Awake up, My Soul

            “What are you so all-fired chipper about?” Artie wanted to know, irritation plain in his voice.

            Artie was irritated a lot lately, not that Jim blamed him. The apoplexy that had robbed him of the use of his right hand and made him unsteady on his feet was enough to have caused a lesser man to be more than irritated. Jim thought sometimes that Artie would sooner have given up an eye–perhaps even both eyes–than a hand. Even without sight, he could still have played his violin. But with only one hand, and his less useful hand at that, most of the activities that had filled his life were no longer possible. Jim had rigged up various jigs and vises to hold things for him in his lab, and Artie occasionally tried a chord or two on the piano, but the results were a painful shadow of his previous effortless competence.

            Even the most simple communication was sometimes a laborious struggle. He had gotten past the early slurred speech that was all the slackened muscles of his face could produce. Now only an occasional sibilance betrayed him. But he could not always find the words he needed, and his enormous frustration with his inability to express himself was hard to bear. He didn’t like Jim to guess at what he meant to say, and more and more lately, Jim thought, he was retreating into himself, holding the rest of the world, and Jim too, at arms’ length.

            They were long retired from active work, of course, though Artie had been performing once or twice a year with the local company of Shakespearean actors. Jim still consulted on occasion with the Secret Service. But the years of violent confrontation with outlaws and villains were behind them. Jim dreamed of them sometimes, of riding hell for leather in pursuit of a fleeing criminal, the wind threatening to tear his hat off his head, and the horse’s powerful muscles working under him. He dreamed of them more often now than when Artie had been whole and sound. Artie’s infirmity seemed almost like a sword hanging over his own head, a constant reminder that one day he might be dependent as well, and worse, that no one would be there for him as he was here now to care for Artie.

            But most of the time, those fears stayed far in the background. He was still a strong healthy man, in spite of the gray hair and the occasional stiffness from some old injury. And today he was indeed full of good spirits, as chipper as Artie accused him of being. He had a secret, and he didn’t mean to let anything rob him of his plans.

            It was Valentine’s Day, and in previous years, they had indulged themselves in silly little games. Special cards mailed to each other, tickets for concerts and dinners, gifts hidden in unexpected places—hidden so well that one year Jim had not found one of his, and Artie had forgotten where he had concealed them all, and it wasn’t until late in the summer that Jim opened the secret drawer in his little desk and discovered the gold tie-pin on a card decorated with hand-drawn arrow-pierced hearts. That had led to one of their more memorable nights of love-making.

            Sex was not impossible for them now, but it was no longer the spontaneous, uninhibited joy of the past. It had to be planned, so Artie would not be too tired by the day’s activities–few though they were now. It had to be arranged and managed and dealt with as though it was just another of the daily chores, and that had taken much of the pleasure out of it for both of them.

            Artie had said nothing about Valentine’s Day this year. It was clear he thought there was little to celebrate. Jim intended to do something about that, and it was his solution that had put the smile on his face all morning.

            “It’s Valentine’s Day,” he reminded Artie. “Cupids, and candy, and love in the air. Remember?”

            Artie turned away without answering, fumbling awkwardly with the cane in his left hand. Jim watched him with a silent internal sigh, but said nothing. His plans for the day would work, or they would not, and there wasn’t much he could do but play them out and hope for the best.

            “We were going to drive out to the river for a picnic dinner,” he said to Artie’s back. Artie had argued about that at first. The weather would be too cold, he’d insisted. Or it might rain. Or the carriage would most likely have some mechanical difficulty. They had purchased it only after Artie could no longer safely ride a horse, and it had indeed promptly thrown a wheel, stranding them halfway home. Jim had had to leave Artie alone in a rapidly darkening evening while he rode back home at breakneck speed for Artie’s horse that, thankfully, they had not yet sold. But the problems with the carriage had been attended to, and it had transported them faithfully wherever they needed to go for some months now, and Artie had finally agreed that yes, they could have a picnic today by the river.

            “You’ll have to help me dress if you want me to wear a suit,” he said now. Said it grudgingly, but Jim was grateful for even that much.

            Artie could easily have been one of those overly dramatic souls who made a tear-jerking issue of every problem. In fact, Jim had anticipated it when the doctors said he would never again have the use of his right hand. Artie had been a confirmed drama queen all his life, exaggerating both the joys and the woes at every opportunity. But those had been trivial occasions, Jim realized, when the anticipated complaining never materialized. When it came down to important matters, Artie had always been rock-steady, on the spot with whatever Jim needed, from a cup of hot coffee to a last-minute rescue. He had the feeling that what Artie thought he needed now was Artie’s stoic endurance of his fate. Artie almost never asked for help with anything, so much so that Jim sometimes felt he was no longer needed in Artie’s life. Assistance with dressing meant permission to be close, to touch, to be essential in some small way.

