As was custom in those days, Mr. Ives often walked in gloaming. A man with a residence in the city to the south, this was the time for the old man to thought-regress to the earlier day, year, century. Far and away from his peers' assumptions, Danbury did not offer the superior stroll to the city. Danbury, by that time, already had an automobile, maybe even two. Even Ives thought as he walked, "The more I walk, the more I see how the strangeness emerges at this time—place over place, this day no exception."
Always the strangeness; that was how day-night would emerge. That was the difference between him and the rest. It was not a defined period of grayness between aft and eve, but the unfamiliar that came forward in between. Over and over, walk after walk, along the park or Main to the north.
Just then Brooks Anderson crossed the street.
Brooks, eleven, always found Mr. Ives's walk calming. Each night, as Mrs. Anderson attended to the guests in the parlor, Brooks, resigned to his juvenile position on the second floor, would sneak up to the cupola of their Colonial and watch. His studies being finished well before the apex of the school day, friends limited, the cupola was his observation deck.
Mr. Ives did not walk, he traversed. But stroll-like. This was Master Anderson's primary fixation with Mr. Ives, this calm and majestic gait. Ives saw him crossing, somewhat fidgety and pretending to ignore the elder.
"Master Anderson."
"Good evening, Mr. Ives."
"I never see you at this time. Are you all right? Awfully cold out for October."
"Father is with guests. Mother is looking after Father. I thought it would be a nice time to escape."
"Where to?"
"How far to Bridgeport?"
"Bridgeport? Thirty miles."
"Good evening."
Brooks began to walk away.
"Why Bridgeport?"
"I like the name. Bridge. Port."
"What's in Bridgeport?"
Ives was not suspicious, not even concerned. He was exchanging pleasantries as if it were Mr. Anderson.
"I'm not sure, but something Danbury hasn't, I suppose. Thanks, Mr. Ives."
Ives kept walking, but soon the band emerged, the brass type. Horns and a drum or two, the type they had in the early days. The sound was not, and could not be, disposed to a particular affect, and it was without pretension. It was just a sound.
Looking back, Ives called to Anderson, "Brooks! Brooks!"
Just about to turn off Main, Brooks, still alone, turned back and walked swiftly toward Mr. Ives.
"Mr. Ives."
"Please, call me Charlie."
Brooks, surprised, looked away and waited for a response. But it took Ives some time, as if he was not sure why he had summoned him back.
"Brooks, do you remember Independence Day this summer past?"
"Of course. I remember."
"The band, yes?"
"My mother loves the band. Father, on the other hand..."
"And what do you do on Decoration Day?"
"Grandpa William is there. Right next to Christ Church. Mother cried and couldn't go. Father brought me, and we brought the flowers from Mother. He read from the book, Grandpa's favorite psalm. Mother always cries when she sings it in choir."
They kept walking, the twilight still floating, darkness held off by the autumn air.
"Do you like Independence and Decoration Day?"
"Jeepers, of course, Mist—I mean, Charlie."
"And who was our greatest president, Brooks?"
"Easy! President Washington. Miss Winters always makes us recite Washington before we leave early in February."
"So I suppose that is a day you remember as well?"
"Well, of course. I should think so."
Ives went home and the darkness ensued. October, yet it felt like November. Darkness never meant he would look back; now he would look ahead. November and December. What would young Anderson do those months?
Ives had walked past the Anderson house dozens of times on the great Thanksgiving, and even at Christmas when the snow was not too harsh. Christmas was Young Anderson's favorite, he was sure, but it did not have the same tone as the others. It was too bright, too beloved, too much itself. But Thanksgiving, and the few days prior... Forefathers' Day. Neither day was musical in the ordinary sense. Thanksgiving had too much table in it, Forefathers' Day too much monument. But both had material for music, if one could get beneath the custom of the thing: gratitude, exile, cold, inheritance, the old prayers brought forward. Thanksgiving might be made to carry the sound.
***
On November 21st, the Monday before Thanksgiving, Brooks walked to school, late per the Monday routine. As he approached, Miss Winters stood outside, greeting him and Johnson Smith just a block behind him.
"Late as always, Master Anderson. Off to the acre just under Christ Church. The others are already waiting. Please hurry."
Anderson and Smith trotted along, following the tall and sturdy Miss Winters. As they approached the acre, the whole class was standing, shivering, pensive. The class stood in front of an arc of chairs, quite a few in fact; more than numbered the pupils. Once Brooks and Johnson joined the rest of the class, Miss Winters walked inside the church and said something they could not make out. She returned, and the class awaited.
After a few minutes, which seemed like a century as no one seemed to know what to do, men with horns and strings emerged from the church. A great number of them, too many to count. Mrs. Anderson even appeared, along with the rest of the church choir. Brooks smiled at his mother.
Then, from down the street, the old man in the hat emerged. Brooks exclaimed, "Charlie!"
Miss Winters shot him a look, but Ives returned, "Master Anderson!"
Once he had finally reached the horns and strings, he faced the musicians and nodded. Then he turned and faced the class, and said, with great ceremony, "Holidays."
Quickly, the old man turned and gave downbeat to the orchestra. It was a full sound, stern and slow; the austerity of the occasion did not allow the class to sit. They remained entranced. They stood through the greatest thanks they had ever heard, ending with an overwhelming gratitude to those whom they knew, not by name, but distant with solemnity and reverence:
O God, beneath Thy guiding hand
Our exiled fathers crossed the sea,
And when they trod the wintry strand,
With prayer and psalm they worshiped Thee.
***
At one point Ives had nearly abandoned Danbury, only to later fully abandon the city to the south. Walks along Main were less frequent and became forced; there was pain when he did make it out for the gloaming.
On this October eve he made his stroll. Passing by the old Anderson home, he looked in and saw not a soul. Walking down Main, he tried to remember Master Anderson's Christian name, but failed to recall.
Just as he was about to pass the intersection of Mulberry, a young man emerged from the corner. The younger looked confused, the older unphased; their eyes met, a split second of memory, and the band emerged from the west.
Ives quickly looked to the sound. After a few seconds, he again looked at the younger and attempted to return to his constitutional. But he could not move. The band was still off to the west, yet hidden from view. The younger walked past Ives down Main. He knew the sound, from much earlier.
Just then, from not as far up the street as it seemed, the young man turned.
"Hey, Charlie!"
Ives looked back.
"Mr. Ives! What was it?"
Smiling, with reflection, he remembered: Brooks—it was Brooks! And the acre of sound decades before. The acre was for Brooks, and for those many before him, too.
"Hey, Charlie! What's that piece again?"
Ives smiled, and by then the band was no longer only to the west.
"Holidays," he said.