“You’re excused.” I looked up to the woman with bright red hair. I wasn’t sure if she was a student or hired on to help in cases like this. I doubted there were any cases like this. It was unheard of for a deaf student to pursue a musical career. Nevertheless a graduate school career at a prestigious conservatory like the Bard. The interpreter looked confused until I waved my hands. I don’t like repeating myself, I signed.
Both Emma and the woman beside her looked surprised. The three of us paused before the interpreter fetched her belongings at the front of the room. Once she had, Emma gave her a wave. Thank you, Jenny. The redhead, Jenny, smiled and then left the room.
Once I had set my case upright on the desk, I turned to face Emma. “I’m assuming you can read lips.”
“Yes,” Emma said quickly, nodding. Her hands moved in front of her. Most of the time I prefer to sign. Her response surprised me, and even more so when she continued. It’s more personal, given my circumstances.
There were so many questions racing through my mind, I didn’t quite know where to begin. What were her circumstances exactly? My initial assumption was that she hadn’t always been deaf. It was next to impossible, given how exceptional she was at every piece she’d played. She’d had to have heard them, on more than one occasion. Even though I was curious, my mind wandered back to the class and Emma’s outlandish behavior. As much as I had enjoyed playing with her and how thrilled I was by her presence at the conservatory, I was still annoyed.
I expect you to be on time from now on. I signed and Emma nodded, apologizing again. Before she said anything else, I continued with my thought. I also expect you to dress professionally. My eyes drifted down to her used sneakers that poked out under her black skirt. “You’re not a bartender. You’re a graduate student at one of the most prestigious music conservatories in the country.”
Emma gave me a somewhat defiant look, waving her hands at me. Is that all?
I shook my head. “And last I recall, I was the professor of this course, not you Ms. Harvey.”
“Miranda Kepner is the professor,” Emma corrected me, seeming unable to stop herself. Her response took us both by surprise.
“Regardless,” I found my tone shifting. “Whether either of us like that fact or not, I’m here for the semester. And as I recall, I’m a tenured professor at this institution, not you.”
Your point? Emma moved her hands. “You weren’t even teaching the lecture. You spent half the time talking about yourself.”
Out of all the things I’d expected her to say, I hadn’t expected her to say that. “Excuse me?”
“The first lecture was supposed to be introducing the differences and similarities between harmony and counterpoint. I think you spent ten minutes of a fifty-minute class discussing that fact. We’re here to learn, Professor Hamilton.” Emma raised a brow, signing again. I was just trying to help. I don’t think what I said was out of line.
“From now on I expect you to take notes for me and only help with distributing and grading assignments and quizzes. Like you are supposed to be doing. Is that clear, Ms. Harvey?” Emma seemed to be holding her tongue.
Crystal. Emma signed, turning away to collect her things from the other side of the room. When she turned back, I cleared my throat.
“And Ms. Harvey,” her large brown eyes looked forward into mine, steadily. “If you request playing something iconic like Bach in lecture, I suggest you brush up on your staccato. I recall you were much more proficient in your audition pieces.”
“My staccato was better than your pacing on those crescendos,” Emma snapped back at me, offended. Her eyes widened and she clapped her hand over her mouth. There was a long drawn out silence between us. I motioned towards the door.
“That’s all, Ms. Harvey,” I said. “I expect you on time and presentable on Wednesday. And to have read the assigned readings for tomorrow.”
What’s tomorrow? Emma asked, confused.
“The first day of graduate composition,” I replied, collecting my case off the desk. It took a moment for the thought to register but when Emma realized I’d be teaching the course, she looked mortified. Before she got a word in edgewise, I made my way out of the room, satisfied that I’d made my point enough for one day.
IN ALL THE YEARS OF playing for the Philharmonic, I’d heard criticisms and critiques from just about everyone imaginable. It was the nature of the business. People would have opinions about my work and my style. None of it fazed me anymore. I knew without a shadow of a doubt that my abilities far surpassed most and that it wouldn’t change.
