Night Music

by Jenn Marie Thorne

  “That’s how much . . . wow.”

  Dad squirmed to get comfortable. I adjusted his pillow behind his head.

  “On the one hand, I’ve got these people, who I’d thought were my friends, who pulled me out of one of the roughest years of my life. On the other, I’ve got my school . . . the victim of this. I’ve got the slight chance they can pull this off and cover the shortfall, get away scot free, my own legacy . . .” He squeezed my hand. “Our legacy intact. Your name, untarnished.”

  I don’t care about my name, I thought, but stopped short of saying it. It wouldn’t be a comfort to him. Just a slap.

  “And on the other hand,” I murmured instead. “You have your conscience.”

  He gazed silently at the divider wall. This was where I usually waited, silent, preserving the maestro’s train of thought.

  Not today.

  “When I was little and people used to talk about you, your talent, your place in culture, I always thought they were talking about somebody else. Because you weren’t that to me. You were my dad, you know? I looked at you and I saw a good man. The best.”

  Dad was crying now. He reached out and I hugged him like he was little now and I was big.

  “That’s who you are. Not Amberley. Not your symphonies or operas. You’re a good person.”

  “I’m not,” he murmured, his eyes blinking dry. “No. You have no idea how much I appreciate you saying that, Ruby, but I’m not the person I thought I was. I saw myself as a mensch—I did—a mentor, a dad. I’ve been patting myself on the back for years, but I’ve got a hell of a lot of work to do. And I can! I’m old—not that old.”

  “You’re not old at all.” I wasn’t sure if the lie was more for him or me.

  “What I did to that kid . . . I’ll never forgive myself. But I’ve got to try to make amends.” He drew a great shuddering breath, clapped his hands, and said, “So could you do me a favor? Just one, I swear, and then you go be a teenager and Alice can fight the nurses over who gets to fuss over me . . .”

  I smiled, nodding. “What do you need?”

  “A number.” He waved at the windowsill, where a few random objects were sitting—a ballpoint pen, a wallet, an iPhone.

  I grabbed the phone and clicked on contacts.

  “Simon Wilkerson,” he said.

  “The New York Times reporter?” I glanced at him, finger hovering.

  “That’s the one.” Dad looked exhausted but resolute. “Bring me the phone and I’ll call him real quick. Then tell Alice to come in and say hi. And Ruby? In terms of Oscar and everything else?”

  I handed him the phone, wondering where his verdict would fall after all we’d hashed out.

  “There’s a loophole in his contract.”

  He waited while I switched gears. I nodded and he nodded back.

  “Look for the words in lieu of tuition. The summer term isn’t over until the concert ends. He can—”

  “Oh my God.” I nodded, quickly now. “Okay, yeah. Thank y—”

  “Don’t thank me. I’m the one who caused this mess in the first place. Just do me a favor and help me fix it.” He smiled ruefully. “Since, you know, I’m a little laid up at the moment.”

  I started out. Then I turned, the reality of his surgery hitting me like a gut punch. I was still angry with him, confused, muddled, but I had to say it.

  “Love you, Dad.”

  He looked surprised, even after all this, and that just about broke my heart. “I love you too, Rooster. You go on now.”

  Through the crack in the curtain, I could see him squinting at his phone, beginning to search his contacts.

  He was doing the scary thing. Finally doing the right thing.

  Now it was my turn.

  41.

  operation La-la-la was about to take effect. Dress rehearsal successfully out of the way, tonight’s plan was dinner with friends, non-musical conversation, zero stress. One night for Oscar to actually experience life as a standard American seventeen-year-old.

  Before we met up with Jules, Oscar took a quick shower and emerged clean and calm. He still had to sneak a few deep breaths before picking up his phone.

  “I’m glad you’re doing this.” I lingered by the door. “Do you want privacy?”

  “No.” His eyes darted up to mine. “Just . . .”

  “Silent moral support?”

  “That. Yes.”

  I mimed buttoning my lips. He dialed.

