Night Music

by Jenn Marie Thorne

  I leaned away to look at him.

  He smiled, eyes sad, then pointed to my digital picture frame. “Why don’t you head down and spend some time with your grandparents? Couple of weeks, fish off the dock, clear your head.”

  “I never fish off that dock.”

  “Dangle your feet.” Dad nudged my shoulder.

  I was thinking about it. The coastal island where they lived. Grandma Jean’s cooking. Gramps’s jokes. Their vegetable garden. The endless dock where seabirds landed. Cicadas and crickets and marsh frogs. At night, fireflies came out, flashing and swirling. They had a porch swing where I used to watch the stars, feeling like I was on another planet entirely. A world of my own. An anchorite.

  I’d wanted space this summer. I’d found other things—but I hadn’t found that. And if it was only for a couple weeks . . . ? I could survive it, the distance.

  An ache tore through me at the prospect of missing Oscar. And that scared me more than anything. Could I be on my own? On top of everything else, was I now incapable of even that?

  A whisper shuddered out of me. “Is this an offer or a demand?”

  Dad stayed silent, and that was his answer.

  I stayed silent too. And that was mine.

  “I’ll book it,” Dad finally said. “They’ll be glad to spend some time with you.”

  He stood slowly, hunching to fit through the open doorway. “You’re a good one, Ruby.”

  A good what?

  I bludgeoned myself with the question as he plodded downstairs.

  But soon I would be somewhere that rendered it moot. No instruments. No debuts. No busy busy, no self-importance, real or false, no champagne teas, no photographers, no casual lies, no manipulation, no confusion.

  No music. No Oscar. My breath left me again at the thought of it. It hurt. Too much.

  I dragged a roller bag out of the pile in Win’s bedroom.

  * * *

  • • •

  “Two weeks?” Oscar paced the sidewalk, pulling his collar. “That’s . . . you’ll be getting back right before the concert.”

  “They haven’t seen me for years, so I owe them a long visit. And honestly, Oscar, this will be good for you. A chance to focus and get the rest of it finished. I’m distracting you from writing—”

  “You’re not distracting me from writing the symphony, Ruby, you are the symphony.”

  He stopped pacing and stood staring at me from five feet away. A clutch of commuters passed, swerving in both directions.

  I felt like I was being crushed by the air between us. I took a step forward and it got worse.

  “The third movement could be about us missing each other.”

  “The capitulation should be hopeful,” he said. “Not . . .”

  His eyes had drifted. He was considering it.

  “I have to be honest, Oscar, I need to get away.”

  He gave a surprised blink before his expression closed off.

  “Not from you!” I reached for him. “From the city, my usual life. I’d thought I could figure some stuff out this summer from home, but it hasn’t happened, so maybe I’ll get some perspective while I’m there. I’m trying really hard not to say ‘find myself’ because oh my God would that ever go on the list of things white people say.”

  Oscar smiled back absently. “Yeah, that’s . . . that’ll be good. You should do this, it’s important. It’s pretty sudden, but—yeah, it’s all good.”

  Dad had booked me out on the first flight tomorrow morning. Something told me if there had been an evening flight to Charleston, I’d already have been on it. And secretly, I welcomed the rush. It gave me less time to talk myself out of going.

  “I mean, you’re right.” Oscar stepped closer. “It’ll give me a chance to focus.”

  It was true. It was what I wanted. But it hurt to hear him come around to it.

  Oscar reached out to run his hands through my hair, gathering curls between his fingers and watching them fall.

  “We do have tonight, though.” His lips grazed my forehead.

  “Tonight.” I let the word cascade over me. “Whatever should we do with it?”

  “You kids hungry?”

  Dad shouted from the top of the stoop. I hadn’t even heard him come outside. He was grinning but his eyes were scalpel sharp, taking in the shifting energy between us. Oscar stepped away, straightening his collar again.

  “In the mood for French food?” Dad asked.

  “Always!” Oscar said.

