Сара Пинскер - A Song for a New Day

“You’re famous,” he said next, still staring. He turned off his tractor.

“That song was a long time ago.”

I started to say more, but he shook his head, dismissing my protest.

“You’re, like, everywhere famous.” He motioned at his Hoodie. The video. “My dad said I’d like the music for once, but I didn’t bother to come down the hill. He usually has fiddle jams. Did you play last night?”

“We did…” I almost apologized, then wondered what I was apologizing for. His fault he missed us, not mine.

“Can you say all that stuff from the vid again for me to record? So I can say you were here?”

That felt odd. Performative. “Let me think about how best to do that. I wouldn’t want to get this place in any trouble.”

“What if you bought eggs from me up at the farm stand and I recognized you?”

That seemed reasonable. “Okay, but after we get the van out of the mud.”

His tractor made short work of the problem of our stuck van. We followed him up the hill at tractor’s pace.

“What exactly are we doing right now?” Marcia asked.

I scraped at the mud on my boot. “I’m not entirely clear on that myself.”

The eggs he was selling at the top of the hill were multicolored, heirloom. He handed me a carton and I stared at them while he filmed me, wondering what I was supposed to say. It felt weird trying to repeat whatever I’d said on the video; profundities on demand were not my wheelhouse. I put down the eggs and grabbed my guitar.

“This is a work in progress,” I said, launching into “Manifest Independence,” the half-finished song I’d started writing by the Mississippi. I still didn’t know how it ended.

The kid thanked me and promised to wait until the next day to post the video, so we’d have time to make our getaway.

“So you’re in the prophet business now?” Silva asked from behind the wheel as I got back in the van. “What’s the deal?”

“Not prophecy. I’m taking advantage of a platform. Time-honored tradition.”

“If you say so. That boy was ready to follow you anywhere.”

I’d gotten the same feeling. I turned an imaginary mic on myself, trying to turn it into a joke. “‘Ms. Cannon, you’ve just found out that ones, if not tens, of modern youths found a video of you making a fool of yourself. How does that make you feel?’ ‘I’m glad you asked, Bob.’”

“You can joke, but why? This might be a good thing.”

“Hey, if I finish this song, do you want to record it sometime soon?” I asked to change the subject.

Silva and Marcia both responded enthusiastically, and we spent the drive home discussing album concepts—in between the flashing lights, pull over, rinse, repeat.

The second she stepped out of the barn, Rosemary realized her error. She hadn’t needed to leave. She could’ve sat with the musicians. She could’ve asked Nolan for his keys, or asked him to leave, though she’d have felt bad doing that when he looked so happy. She could’ve coolly approached the buffet and loaded a plate. Instead, she’d flounced out into the downpour.

Her pride kept her from turning around, and her pride was not waterproof; she was drenched in seconds. The roof overhang didn’t help when rain came down sideways. Not just that; the floodlights outside the barn showed the entire road washing out down toward them in muddy cataracts. Not just that; this rain was cold.

Her healing ankle complained as she followed a pipe railing uphill to an empty dairy barn. The smell was a familiar one if not one she particularly liked: she’d grown up with three milk cows. One produced more than enough milk for their family—they bartered the excess milk with neighbors or turned it into cheese and butter—but her parents believed that cows were herd animals and deserved a herd; funny how they didn’t apply the same logic to children.

From the dry doorway, she watched the lower barn’s lights flicker as people moved around. The sound didn’t carry. Here she was again, watching community happen from afar, unable to take part. She didn’t play an instrument. Everybody said that didn’t matter. They said things like, “Not everyone needs to play—we need an audience, too!” But how did that jibe with Luce’s carve something/play something speech? Was that screed only about music, or did it apply to other things, too? Maybe she was still getting it wrong, and that was why Luce wouldn’t listen to her.

A big orange cat approached from the barn’s interior, and let her stroke his back before stalking away with his tail held high. She missed the farm more than she had in a while. Missing it somehow made her resolve stronger. She had to figure out what her life was supposed to be. Some combination of these things that she loved.

Headlights appeared down below, then another pair, and she realized the jam must be breaking up. What time was it? She had no device to tell her. Late, anyhow.

Three a.m., according to Nolan’s car. He had to manually drive it the first fifteen minutes, thanks to an error message with the navigation system, which kept telling them to find the road to proceed. It left her time to rant at him and Sadie about her conversation.

“What’s so bad about working within the system, anyhow? The system pays us, and keeps our cars from crashing, and delivers groceries to people who can’t leave their houses. Sure, it needs a little subverting here and there, but that improves the system. What does she want me to do? I can’t do anything to help if I quit. The only power I have is in this job.”

“Why do you want to please her so much anyway? Do you have a thing for her?”

Sadie looked unusually interested in Rosemary’s answer to Nolan’s question. “No! I… I want to help her, and I want her to help me. I think if we work together, we can make bigger things happen. And anyway, she makes me want to be better. I’m not even sure if she’s as good a person as the image she projects, but when she sings she makes me want to fix the things she says are broken.”

“Well, that’s a powerful gift, to make somebody want all that.”

“You heard her, too. Did you feel it?”

“Sure, a little. The band was a little raggedy, which makes sense since it was one of their first shows together, but I can see what you mean about her charisma. Hey! The car figured out where we are!”

He turned to her as the car took over driving. “So what’s your plan?”

“I don’t know. My plan hinged on getting her to agree to play. Without her, I’ve got nothing but what I’ve already been doing.”

Sadie said, “That’s not so bad, though. You get to listen to music and plan some fun shows and keep people out of trouble. That’s not nothing.”

“It’s nothing if it goes on that way forever.”

“You don’t have to be the change all by yourself. You need to find people to help you.”

“Like you guys did.”

“That, and more. You need people who will call legislators, and people who will run for office, and people who will write articles and—”

“What you’re talking about will take forever!”

“Maybe, maybe not. But I’ll bet you somebody out there is already working on it, and could use whatever boost you give.”

Rosemary wasn’t convinced.

They rolled in late, and Rosemary slept most of the day away on Sadie’s couch while Sadie dragged herself off to the coffee shop. When she woke in the evening, there was a text message on her phone from an unknown number.

Look I’ve been thinking. U said a 1 time show maybe I can do 1 time, my way

It could only be Luce. The time stamp said it had arrived two hours before. She immediately texted a response. I’m interested—tell me more!