by Phil Swann
"Who?" Kathryn asked.
Anthony paused to set up for the knockout punch. "David Webber."
Kathryn's face went flush. It was as if she'd been thrown into a dark tunnel, unable to distinguish up from down. David Webber. A name she hadn't heard in nearly a dozen years. Unless she counted the endless times she'd let it speak to her within the intimacy of a memory. A memory she kept on reserve. A memory she went to when life got too dirty and complicated. A memory that was decent and simple. A name from another life, a life perhaps that should've been. But a life that lived only in that mythical place called what if.
"Are you okay, dear?" Anthony said, putting his arm around his wife.
Kathryn placed her head on Anthony's shoulder and wept.
»»•««
It was while he was getting a suitcase from a closet in the bedroom that he found it. When he had told Henry that "the gift"—the Mozart piece—was the only thing from his past that had survived, he'd forgotten about the box. For a moment he thought about just carrying it out to the dumpster and tossing it. Why open it? Why go there? But before he knew it, he had the cardboard box sitting on the bed. Ravel jumped up and curiously watched as David began cutting away the duct tape that had been hastily applied so many years ago.
"You wanna see how screwed up I was back then, Rav?" David asked as the cat chased the falling tape. "I'm not sure I do."
It was just after he'd been released from the hospital—or more accurately, not released. From day one, he had refused visitors. He wanted to see no one, Henry and Kathryn topping the list of those who were persona non grata. And though months of rehab were scheduled for his hand, he had no intentions of sticking around. So, after two and a half weeks of partial recovery, he got out of bed, put on his clothes, and hobbled out, telling no one, signing nothing. He took the train into the city, stopped by the bank and emptied his account, went straight to his apartment on the Upper West Side, and tossed what he thought was important into a suitcase—the box was an afterthought, a brief moment of sentimentality, the only such moment. After that, nothing was ceremonious. He simply shut the door to his apartment, not even caring to lock it, made an offer the doorman couldn't refuse on an old Impala sitting in the parking garage, and hit the road. No fanfare, no drama, no poignant goodbye, he just left. And now, almost twelve years later, for the first time, he was looking back.
What did I think was so important back then to save? With the last piece of tape falling to the floor, David took a deep breath and pulled back the flaps. To his relief, the first thing he saw made him smile. It was a baseball glove, old, cracked, and about four sizes too small. It had been a gift from his foster father, Mr. Witherspoon. David could still see the joy on Mr. Witherspoon's face when he gave him the glove on his ninth birthday. David pushed the tiny mitt over his fingers and smacked it with his fist. It still had the smell of Vaseline. You should have kept in touch, you self-involved bastard.
Though he'd only lived with the Witherspoons for a little over three years before he went to live with Henry, of all the people he stayed with after his parents were killed, the Witherspoons were special. After he left, his only contact with them was through Christmas and birthday cards—from the Witherspoons to him, never the other way around. The cards continued up until about seven years ago. It was from one of those Christmas cards, this time from Gladys alone, that David learned George had died. It took him four months to call. By the time he did, he learned from Gladys's sister that, as is often the case with couples who've been together most of their lives, Gladys had gone to be with George two months earlier. I should have stayed in touch.
He set the glove beside him and continued lifting memories from the box. There were award, scores of them, first-place trophies and plaques from piano competitions from all over. There were long-forgotten compositions he'd composed, and arrangements he'd written for the Westchester High School band. He found an envelope, his letter of acceptance to Juilliard, and his diploma. Funny how something that was once so important could end up in the bottom of a cardboard box.
There were items whose significance he couldn’t fathom; a menu from some restaurant, a Time magazine, a bag of subway tokens, and a cheap ink pen. "I must've been sleepwalking when I filled this thing."
