When she was in the third grade, Celeste chose to play the alto sax because her mother played as a teenager and said it was fun. Celeste also had a crush on Billy, the boy down the block who played the sax. It didn’t work out, neither with the sax, nor Billy. She was too short at ten years old to play the saxophone, and after a couple of weeks, she relented and accepted a clarinet instead. She played third clarinet in the orchestra, which was coincidentally seated near the saxophones. Billy, it turned out, wasn’t ready for girls.
She discovered an unforeseen bonus in playing the clarinet. She loved sitting in the center of the orchestra surrounded by the music. Celeste had no ambition to become a skilled musician but strived to be good enough to remain in the orchestra. Sometimes she didn’t play at all and let the mouthpiece rest on her lip, her fingers hovering over the holes. She reveled in the swelling sound as it swirled around her—violins, flutes, brass and timpani. Celeste felt she was swaddled in beautiful music.
One winter night, Celeste and her boyfriend, Ben, trudged home from the grocery store in a blizzard, a foot of snow on the ground and growing. They arrived at Front and Jay Street, which was perpendicular to the East River, and were hit with a blast of snow and wind that nearly blinded them.
“Is this all snow? It smells like smoke.” Celeste lowered her scarf to speak.
“It is smoke. See the flames in those windows?” Ben pointed to the third floor of the building across the street. It was the doll factory.
“There’s a fire call box down a bit.” He pulled the alarm as one of their neighbors rounded the corner from their building on Water Street.
“I smelled something and came to check it out. From my floor, I can see a red glow.”
“We just called it in.” Celeste looked up the hill. “I think I hear the firemen coming.” Red lights flashed and pulsed through the dense wall of falling snow.
Suzanne C Martinez 