Can I play one more? Emma asked in sign. There was only a few short minutes until her lessons were supposed to have ended for the evening. Outside of my practice, I had nowhere to be. I nodded, letting her search through her backpack for sheet music. After she’d set it up on the stand in front of her, she scattered over the keys, playing a short bit of scales to warm up.
I was tempted to ask her what she’d chosen to play but decided against it. Most likely I’d be able to discern whatever she’d chosen within a few measures. As I settled back in my chair, I watched her take a few short breaths and then draw into the piano. The song started fil di voice. Quietly. It was so quiet I couldn’t quite catch the notes, but it began to build. The melody was so familiar, I strained to place it. Emma closed her eyes, her hands spanning the entire length of the piano as she played. Why couldn’t I place this song? It was something I should have recognized. I realized that she’d changed the melody. As much as I wanted to scold her for drifting off-task, instead I relaxed, deciding to enjoy her interpretation.
Emma played through the short melody, ending it neatly. As she’d drawn in the last few notes, I placed it. Salut d'Amour. It was an unusual choice of songs for her, not only because of its simplicity, but for the fact I’d always heard it on a violin. Emma had turned it into something so much more than its basic form on the piano. I was at a loss for words, trying to recall why it seemed so familiar.
Why did you pick that piece? I asked. Emma smiled, brushing a strand of her unruly blonde hair away from her eyes. Her face grew pink at the thought. I studied her as she took a breath.
It’s just special to me. Emma signed in reply. A cryptic response. My curiosity got the best of me and I waited, hoping she’d continue with her thought. It was the first song I’d ever danced to. A few years ago.
I raised a brow. An unusual song. It was a piece that was played at weddings. Not at high school formals and proms. They played this at your school dances?
At a wedding reception. Emma replied. I don’t like to dance often, but I made an exception. She seemed to drift off. Do you think I could play it for the fall recital?
It had been an acceptable choice. An unusual choice, but acceptable. In spite of the fact that I wasn’t always approving of her unique ideas, with how much talent the woman possessed, I couldn’t tell her no. Especially when those big brown eyes were locked onto mine. It was as if she knew she’d held me captive with just one look.
“If you’d like,” I replied, and Emma smiled. The sight sent my heart skipping. Before I knew it, I’d found myself lost in her eccentric beauty, torn between what feature of hers enchanted me the most. Whether it was her untamable blonde locks or those chocolate irises I got so lost in. Her lanky frame and elegant fingers, or her pale pink lips that were often pursed at me, but now sat curled in a small smile. I didn’t know. Everything about her drew me in.
What was I doing? I was at least fifteen or sixteen years her senior. She was a graduate student. A woman I hardly knew anything about, outside a few conversations, and me over-analyzing her feisty demeanor. And a woman. I’d never once felt the feelings that were stirring inside of me for another woman. Yet still, I found myself wondering what it might be like to dance with her to Salut d’Amour. What she might have looked like, dressed up at a wedding. I could only imagine she was a sight to be seen.
When I looked at the clock, we were thirty minutes over. As soon as I looked away from her, Emma collected the sheet music from the piano and began gathering up her things. I fetched my case, stowing the Vuillaume and the bow away. Once we’d both were set to leave, we met in the aisle of the classroom.
Emma’s facial expression dropped when we turned our attention back towards one another. Please stop trying to help me with my textbooks. I’d been so engaged with her throughout the lesson, I’d forgotten about my conversation with Miranda a few hours prior.
“That didn’t take long to get back to you,” I noted, suppressing a smile. She did not seem amused, so I continued. “I’m just trying to protect your best interests.”
I can look after myself just fine. Emma signed back, curtly.
In an attempt to diffuse the situation, I nodded. “Very well, Ms. Harvey. I’ll let you make your own decisions. I expect you to keep up with my coursework, regardless.”
“I’ve never had any trouble before,” Emma said aloud, adjusting the strap of her bag on her shoulder. Her stance had relaxed somewhat when I’d conceded. While I intended to respect her wishes to not purchase her textbooks, there were ways to work around her demands. Technicalities she wasn’t aware of but would still aid in her plight. I didn’t mention it, deciding it was an argument for another day. The evening had been so nice, I didn’t want it ruined.
