The problem with that is I’ve never been much of a believer. We hear in church all the time about how God wants to change our hearts or about being filled with the Holy Spirit. I don’t have a clue what any of that involves. The only time I ever feel much of any kind of connection is with music or books. The hard part is finding anything on the official approved list.
Right now, I’m reading a different book, one that has nothing to do with religion. We still do small gifts for Easter, courtesy of Gran and Gramps. Mom and Dad made a no-chocolate rule because of the whole kosher for Passover thing. Gran made a fuss over it until Mom told her it was to keep us from getting cavities. Matteo’s the only one still young enough for toys. Even Sofia got a bunch of new Bonne Bell lip glosses this year. I got a book: The Firm, by John Grisham. It’s not bad.
I can’t focus on it, though. We have youth group later, and that means seeing Noah. Having a boyfriend is pretty convenient at school, especially since it’s put an end to all the whispering everyone does like they think I can’t hear them. He and I don’t have any classes together, though, or even the same lunch period. It’s both good and bad.
Lately I’ve been wondering if I should break up with him and be done with it. Nothing much has happened in the almost three months we’ve been going out. I remind myself this is how it should be, all polite and chaste, hands to ourselves and all that. But I also think I should at least feel something when we’re together, only I don’t.
At church, they tell boys that they’re going to be ruined for marriage if they keep looking at Playboy or late-night movies. The pastor’s wife once got up in a rare moment of letting a woman talk and said it’s like that for romance novels. Reading them gives women false ideas about what love is about. She doesn’t say whether reading only the sex parts has the same effect as watching movies with a lot of boobs. Even so, I wonder if that’s the real reason I don’t have those feelings with Noah.
After dinner, Dad takes Sofia and me to the church. In the first hour, we all hang around and talk or play games. When the weather turns warm again, we’ll go outside to play basketball or four square. Right now, most of the guys are in the social hall playing floor hockey. I’m upstairs with Hannah and Cari, and Cari is teaching us how to play some card game. We’re trying to keep out of the way of the adults. Some of them are a little weird about cards. Last fall, Hannah’s father got after us for playing Go Fish in the narthex after the service.
I still haven’t figured out all the rules when Cari excuses herself to the bathroom. A few minutes later, she’s back, and she leans down to whisper in my ear.
“Can I talk to you for a sec?” she says.
I follow her into the women’s bathroom, which is the best place if you need to have alone time to discuss anything sensitive. There’s this area outside where the stalls are that has plush chairs and a long counter with a mirror. Cari leans up against the counter, arms folded.
“What’s up?” I ask.
She frowns. “You and Noah are still going out, right?”
I fiddle with the chain around my neck. “Yeah. Why?”
Cari cuts me off. “I feel really bad about this, but I thought someone should probably tell you.”
“Tell me what?”
“When I came in here to use the bathroom, I passed by that spot under the stairs. Noah was there. With Gwen.”
“And?”
Cari sighs, and she sounds somewhat exasperated. “They looked pretty cozy, with their faces mashed together.”
“Oh.”
“Just ‘oh’?” Cari does the puzzled eyebrow thing better than anyone I’ve ever seen.
I’m not sure how to answer her. I might be a little mad that Noah is locking lips with Gwen instead of telling me he wanted to break up. He could’ve said he didn’t like my slow pace and uncertainty. But I feel relieved more than anything.
“Can you come with me? I need to find him, and I’ll need help distracting Gwen so I can talk to him.”
Cari shrugs. “Okay.” I’m guessing she thinks it’s more like I want someone there so I don’t punch either of them, but no one is in any danger from my fists.
We find them exactly where Cari said they were, but all they’re doing is sitting with their fingers twined. Noah sees us first and hastily tries to hide it. Gwen inches a little away from him; I roll my eyes. They’re not convincing anyone.
“I think Hannah wanted to show you something,” Cari tells Gwen. Even I don’t believe her, but Gwen gets up and follows her anyway, glancing back at us with a frown. I sit down next to Noah.