  “Liar,” I whispered, nudging him. He nudged me back, a little green.

  “My treat.” Dad’s voice brooked no argument. “Come on.”

  I glanced at my shorts and layered tanks. “You can’t mean Roland, Dad, look at me.”

  “Of course I mean Roland, and . . .” He shrugged. “You’re a Chertok, wear what you want.”

  I turned away so I could silently scream.

  “What about me?” Oscar asked.

  I laughed, taking in his button-down, skinny tie, pale green khakis. “You’re always dressed for Roland, Oscar. Come on, time to get over your aversion.”

  We started down the block, failing to keep pace with Dad.

  Oscar whispered, “Is there a kids’ menu?”

  I snorted.

  “I’m serious!”

  “Get the steak frites. It’s amazing.”

  “I’ll trust you.”

  We rounded the corner to the park just as a dozen joggers in matching pink T-shirts were crossing the street ahead of us.

  “Hey now!” Oscar called, pointing. “Is this your competition in the marathon? Should I heckle them? Is that a thing?”

  I laughed, grabbing his arm.

  Dad turned, confused. “Are you running in the marathon?”

  The same ridiculous question Nora had asked me. For some reason, it made me laugh louder. “No!”

  “If you do, I’m coming.” Oscar reached out for my hand. “I’ll wave a banner at the finish line.”

  “An entire banner.”

  “I have long arms.”

  We swung our hands as we walked, even as a weight of sadness fell over us. Oscar would have to travel from DC to be at the finish line. And I wouldn’t even be running, so no visit.

  And I was leaving tomorrow.

  We tightened our grip, fighting reality as long as we could.

  32.

  dad’s table was waiting when we got into the tastefully dimmed restaurant, the maître d’ ushering us straight to it with hushed greetings.

  Dad waited for us to order. Oscar asked for steak frites with perfect composure and an even better accent, then Dad smiled at the waiter and said, “You know what I like.”

  Oscar’s eyes went wide. Dad always did enjoy a touch of spectacle. No doubt he would have come here alone tonight if it were any other Saturday, but I knew in my gut what this meal was—a chance to show Oscar a glimpse into his future.

  Sure enough, Dad turned right to him. “You speak French, don’t you, Oscar?”

  “High school level,” Oscar said quickly. “But I’ve studied some German and Italian too, out of curiosity.”

  “Good.” Dad swirled his giant glass of Bordeaux. “That’ll be helpful.”

  I’d just nestled into my chair, peering at all the poorly lit oil paintings decorating the walls, tuning out, when Dad said, “What do you say, kiddo?” and I realized he was talking to me.

  “It’s their centenary, a one-night deal,” he went on. “But my schedule isn’t set yet. I could clear some space. We could see Leo and the kids, visit some colleges around Boston. Or hop on a plane, check out another city. What’s on your list so far?”

  This was the first time we’d ever—ever—talked about college. I thought of Nora sitting at my kitchen table and my mouth went sour.
>
  “Nothing yet.”

  “You’re gonna be a senior, Rooster,” Dad chuckled. “We’d better start brainstorming.”

  “I totally agree. It’s high time.” I smiled across the candlelit table at him, hoping that Oscar was right about me being an open book. Sure enough, Dad cleared his throat, eyes darting away.

  “I should start narrowing it down too.” Oscar glanced between us. “Boston’s definitely on my list. Berklee, I mean.”

  That was one of the brochures Nora had brought me. Why had she done it? I still couldn’t understand. Couldn’t even face it. The thought made anger and hurt and confusion bubble toxic in my veins.

  I breathed deep. Tonight, tonight, and nothing but tonight.

  Dad put down his wineglass. “I certainly hope Amberley’s made this list.”

  “Oh!” Oscar forced a laugh. “Of course. But if I don’t get in.”

  “Ah, well, congratulations.” Dad winked. “You’re in! Consider this your acceptance letter.”

  “Wow.” Oscar grinned broadly while his eyes flitted to mine.