Then he saw them, the picture frames. He froze. You should stop now, Webber, he told himself. He lifted out the first picture. It was of him and his parents. He couldn't have been more than six or seven. It showed the typical American family, striking the typical pose. He stared at the photo for several minutes before setting it down and picking up the next frame. He knew it was coming. He'd remembered it was in there the moment he opened the box. He held the frame low and gazed at the photograph. He felt nothing. He continued staring, raising the frame closer. Still nothing. It was a photo taken on graduation day. He, Kathryn, Henry, and Anthony Depriest were standing in front of Lincoln Center. He didn't know then. He wouldn't know for two weeks. He looked at Kathryn's eyes. He looked at Depriest's eyes. Neither gave anything away. But Henry's eyes looked…tense. No…sad. Henry's eyes looked sad. David settled back on the bed and held the picture above his head. Ravel bounded onto his chest. The cat purred as David stroked its head. What am I feeling?
After a moment, David raised up, causing Ravel to leap to the floor. He tossed the picture back into the box. “Okay, buddy, we gotta get ready for a trip. You better like peanuts 'cause you're coming too. I don't have anybody to leave you with." It brought David to a sudden stop. He heard the echo of what J.P. had said to him in the car. "I may be the only friend you have left…"
"Indeed, Jeep," David whispered.
He was putting the other items back into the box when several pieces of notebook paper fell out of the Time magazine. David noticed the scribbles on the paper and immediately remembered why he had saved that magazine all those years ago. In his handwriting, he read: Missing Mozart Mass.
"Well, I'll be damned. Talk about your coincidences."
He opened the magazine, and there it was—an article about a professor from UCLA, a Dr. Raymond Sullivan. In the article, Sullivan speculated about a mass Mozart may have composed after the death of his mother, Anna-Maria, a mass that had never been found. He remembered he was preparing to write a rebuttal thesis challenging Sullivan's assumptions and proving Mozart didn't write a mass for his mother. The thesis would have been the height of arrogance—an undergrad challenging the work of a tenured professor. It was just the type of thing David was becoming known for. It would have been brilliant. "Or at least stir up some shit!" he said with a grin.
David inserted the notebook paper back into the magazine and put the magazine in a briefcase alongside the Mozart piece. How appropriate, he thought.
Chapter Fifteen
Paul Rogers hunched over the keyboard of a walnut baby grand and blocked sparse chords around the melody Dani bowed on the cello. As both came to a simultaneous stop, Dani grinned sheepishly. "That could be right."
"Hmm, I don't know," Paul mumbled, stroking his reddish-brown goatee. "Let's try it again. This time I'll change the four-chord in the second measure to an E-flat minor instead of an E-flat major, then I'll go to a G-minor instead of back to the E-flat in the fourth measure. I'll count it off—and one and two and three and…"
The duet began again, Dani following the notes written on the ancient manuscript, Paul embellishing with his improvised accompaniment. At the end of the last bar, it was Paul who smiled. "Now that's nice."
"Yeah, it is. But is it right?" Dani replied.
Paul yawned and stretched his arms into the air. “There's just no way to tell, Dan. We've been at this for over an hour, whatta ya say we call it?"
Dani laid down her bow, picked up a bottle of Budweiser, and fell back. She drained the last swallow from the bottle. The warm beer caused her to make a sour face. "Why couldn’t she have a second page? There might be some variations on the theme, which would give us a clue to where it should go."
"True.
But without knowing what period this is from, the accompaniment could still go ten different ways. If it's earlier classical period, as the melody in the first three bars tends to suggest, then it’s going to be more emotionally restrained, more homophonic with that melody staying predominant and the chordal accompaniment remaining pretty tame. However, there is that A-flat in the fourth measure, which is totally unexpected and very emotional, especially if it’s accompanied by an E-flat suspended chord like I played. But that type of writing is very expressive. We could be talking late Romantic Age or the Impressionists."
"It can't be, not the Impressionists. That would put it well after Dr. Cook."
"Well, maybe Cook didn't write it after all."
"No, Sugarberry told me that it’s been authenticated as his handwriting. He definitely put these notes on this page."
"Then that takes us back to Classical or Romantic. It's not Baroque."
Dani smiled. "What you're trying to say is you don't have a clue, do you?"
Paul feigned shock. "Whatever gave you that idea?"
Dani chuckled. "Neither do I."
