Page 46 of Puck Daddies
I chose this. I can’t bring myself to regret it.
15
ROCCO
I runscales in the shower at seven, then again in the car at nine, then again in the stockroom at noon. Low. Quiet. No push. The aria is set.Di Provenza il mar, il suol.It sits where I live now. Baritone. If I try to reach back up to where I used to sing, the sound thins and breaks. If I stay here, it holds.
I have a new home.
I’m nervous. Not the stage kind I used to burn off in the wings. This is the kind that presses on the ribs and makes your hands too careful. First time singing in public in four years. I hum on anm, then ann. I check breath by counting to ten on one exhale. The sound tracks with it.
No scrape. No old habit climbing my throat. I keep reminding myself to aim for the floor, not the ceiling.
The shop is a build site by late morning. Tables pushed back. Vendor space along the windows for the honey people. Donation jars for the shelter lined up on the counter with bills already peeking out because the regulars didn’t want to wait.
“Sound check in fifteen,” Aqua says.
“Got it,” I answer. My mouth goes dry when I say it.
At two, we run the levels. I hum into the mic low, and the speaker handles it. No feedback. Aqua dials back the high end. Hudson counts in the back. Fitz walks the room to make sure the corners hear it. Meg stands at the entrance and listens, then gives a small nod. That helps more than it should.
The vendors arrive early. I move to the back and run lip trills until they settle. By five, the room is half full. By six, it’s packed. The team is here, spread out and low-key.
A few of the guys swing by the candle table and pick up tins. Some of the women from last week’s ladies’ night came back with friends and bags for honey. Neighbors who don’t care about hockey at all drop twenties in the shelter jar and order two drinks each.
I walk the back edge of the room twice to feel it. This is a friendly crowd. They didn’t come to catch anyone fail. And I won’t.
Meg climbs onto the stool, taps the mic, and the room hushes. She does her opener—thanks to the vendors, thanks to the volunteers, thanks to everyone who posted a real review this week, the amount raised so far, the shelter’s needs. I barely hear a thing over my nerves.
She points to the jar markedvet bills,and it fills more by the time she puts the mic down. She looks over at me. I look back. She smiles, the real one. I step up.
“Hi,” I say. No flourish. “I’m Rocco.”
The response is a ripple of greetings. I keep my hands steady on the mic stand.
“I used to sing. Then I didn’t. A virus took the top of my range and I chased the old sound for a long time. I was stuck in a place I didn’t live anymore.”
I’m not sure they get it, but that doesn’t really matter right now. This is mostly for me and the animals. “The last few weeks I stopped reaching for the top end. I found the floor. It turns out the floor is mine.” I pause. People are listening. “This piece is fromLa Traviata.The title isDi Provenza il mar, il suol.The gist is to remember where you came from. Remember who you are.”
I give a small nod to Aqua. She rolls the piano track into the speaker. I hold the stand and breathe.
The first phrase is the test. If I place it too high, it will scratch. I put it where my hum sits. It lands. The note lines up with breath and bone. I keep it there.
The next line steps down. The room is quiet. I let the consonants carry the text, and I don’t pull on the vowels. I watch the back wall, not the faces. When the melody goes to the middle, I obey the line and don’t ask it to be pretty. I ask it to be true. The low G that used to buzz under my hand is just there.
I ride it. I don’t push into it. I let it carry.
The aria isn’t long. It has one big arc and one turn. I make the turn and keep the sound under the point. I finish on air, not muscle. I let it fall where it falls. Then I lower the mic and step back from it because the last sound should be air in the room, not speaker.
For a full beat, nothing. Then the sound is all hands and whistling and the kind of shout that feels like relief. I rememberthis feeling. The one where I know I did good, and people are telling me all about it.
I nearly went to Europe to cut an album, back in the day. It fell through shortly before I got sick. I’d thought all of that was behind me. But tonight feels like possibilities.
I put the mic in the clip and step down. Meg is there with me in two steps. She puts her hand on my face and says, “You did so good,” and hugs me hard. I feel my throat close, and I let it.
Hudson bangs his palm twice against my upper back and says, “That’s it. That’s you,” in a voice he saves for wins.
Oliver has his hand on my shoulder and squeezes once, steady, and says, “Proud of you.”