  The room was silent for a good three seconds, then, “Hey! Moms. Hi. Ha-ha. All done, yep. I don’t know about lit, but . . .”

  His knee was juddering up and down. I sat next to him, hips touching.

  “Um, yeah so, as you know, I . . . have a little bit of a situation here.” Oscar glanced at me and his leg relaxed. “There might be a way to fix it.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Jules held the door for Oscar to walk into El Pueblo ahead of us so she could hang back and tease me, squealing in an undertone, “Oh my God, was that Oscar Bell?! Do you think he’d sign an autograph?”

  Still, she looked surprised as I pulled her arm, drawing her farther away.

  “I need you to do me a favor tomorrow night.”

  She nodded.

  “Two favors, actually. First—will you dress me for Oscar’s premiere?”

  Her eyes went saucer wide.

  “Yes! I mean . . . obviously, duh.” She couldn’t hide her delight. “What do you want? Society princess or—?”

  “Evil queen.”

  “Nice.” She looked up at the skyline, brainstorming. “Second favor?”

  “I need a plus one.”

  Now her mouth dropped open.

  I shot her a wicked smile as I strode into the restaurant and took my place by Oscar’s side.

  I may not have had talent. But I had incredible friends, more courage than sense, a name that people recognized, and over fifty thousand dollars in a never-touched trust fund.

  The pieces were falling into place.

  * * *

  • • •

  Maybe it was the modern cut of the dress, the half-pinned curls in my hair, the soft evening light streaming through the window, or the fact that I never wore white—but I looked like someone else.

  Not a random someone. A specific one. Everybody was right. It was uncanny.

  Dad kept her picture in his office at Amberley, as if nothing had changed. Mom, early twenties, right after they met, sundrenched in a cotton dress, black hair spilling around her shoulders. Relaxed, self-possessed, forever halfway out the door.

  I blinked at myself and Mom blinked back, beautiful and aloof.

  This still wasn’t who I was. It would serve me well tonight.

  Behind me, Jules was squinting through the mirror like she couldn’t decipher my reaction.

  “I know it’s not the typical color you’d think of for an evil queen—but I wanted something striking. Different enough to be intimidating. Snow queen, I guess. Anyway . . .” She let out a nervous breath. “Do you like it?”

  She tugged down the dress’s layered skirt. I managed a smile, but her eyes stayed locked on the outfit.

  “It was an aspirational purchase,” she admitted, fussing with it. “Sale at Cravat, me deciding to lose fifteen pounds, which . . .” She glanced at herself, shrugging. “If it didn’t happen after running five miles a day for seven weeks, it’s not in the cards. I’ve made my peace with it. But last night I thought of you, your coloring—”

  “I love it, Jules.” I turned to hug her. “It’s exactly what I wanted.”

  She grinned, adjusting her own gorgeous blue sheath. “I’m getting into this stylist thing. You’re my first socialite client!”

  “I’d have to socialize to become a socialite. This is a one-night engagement.”

&
nbsp; “Can’t you reconsider? It would be for a good cause.”

  I laughed as she batted her lashes. “You’re going to be wildly successful with or without me.”

  She shrank. “You know I’m pretty much kidding—”

  I grabbed her shoulders. “Enough of this I am fated to work retail bullshit. You’re talented!”

  Her eyes slid from mine.

  I grabbed her tighter. “Nope. Say it.”

  She sighed. Squirmed. “I’m talented.” She looked at me. “I’m talented. Dammit, I am! I’m good at this.”

  “There, you’re a stylist now. Own it or, so help me God, I will own it for you.”

  Jules grumbled. But she also tugged my dress once more, as if for luck.

  As we passed Dad’s room, I saw him sitting up in bed, propped by pillows, surrounded by a moat of flowers. He’d cheerfully bullied his way out of the recovery ward this morning, mere hours after surgery. What the maestro wanted, the maestro got.

  Alice hovered over him, poking at an iPad.

  “Feeling okay?” I called out.

  Dad stared at the screen. “Just trying to get the boys on the, ah, video chat.”

  The doorbell rang and, with a quick hi to Jules, Alice trotted downstairs to answer.