He won’t look at me, so I put my hand on his. “I’m not mad,” I tell him. “Okay, I’m a little mad. Gwen? Really?”
It’s dim under the stairs, but I still see his blush. “Not my finest moment.”
“You like her?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe. I like kissing her, anyway.” He finally turns toward me. “Why aren’t you pissed? Or more pissed.”
I curl my fingers around his ring. “I liked it better when we were just friends.”
“Me too,” he says, and I feel a lot better.
“So that’s it, then. We’re breaking up?”
“Looks that way.”
I give it some thought. He did cheat on me, even if I didn’t really care. Gossip spreads pretty fast, so I imagine most of the others have heard by now. Cari wouldn’t say anything—I don’t think—but she can’t have been the only witness, and Gwen’s out there too.
“Do we give them a show?” I ask.
Noah laughs. “We might as well.”
I follow him out from our hiding spot, and we find somewhere we know is in earshot of at least three other people. I make a production of giving him his ring back, and then it’s done. When we become less interesting than the floor hockey game, I take a moment to give Noah a quick side hug. I catch a flash of his blue nails, and for the first time since Cari pulled me aside, I’m sad.
***
Rain is beating down sideways. The wind whips around me, blowing my hair into my eyes as I fumble in my bag for my key. The key I’ve apparently forgotten or lost because it’s not in there in the inside zipper pouch. Frustrated, I stamp my foot and make a small screech. No one will be home for at least an hour.
I glance up and down the street, wondering which of our neighbors might be home. Most of them work. There’s only one house with a car in the driveway—Mr. Sullivan’s and Mr. Cohen’s. I shiver again, and I decide I don’t want to stay outside for the next hour, getting soaked and freezing my butt off. Gathering every ounce of nerve I have, I cross the street and go up two houses to the red one with the white trim.
Mr. Cohen and Mr. Sullivan lived there before we moved in when I was five. Mr. Cohen goes to the Synagogue with Bubbe and Zayde. I’m not sure what Mr. Cohen does for a living, but Mr. Sullivan used to be an editor for the local newspaper. When I was still in Girl Scouts, and still cute enough to make sales on my smile alone, they used to buy a dozen boxes from me—each. Mr. Cohen claimed it was because they didn’t like the same kinds. I have no idea if Girl Scout cookies are even kosher; maybe Mr. Cohen gave them away to friends, or maybe Mr. Sullivan ate them all.
I dropped out of Scouts in seventh grade, so I don’t go over there for that anymore. But in the nice weather, they’re usually out on the porch or weeding in their front garden. They always have a friendly smile and a wave for me. I haven’t seen much of them this winter, though I catch Mr. Cohen on occasion going out somewhere.
No one answers when I ring the doorbell. I press it again for good measure, and after another minute, I turn to go. Either they’re not home after all, or they don’t want to come to the door for some reason. Before I can step off the porch, though, the door opens a crack and Mr. Cohen puts his head out.
“Oh, Antonia, hello,” he says. “It’s a little early for Girl Scout cookies, isn’t it?”
I giggle, but it makes my teeth chatter. “I’m not here to sell cookies, Mr. Cohen.
I forgot my key, and there’s no one home to let me in.” I take a deep breath. “Can I stay here until my sister gets off the bus?”
Mr. Cohen glances over his shoulder. “I don’t know…now isn’t such a good time.” There’s a funny strain in his voice that confuses me. “Tommy…” He trails off and looks back into the house again. “He’s not feeling so good.”
Tommy is Mr. Sullivan. “I promise, I won’t be a bother. I’ll just sit quietly and do my homework, and you’ll never even know I’m there.”
“I don’t think your parents would like it. Try Mrs. Pitkin up the street.”
I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t my parents want me to go to the neighbors’ house if I get locked out? That makes no sense. If anything, they’d be more mad at me if I didn’t. Mom would lecture me about frostbite or something, even though it isn’t really cold enough for that. Cold enough to make me shiver, though, which I do again.
“Mrs. Pitkin has a dog. I’m allergic.” It’s a lie, but Mr. Cohen doesn’t need to know the real reason is that Mrs. Pitkin is always making remarks about my weight or my clothes or whatever she’s decided this week is the matter with me.
