Jeffrey turned the boxes over. Ah, speakers, I realized.
Jeffrey and I set up the speakers, hooking this to that and tinkering with this and that, while Thais watched from the sofa.
“No, you stay there,” Jeffrey told Thais when she tried to help. “It’s your surprise.”
And so she sat back and let us put the contraption together, her legs drawn up on the cushion.
The small solar panel I placed on the porch railing where the sun was hitting; black cords extended from it into the open window behind Mr. Graham sitting in his rocking chair.
Lastly, Jeffrey produced a digital music player from the pocket of his overalls and hooked it into a USB.
When the first few seconds streamed through the speakers, Thais perked up and her eyes grew wide with wonder and her smile lit up her face like a child at a carnival awed by the flashing lights and bright colors.
“Music! It’s music, Thais! It’s your surprise!” Jeffrey hopped toward her on the sofa with his arms straight out in front of him. “Let’s dance!” Before he could reach for her hands, Thais had grabbed his.
“It’s so wonderful, Jeffrey! It’s the best surprise ever—thank you!”
They stood toe-to-toe, their fingers interlocked, their weight evenly distributed between them as they leaned backward and spun around in a wide circle.
And when the music picked up and Madonna sang Like A Prayer, Jeffrey and Thais were dancing around the room with joyful abandon, moving their hips and swinging their arms. Thais bounced and spun, and tried to sing along though it might’ve been her first time ever hearing the lyrics, but in a little time she knew the chorus by heart almost word-for-word. The hem of her yellow dress twirled around her legs, left and right as she changed direction; her long, dark hair whirled and fell against her back and into her face, only to float back around her again when she went into another graceful twirl.
I shoved the sofa out of the way to give them more space. And then I sat down on the floor and watched Thais with the biggest smile, fascinated by her carefree innocence and joy, adoring her. When the choir sang, Thais and Jeffrey raised their hands in the air and clapped.
Thais came over to me then, grabbing my hands, trying to pull me to my feet, but I wouldn’t budge, and was much too heavy for her to force, so she went back to dancing with Jeffrey.
As one song ended and others began, even I realized how much I had missed the sound of music: You Can Call Me Al by Paul Simon, Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen, Stand By Me by Ben E. King, Billie Jean by Michael Jackson. And when Baby, I Can’t Wait by Nu Shooz and The Look by Roxette came on, Thais danced her little heart out, and although there was no real system to her moves and sometimes she appeared as awkward as Jeffrey with his big lumbering steps and chaotic twirls, Thais was still the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.
“Play that one again!” Thais shouted, pointing at the speakers.
She hopped up and down on both feet, clapping her hands furiously in front of her chest with excitement. Don’t You Want Me by Human League was replayed four times before Thais remembered the lyrics, and not only did she and Jeffrey dance to it, but they also acted it out.
Thais tried once more to get me in on their fun.
“No! No!” I shouted over the music; a smile stretched my face. “I’m enjoying watching you two!”
And so, once again, she left me and went back to dance with Jeffrey.
After several songs, many of which I was familiar with, I finally gave in when Night Moves by Bob Seger came on, because not even I could resist that song.
I grabbed Thais around the waist, dipped her, twirled her around, and sang to her as we danced with feverish grace. And even though Thais didn’t have black hair, and I didn’t have a ‘60s Chevy, and even though we were in love, and not just bored and reckless and using each other, somehow we made the song about us anyway. And we danced and danced until finally Thais had danced so much her legs were sore.
“No, you can’t stop now!” I laughed, tried to pull her back to her feet.
Jeffrey cackled watching us; he smacked his big hands together with enthusiasm in front of his face.
“You wanted me to dance, and now I am!” I said.
“But I’m so tired!” Thais let all of her weight drop to keep me from pulling her back up; she hung from my hands.
In the end, I won, and Thais danced with me to I Will Wait by Mumford & Sons; we played air-banjo and air-guitar and air piano and air-tambourine.
THAIS
It truly was the best surprise, I thought as the music faded. It had been so long—years—since I’d heard recorded music, and I would never forget this day for as long as I lived.
I was worried about breaking the news to Jeffrey about Atticus and me moving on, and by early afternoon, I still had not found the right time, or the right words.
“Jeffrey,” I said, “what do you shave your hair with?”
The three of us were sitting on the back porch, eating noodles with powdered cheese, and, as always, fish, fish, and more fish—we had been lucky to catch fish every other day at least.
Jeffrey dragged his hand over his head, fingered the old scars, and touched the cuts that were sure to become new ones. His hair was already sprouting back in places, non-existent in others, and longer in some spots.
“I used a knife. And water.”
I winced.
“Don’t you ever get your grandpa to help you shave?” I asked.
I set my plate on the porch railing and went over to him in the rocking chair, and I touched his head.
Jeffrey wrinkled his nose. “Grandpa said he can’t do it.” He dug his fork into his noodles and took a giant bite.
Atticus spoke up from behind: “Jeffrey, why don’t you let me shave your head? I can show you a trick. So you won’t cut yourself so much.”
I beamed, thanking him with my eyes.
Atticus brought water up from the pond and sat Jeffrey down on the bottom step. He covered Jeffrey’s head with baby oil and shaved his head properly, told him he could use just about anything: lotion, shampoo, even the coconut and olive oil on the shelf at the supply cabin.
When I asked Jeffrey why he shaved his head, why he didn’t just let his hair grow out, Jeffrey responded, “My Dad had a shaved hair—I do it like my Dad.”
After shaving, Atticus took Jeffrey over to the rowboat-slash-canoe and worked with him for two hours, explained how it should be done, drilled the details into his head so he could finish the project on his own.
“You think you can finish the rowboat by yourself if you had to?” Atticus asked.
Jeffrey hacked away at the inside of the tree to shape it.
“I can do it,” he told Atticus. “I could make a good rowboat now. I know how now”—he hacked away a few smaller chunks of wood—“But I like it that you help too. I like it we make my rowboat together.”
Atticus and I shared a knowing look; I nodded to Atticus, and he knew then it was his cue to leave. It was time I tell Jeffrey the news.
Atticus kissed my cheek, and then left us alone.