            When he thought about their situation rationally, it was clear to him how essential he was, of course. Artie could not live by himself; he required assistance in bathing, dressing, fixing a meal, all the daily things one did without thinking of them. But the distance Artie maintained from him now made it hard to think rationally. Jim meant to do something about that distance today.

            He stocked the trunk at the back of the carriage with iced champagne, their best crystal flutes wrapped in a linen tablecloth, and sandwiches that he’d made with Artie’s favorite rye bread, stuffed with corned beef and mustard and thick slices of cheese. A good strong ale would have been a better accompaniment for the sandwiches than champagne, but champagne was traditional for them on Valentine’s Day, and Artie could eat sandwiches more easily than some other foods. So champagne and hearty sandwiches it was going to be. Little candies wrapped in colorful tissue would make a sweet end to the meal, and the larger package Jim tucked under the seat was his hope for a sweet end to the day. He slipped an envelope that held tickets to Leo Minkel’s recital into the pocket of Artie’s dress jacket before taking it from the closet, just in case the other gift wasn’t well received. It had been a gamble, and it still might go the wrong way.

            Artie was silent as Jim helped him with shirt and trouser buttons, stockings and shoes. But he didn’t shrink from Jim’s touch, and when he was dressed, he let Jim pull him close and hold him for a long moment.

            “Love you,” Jim murmured, and Artie sighed and let his head rest for a moment against Jim’s shoulder.

            Then he eased away, his face turned aside. “Better get going,” he said. “It’s going to be cold later.”

            Jim followed him out to the carriage in the drive, carefully not taking his arm as they went slowly down the steps. Artie could not climb into the carriage without assistance, but Jim had hired a carpenter to make a sort of platform halfway down the long flight of front steps, so that Artie could walk out to the carriage and step directly into it. Jim saw him settled, and then went around to climb up on the other side. Artie took up the reins with the obvious intention of driving, and Jim leaned back in the seat and pretended not to notice. The horses were placid and even-tempered; a child could have gotten them safely from house to river.

            “What’s this rustle in my pocket?” Artie asked suddenly. He tucked the reins between his knees and pulled out the envelope. Jim had sealed the flap with a tiny button of red wax, so it popped open easily when Artie eased a finger between the layers of paper. The cardboard tickets slid out into Artie’s lap.

            “You remembered!” he said, with the first smile Jim had seen in weeks. Leo Minkel was a long-time acquaintance of Artie’s, with the deepest bass voice Jim had ever heard, and the most unbelievable range. He could sing four octaves without dropping into falsetto, and Jim knew how much Artie had wanted to see him again and hear him perform.

            “It’s all you talked about for weeks after he wrote to you,” Jim said, with an equally wide smile. “I wrote to his agent and got the best seats for his opening performance. I told him not to let you know, so it would be a surprise.”

            “It’s a surprise, all right!” Artie was still grinning. “I thought my reply to him must have gotten lost in the mail.” The smile faded. “You didn’t mention it again. I thought you’d probably forgotten. I didn’t want to ask … ”

            “Wouldn’t you want me to ask you, if our places were changed?” Jim quietly. He had tried assuring Artie that he didn’t mind taking on the chores they had formerly shared, didn’t mind helping with personal needs, didn’t mind being interrupted when Artie wanted something he couldn’t manage by himself. None of his reassurances had helped, and he’d been reluctant to make any direct reference to Artie’s disability. But he didn’t know what else to say now. “Wouldn’t you want me to let you know if I wanted something? Would you want me to do without because I was too proud to ask for help?”

            His voice was more vehement than he intended. He inhaled sharply, and began to apologize, but Artie reached over with his good hand and squeezed his arm. “Of course I wouldn’t, and I know what a damned sourpuss I’ve been.” He swallowed. “I never liked being dependent on anyone, you know that. But it’s no excuse for shutting you out.”

            With no tension on the reins, the horses had slowed to a mere amble, and Jim took advantage of it to slip an arm around Artie’s back and pull him into a hard embrace. Artie lifted his head and met his mouth, and the kiss was passionate enough to make up for a lot of lonely nights. They eased apart finally, and Artie let out a long sigh.