  “I’d like to look at BU,” I blurted, throwing out college names at random. “And Emerson.”

  “Not Harvard?” Dad asked.

  I choked on a sip of water. “My grades aren’t good enough for Harvard, Dad.”

  He opened his mouth like he was going to say something—offer something—but then he put his hands up in surrender and said, as if it took great effort, “I’d be happy to visit any of those schools with you, sweetheart.”

  “My sister applied to Harvard,” Oscar said, buttering a steaming roll. “She didn’t get in, wah-wah. It was a stretch, but she still cried when she found out. She goes to Duke now and loves it, so I don’t feel too bad for her.”

  “Is Duke the school with the creepy mascot?”

  Oscar squinted at me. “You might be thinking of Wake—”

  “When your folks come up, we’ll be sure to get them a full campus tour,” Dad said.

  We stared at him.

  Oscar nodded. “That’d be great.”

  “I’m assuming they’re coming for the concert?” Dad sipped his wine, arm resting on the back of the banquette.

  “Yes! I . . .” Oscar took a quick sip of water and leaned forward. “I wanted to ask you about that. Do they need to buy tickets or is it free admission, or—?”

  “Free? Not by a long shot.”

  “Oh.” Oscar’s fingers slid anxiously along the edge of the table. “It doesn’t look like the tickets are for sale yet on the school’s site . . .”

  “They’re planning to pop that up right after your ATV interview airs. It’s a fundraiser, so they’re charging top dollar. But don’t worry about any of this. I’ve got a block of seats reserved under my name for special guests.”

  “They can pay . . .” Oscar started.

  “Please.” Dad lifted his glass like a stop sign.

  “Thank you,” Oscar said, watching the food arrive with a dazed look on his face.

  I felt befuddled myself. End-of-year performances typically were free admission, reserved for friends and family members of students. Why were they using Oscar’s premiere as a fundraiser? And why was the timing of this interview so important?

  After we started eating, Dad steered the conversation to French cuisine, then gossip about Leo pissing people off everywhere he soloed with his elaborate greenroom requirements. There was enough rich material under that subheading to get us through the meal and most of the way home.

  “I try to talk to him,” Dad said, “but do you think he listens? You’re the only one who hears a word I say, Rooster.”

  He rustled my hair.

  I smoothed it back. “That’s not true. Win—”

  “He doesn’t even listen to himself! He jumps from whim to whim, but it seems to be working for him, so who am I to judge? And Alice . . .” He sighed heavily, shaking his head. “Did you know she’s thinking of applying for a sabbatical from the orchestra? Not medical leave, not maternity—that I know of—just a breather? Whatever that means?”

  It meant carving out a corner of her life that had nothing to do with music. But Dad couldn’t even conceive of such a thing. Music was his snow globe.

  “She might have mentioned it to me,” I said to the sidewalk.

  “And you might mention that she shouldn’t expect to waltz right back into first chair when she’s returned from finding herself.”

  “Maybe she won’t want first chair. Maybe she won’t want anything.”

  “I just want her to be happy,” Dad said quietly. “That’s all I want for any of you.”

  His eyes crinkled as they landed on mine, as if he were asking forgiveness. Before I could decide if I wanted to give it, verbally or otherwise, we reached the house, and he drifted over to lay a hand on Oscar’s shoulder.

  “All right, let’s call it,” he said, extending his other hand. “Ruby’s got an early flight.”

  Dad shook with Oscar like he was finalizing a deal, then strode straight to me, physically shepherding me up the stairs.

  “I’m taking her to the airport,” Oscar called out. “To see her off.”

  Dad turned to see my reaction. I nodded.

  “Ah.” Dad sniffed. “Well. That’s nice. Take the car. I’ll make sure it’s here with plenty of time to get you out before rush hour hits. Night!”

  He held the door open, watching me step through, then latched it shut behind us.

  While I packed, Dad sat in his study with the door open, listening to a recording of Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet Suite, as if trying to send a subliminal message about the dangers of young love.

