Free The Magic Strings of Frankie Presto by Mitch Albom Page B

grave?”
    “America.”
    “So you never saw it?”
    “No.”
    Frankie wondered what that grave looked like, and if anyone had put flowers there. He wished he could ask Baffa. He suddenly missed his father very much.
    “We should put flowers on this grave,” the girl said.
    “All right.”
    “Do you see any?”
    “What about those?”
    “Those are weeds.”
    “You can’t use weeds?”
    “No. They’re ugly.”
    They stood in silence. Frankie looked at his guitar.
    “There were six people, right?”
    “Yes.”
    “I know what we can do.”
    He lowered his guitar and began twisting a tuning peg backward. He untied the string from its peg and its bridge. With the loose string in his hand, he squatted down and the girl squatted with him. He looped the string several times, then bent it at a ninety-degree angle and tied it all in place, creating a stem that stuck down from the circles. He had done this before with El Maestro’s old strings, making toy shapes while his teacher slept on the couch. But he had never removed a string from his guitar before.
    He pushed the end into the ground and pressed it with two small stones so it stood upright.
    “A flower,” the girl marveled.
    “So they can go to heaven,” Frankie said.
    “But now you can’t play.”
    Frankie knew she was right. Still, he loosened another string, then another and another.
    “Can I try?” the girl asked.
    They squatted together. This time she didn’t tell him, “Not so close.” They made five more string flowers and spread them around the dirt that covered the bodies. Then they stood and rubbed the dirt away. The sun lowered in the sky. The girl mumbled a small prayer and Frankie repeated her words, even though he didn’t comprehend them.
    As they gazed at the grave, she hooked her fingers in Frankie’s. He squeezed hers in return. There are moments on earth when the Lord smiles at the unexpected sweetness of His creation. This was one of those moments.
    “What’s your name?”
    “Francisco.”
    “What’s your last name?”
    “Rubio.”
    “Does it mean something? Francisco?”
    “It is the name of a famous guitarist.”
    “Oh.”
    “What’s your name?”
    “Aurora.”
    “What’s your last name?”
    “York.”
    “Does it mean something? Aurora?”
    “It means ‘dawn.’ ”
    “What’s dawn?”
    “When the sun comes up. Everybody knows that.”
    Frankie looked away. He would have to ask El Maestro to teach him more English.
    “You play very well, Francisco.”
    Frankie blushed.
    “I think you are the best guitar player in the world.”
    “Really?”
    “I wouldn’t lie to you.”
    The hairless dog whimpered.
    “Have you ever been kissed by a girl?”
    “Once.”
    “Where?”
    “In school.”
    She laughed. “No. Where? On your cheek?”
    “On my ear.”
    “Which ear?”
    He pointed.
    “I’ll kiss the other one,” she said.
    And she did. Softly. Quickly. And then, as if quite happy with herself, she leaned over and patted the hairless dog’s head.
    Frankie blinked.
    “Aurora,” he said, as if practicing. “Au-ro-ra.”
    She smiled as he said her name, and he smiled back, and without even knowing it, he had joined another band. From that moment on, Aurora York was in Frankie’s music. That day. That night. And forever.

 
    13

    NOW, UNDERSTAND, IN MY WORLD, THINGS SHIFT QUICKLY FROM MAJOR TO MINOR. It’s a simple chord change, a flatting of the third; you move one finger, and it’s done. Frankie left the woods that day in a dreamy state, the hairless dog walking beside him. But when he returned to the factory, he knew something was wrong. There were police trucks outside. Men in gray uniforms were leaning against the front wall. The hairless dog growled.
    “What do you want, boy?” a policeman asked.
    Frankie swallowed.
    “My papa.”
    “Where is your papa?”
    “Inside there.”
    “Yes? Inside here? Really?” The policeman stood up straight. Another truck pulled up. Frankie recognized it as