So, when I had locked myself in a practice room late that afternoon, working over Bach’s Sonata, I surprised myself. Seasoned musicians and legends of my field had said worse things and it hadn’t fazed me. Yet such a minor detail from a student had me reeling. I played over the measures in question over and over, trying to hear what Emma had spoken of.
Over an hour had passed with me running over the same small Allegro portions of the sonata again and again. I’d closed my eyes, trying to recall my exact motions. This piece was so familiar. Effortless. What had I done wrong in Emma’s eyes?
I was nearly to the point of rage when I heard a swift knock at the door of the practice room. The noise had made me jump, clutching the neck of my violin far tighter than I would have liked. As soon as I’d noticed, I loosened my grip, glaring towards the door.
Typically, it was bad form to stare or interrupt someone practicing like I had been. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that my displeasure was written all over my face. My friend Timothy stood at the door, poking his head inside of the room.
“I tried calling,” Timothy argued with me, nodding down to the phone that sat beside my case. “You never answer.”
“That’s because my priorities lie with my music, not endless yakking on the telephone.” I sat my bow across my lap and then turned my attention towards him. “What do you need?”
“You’re coming out for drinks,” Timothy said, a small smile stretched across his lips. As soon as I opened my mouth to argue, Timothy interrupted me. “We won’t take no for an answer. You haven’t been out in ages, and I hear you’re already stirring up trouble with students. You’re too wound up, Juliet. Socializing is good for you.” I thought to speak again but instead found myself rooting into my case, stowing away the Vuillaume.
An hour later, the five of us had settled down at an Irish pub a few blocks down from the conservatory. If it hadn’t been for Timothy and Emerson, I would have never stepped foot in the place, much preferring the Jazz club west of town. They had better drinks and I liked the atmosphere and the musicians that played there.
The half-century old brick building looked as crumbled and worn on the outside as it did inside. It was poorly lit and had the feel of a medieval style tavern. A strong smell of fried food mixed with liquor and stale cigarettes wafted through the air. There was nothing appealing about the location. Timothy swore it was the cheapest place in all of Annandale-on-Hudson to get a drink, which knowing his penny-pinching ways, was the main reason we always ended up there.
Together we were quite a group. Timothy Kepner, who had served on the panel with me for graduate auditions, was Miranda Kepner’s husband. He was a popular cellist, who performed with the Philharmonic but preferred teaching for some unknown reason. I’d known him and Miranda for years. Andrew Baker, who had been the other panelist from the auditions, played flute and taught orchestra to undergraduate students. He’d started at the Bard a few years prior. Emerson Reed was a pianist and composer, who spent most of his time working with Charlotte Tanner, the vocal professor. The two had been dating for almost a year.
I wasn’t able to think over the shrieking Irish folk rock that was playing in the background. When the bartender came by to drop off our orders, I leaned into her. “You wouldn’t perhaps consider turning that noise down to an acceptable level?” The woman gave me a twisted stare and looked unsure of how to respond.
“T
hank you for this,” Emerson said, taking my scotch and setting it in front of me. “My friend here just needs to unwind.”
“Which would be easier if I wasn’t being bombarded by that racket,” I retorted. My hand wrapped around the glass, bringing the drink to my lips. It tasted cheap and watered down, like it always did, but I drank it anyway.
Charlotte laughed from across the table, her Southern accent flaring when she spoke. “What’s gotten you all riled up today? You aren’t still stressed out about picking up the slack for Miranda?”
“I should be practicing the pieces for the fall performances as we speak,” I replied. My glass was already near empty, which was unusual. On most occasions, I allowed myself one drink. Today it appeared as if I needed a half dozen. I waved the waitress down for another.
“Miranda wanted me to ask you about Emma Harvey,” Timothy said after taking a swallow of his Sam Adams. Swine water. My attention wasn’t on his beer for long. The minute her name registered, my stomach stirred.
