Hugging the Jukebox

On an island the soft hue of memory, moss green, kerosene yellow, drifting, mingling in the Caribbean Sea, a six-year-old named Alfred learns all the words to all the songs on his grandparents’ jukebox, and sings them. To learn the words is not so hard. Many barmaids and teenagers have done as well. But to sing as Alfred sings— how can a giant whale live in the small pool of his chest? How can there be breakers this high, notes crashing at the beach of the throat, and a reef of coral so enormous only the fishes know its size? The grandparents watch. They can’t sing. They don’t know who this voice is, trapped in their grandson’s body. The boy whose parents sent him back to the island to chatter mango-talk and scrap with chickens— three years ago he didn’t know the word “sad”! Now he strings a hundred passionate sentences on a single line. He bangs his fist so they will raise the volume. What will they do together in their old age? It is hard enough keeping yourself alive. And this wild boy, loving nothing but music— he’ll sing all night, hugging the jukebox. When a record pauses, that live second before dropping down, Alfred hugs tighter, arms stretched wide, head pressed on the luminous belly. “Now!” he yells. A half-smile when the needle breathes again. They’ve tried putting him to bed, but he sings in bed. Even in Spanish—and he doesn’t speak Spanish! Sings and screams, wants to go back to the jukebox. O mama I was born with a trumpet in my throat spent all these years tryin’ to cough it up …