            “I probably won’t change overnight,” he said..”But I’ll try.”

            He’d made that promise before, though it had sounded less sincere than it did now. Jim didn’t remind him of the earlier assurances, just kissed him soundly again and shook up the reins before handing them back. The horses stepped out somewhat more smartly than before, and they passed the short time before their destination in silent companionship, Artie tucked warmly into Jim’s side.

            “Good thing no one came along back there,” Artie said, as Jim helped him down. He almost never spoke of their relationship now, so this was a welcome change as well.

            “I’ll kiss you right here and now if you want,” Jim answered, grinning in pure joy.

            “Just a peck. You can pretend to be getting something out of my eye.”

            There was still a hard edge of sarcasm in Artie’s voice, but Jim chose not to acknowledge it. He leaned in close to Artie, opened one of Artie’s eyes wide with two of his fingers, and kissed Artie hard and fast, gazing squarely into the wide-open eye.

            “Well.” Artie actually chuckled. “That was different, I must say.”

            “James West, at your service.” Jim bowed deep, and handed Artie down from the wide tree stump that served as a handy step for all who came here in wagons and carriages. Artie leaned on his cane, and looked inquiringly toward the back of the carriage.

            “I hope all those noises you were making earlier indicate some possibility of food in the trunk,” he said. “I find that I’m surprisingly hungry.”

            “Kissing will do that for you.” Jim leered at him, and unstrapped the trunk from its mount. “Come on down here and I’ll spread out a feast for you.”

            He hefted the trunk onto his shoulder, and went down ahead of Artie to the bank overlooking the stream. It was a favorite place for young and old in the summer and fall, but they had it to themselves just now. He spread a cloth, unwrapped the champagne and set it in a cool spot, and opened the bag of sandwiches. When he turned around, Artie was peering into the now almost empty trunk.

            “Are those Maiden’s Hearts?” Artie asked, referring to the chocolates. “Hardly seems appropriate for us.”

            “I asked for Grumpy Old Men’s Hearts, but they were out of those,” Jim said, daring to joke.

            “Ah well, these’ll have to do.” Artie leaned down and scooped up a handful, pulling the paper off with his teeth.

            “Hey, those are dessert!” Jim snatched back all but the one Artie was rolling around in his mouth and tossed them onto the picnic cloth. “Sit down here and have some champagne.”

            He held out his hand, and Artie took it for support as he folded his legs and sat at the edge of the cloth. “Champagne? For an afternoon picnic? Must be a special occasion. Hope whatever else you’ve got in there goes with chocolate.”

            Jim chuckled, leaned over and hooked an arm around Artie’s shoulders. “I know something that goes with chocolate,” he whispered. “Kisses.” He demonstrated, until Artie shivered and pulled away.

            “Keep that up and someone’s going to catch us for certain. This isn’t exactly a deserted by-way, with the bridge just around the bend.” But Artie’s eyes were gleaming, and he licked a smear of chocolate from the edge of his lip with as provocative a look as he would ever had given. 

            “You’d better stop that, or I may do something that’ll get us into real trouble.” Jim set a sandwich in front of Artie, unrolled the bundle that held the glasses, and opened the champagne with a satisfying soft pop. Artie had his mouth full of sandwich, but he swallowed fast and held out a hand for his glass.

            “A toast?” he suggested. “To sin, of course.”

            “And salvation!” Jim clinked their glasses together, and then raised his high. “And to many more Valentine’s Days in the future.”

            Artie hesitated, but finally lifted his glass as well. “Many more, my dear. Until we’re both old and rheumy and drool when we talk. We’ll make a wonderful pair in the old folks’ home.”

            “Not going to any old folks’ home!” Jim said emphatically, opening a sandwich for himself. “Not unless they let us sleep in the same bed and smooch in front of the fire every evening.”

            Artie laughed in spite of the shade that had come over his face. “Oh yes, I can see that, yes, indeed.” He recited in a quavering old man’s voice, “But nurse, I was only checking to see what was in his eye, and he tipped right over on me, the young whippersnapper!”

            Jim choked on his mouthful of corned beef and rye, and clutched at his sides to hold in the laughter. Otherwise, he would have spit bits of sandwich all over both of them. “Oh my god, Artie,” he finally managed, whooping with laughter, “you’re making my ribs hurt.”

            “Artemus Gordon,” Artie repeated, with a grin and as much of a bow as he could manage seated. “At your service.”