See you tomorrow for class? Emma’s hands moved. I nodded, she smiled again and then wandered out into the hallway without another word. My eyes followed her the entire way, hating myself for the way I was feeling about her.
MY FEELINGS HAD DRASTICALLY changed by the following week. The night before graduate composition class, I was sprawled out on my bed, composition assignments from my students scattered across the comforter. A glass of scotch was wrapped in my hand, half emptied. It had been my second glass. After seeing the sloppy excuses of work I had to grade, I’d barely been able to tolerate looking at them until I’d thrown down my drink.
Emma Harvey’s assignment sat in my lap. I’d read over it so many times now I almost had it memorized. None of it made sense. It made no attempt to show technical aptitude, only highlighted the fact that she was clearly unable to follow directions or had no desire to. The entire piece infuriated me. So much so, that I tossed and turned the entire rest of the evening, unable to keep it from my thoughts. Unable to sleep.
The next morning I arrived early to the graduate student composition class. A few drowsy students waited inside as I stormed across the floor. When the pile of papers in my hands slammed down on the desk in the front of the room, they all jerked to attention. I didn’t bother explaining myself, turning to scribble notes on the whiteboard behind me.
When Emma arrived, I slapped her assignment down on her desk and watched her face twist into a nasty scowl. “You gave me a D?” I didn’t bother answering her, handing off Lydia’s C-grade composition back to her. As soon as Emma saw her friend’s grade, it seemed to fuel her fire. “Professor Hamilton!” I felt a tug on my wrist as I moved away. She’d latched onto me like a petulant child. Before she was able get another word in edgewise, I ripped my body away from hers, continuing to hand out the disappointing assignments.
Every student in the classroom was staring at me when I’d returned to the front of the room. Most of them looked panicked. I avoided looking at Emma as much as possible, who still had a death glare stretched across her face. “It seems as though we need a refresher on some fundamentals. I would have assumed most of you had studied this in undergraduate level coursework, but it is evident it wasn’t enough.”
As much as I would have rather been moving on to more exciting topics, I spent the entire length of class pounding out every trivial piece of review information. When the class ended, the majority left in a hurry. A few came up to ask questions of me.
Emma Harvey did not move from her seat until the room had emptied. I was curious if the expression that had stayed on her face would ever leave. It was unbecoming. “Ms. Harvey, class is over for the day.” As frustrated as I was with her, I couldn’t meet her eyes, but I faced her as best as I could.
“You gave this a D?” Emma had gotten to her feet, storming across the room to meet me. “This doesn’t deserve a D, Professor Hamilton.”
“Ms. Harvey, you are capable of producing far better work than the scribble on that paper.” I collected the notes scattered on the desk.
“Scribble?” I didn’t think Emma’s words could be more scathing. Each syllable she spoke was growing louder. “I worked hard on this. Did you even look at it?”
“Trust me, Ms. Harvey
,” I tried to keep my voice calm and level. “I spent a great length of time going over students work last night. Particularly yours. This was not an appropriate answer to the assignment. You knew better than this.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Emma’s voice had gotten so loud it was reverberating along the hard walls of the room. “It was a fantastic answer to what you were asking us to do. I followed the directions. Just not the way you wanted me to follow them, but they were followed. My work was more creative than most.”
The tone and timbre of her voice was starting to get on my nerves. If she had been any other student, I’d have written her up in an instant. I took a deep breath in. “I asked for students to demonstrate their technical knowledge of composition. The assignment was for you to prove you knew what you were talking about. As usual, you were far more focused on showing off your ability to ignore all rules.”
“Music isn’t just technicalities and rules and rigidness,” Emma snapped at me. “I wrote a compelling piece that did exactly as you asked. If I had to take a guess, I doubt my work was like any other students.”
“Which is precisely why you received the grade you did,” I said, matter-of-factly. “Now, Ms. Harvey, if you wouldn’t mind. I have a staff meeting to attend to.”
