I turned around to go inside. Mike was standing there. “Who was that boy?”
“Believe it or not,” I said, “he’s my son.”
“Oh,” he said. “Are you giving him guitar lessons? I wanted guitar lessons, and you said no.”
“Well I—” I stammered. “Remember your hands are still too small.”
Mike looked at his hands. “What should I do?”
“Wait,” I said. “Until they get bigger.”
“I want to do it now. I want to play ‘Kryptonite.’”
“I know you do. I understand completely. I know exactly how you feel. You just have to wait a little longer, that’s all.”
“Can you play it for me again?”
Actually, I wanted to sit down and stare into space for a minute, to think about what just happened. But this kid was so urgent about everything, it was hard to keep telling him no. “Is your mom home?”
“Yeah,” Mike said.
“Then go ask her if it’s OK if you hear me play ‘Kryptonite’ again. Tell her we’ll be right outside here.”
Mike took off at a run. I went inside. I could hear their conversation through the kitchen wall.
Mike: “Mr. Good is going to play ‘Kryptonite’ again for me. Is that OK?”
Robin: “Was it his idea or yours?”
Mike: “Mine, but he said yes if you say yes. We’ll be right outside here. He said to tell you.”
Pause.
Mike: “Can I?”
Robin: “See, I don’t want you to bug him. He’s not used to kids. He doesn’t have any and—”
Mike: “Yes, he does. One was just over there. Bigger than Elise. No, really. He’s giving him guitar lessons, and he said when my hands are bigger—”
Robin: “Did he say it was his kid? Are you sure?”
Mike: “Yeah. So can I go?”
Robin: “For a few minutes. And be polite. Make sure you say thank you after he plays the song for you, OK? Don’t keep asking him to play songs. Just the one is enough, OK? He might have to go somewhere and—”
Mike: “I’ll be so polite!”
He was already knocking on my door by the time he finished the sentence.
“Well, what a surprise!” I said, opening the door.
“Are you joking?” he asked, tipping his head to one side.
“Yes.”
“Oh. What are you doing?”
“I’m taking these chairs outside, one for you and one for me.”
Outside, Mike looked over his shoulder toward his own door. “Thank you for inviting me,” he said.
“You’re welcome. Wait right here a sec, OK?”
I went back inside and took down the same guitar I had been using when Jack was here. “OK, buddy. Let’s go.” I played some of “Kryptonite.” The kids face lit up like a little beacon. It was hard not to feel good about your performance with that kind of audience response.
“OK, now I’m going to let you play it.”
“What?” he said. Shock flooded his little freckled face.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll tell you what string to play. OK, now this one right here. See, I’m pressing it down up here with this hand. Perfect. Now that one. Right. This one. Wow, you’re good.” I got him through the chorus. I never saw such a small face concentrate so hard. It took a long time. I had to restrain myself from smiling, he was so serious. “You’re great, bud. A real natural. Want to do that again a little faster?”
“OK,” he said, getting ready to concentrate.
“Wait,” I said. “You need a little break, I think. Am I right?”
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s hard.”
“Sure is, but you’ve got talent. Hey, you want a cookie, while we’re having our break?”
“Yeah!” he said. “I mean, yes, please.”
“OK,” I said. “Do you like Oreos?”
He nodded.
“Wait a second. I’ll get you a couple.” Since I had them, I might as well use them. Mike stood at the door watching me get the cookies from the kitchen. I left them out on the counter, in case he wanted more.
“Thank you,” he said, taking two Oreos. “We don’t have cookies.”
Uh-oh, I thought. “You mean, your mother doesn’t let you eat sweets?”
“No,” he said. “I mean, we eat them so fast we always run out.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Well, I have plenty.”
We played the chorus again, very, very slowly. He was standing in front of me, while I told him what to do. His tongue was sticking out a little, and he was holding his breath.
When the chorus was finished, he said, “Wait! I have to go get my mom!” Halfway to his door, he turned around. “Can you please do it again with me for my mom?”
“Sure,” I said. “Of course.”
Robin came. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Is he bothering you?”
“Not at all. We’re having fun, aren’t we?”
“Yeah,” Mike said. “Hey, Mom, he has cookies. You want a cookie?” He opened my door to go get her one.
“Mike!” she said. “You’re a guest!”
Quickly, I said, “Please get your mother a cookie, Mike. Get her two. They’re on the kitchen counter.”
“OK,” Mike said, hurrying inside. “Do you want one, Mr. Good?” he called from the kitchen.
“No, thanks. I’m not really a cookie person.”
“How come you got ’em, then?” he said, returning to hand the cookies from his sweaty little hand to his mother’s smooth, white one.
“I got them for the little boy you saw earlier. My, uh, son. He didn’t want any, though. Shall we play?”
“Yup,” he said. He looked at his mother and smiled.
“OK, scout,” I said, “That one.” I pointed; he plucked. “Now that. That.”
We played. They both smiled at me. “Thank you,” Robin said. “That was really nice of you.” There was a long pause. She ran her hand over Mike’s hair. “I didn’t know you had a son.”
I nodded. I was so pleased with myself for not blurting out, “Neither did I!” or “You could have knocked me over with a feather!” I didn’t say anything.
“No wonder you’re so good with Mike.”
“No, I—well, to be honest, I just met him today. This afternoon.” So much for my tact.
“Oh!” she said, as if she’d stepped on a bee. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. Thanks for letting Mike play your guitar. And thanks for the cookies.”