            They worked their way through the rest of the sandwiches and the bottle of champagne, speaking desultorily of whatever came to their minds. The sun shone down warmly on the little clearing, but when the air began to cool and Artie had still not suggested leaving, Jim helped Artie into his coat, and donned his own. The day was going better than he could have hoped.

            He opened one of the candies, and lay back on the grass to gaze up into Artie’s loved face. “Do you know how damned good looking you are?” he asked happily. “Even before we were lovers, I used to watch you all the time. Couldn’t figure out why I was looking at you when there were pretty ladies all around us.”

            Artie opened his mouth, but Jim forestalled whatever he might be going to say. “Don’t you dare tell me I’d have been better off with one of the pretty ladies.” He grasped Artie’s shoulder and pulled him down. “I love you.”

            Artie just smiled widely. “I was only going to say that I used to watch you too, you know.” He traced a finger across Jim’s check and leaned in for another kiss.

            It was one of those mutual glances that had brought them together finally. Jim had looked up from the boot he was repairing to find Artie’s thoughtful gaze on him. Their eyes had locked and held, and then held much too long to explain away, and then Artie had sat down next to him and stroked his cheek as he was doing now. In one blinding moment of comprehension, Jim had realized why he watched Artie whenever he could, and he could still recall the flood of astonished love that had swept over him. It amazed him even now that he could have been so lucky as to be the object of Artie’s desire as well.

            “Love you forever,” he murmured against Artie’s mouth, and felt the smile against his own. Easing away a bit, he could see the carriage at the top of the slope, silhouetted against a brilliant sky. It was time for his Valentine’s gift. He kissed Artie again and sat up. “Be right back.”

            He bounded up the hill, retrieved the box from under the seat, and was back just as fast. He’d thought about whether to wrap it in something fancy, but decided that might make it too awkward for Artie to open. So he had just gone round the box twice with some pretty ribbon and tied that in a bow, easy enough to undo, or to cut with a pocket knife.

            Artie’s eyes lit up with pleased surprise when Jim took the box out from behind his back. “I knew you were up to something,” he said. “A picnic in the middle of February, and then champagne, for heaven’s sake.” He accepted the box from Jim’s hand, and almost dropped it. “It’s heavy!”

            Jim took out his knife, opened it, and handed it to Artie. “Open it,” he urged. “I can’t wait!”

            Artie set the box down beside him, and obediently cut the ribbon. “I don’t have anything for you,” he said, sounding uncharacteristically defensive. “I hadn’t thought we’d be celebrating this year.”

            “Open it!’ Jim said again, laughing. “This is for both of us.”

            Artie slipped the top off and unfolded the layers of tissue that hid the contents, and then with indrawn breath, sat there looking at the stringed instrument inside. His face had gone perfectly blank, and for a moment, Jim thought with sinking heart that he was angry. But then he breathed, “Oh!” He took the instrument out of the box and set it in his lap, and ran a finger down one side, plucking one string and then another, a phrase from a simple folk melody. Jim reached into the wrappings and handed him the bow that had been concealed there, and he saw from the immediate comprehension on Artie’s face that Artie saw how he could play this instrument.

            “It’s a kind of zither,” Jim said, unnerved both by the silence and by the profound and rising joy in Artie’s expression. “I saw one in New York when we were there last year, and I wrote to Lucius a couple of months ago to ask if he could make something like it that you could play. It was his idea to make the sides slant like this, so all the strings were easy to reach.”

            Lucius was a violin maker they had met years ago in New York, a luthier who could build or restore any kind of stringed instrument. He had devised a triangular box of wood with strings pinned in parallel rows across the top, and an engraved letter next to each metal peg that indicated the note for that string.

            “Like a piano,” Artie murmured. “With the white keys on one side and the black keys on the other. How ingenious.”

            He picked up the bow and stroked it across one of the strings. The sound was far more resonant than the delicate whisper of a violin, but Artie nodded in satisfaction.

            “Lucius said to hold the bow closer to the middle than you’re used to,” Jim offered. “He said it would bounce less on the strings that way.”

            Artie shifted his hand and then played the first phrase of the melody he had plucked out earlier, a Russian lullabye that Jim had often heard him play on the fiddle. His lips were quivering and Jim saw tears well up in his eyes. He played through the sweet little song, and then set the bow aside.

            “You—you’ve given me back my music,” he said, his voice shaking.

            Jim reached for him and held him close, stroking his back. Artie’s face was wet against his neck. “I missed your music,” Jim whispered. “I want you to be happy again.”

