Cage walked into the living room and set the long, black case on the floor next to the staircase. His mother was moving about in the kitchen, and he went in to join her.

“Hey sweetheart,” she said. “How was school?”

“It was fine. We got our schedules today.”

“That’s good,” she said, placing a carafe into the fridge. Her mind seemed to be someplace else, and she hadn’t looked at him. “Anything else?”

“Not really.”

She closed the refrigerator door, picked up and finished the last of her drink, and set the glass in the sink.

“I’ll be out with the girls tonight,” she said, finally looking over at him. Her eased softened upon seeing him. “There’s some sandwich fixings in the fridge you can help yourself to.” She paused and he could see the unease return to her face. “We’re going bowling.”

“Sounds fun,” he said. He tried to seem animated.

“I shouldn’t be out too long,” she said. “Do you have any plans for tonight?”

“Just going to practice for a while.”

She looked at him without saying anything, as if she hadn’t heard him. “Nan should be here any minute. Come give your Momma a hug.”

Cage walked over to her and she wrapped her arms around him. He could smell the chemical odor on her breath. “You seem tense,” she said. “Relax!” She broke her hug and pushed down on his shoulders. Releasing him, she grabbed her purse from the countertop. “I’m off,” she said. “Wish me luck!”

“Have fun, ma.”

After he was certain she’d gone, Cage picked up her glass up from the sink and smelled it. He set it back down in the stainless steel basin and took a thermos from an overhead cabinet, grabbed a carton of orange juice from the fridge. With the thermos under his arm and the OJ held in one hand, he slung the long black case over his shoulder with the other and went up the stairs.

In his room, Cage set the beverage paraphernalia on the desk and tossed the black case onto his bed. He went to the closet and pulled a rectangular glass bottle from the top shelf. It was about half full of a clear liquid, which he poured into the thermos. Screwing the cap back on, he set the bottle on the desk, topped off the concoction with some orange juice, and took a drink.

Relax, she said. And he did. He exhaled, his face softened and shoulders dropped. He took another drink and welcomed the warmth spreading from his stomach and into his chest and arms. He admired the plain wooden desk, the folded laptop and speaker, a haphazard stack of notebooks. There was a small reading lamp with its cord dangling off the tableside and falling just short of the ground. It was unplugged. Feeling that had some meaning, he turned in his chair, and opened the black case on the bed.

Inside was an old trombone; one not worse for wear with a few dents and patches of corroded lacquer exposing the raw brass beneath. He picked up the instrument and worked the slide, appreciating the elegant simplicity of it, before taking another drink. He played a low, quiet, extended tone. The sound wavered, but as he listened, his mind became one with it, and the note formed into a steady, glowing beam in the acoustically dry room. He played another, and the core became more sonorous, a smoky timbre fringing the edges of it.

Cage set the trombone back on the bed and opened the laptop. Within a few moments, a 30s vintage jazz standard played through the speakers, swinging and raw. Cage forwarded the track to a trombone solo cutting through the band, and after listening for a few measures, found the right sequence of notes on his instrument. He then imitated the player’s sound and style, their vibrato, articulation and phrasing, the timing of the notes. It was an impossible task, but one that in his mind stretched him to discover more of his own unique voice, something crystallizing every day. He played like this for about an hour, back and forth with the digitized past, back and forth with the thermos, until his playing became loose and unbothered.

His body felt slack and mobile. He returned to the computer and cued up another song. Smiling, he layed on the bed, hands behind his head, elbows to the side, and closed his eyes. As his mind slipped away, the syncopated lines became more mysterious, somehow more meaningful, the ancient counterpoints fading as he sank into darkness.

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