Mr. Cohen’s shoulders slump. He slides the chain on the door so he can open it all the way, and he nods as he sweeps his hand. I step inside, and I’m hit with a sort of medicinal smell. The room isn’t dark, but it’s not as bright as we keep ours. I take a look around, trying not to seem like that’s what I’m doing. I don’t think it fools Mr. Cohen.
When I finally see Mr. Sullivan, I’m shocked by how he looks. He’s what my English teacher would call gaunt. So thin I could probably count every single rib if he had his shirt off. It looks like he’s sleeping, sitting up in his chair. He’s got oxygen tubes in his nose, like Grandpapa DiNapoli when he had lung cancer. But when I see the bluish-purple patches on Mr. Sullivan’s skin, I know lung cancer isn’t what’s wrong with him.
I’m frozen in the entryway so long that Mr. Cohen finally says, “You can’t catch it from him.”
“I know,” I whisper. That isn’t what’s on my mind. All I can think about suddenly is Dom and Levi. I turn to Mr. Cohen and say, “I’m really sorry.”
“Me too,” Mr. Cohen answers. He brushes past me, farther into the room.
I follow him and set my bag and my violin by the couch, trying not to peek at Mr. Sullivan out of the corner of my eye. I know why Mr. Cohen said my parents wouldn’t like my being here. It’s not because they think I’m going to be tainted somehow by being around a pair of middle-aged gay men, and it’s not because they think I could get AIDS from them. It’s because of Dom and Levi.
In the same way my parents don’t talk about Levi as Dom’s boyfriend, they don’t talk about the relationship between Mr. Cohen and Mr. Sullivan. They’re “the neighbors” or “the housemates across the way.” By not saying what they mean, my parents have decided they don’t have to think about the fact that men like them—men like my brother—have been dying in large numbers for years.
Ages ago, my mother watched some documentary on PBS, about a quilt. It has the names of people who died on it. She sat through it and sobbed when she thought no one knew. Somewhere in her, she thinks this is what’s going to happen to Dom, and she knows there’s nothing she can do about it.
It doesn’t matter they’ve started telling us horror stories in health class about how everyone is at risk now and arguing over whether we should have free condoms in the nurse’s office or vending machines in the bathrooms. My parents don’t worry about whether Sofia and I are going to live to see our next birthdays. Matteo, though…
I’m taking out my biology textbook when I hear a faint cough from the other side of the room. I stop with my hand still inside my book bag and look up at Mr. Sullivan. His eyes are open now, focused on me.
“You play that thing?” He’s pointing a skinny finger at my violin.
“Uh,” I say. “Yeah. Yes, sir.”
“Can you play something for me?”
I want to tell him the same thing I’m always saying to my family, that I don’t take requests and I can’t play on demand. Something in his voice makes me feel different.
“What do you want me to play?” I’m expecting him to say something like church hymns or something popular on the radio. That’s not what comes out of his mouth.
“What do you want to play?”
It’s a good question. I’m not bad; I’ve been taking lessons since second grade. That doesn’t mean I have any idea what I should do for an impromptu concert in the home of a maybe dying man. I close my eyes to think. Right now, I’m working on learning “Autumn” from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons for an audition next month. I’m not nearly good enough yet, but for some reason, I want to play it.
“Is Vivaldi okay?” I ask.
“I love Vivaldi,” Mr. Sullivan replies. He looks to Mr. Cohen. “Don’t I?”
Mr. Cohen’s smile is somehow both sad and amused. “You do.”
I pull the music out of my backpack then kneel on the floor to open my case. While I tighten and rosin my bow, I imagine the notes on the page. In my head, I can feel the motion of my fingers and the press of the strings as I play. I hum a few measures, focusing on how I want it to sound. “Autumn” is my favorite of Vivaldi’s Seasons. The first movement is quick and upbeat, but there’s a slight sadness underneath, even in the sweet, high notes. I could focus on the music for hours, losing track of everything else around me.