  Dad’s Skype ringer started to bloop. He adjusted himself in bed, stifling a groan.

  I hurried to offer a hand, but Alice called up the stairs, “Don’t bother, he wants to suffer. Otherwise he’d still be at the hospital!”

  “I’m not suffering!” He swished his hand. “I’m better than ever.”

  Jules motioned to his chest. “You’re bionic now.”

  “Call me Metal Man.”

  Ordinarily we might have laughed at the pop culture gaffe, but his smile seemed to be withering at the corners.

  He’ll heal, I promised myself. He’ll be different, but he’ll be okay.

  And we’d heal too. We’d never be that perfect diorama again—Martin Chertok and Daughter—but reality brought with it a new kind of bond. It hurt more. It meant more too.

  “I hope you’re feeling super soon, Mr. Chertok,” Jules said, then backed down the hall, pointing over her shoulders. “I’m gonna change my earrings. These are . . . so wrong. Meet you outside!”

  “You look amazing, are you kidding?” I laughed, realizing I’d never seen her so wound up before—then my nerves kicked in, tonight stretching before me like a dark mountain pass. Was I really going to do this?

  Alice climbed back up, hoisting a giant bouquet of daffodils. “From our lovely mother!”

  I peeked at the generic note—Get well soon. ~ Anna Weston-Chertok—and rolled my eyes so hard, it hurt.

  “Still not speaking to her.” Alice dumped the flowers on the far end of the room.

  Dad’s ringer cut out, replaced by a duet of “Hey!” from two familiar voices. Leo and Win must have picked up at the exact same time.

  Alice and I tiptoed through the flowers to pop our heads around each of Dad’s shoulders, getting an iPad view of not only Win, tuxedoed, joining from what looked like a greenroom, and Leo, sporting a beard to rival Dad’s—but Leo’s two kids, already in their jammies for the night.

  “That’s not Ruby!” Leo said, leaning way in so all we could see was his nostril. “There’s no way.”

  “Hi!” I waved. “It’s been a while.”

  “Jesus. You’re a grown-up!”

  “Isn’t it terrifying?” Win shouted.

  “Not a grown-up yet,” Dad said in his grizzly bear voice. “One more year, and even then, I might not let her leave.”

  “Yes, you will,” Alice groaned.

  “Nice dress, kiddo,” Dad said to me, more quietly. His eyes were sad, and for a second I regretted this getup, looking so much like her.

  “Are you going to a party?” Matilda asked shyly from the screen.

  “Hey, Tilly!” I leaned into frame. “Yes! Well, sort of. A concert.”

  “Ruby’s headed to Oscar Bell’s debut,” Dad said. “Everybody who’s everybody is there.”

  “That must be why our audience is half-full tonight,” Win piped up, adjusting his collar. “Tosca cannot compete.”

  “You could still go, Dad,” Alice said. “We could get you a wheelchair, seat you in the wings. Nobody would even need to know you were there.”

  “Doc said cut out stress,” Dad said with a sanguine smile. “Vicarious nerves would be bad enough, watching the kid up there. And the politics of that place—I don’t need it.”

  There was something behind that smile, a muffled sadness in his eyes—maybe even shame.

  Dad didn’t think he deserved to be there tonight. And I wasn’t sure I disagreed.

  He turned to me with a complicit wink. “You and Oscar knock ’em dead.”

  Alice turned to me, eyebrows raised, my inclusion in that note of encouragement not lost on her. She really would have made a great spy in another life.

  Before anybody could ask about it, I waved to the screen. “Speaking of which, gotta jet. In boca al lupo, Win! So good to see you, Leo! Good night, Aaron, good night, Tilly!”

  A scattered chorus of “Auntie Ruby”s chased me out the door. I hoped Dad would make good on that promise of a Boston visit soon—but school visits and family reunions would have to wait.

  Get through tonight, and the rest of my life could finally begin. My real life.

  As I passed through the living room, my eyes tethered themselves to Mom’s Steinway. It looked so lonely in the day’s last light—expectant, almost—so I walked closer and touched it.

