Ten minutes later, he heard his wife cry out to him:
“Tom, Tom! What’s that noise! What are you doing in the attic?”
AT ELEVEN-THIRTY, there was the old man. He stood in front of the step-less house, as if not knowing what to try next. And then he took a quick step and looked down.
Mr. Widmer, from his upstairs window, whispered, “Yes, yes, go ahead.”
The old man bent over.
“Pick it up!” cried Mr. Widmer.
The old man extended his hands.
“Brush it off! I know, I know it’s dusty. But it’s still fair enough. Brush it off, use it!”
In the moonlight, the old man held a guitar in his hands. It had been lying in the middle of the lawn. There was a period of long waiting during which the old man turned it over with his fingers.
“Go on!” said Mr. Widmer.
There was a tentative chord of music.
“Go on!” said Mr. Widmer. “What voices can’t do, music can. That’s it! Play! You’re right, try it!” urged Mr. Widmer. And he thought: Sing under the windows, sing under the apple trees and near the back porch, sing until the guitar notes shake her, sing until she starts to cry. You get a woman to crying, and you’re on safe ground. Her pride will all wash away; and the best thing to start the dissolving and crying is music. Sing songs, sing “Genevieve, Sweet Genevieve, the years may come, the years may go,” and sing “Meet Me Tonight in Dreamland,” and sing “We were Sailing Along on Moonlight Bay,” and sing “There’s a Long, Long Trail Awinding,” and sing all those old summer songs and old-time songs, any song that’s old and quiet and lovely; do that, and keep on doing that; sing soft and light, with a few notes of the guitar; sing and play and perhaps you’ll hear the key turn in the lock!
He listened.
As pure as drops of water falling in the night, the guitar played, soft, soft, and it was half an hour before the old man began to sing, and it was so faint no one could hear; no one except someone behind a wall in that house, in a bed, or standing in the dark behind a shaded window.
Mr. Widmer went to bed, numb, and lay there for an hour, hearing the faraway guitar.
THE NEXT morning, Mrs. Terle said, “I seen that prowler.”
“Yes?”
“He was there all night. Playing a guitar. Can you imagine? How silly can old people get? Who is he, anyway?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Mr. Widmer,
“Well, him and his guitar went away down the street at six this morning,” said Mrs. Terle.
“Did he? Didn’t he come back?”
“No.”
“Didn’t the door open for him?”
“No. Should it?”
“I suppose not. He’ll be back tonight.”
She went out.
Tonight will do it, thought Mr. Widmer. Tonight, just one more night. He’s not the sort to give up now. Now that he has the guitar, he’ll be back, and tonight will do it. Mr. Widmer whistled, moving about the store.
A truck drove up outside the store, and Mr. Frank Henderson climbed out, a kit of hammers and nails and a saw in his hands. He went around behind the truck and took out a couple of dozen fresh-cut, new pieces of raw, good-smelling lumber.
“Morning, Frank,” called Mr. Widmer. “How’s the carpentry business?”
“Picking up this morning,” said Frank. He sorted out the good, yellow lumber and the bright steel nails. “Got a job.”