With my violin in my hand, I stand up and prop the music against a table lamp. Placing the instrument under my chin, I check my tuning. When I play the opening notes, I shift my gaze briefly from the page to meet Mr. Sullivan’s. His smile is serene before he closes his eyes again to listen.
***
After serenading Mr. Sullivan in his living room, they asked me to stop by more often. I don’t tell my parents. Since my bus is the first one, I visit them about once a week and then duck out before anyone else is home. I’ve played other stuff, but Mr. Sullivan always asks me to play the Vivaldi. They’ve been witness to my steady improvement and effort to memorize it. Mr. Cohen sometimes gives me pointers, but Mr. Sullivan only says, “Lovely. Just lovely.”
It’s finally audition day. I’m only a little nervous when I stand in the unfamiliar classroom and face the three adjudicators. I take a few deep breaths to slow my rapid pulse. I’ve done this plenty of times before, but I’ve never played such a difficult piece. Am I ready for this?
My accompanist raises her eyebrows, indicating she’s waiting for my signal. The judge in the middle, a woman with curly, iron-gray hair, picks up her pen. Her gaze meets mine, and a small flicker of a reassuring smile passes across her lips. I relax enough to stop the trembling in my fingers.
The man to her left says, “Whenever you’re ready.”
I nod to my accompanist, and we begin. There’s no introduction, no time to think, no time to allow any intrusive thoughts into my brain. There is only the music: the steady, cheerful opening, the double-stop harmonies, and then my fingers are flying up and down the fingerboard. I’m pulled into the music, the way it sways and bends like the autumn breeze it mimics. I draw out the long, sorrowful notes of the slow section, low and soft, while the piano takes the moving part. Then at last we end together with the same joy as the beginning, slowing in perfect sync.
The final note tapers, and I’m surprised to find I’ve had my eyes closed. I open them and look at the judges, breathing a little fast as I lower my instrument. Gray Hair is smiling for real now, and both of the men have open, warm expressions. They won’t say much yet, but I know they’re pleased.
The judge on the far left says, “Thank you. Are you ready for scales, or do you need a moment?”
“I’m ready any time,” I tell him, and I am.
When it’s over, Ms. Lorring meets me outside the classroom. Teachers aren’t allowed in, so she’s had to listen from the other side of the door.
“Beautiful,” she tells me, beaming wi
th pride.
“Thanks,” I say. My limbs feel like jelly, and I’m ready to sit down.
Ms. Lorring seems to understand because she leads me back into the auditorium where other students are warming up and waiting their turn to play. We sit at the back. It’ll take about a half hour for the judges to discuss my performance and write it up, and then we can go. Mom will be back for me soon, but for now, it’s just Ms. Lorring and me.
“There’s no doubt the judges will give you a good score,” she says. “I’d like to recommend you for the town’s community orchestra, and there’s a string festival this summer you might enjoy. Workshops, sight reading, and a chance to play with people of all ages.”
“Sounds fun,” I say.
“It is. You’ll be in the advanced orchestra next year at school, too. I’d like to suggest you sit principal second, if you’re willing.” She clears her throat. “Of course, that’ll be up to your new teacher.”
“New teacher?” I’m more awake now, and I shift in my seat to look at her. “Where will you be?”
She sighs and looks away for a moment. “When I was out earlier this year… I had a series of mini strokes. Surely you’ve noticed I’m not in as good shape as I was before. I’m not coming back.”
“But…you’re here now,” I argue. “Can’t you do some kind of therapy or something?”
She shakes her head. “They can, and they’ve tried. But it’s not enough. It’s complicated. They found out it was caused by a blood disorder. There’s no cure, only treatment.”
I’m trying not to react too strongly here in an auditorium full of strangers, but it’s hard. All I can do is nod, unsure what else to say. I think about what Noah said, how there are things we don’t know about her, and I wonder again what he meant.
Ms. Lorring continues. “I wanted you to know how proud I am of you and all your hard work. I hope you keep on with your music.” There’s a catch in her voice at the end.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
Year of the Guilty Soul Page 3