  Its fallboard was warm. Friendly.

  I sat on the bench, careful not to muss my dress, and pressed my fingers to the keys, remembering the last time I’d sat here, when this was the only piano and the room was filled with people, famous friends, musicians, Arnie and Bill and Nora, both my brothers home, Alice—and Mom, frustrated, urging, “Well? Go on sweetie.”

  I’d been petrified, even with Win cheering me from the steps. It was the first time I’d played for an audience of any size. It had felt like a test, and it was.

  I’d played the piece I’d been working on with Mrs. Swenson—Schumann, “Of Foreign Lands and People.” Such a gorgeous song. I got muddled in the middle and Leo made this comical grimace, so I decided to start over, the way I did in my lessons.

  But Mom grabbed my hands before I could, wresting them from her piano with a strained laugh.

  “Anyway.” I’d felt her mortification hitting me, like waves of heat from an oven. “She looks the part, doesn’t she? All you have to do is put her on mute.”

  Who was it who’d shushed her then? Not Alice, a man . . . Arnold Rombauer, of all people?

  “What?” She’d smoothed my hair then, dotingly. “It’s a compliment! Not everybody can get by on mute.”

  It wasn’t until she’d swept me off the bench so she could play herself, erasing my performance with a brisk polonaise, that tears started to storm behind my eyes. Leo stayed in the corner, incapacitated by awkwardness. Win started casually toward me, then got diverted, joining in Dad’s conversation. Alice went upstairs in a huff.

  But Nora swooped straight in, took me aside, gave me a gift. She made me feel so special, strong enough to run back through the party, get to my room, and write down a plan—four hours practice every day.

  Time to get serious . . .

  I opened my eyes. Here again. There was my piano, and here was Mom’s, and here I was, not ten, seventeen, everything different.

  Everything, despite it all, okay.

  I closed my eyes, wondering if I would remember the Schumann. It was still in me. It was slow, clunky. There were a few missed notes. I played until the piece was done. And then I heard another voice—Mrs. Swenson’s.

  “That’s lovely, Ruby. Just lovely.”
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br />   It was. It was absolutely lovely.

  “Okay.” I stood with a smile. “Time to go.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Dad’s never-used car from the Metropolitan Opera sat waiting at the curb, empty in the back, having safely delivered the main attraction to Lincoln Center hours ago. I’d suggested we all get ready together, but Oscar wanted to dress there. To be surrounded by music while he prepared.

  I understood. But even with Jules sitting next to me, asking a million classical music questions to mask her event jitters, I missed him the whole drive over.

  As I thanked Dad’s driver and stepped onto the plaza, I willed my spine straight, smile untouchable, like I’d practiced in the mirror. Jules nodded with approval and drew her own shoulders back, effortlessly cool in an instant.

  Avery Fisher Hall and the opera house glittered bright as usual tonight, but there was an eerie quality to the light haloing Lilly Hall. It took rounding the corner of the Met to recognize it.

  Press lights. Cameras. The park outside the Lilly Hall entrance had become a red carpet, complete with paparazzi and society reporters.

  My high-heeled clip slid into an awestruck glide. Was Oscar’s symphony this big a deal? I hadn’t seen a press turnout like this since Troilus in Aleppo’s opening night.

  “Sweet Jesus.” Jules let out a delighted laugh. “Lincoln Center. Who knew?”

  My eyes alit on the banner obscuring the tall front windows of the entryway—Oscar’s hair in silhouette, baton raised. Pure want clenched my chest and propelled me straight into the press line.

  “Go on, Maleficent,” Jules whispered. “You’ve got this.”

  I knew what she meant—this would only work if I played the role perfectly. If I got their attention and kept it. We’d run a few drills this afternoon.

  I stepped out on my own and turned toward the cameras, waiting for the photographers to clock me. Then I turned away, continuing toward the glass-walled entrance, until—

  “One picture, please!” “Ruby, quick shot!” “Here to support Oscar?” “Gorgeous dress, Ruby, who styled you?”