Paul picked up the music. "But I'll say this, if that Dr. Cook guy did write this, then he's one of the most overlooked composers of the nineteenth century, because this is brilliant."
"I couldn't agree more. So now what do we do?"
Paul handed Dani the music, grabbed the empty pizza box off the coffee table, and headed for the kitchen. "First thing Monday morning let’s get this over to the lab and see if we can identify and date the paper stock. That'll at least tell us the when and where. Then we'll go to the studio and have Marcus download the melody. Let’s let the computer spit out some accompaniments. My guess is it’s not going to come up with anything better than we did."
Dani half-yelled toward the kitchen, "Okay, that's Monday, today's Saturday, what do I do in the meantime?"
Paul reentered the living room. "And you tell me I should get a life? It’s the weekend, Dan."
Dani puffed out her lip in pretend sadness.
Paul rolled his eyes and sighed. "Okay, in the meantime, why don’t we find out what we can about Dr. James Cook?"
"I've already been on the Net. Archives aren't showing anything."
Paul thought for a moment and then snapped his fingers. "Got it. Cook is from Georgetown, right? I have a friend at the University library. I'll get a hold of him tonight and set us up a meeting on Monday."
Dani beamed. "Perfect. I have to be at Sugarberry's on Monday anyway for the pickup of the sheet music. That'll give you a chance to meet her too."
Paul shot Dani a look.
"Relax, Paul, I told you, she's delightful."
"Okay," Paul chuckled. "You know, Wilbur's also a member of the Georgetown Historical Society. I'll bet he knows something about Dr. Cook."
"He's a librarian and his name is Wilbur?"
Paul shook his head.
"I'm just kidding. That sounds great, Paul."
"I'll call him tonight."
"Perfect," Dani said, jumping from the couch with the music and gathering her things. "Okay, I'm oughta here."
"Really, I thought we'd catch a movie or something."
"Nah, I wouldn't be able to stop thinking about this. Besides, I've got to swing by the office on the way home. I want to get this in the safe. I made copies, so we'll use them if we need to see the music. Then I need to get home and take Hemingway out. He's been locked up all day."
"Perhaps if you didn't spend so much time with that mangy mutt, you'd have time to get yourself a life, or a man, like me for instance."
Dani smiled and gave Paul a quick kiss on the cheek. "We'd drive each other nuts, and you know it. Plus, Hemingway isn't a musician."
To her relief, Paul let the subject drop. He'd tried on other occasions to go down that road, but she just wasn't interested. Paul was sweet, but not for her.
Paul gave Dani a hand with her backpack, cello, and the steel briefcase containing the music. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."
She stopped and looked questioningly at him. "You will?"
Paul rolled his eyes in exasperation.
The light came on. "Oh frigg, the concert! I forgot all about it." Dani moaned, setting down her cello.
"How could you forget a concert we've been rehearsing two weeks for?"
"I know, I know…it's just with this Sugarberry thing and the…oh you know me. Paul, can't you get someone else to—"
"No, and don't you dare even think about backing out."
"Please."
"Dan, I can't find another cellist by tomorrow. You're a member of the Smithsonian Chamber Orchestra, and we’ve got a gig. You're playing. Besides, it'll be good brownies for you with Beckman."
"Yeah, if it was for anything other than his birthday." Dani sighed in surrender. "Okay, I'll be there."
"It won't be so bad. You'll be outside, and there'll be lots of happy tourists."
"Yeah, and Beckman," Dani droned, picking up her cello again.
"We start at noon. Don't be late."
"All right, all right, I won't. I'll see you tomorrow."
Chapter Sixteen
The brownstone manse on Church Avenue was beyond respectable—it was honorable. Though large, it was not ostentatious. Sitting in the middle of a tree-lined block, the Depriestiano home was flanked on both sides by similar looking structures housing a circuit court judge on one side and a private Hebrew school on the other. The pace and noise synonymous with New York City was nowhere to be found in this quiet, dignified neighborhood of Flatbush.
