third-floor room by the attic door. Boundaries, thinks Minna. There are boundaries there. Minna sighs and leans back on her pillows to dream a dream without sleeping. She is the only musician in an orchestra. It is a solo symphony, but there are many conductors: Twig in soft-soled shoes, her mother directing with an eraser cartridge, her father smiling and waving his glasses, Porch frowning. âPlay,â they whisper to her, âplay.â When her daydream ends it is too late to plan her life. She hears her mother crashing about the typewriter. The blank sheet of paper remains empty.
Minna rode the bus alone, leaving Emily Parmalee and McGrew at home surrounded by books and papers as they worked on their science reports. Emily was writing on the decline of maple trees. Emily had always been interested in trees. McGrewâs report was titled âThe How and Why of the Beaver.â
The streets were grimy with spring. Willie played Tchaikovsky on the corner, music that made Minna feel sad and peaceful at the same time. Next to the violin case the small brown dog slept, curled like a sausage on Willieâs jacket. A woman in a fur coat with worn elbows stood in front of Minna, a baby peering over her shoulder, his head bobbing as he stared at Minna. The baby grinned suddenly and drooled down his motherâs back, leaving a wet trail of fur where his mother couldnât see. A slimy secret between Minna and the baby. Minna touched his hand and moved off through the crowd, standing on the steps for a moment, watching Willie. She sighed and looked up at the gargoyles. Willie on the street comer has a vibrato. Where is mine?
Inside it was dark and quiet and cool. Porch beckoned Minna in and unzipped her cello case. Minna slumped in a chair.
âMin?â asked Porch. He sat down next to her. âProblems?â
âItâs my vibrato,â said Minna, looking at him.
âWhat about it?â
âWhere is it?â Minnaâs voice was loud in the empty room. âI mean,â she leaned forward, âLucas has a vibrato. Even Willie has one. Where is mine?â
Porch frowned at Minna.
âWilliam Gray?â he said sharply. âWhat do you mean âevenâ Willie? What do you know about Willie?â
Minnaâs face reddened. She had not even known Willieâs full name.
âNothing, except that heâs always there, playing on the street corner. He always gives me my money back,â she added softly.
Porchâs face softened.
âHe does, does he? A gift. Willie is a fine musician, Minna. And he was a fine musician before he got his vibrato. Did you know he plays in the symphony chamber group?â
âBut why does he play on the street?â asked Minna, surprised.
âFor his own reasons, Minna,â said Porch. âYou might ask him that yourself.â
âWe never talk about anything but music,â said Minna.
âWell,â said Porch, sitting down and leaning back in his chair, âlife and music are not separate, you know.â
There was a silence.
âMin,â said Porch, âyour vibrato is not something that is there, I mean that exists, like fingernails, or hair about to grow longer. It is something you can work at, yes, and think about, yes, but it is much more like . . .â Porch folded his arms, âlike understanding something for the first time, or suddenly knowing what a book youâre reading is all about.â He peered at Minna. âIt is like a light going on over your head. Do you know what I mean?â
âNo,â said Minna, staring at Porch. She was thinking about her past life; the moments along the way when she needed something to make things right. When she was seven it had been a plaid skirt, at ten it had been a bicycle. Then it had been her first full-size cello. Now it was a vibrato. Would it end there?
âYou will understand,â said Porch. âYou will.â He