It’s pouring outside, no dog walks, and I’m driving to the local Y for exercise when the phone rings.

“Hello, is this Eve? I’m Anna. How are you?”

“Well. And you, Anna?”

“Uhhh, yes, well, thank you. I am calling from the US Dept. of Judiciary Claims because we want to help you to—”

“Anna, I don’t need help right now. Do you realize that you’re interrupting Charlie Parker playing Barbados on Sirius?” She hangs up.

“Hello, Eve. This is Germaine. We want to talk to you about—”

“I’m not talking, Germaine, I’m listening to music.”

“Oh, yeah? What are you listening to?” she actually asks.

“Ellington and Coltrane. Did you know they played together?”

“Of course. But listen, Eve, I want to know if you received your new Medicare card that went out by mail. This is important because—”

“Germaine, I can’t listen to you and Ellington and Coltrane. You’re asking me about a Medicare card and they’re asking me about life. One of you is a scam, not sure who.”

“Are you driving?”

“I did, only I stopped. Too old to both drive and listen, especially when those two come on. It’s too personal, see? Especially In a Sentimental Mood, which is great on rainy days with some scotch. I’ve got the rain only it’s too early to drink.”

“Eve, let me tell you why I’m calling. Have you gotten your new Medicare—”

“Who cares why you’re calling, Germaine? Who cares why anything’s happening? Who cares if the President told other countries in the UN they’re going to hell? Who cares about the culvert finally filling up with water or the leaves beginning to die colorfully or Aussie staring at me mournfully on a rain day or an old friend mumbling answers to my questions on the phone because she has Alzheimer’s?”

“Let me answer, Eve. Your Medicare card is important because—”

“I have the answer, Germaine. When I listen to In a Sentimental Mood, it asks a question and answers it all at the same time.”

“How does it do that?”

“Every question answers itself, Germaine.”

“My mother’s sick and I ask how long she has to live. The doctors give me different answers.”

“Coltrane’s sax gives you the real answer. It goes up like a question, then comes down like an answer, tries out different variations, then goes up again. Asks and answers, asks and answers. And then there’s Duke on the keys.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“He’s important here, Germaine, because he plays the same chords most of the time. It’s like he’s telling us that we ask the same questions again and again.”

“Why do you suppose we do that?”

“Because we’re not ready to do the serious work of getting an answer, Germaine.”

“How do we get an answer?”

“We ask again and again, and then listen. Listen when I make pasta this evening, when I sweep the downstairs, close the windows, dip apples in honey for the Jewish New Year. Like Coltrane, ask, listen, ask, listen, till it all becomes just one melody. My melody, Aussie’s melody, the music the chimes outside make—all one melody.”

“What’s that got to do with my sick mother?”

“Listen to In a Sentimental Mood and your questions are answered.”

“Those two musicians don’t know my mother.”

“Probably not, since they’re dead. But their instruments know. The music knows.”

“Eve, can we get back to your Medicare card which is in the mail? Have you gotten it yet?”

“Of course not, Germaine. Medicare says it’ll never contact me by phone. Germaine? Germaine?”

Thunderous rain outside, but Miss Purple’s dry inside. A little Honda Fit parked along the Greenfield sidewalk, music on the radio. A couple of geniuses asking and answering, and telling me at the same time: no worries, it’ll be okay.