A Song Without an Ending

Bjorn was the gardener at Hollin Lane Cemetery. He cut the grass and swept the paths. He watered the flowers by the gate.

Every day at noon, he ate his lunch in the garden shed.

The shed was small and warm. It had a bench, a window, and a shelf of tools. It smelled of grass and engine oil.

On the window ledge sat a trumpet.

Bjorn bought it three weeks earlier at a market. It was cheap and scratched. He wanted to learn one song. It was a slow tune from his school days.

But the trumpet had a problem. The second valve stuck. When Bjorn pressed it, it stayed down. The note came out flat and thin. It sounded like a goose with a cold.

He tried to fix it. He tapped the valve with a spoon. He rubbed it with soap. He even blew into it for a full minute. Nothing worked.

So every noon, Bjorn played the tune as far as he could. Near the end, the valve stuck. The note cracked. He stopped, shook his head, and went back to his rice.

He thought nobody heard him. The cemetery was big, and the shed stood far from the office.

That spring, a new clerk named Jolene started work in the office. Her desk stood by the front gate. She was quiet, and she wore a green scarf. She said good morning to Bjorn and nothing more.

Bjorn liked the quiet. In the morning, he cut the grass along the old stone wall. A squirrel followed him from tree to tree.

One Monday, Jolene walked down the long path toward the shed. Bjorn saw her through the window. He put the trumpet down fast.

She stopped at the open door. "Bjorn, can I talk to you about the music?"

"The music?" he said.

"At noon, every day." Jolene held her hands tight together. "I can't listen to it anymore."

Bjorn felt cold. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know it carried so far."

"It carries all the way to my desk."

"I understand. I will put it away."

Jolene opened her mouth. Then her phone rang. She looked at it and sighed. "I must take this. We can talk later." She hurried back up the path.

Bjorn sat alone with his rice. He was not hungry. He put the trumpet in its old case. He pushed the case under the bench.

On Tuesday, the shed was silent at noon. On Wednesday, it was silent again. Bjorn ate fast and went back to the roses. The squirrel sat on the wall and looked at him. Even the squirrel seemed to ask a question.

At the front desk, Jolene noticed the quiet too. Noon felt wrong without the tune. She typed a letter and made three mistakes. She started again and made two more.

By Thursday, she could not work at all. She took her lunch bag and walked down the path.

The shed door stood open. Bjorn sat on the bench and chewed slowly. The window ledge was empty.

"Where is it?" Jolene asked.

"Where is what?"

"The trumpet. Why did you stop?"

Bjorn stared at her. "You asked me to stop."

"I did not!" Jolene said. "I said I couldn't listen to it anymore. I meant I couldn't listen to half of it."

"Half of it?"

"The song stops before the end. Every day, in the same place. I want to know what comes next. It makes me crazy."

Bjorn laughed. He laughed so hard that he dropped his spoon. "The valve sticks," he said. "I can't get to the end."

"Then let me see it."

He pulled the case out from under the bench. He opened it and gave her the trumpet. Jolene turned it over in her hands. She pressed the second valve. It stayed down with a small click.

"It's dry," she said. "And it's dirty. My brother played the trumpet for ten years. I know this sound."

She dug into her coat pocket and took out a small bottle. "This is valve oil. I brought it on Monday. I wanted to give it to you. Then my phone rang."

Bjorn looked at the bottle. Then he looked at her. "You carried it for four days?"

"I forgot it was there. Then I saw your empty windowsill."

Jolene sat on the bench beside him. She unscrewed the top of the valve and pulled it out. She wiped it with a cloth from the shelf. She put three drops of oil on it and slid it back. Then she pressed it with one finger. The valve went down and came up again, smooth and quick.

"Try now," she said.

Bjorn took the trumpet. His hands were not steady. He lifted it to his lips and began.

The first notes were soft. The slow tune rose and fell inside the little shed. Bjorn reached the place where the song always broke. His finger pressed the valve. The valve came back up. The note held. He kept going, all the way to the end.

When the last note faded, Jolene did not speak. She looked at the floor and smiled.

"Again," she said at last.

Bjorn played it again. This time he played louder. The sound went out through the open door and across the grass. It passed the old wall and the long paths. It passed the clean white stones.

Outside, a bird landed on the gate. It sat there, quite still, until the last note was gone.