Leon pulled the limo into the driveway and hustled to open the door for his passengers. Anthony stepped from the car, turned, and offered his hand to Kathryn. Kathryn ignored her husband's newfound chivalry and got out unassisted. Kathryn dabbed her eyes and tousled her bangs as they walked around the side of the house to the backyard. Her legs were like lead, and she felt very tired. This was the last place she wanted to be.
The backyard of the Depriestiano house was like an Italian greeting card. Red lanterns hung on wire crisscrossing above a red brick patio protruding off a screened-in porch. A piñata for the kids hung from a branch of a maple tree in the middle of the lush yard, and sunflowers shot up five feet high in the flower garden along the back fence. It seemed to Kathryn every son, daughter, cousin, nephew, and niece in the Depriestiano family had gathered, all eager to see their famous kin. Anthony plastered a smile on his face as if he were posing for the camera. Kathryn regained her composure, swallowed hard, and mustered an expression to hide how totally miserable she felt.
"Little Tony," an elderly female voice with the heavy Italian accent cried, pushing her way through the throng. "Look, everyone, it's little Tony and his beautiful wife."
"Auntie Mar," Anthony replied with an even broader smile.
"Little Tony, you have not been eating. You are as skinny as a grapevine."
"But just as sweet, Auntie Mar, just as sweet."
"Oh, listen to you. Well, we'll just have to ask your bride about that, won't we, little Tony?" the small Italian woman said, pinching Anthony's cheek. "So, dear, is he or isn't he?"
Kathryn allowed a faint smile to the only member of the clan she could actually tolerate. "Yes, Auntie Mar, he is. But like the wine from that vine, I'm hoping he'll improve with age."
Anthony responded to his wife's mild jab with a peripheral glance.
The woman laughed and followed it with a kiss on Kathryn's cheek. "Little Tony, I have made something very special for you."
"You didn't, Auntie Mar."
"I did. Your uncle told me you were coming, so I made my cabbage balls just for you. What do you think of that?"
"I think I should call my tailor immediately and tell him to start adding an inch or two onto the waist of all my trousers, that's what I think about that."
The woman laughed and pinched on Anthony's cheek again.
"Auntie Mar, is that handsome son of yours around?"
"Jimmy?" the w
oman answered, waving her hand in the air with disgust. "Yes, he's in the alley playing stickball with the kids. Can you imagine, playing stickball at his age? When will he ever grow up, I ask you? Blessed Saints, he's turned out just like his papa."
"Well that's not such a bad thing," Anthony said, kissing the woman on the forehead. "Kathryn, I'm sure Auntie Mar needs some help in the kitchen."
Kathryn looked at her husband with contempt. Every time they came here it was 1950 again—get in the kitchen, woman, take care of the kids.
"Is Uncle Nick around?"
"He's in his study with some friends. Do you want me to get him?"
"No, I'll see him in a momento. I'll go say hello to my cousin. Maybe I'll even take a turn of stickball."
The woman turned for the house. "Now don't get all sweaty. Food will be ready in a half hour."
∙•∙
Kathryn followed her into the house, and Anthony headed for the back of the yard. The gate was open, and Anthony walked into the alley.
A half-smoked cigarette dangled from Jimmy's lips as he stood at the makeshift home plate—a garbage lid—holding a stick in his hand. The young boy hurled the small ball, bouncing it off the concrete. Jimmy shifted his weight and twisted his thick body toward the approaching orb. He missed the ball by a foot.
"Fuck! Son of a bitch, fuck!"
All six boys in the street laughed.
"Shut the fuck up and throw the ball again, damn it."
"You're out. Give someone else a turn," the nine-year old at first base yelled.
"Yeah, you've already had ten tries. Give someone else a bat," hollered the eleven-year-old in right field.
"Hey, I said throw the fuckin' ball before I wrap this stick round your tiny little heads." Jimmy took his stance. The boy threw the ball, and once again the stick failed to make contact. "Fuck! Son of a bitch, fuck!"
The boys broke out with laughter again, with the kid on first falling down and holding his stomach. Anthony's chuckle cut through the others. Jimmy saw his cousin and snarled, "You think you can do any better, pretty boy?"