“Emma Harvey?” I echoed, doing my best to remain nonchalant.
“Don’t play coy, Juliet. You know who I’m talking about. You practically dragged her into the program yourself.” Timothy was smirking at me.
“Ah, that Emma.” The scotch glass was at my lips again to hide the expression that would give me away. “Fine, I suppose. Though she can be a tad bit argumentative for my tastes.”
“She’s always been on the feisty side,” Timothy agreed with me. There must have been a perplexing look to my face, because Timothy smiled. “We’ve known Emma for years. Miranda used to give her piano lessons when she was younger. I’m surprised you don’t recall her. She came to our wedding with her father.”
“You had a rather large wedding,” I reminded him, sitting back against my chair.
“And you were rather inebriated during most of it,” Timothy noted, with a grin. I rolled my eyes, taking another sip of scotch. I was about to be inebriated again if I wasn’t careful. “Miranda thinks Emma has the talent to play in the Philharmonic one day.”
I wasn’t about to disagree. She had a lot of talent. “You didn’t mention she was deaf.”
Charlotte looked intrigued. “I thought it was a rumor when I heard it. She’s deaf?”
Timothy nodded. “Only for the past four years. She started losing it when she was just out of high school. Went through a bit of a depression because of it, but Miranda helped her out of it and managed to get her back to school.”
“She just somehow lost her hearing?” Emerson asked the question on the tip of my tongue. “How is that possible?”
Timothy pondered after he’d taken another drink of that appalling beer. “Some sort of connective tissues disorder, I think? I can’t recall the name.”
“Fascinating,” I replied, my hands running along the outside of the scotch glass. “Why didn’t you mention this at her audition?”
“Emma asked us not to,” Timothy replied. “She wanted to get in on her talent.”
“Well, she certainly did that.”
Another round of drinks came to the table then. Charlotte proposed a toast to the new school year and we chatted for a while, catching up. It had been a great length of time since we’d last all gone out together. Finally, as we were packing up to leave, Timothy caught me by the arm after I’d slid on my jacket.
“Have you talked to Miranda recently?” He asked.
“No, why?” The instant I started moving, the alcohol hit me and I regretted it. My hand went to my head to steady myself. “I figured she was busy with the tour.”
“She wants you to give Emma her private lessons for the semester,” Timothy said, holding on to my arm. “Are you sure you’re capable of getting home?”
“Miranda wants me to do what?” I stared at him baffled, thinking I was losing my mind. “Why can’t Emerson give her lessons?”
“He’s got enough students on his plate this semester,” Timothy argued.
“Then you, perhaps?” I fidgeted in place, unsure if my wobbling was due to the alcohol, my uncomfortableness with the situation, or both.
Timothy looked puzzled, trying to place my awkward demeanor. “What’s gotten into you? Everyone knows you play. Modesty doesn’t suit you, Jules.”
“Don’t call me that,” I snapped, more harshly than I had intended to. “You know I have rehearsals for the fall performances. On top of the two classes forced down my throat.”
“You’re required to take on two students a semester for lessons,” Timothy said as the group of us headed outside. “Miranda already cleared it with your father.” When he said it, I grew angry that they’d gone over my head about it. To my father, of all people. “Miranda knows you’ll take good care of her.”
I sighed. “If I must.” Even though I was still annoyed, I said it gently. “Though she’ll be in for a world of trouble if she acts the way she did in my class today.”
“I’ll talk to her,” Timothy promised. “Just do this for Miranda.” I nodded, as Charlotte took my keys that dangled in my fingers.
“Come on sweet thing, I’ll drive you home.” Charlotte smiled at me as I fell into the seat of her car, my head spinning from more than just the alcohol.
4
Emma
Bach, Sonata for Piano and Violin in B Minor
IF IT HADN’T BEEN FOR the fact that I was meeting with my vocal student pairing that afternoon, I would have gone home after the undergraduate class with Juliet. Instead, I waited in an empty classroom. Every piano graduate student was assigned a graduate student in vocal performance to accompany during their education. While I hadn’t met mine yet, there was a person I was hoping for.
