, then looked back at Jennifer and the guitar.
“I’ll come Thursday,” Cindy said.
Jennifer nodded. “I may know the two chords by then.”
“You may know where they are.”
“That’s what I meant.”
Cindy held Bart steady while Jennifer leaned one shoulder against the doorframe.
The instrument remained in her arms.
She could have laid it on the table for the length of the farewell. The wrapping was secure now, the house warm and Bart safely outside. Instead she kept one hand beneath the body and the other around the covered neck, feeling the old guitar’s weight settle against her as Cindy opened the gate.
Nicola went as far as the path and stopped beside Jennifer.
Bart followed Cindy through the gate, then had to be turned back before the lead drew taut.
Cindy returned him to the yard.
“You stay here too.”
Bart looked toward the road she would take.
Jennifer stood in the doorway with the guitar.
Cindy closed the gate and checked the latch.
“I’ll listen again Thursday.”
Jennifer’s fingers tightened slightly in the blanket near the neck. “All right.”
Cindy turned toward home.
Bart remained at the gate. Nicola stood beside the porch. Jennifer stayed in the open doorway, holding the wrapped instrument against her small frame until Cindy reached the first corner and passed beyond sight.