Page 33 of Puck Daddies
I finish the water line and move to bowls. Hot water, soap, rinse, racks. I keep wanting to test my range like a kid with a new toy. I try not to turn the dish room into a practice room. I fail. A few quiet bars, only air behind them. My voice holds where it held for the dog.
It isn’t tenor. It’s something below that. Maybe I can live there.
The manager leans in the doorway and raises a brow. “You rehabbing your voice in my sink?”
“Apologies.”
She shrugs. “The dogs shut up when you sing like that. Keep going.”
She’s right about that. Most of them quieted down. It’s just a one-off, I’m sure, but it’s impossible not to be excited about it. I don’t know what to do with the feeling, so I put it in the box in my head markedtell Meg.
I run laundry next. The machines hum. I hum with them. I keep it low. I think of how I used to lean forward to make high notes happen, and how my neck got tight. My body isn’t trying to go there now. It wants the middle. It wants the floor. I run the sound through my chest and back. I stop making it pretty. I hold what it is.
By ten, Brownie is asleep with his chin on his paws. I hum once as I pass. He opens one eye, exhales, closes it. I stand there a second and let the relief settle.
I did a thing. It worked. Do it again.
I take first walks. Cold air. Two leashes. Two new dogs who don’t know me. We go slow. The second corner, a truck backfires. Both jump. I hum low. The leashes stop pulling. We keep moving. It’s small, but it feels like something I can build on.
When I return, I linger at Brownie’s run and talk soft. “Thanks, buddy,” I tell him. He flicks an ear again. I look at the clock. I have time to get to Bea’s before close. I text Meg:Done at the shelter. You closing?
She texts back.Yes. Bex and Tom already left. John too. Come if you want.
On my way.
I clean up, switch my hoodie, and head over. The sky is thin gray. The sidewalks are wet. The city sounds like late afternoon. Bea’s glows from the inside. A beacon. The shop is quiet. Chairs are still down. Only two customers left, both working on laptops. Meg is at the espresso machine, wiping down the wand.
“Hey.”
She looks up. The way her face changes when she sees me lands where I live. “Hey. You good?”
“I think so. You closing alone?”
“Yes. Easy close.”
I glance at the last table. “I can help.”
“You have a look. What’s up?”
I want to say it all at once. I don’t. I walk around the counter and keep my voice low. “Brownie—the anxious dog I told you about—he calmed when I hummed.”
“Didn’t it hurt your throat?”
“Not tenor. Low. Baritone low. It held.My voice held, Meg. It didn’t hurt.”
Her hand goes to my forearm as her bright brown eyes widen. “Show me.”
“Now?”
“As soon as they’re gone,” she says. When the last customers leave, she locks the door. “Now.”
I clear my throat. I don’t push. I breathe like I’m lifting a weight off the floor. Air down. Sound up. I hum the note I did at the kennel. Then a step up. Then back. Nothing fancy. All chest. No fight. The sound sits. It’s not beautiful. But it’s clear in a way it hasn’t been in years.
Her mouth opens. “That’s it. That fits.”
“I think so.”
She steps closer. “Again. Or do you think you can sing it?”