While I waited, I stewed. I wasn’t a person who angered easily. She had gotten under my skin. Then the words flew out of my mouth. Me, criticizing one of the world’s premiere violinists. It would haunt me the entire semester, I was certain of it.
I wasn’t sure why she bothered me so much. I barely knew her, and what little I did know should have convinced me to keep my distance. She was arrogant and rarely listened to others. But as soon as she’d played a single note on the violin, I was lost in her.
The small classroom was barren outside of a Steinway upright, a few chairs and a few music stands. I waited at the piano bench, drumming my fingers on the wood drawer that closed over the keys. When I looked up, Lydia Beckham had wandered inside, a broad smile stretched across her face.
“Well look who it is!” Lydia moved between chairs and stands. After I’d gotten to my feet, I hugged her tightly. I requested them to put us together a few weeks ago, but I wasn’t sure if they’d do it, Lydia signed.
I had Timothy pull a few strings. My hands flowed in the air, smiling.
I can’t believe you’re here! Lydia sat her bag on the floor. How did it go this morning?
I shook my head. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later.
“You’re just ready to go, aren’t you?” Lydia smiled, handing me her sheet music.
Did you warm up? I asked, and she nodded. I studied the music, familiarizing myself with the first piece. It was an aria from Don Giovanni, a famous opera, composed by Mozart. While I wasn’t familiar with every part of it, I’d known enough about it to play along well enough. It didn’t take long before I’d settled at the piano.
Lydia had a beautiful mezzo-soprano voice that was well suited for the opera. Her range had been outstanding in high school, and I’d imagined it had only gotten better throughout college. Now that she was at the Bard, studying under Charlotte Tanner, she was bound to be getting offers from just about everywhere by the time she graduated. It was obvious to me where she intended to go, if she had her way. After I’d lifted the lid to the keys, I sat back, letting my fingers dribble over the length of the piano.
Such a show off. I rolled my eyes at Lydia after she’d signed it. My mind drew back to the sheet music and the keys. Two breaths. Relax. Begin. The notes flowed effortlessly. While I played, I kept several
measures ahead of myself, preparing the notes ahead of time so I had the opportunity to focus on Lydia as she began to sing.
We spent a few hours working. It was important to take it slow. Understand how we worked with one another. We hadn’t worked together in over a year now. She’d been a year ahead of me at NYU and had left for the Bard last year. Surprisingly, even after not having performed with one another in so long, we managed to mesh together well. It became so natural, I found my thoughts wandering, until there was a knock on the top of the piano. Lydia was staring at me. “You drifted off there for a minute. Are you okay?”
Long day, I signed back in reply. Lydia did not seem the least bit satisfied with my answer. “Juliet Hamilton is teaching Harmony and Counterpoint.”
“The class you’re assisting?” When I nodded, Lydia’s eyes grew wider. “How was she?”
I criticized her playing, I admitted. She had sloppy crescendos and I called her out... I think I’m doomed.
Lydia’s mouth opened wide in a laugh of disbelief. “You did what?”
“I know.” I sighed, shaking my head. “I’m screwed.” She’s teaching composition tomorrow too. When I signed it, Lydia’s face dropped.
“That class is hard enough as it is. It’ll be a nightmare now.”
No kidding. Once I’d shut the lid to the piano and tucked in the bench, I gathered my belongings off the floor. She’s going to be haunting me the entire semester.
“If you live that long.” Lydia grinned, shaking her head. “I can’t believe you criticized Juliet Hamilton. You’re a brave soul, Emma.”
AFTER I’D SPEND MUCH of the afternoon in the library studying, I wandered the emptied halls of the conservatory. It was near dinnertime but I hadn’t wanted to leave yet. As I passed classrooms, I observed undergraduate seminars in progress and student lessons. There were so many talented people at this school. Sometimes it was hard for me to believe I was there.
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