  I put on my pajamas, then popped my head into Dad’s study to say good night. He had a million scattered folders open on his desk. The top page was a row of numbers. Financial records.

  Dad jammed the papers together at the sight of me, his face going pale. “You scared me.”

  “I have that effect on people.”

  He didn’t even try to smile.

  I sat in his armchair. “Amberley stuff?”

  “It is. It’s nothing to . . . It doesn’t . . .” He leaned his mouth against the knuckles of one hand, then straightened. “Yep. It’s all gonna be fine.”

  The room seemed to wobble. “This doesn’t have anything to do with our finances . . .”

  “If it did, we wouldn’t have gone out to Roland tonight, I’ll tell you that.” Before I could inquire further, he stood. “Get some rest, sweetheart. I’ll be up in the morning to see you—ah, see you and Oscar off.”

  I turned my cheek so he could kiss it.

  As I was walking out, he said, as if musing to himself, “He’s pretty invested in you, kiddo. I hadn’t seen it until tonight. Still not sure it’s a good thing. You know what he is, don’t you?”

  The question sounded so sad, so raw, that I had to turn and let him finish the thought.

  “A lightning strike.”

  Dazzling, incredible, beautiful, keep your distance.

  “Not an easy road,” he said, slumping against his desk. “Being with somebody like that.”

  His voice trailed away, and I took the opportunity to flee, wondering at the pain in his eyes. Was he talking about Mom . . . or himself?

  As I slid away, the record reached Act Three, the lento, the lark singing. Juliet and Romeo waking up together after their wedding night.

  I paused on the steps outside my bedroom, listening. The music stopped mid-phrase, Dad pulling the needle up cleanly and turning off the deck. The light turned off in the study, in the hall below. He tromped to his bedroom and shut the door.

  I sat perched on my windowsill, staring at the wash of light from Oscar’s apartment. Then I stepped into my quietest flats and slid downstairs, soundless, a ghost.

  Oscar met
me at the door before I even knocked. He pulled me inside by the tips of my fingers, spun me to kiss me and we both backed up to shut the door. I pressed him against the frame and let my hands go where they wanted—up his chest, around his neck—my body stretching along the length of him. Then I felt the ground give out.

  “Ack!”

  Oscar caught me by the arm, keeping me from falling.

  I laughed, finally looking at what I’d slipped on—the entire floor was carpeted with composition paper.

  “I’m so sorry.” Oscar reached for the offending page. “This place is a minefield.”

  I turned and took in more of the mess—loose pages now drifting all the way to the galley kitchen and, more crucially, covering parts of Oscar’s bed. “I was going to say the perp’s house in a serial killer movie, but . . .”

  “Ouch.”

  At that smile of his, half-devilish, half-innocent, a fresh wave of nerves swept over me. We had tonight, but tomorrow I’d be leaving, and he’d be alone, and this would get worse.

  “Let me help you organize,” I said.

  “Ruby,” he groaned. “Now?”

  “It won’t take long.” I waved for him to sit on the bed. “You direct me.”

  “Okay.”

  I picked a sheet at random off the bed and showed it to him. “Keep?”

  He recoiled at the sight of it, like it was an embarrassing memory. “Anything on the floor, I’m not using.”

  “Great.” I started to crumple it.

  He touched my wrist to stop me. “But I don’t . . . I can’t throw it away.”

  “We’ll make a pile, then.” I narrowed my eyes playfully. “An organized pile.”

  He laughed. I turned away, gathering paper off the floor, hoping this focused work would slow my racing heart, quell the dread I felt at the prospect of leaving him.

  A bead of sweat trickled from my forehead down my cheek, my neck, over my chest, down my shirt. I stooped and picked up another composition sheet, this one nearly torn in two.

  I added it to the pile—and as I stood, I felt him walk quietly up behind me.

  “The ones on the wall. What do you want to do . . . with . . . ?”