            Artie slowly relaxed against him, and they sat that way for a long time. Finally, Artie lifted his head, and took up the bow again. “I’ll have to practice to get anything like the control with my left hand that I had with my right.” He paused and gave the zither a long puzzled look. “It’s backwards,” he said. “I mean, if you were playing right-handed, you’d want to have the natural notes on the right side and the accidentals on the left. But Lucius made this the other way.”

            “He made it for you,” Jim said. “But that part of it was his idea. I wouldn’t have known to suggest it.”

            Artie touched the strings again, a more lively tune this time. He missed a note or two, but it was clear that it wouldn’t be long before he played with as much skill as he had the violin. “It’s only got two octaves,” he said, almost to himself. “But you can play a lot of things with two octaves.”

            “Lucius said he could build a larger one if you liked this,” Jim told him.

            Artie nodded, already halfway into another melody. “Maybe. I like this one. It has a sweet tone.”

            He finished the tune, and set the bow aside. “How did you know?” he asked painfully. “I couldn’t bear not to play, and one-handed piano isn’t enough. I felt as though my voice had been silenced.”

            “How did I know!” Jim tipped Artie’s head up to look him full in the face. “You were dying inside. How could I not know?”

            Artie leaned in and their lips met again, a long kiss full of promise. “Maybe you’d better take me home,” Artie whispered when they parted. He laughed softly, sounding much more like the old Artie. “I’m getting awfully tired. I think I need to go to bed, don’t you?”

            With vast relief and joy, Jim eased away from him. “Only if you promise to sit in the carriage and play for me while I gather this up.”

            Artie kept the promise, and they drove slowly home to the strains of all the simple tunes that Artie could remember, interspersed with bites of the Maidens’ Hearts and chocolate-y kisses. When they reached the house, and Jim had put away the carriage and horses, he found Artie already undressed and in bed. The zither lay on the bureau nearby, atop of a pile of sheet music. “I pulled out everything I thought I could play,” Artie said happily. “You’re going to be sorry you ever bought me that thing.”

            Jim pulled off his own clothes and threw them in a heap in the corner. “Never. I just wish I’d thought of it a long time ago.”

            “Mm.” Artie sighed appreciatively as Jim slid into the bed next to him. “What’s the saying–music to soothe the savage breast? I know I’ve been pretty savage lately.”

            Jim pulled him close and slid his hand up Artie’s back. “Just unhappy,” he whispered in Artie’s ear. “And that made me miserable too.” He could feel his prick swelling against Artie’s groin. “I can’t bear it when you’re unhappy.”

            Artie began to reply, but Jim stifled it with a kiss. He thought they might have kissed more today than in all the days of the last few months put together, and he meant to enjoy it. Artie’s hand came around to stroke his ass, and Artie’s tongue found its way into his mouth, and he sighed a long sigh of satisfaction.

            “Do you want to be in me?” Artie whispered, when they parted.

            “Maybe. Not yet.” Jim licked one ear, smiling at Artie’s reaction, bit the ear lobe, and kissed his way down to Artie’s chest. Artie would forego his own pleasure if Jim let him, afraid that he might not come to completion. Jim didn’t intend to let that happen tonight. He might fuck Artie, if that’s how things worked out, but he meant for Artie to spend first.

            He eased up and over Artie, sucking gently at a nipple and balancing himself on one elbow while he fondled Artie with the other hand. Artie moaned softly, and his prick swelled and hardened. “That’s good,” Artie murmured. “Just like that.”

            Jim stroked him for a while, and then slipped down to take the prick in his mouth. Artie inhaled sharply and arched up to him, and Jim sucked him deep. He thought for a while that it was going to be enough, but after a few minutes, Artie breathed out in a long sigh and stroked his cheek. “That’s all right,” he whispered. “Feels good, but you don’t have to keep doing it.”

            Jim sat up, and reached for the drawer in the bedside table. “I’ll make it feel better,” he promised. He took out a pot of hand cream and scooped a dollop of it into his palm. “Open . . . “ he urged Artie softly, pressing between Artie’s legs, and with indrawn breath, understanding what he meant to do, Artie complied.

            He eased into Artie’s ass with two fingers, and then, as Artie relaxed, with three. “Okay?” he whispered. “Doesn’t hurt?”

            Artie shook his head, breathing hard, and Jim pressed in until he found the place he wanted. He bent again to Artie’s prick, and between the two pleasures, Artie gasped and cried out, spurting into his mouth. Jim held him until his prick softened and his breathing eased, while Artie murmured wordlessly, the little sounds of release that Jim had loved to hear and had missed so badly.

