Page 78 of Unlocking Melodies

“Jimmy—“ Jake started, but Gary's voice cut through the afternoon air.

“Hey kid, want to help me make amends with your guard chicken?” Gary called, looking only slightly concerned as Martha puffed up to twice her size. “I think we got off on the wrong foot. Or wrong claw, as the case may be.”

The pull to join him felt sudden and impossible to ignore. Something about seeing him there, trying to navigate both Martha's territorial nature and his own obvious discomfort with farm life, made me want to bridge the gap between who he was and who he might be trying to become.

I left Jake in the garden without another word, drawn toward this strange tableau of redemption by chicken coop. Maybe everyone was right to be suspicious. Maybe this would end badly.

But right now, watching my father attempt to charm the most judgmental chicken in Oakwood Grove, I wanted to believe in the possibility of change.

The familiar scent of straw and earth hit me as we approached the coop. Martha maintained her position by the door like a tiny feathered security guard, her glare suggesting we'd better have proper clearance.

“She's quite the character,” Gary observed, looking more amused than intimidated by our avian overlord. “Reminds me of that landlady we had on 82nd Street. Mrs. Kopecki?”

“Did she also terrorize innocent people?” I found myself asking, curious about these fragments of my past.

“Worse. She used to stand guard in the lobby like that, making sure no one tracked snow into her building.” His laugh held genuine warmth. “Your mother used to say she was just lonely, needed someone to fuss over. Started bringing her coffee every morning.”

We fell into an oddly comfortable rhythm – me showing Gary how to distribute feed while avoiding Martha's danger zone. For someone used to New York high rises, he adapted surprisingly well to farm life.

“Your mother would love this,” he said softly, watching Martha's suspicious inspection of his offering. “You, finding your place somewhere so different from where we started.”

Then his voice changed, grew quieter. “You used to call me about Ethan, you know. Back in college.”

My hands stilled on the feed bucket. “What did I say?”

“You said he was the one.” Gary's words carried a weight that made my chest tight. “First time I'd ever heard you so sure about anything. Not even music got that tone in your voice.”

Through the coop window, I caught sight of Ethan by his car, phone pressed to his ear.

“Did I call you often?” I asked, trying to picture myself sharing relationship details with the man everyone kept warning me about. “About Ethan, I mean.”

“More than you probably meant to.” Gary's smile turned wistful. “Late nights, usually. You'd call about music theory or venue bookings, but somehow the conversation always circled back to him. How he was helping you arrange pieces, teaching you about chord progressions.”

Martha clucked suspiciously at Gary's feed offering, her beady eyes somehow conveying both judgment and reluctant interest.

“The first time you mentioned him,” Gary continued, carefully maintaining his distance from our featheredsupervisor, “you were so excited about this piano duet you'd been working on. Said you'd finally found someone who understood music the way you did.”

Something flickered in my mind – the feel of piano keys under my fingers, someone's shoulder pressed warm against mine, laughter over missed notes. Not quite a memory, but an echo of one.

“What happened?” I asked, though part of me wasn't sure I wanted to know.

Gary's expression shifted, guilt crossing his features. “Things got complicated. My debts, his family's expectations... you both had dreams that seemed to pull in different directions.”

Through the window, I watched Ethan pace by his car. Even from here, I could see the tension in his shoulders, the careful way he held himself apart from everything.

Martha chose that moment to finally accept Gary's peace offering, pecking delicately at the feed while maintaining her air of superiority.

“Well, would you look at that,” Gary chuckled. “Guess even chicken dictators can be won over.”

“Don't get too confident. She's probably just lulling you into a false sense of security.”

“Like father, like chicken?”

The joke should have felt forced, uncomfortable. Instead, I found myself laughing, the sound echoing off the coop walls and making Martha look up in disapproval.

“He loves you, you know,” Gary said suddenly, his voice soft but certain. “The way he looks at you – it's exactly the same as it was back then. Like you're the most fascinating puzzle he's ever encountered.”

We finished up in comfortable silence, Martha maintaining her suspicious supervision of Gary's every movement. As westepped out into the afternoon sun, Gary's hand landed on my shoulder – the gesture feeling both foreign and familiar.

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