My stomach rumbles. Lindsay follows with a dish of sour cream, and Dad’s got a salad in one hand and dressing in the other. We take our places at the table, but there’s an empty seat. Mom’s old seat. “Where’s Sophie?” Lindsay asks. “She was right behind me.” Feeling awkward about losing my guest on her first visit, I call from the dining room, “Sophie?” From the living room comes a deep, throaty horn blast. Dad’s fork slips from his fingers and clatters to the table. Bubbe’s hand goes to her mouth. And Lindsay looks at me with her jaw dangling. She’s the first to move; then we all rush toward the living room. Sophie stands between the TV and the coffee table, holding Mom’s tuba—Mom’s tuba!—with air squirreled in her cheeks for her second blow. Don’t! She blows with gusto, and a loud blast comes from the bowels of the tuba. A tiny noise escapes Dad’s throat. The last time we heard that tuba was about two years ago in the middle of the night. It wasn’t the sounds from the tuba that woke me, though.
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