“Hey, Diz, man, you can really play that thing. That’s cool.”

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Artwork © 2009, R.W. Ware

In a dark universe strewn with worlds, in a dark world sprinkled with lands, in a land peppered with bright cities, in a shabby street, in one small room in a concrete tower layered with rooms, a stub of candle flickers and goes out.

Beyond the dark universe, watchers respond.

“Who reported this one?”

“The father.”

“The kid has a father? That is a novelty in this neck of the woods.”

“Boss, you’re becoming cynical.”

“Cynical? Youngster, when you’ve dealt with the human race as long as I have, you too will be cynical. Now get about your business.”

“But — ”

“No buts.”

“I’ve done my time on watch. I know the history. Let me follow this one through. Please.”

The archangel weighed-up his protégé through slitted eyes. “Okay, but you go as Chet’s backup. No funny business.”

“Thanks, you won’t regret it.”

“I do hope not, Diz. Remember this is a crime scene. Don’t interfere with the evidence.”

“Okay, Okay — ”

Angelic eyes and hands opened wide. “What are you waiting for?”

“This is my first call.”

“So? You want what: blues and twos?”

“Not exactly — ”

“Don’t look at me with those puppy eyes. I can read your mind.”

“I got a feeling about this one.”

“Don’t tell me. You want to borrow my personal kit?”

“Just for this shout.”

“Okay — Now go. You got a job to do. Do it.”

“Boss, you’re a star.”

In the small room in the concrete tower, a man in a raincoat is sitting on an unmade bed, an instrument case at his feet. He ruffles the hair of his adolescent son sitting beside him and shrugs.

“If I could change the world for you, son, I’d do that. But this is the way things panned out. Your mum couldn’t stand me being away nights playing in the band. She’s found someone else.”

“Don’t go, Dad.”

“I’ll see you when I can, son, but things are bad.”

“Please, don’t leave.”

“I’m not leaving you. It’s what your mother wants. I’ve got to go now, but I’ll be back when I’ve made a little money, and I’ll bring you that horn.”

“A Martin Imperial, like Miles played?”

“The very same, son.”

The man picks up the case, stands, and he’s gone, leaving the boy staring at a poster of Miles Davis on his bedroom door.

“Don’t you pay no attention to that waste of space, you hear me, boy?” the mother shouts, mean and tired, so the leaving man can hear. “He’ll only break your heart, like he broke mine.”

And then she leaves to meet her paramour, forgetting to put coins into the utility meter. The lights go off, the room grows cold.

A shaking hand finds matches, a candle, and the medicine cabinet. Gripping the bottle, the boy surveys the curling photographs scattered about him on the bed and on the floor. Everything he has ever loved. His father, his mother, and his home, and on the door and on the walls his heroes: Miles, Louis, Dizzy, and the rest.

“There, Chet, that’s how it played out, and there’s the result: a young life full of love and promise ended, cold and alone.”

“Hey, man, I feel these things just like you do, but you know the rules. This counts as a crime scene. We can’t interfere — Diz, don’t look at me like that.”

“Okay, so we can’t interfere with the scene, but suppose the scene never happened?”

“I don’t like where this is heading.”

“Just for once, Chet, live dangerously. Live again, man.”

“What’s that you’ve got? Doesn’t that belong to Gabe...?”

“Relax, it’s legit, it’s on loan for the job.”

“Hey, Diz, man, you can really play that thing. That’s cool.”

“Yeah, takes you back, don’t it? And back — and back — and back...”

“Don’t you pay no attention to that waste of space, you hear me?” the mother shouts, mean and tired, so the leaving man can hear. “He’ll only break your heart, like he broke mine.”

And then she leaves to meet her paramour, forgetting to put coins into the utility meter. The lights go off, the room grows cold.

A bright tone rings out, echoing through the concrete walls. A golden reflection from light on brass dances across the posters. It settles like a firefly on Dizzy Gillespie before moving to sparkle on mislaid coins. The adolescent boy rushes to the window and throws it wide, inviting in the trumpet strains of When The Saints Go Marching In, played with unmistakable panache.

Later, in a small dark room in a concrete tower layered with rooms, a bedside light clicks on. An adolescent boy peeps out from beneath the covers, past the posters on his wall, to an oddly shaped parcel at the foot of his bed. He smiles.

In the shabby street in the land peppered with bright cities, streetlamps go out one by one as the arc of daylight races across the curve of the dark world. Beyond this awakening world, beyond the dark universe strewn with worlds, far beyond time and pain, in a place that only children and the pure of heart can know, someone laughs and a trumpet plays.