            He turned around finally and lay next to his lover, pulling him close. Artie clung to him with his strong left arm, and sought his mouth, and they kissed passionately at first, and then long and lovingly with all the affection of their many years together. “I want to feel you in me,” Artie whispered to him. “Please?”

            Jim chuckled. “You don’t have to beg for that!” He pushed himself up enough to reach the jar of cream again, but Artie took it away from him.

            “Let me put it on you.”

            Jim smiled in the darkened room and lay back, while Artie smoothed the cream over his prick. “Don’t make it feel too good,” he warned. “Or we’ll never get to the part that you wanted.”

            Artie set the pot back on the table and turned away from him, and Jim slid close to his back and kissed his shoulder. “You feel so good to me,” he whispered. “I never get tired of this.”

            Artie laughed softly. “Lecher.” He arched back against Jim. “I hope you never do tire of it.”

            Jim slipped his hand between Artie’s buttocks and caressed the tender bud of the anus, savoring the soft skin against his fingers. Artie’s body had been wildly arousing to him from their very first time together, a revelation for someone who had never really paid attention to men’s bodies before that. “I’ll always want you. I’ll go to my grave wanting you.”

            Artie shivered, and Jim held him close for a moment. “Shh, it’s all right. Not gonna happen for a long time.” He pressed close to Artie and let his prick slide between the cheeks. It felt almost good enough to spend right there, but he knew Artie wanted more, and he held himself in check long enough to push in to the hot depths of Artie’s body. Artie shuddered once again, but with pleasure this time.

            “Yessss . . . “

            Jim pressed in all the way and held himself still long enough for the urge to completion to subside a bit. “Love you,” he whispered, and Artie turned his head far enough for their lips to meet. Jim kissed him long and sweetly, their tongues playing together, until he couldn’t hold back the need to drive into Artie’s body. He thrust slowly at first, loving both the physical feelings and the intense emotional thrill it gave him for Artie to let him do this. Times when he had taken Artie into himself fluttered through his mind, and the combination of present sensation and past memories drove him to a gasping, shuddering completion. They lay together for a long time, slick with mutual sweat, until the chill of the evening air prompted Jim to reach for the covers and pull them up. He slipped, with regret, from Artie’s body, but Artie turned over and pulled him down for another long kiss.

            “Lover,” he murmured, a breath on the night air. “Don’t ever leave me.”

            “You know I wouldn’t,” Jim protested, surprised. “You do know that, don’t you?”

            Artie shrugged slightly. “Yes. When I’m thinking rationally, I do. But sometimes I look at myself, and I wonder what the hell you want with me. I’m just someone who has to be waited on.”

            “You’re my heart,” Jim told him, with eloquence he hadn’t suspected in himself. “You’re the one who makes every day worthwhile.” He kissed Artie again. “I love everything there is of you.” He reached down for Artie’s right hand and kissed the curled fingers, swollen and useless. “I love this part of you too. They’re still part of you, Artie, even if you can’t do anything with them now. I love them as much as when they used to fondle me, and write sweet notes to me and—and tickle me, and everything you did.” He could hear himself becoming agitated in his need to make Artie understand, and took a deep breath. “I love every inch of you, whether it still works as good as when we were young or not. Do you believe that?”

            Artie snuggled against him with a long sigh. “Well… “ He yawned hugely. “You don’t have a lot of sense, but I can’t fault your enthusiasm.” He tipped his head up and kissed Jim again softly. “Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetheart.” As Jim began to reply, he added, “And may there be many more.”

            And if there was anything that could possibly have added to his happiness, Jim couldn’t imagine what it was.

Author’s note: I’ve played fast and loose with the history of the bowed psaltery, which is the proper name for Jim’s gift to Artie. It is indeed derived from the zither of ancient times, and in fact, the name ‘psaltery’ has been used for centuries to mean a small plucked lap harp. But the instrument we know today as a bowed psaltery was not commercially developed and marketed until about 1930. So the one that Jim gave Artie must have been the brainchild of a brilliant but not market-oriented luthier.

If you have ever heard the Russian basso profundo Ivan Rebroff, you know where Leo Minkel came from.

The title comes from Psalm 57 of the Jewish scriptures, said to have been written by David as he hid in a cave from King Saul, who would have killed him. Verse 8 reads “Awake up, my soul; awake, psaltery and harp.” It seemed appropriate for Artie, lost in that dark place where he could no longer make music.