Emma snapped the paper in my face with one flick of her wrist. “Maybe you can talk about this ridiculous grading of yours.” It must have been apparent by the way my face had twisted that I wasn’t going to take much more of her belligerent behavior because Emma went quiet. “Fine. If you won’t do anything about this, you can expect I’m going to take this to the Dean. You can argue with him about it.”
I was about to retort but Emma was already storming out of the classroom, having left her assignment on the desk in front of me. I stared down at it, my heart pounding in my chest. Once I’d packed up my things, I folded the assignment in half, stuffing it into the pocket of my cardigan. The woman was doing something to me. Something that was making my insides unsettled and my heart race and my mind unable to focus. Something that was starting to become a problem.
8
Emma
Sentimental Mood by Duke Ellington and John Coltrane
Angelica by Duke Ellington and John Coltrane
WHEN I WALKED INTO the building, the next morning and saw the commotion outside my father’s room, I knew it was going to be a bad day. My mind was running on little sleep as it was, having been a seething mess when I’d returned home the prior evening. Now this. It had been several months since my father’s last episode. It terrified me seeing him that way. My father had been the most mellow, kind person I’d ever known. He’d always had a smile on his face. Then the twisted disease had taken him. It had taken him from his music, and from his family and friends that loved him. It had turned a loveable soul into a broken, hollow form of a man.
“GET THE HELL OUT OF MY ROOM!” As I drew into the doorway, I could make out what he was saying. By the expression on his face, he must have been screaming. Nancy, one of the nurses on staff, stood in the doorway.
“Mr. Harvey, I’m just here to check on you,” Nancy said. She had herself turned towards me. “I don’t know if today is a good day.”
“Let me try to talk to him,” I said, skirting around her. It was a bad idea. He was never rational during his episodes. There was hardly a chance he remembered who I was. The situation would end up with me in a worse mood, but I had it in my mind to try regardless.
As I moved into the room, my father turned towards me. I watched his lips form the sweet letters of my name. “Emma?”
My eyes grew wider. “Dad?”
“You’ve got to get me out of here,” he said. He had grown calmer by the way his body language had changed. “They’re keeping me here against my will.”
“You’re supposed to be here, Dad.” I tried to remain collected.
“No, no. This isn’t right. I’m supposed to be at the house. I’ve got rehearsals. We have gigs coming up. We’re playing the Factory.”
“Dad,” I went to take his arm, setting him down in his recliner at the far side of the room. When I looked back at Nancy, she was watching us, leaning against the doorframe. She looked concerned, but I ignored her. My father was staring at me intensely when I turned back towards him. “You’ve been here for the past few years.”
“That isn’t right,” he said, shaking his head. “The house. In Poughkeepsie. Please tell me the house is still there.” My father hadn’t remembered selling it when I’d graduated school to help foot the bill for my education. He’d just started to decline and had done it without me knowing. Little did he know after my undergraduate career at NYU, I’d used most of it to help with his medical expenses and keeping up with his care at the nursing facility.
“It’s still there, Dad,” I said, which wasn’t a lie. “But you have to stay here now.”
“I want to go home Emma-girl.” He looked at me with frightened eyes. “I’m missing rehearsals. We’ve got a busy schedule.”
My mouth opened to argue with him but I had to force myself to quiet. There was no point. I wasn’t even sure where he was at mentally. If he’d understand that they hadn’t been together in ten years. There was no sense in confusing him further.
“How about we listen to a record? What are you feeling today? Dizzy? Armstrong? Ellington?” I started to get to my feet when his expression changed. My father’s face went solemn. There was no familiar twinkle in his eye. I pulled the Duke Ellington and John Coltrane vinyl from his collection and set it into the red-oak turntable. It rattled for a moment as the tonearm needle caught into the grooves.
When I turned back to my father, it was clear the music had started by how his attention had turned towards the record player. “Can Nancy check on you? She’s nice.” My father just nodded, without speaking. Nancy took his vitals and handed out his medications. I watched from a distance. There were no more words exchanged, even after Nancy took her leave. He seemed sad. I turned toward the clock, realizing I was due to be at school soon. The last thing I could handle was more of Juliet’s nagging. I gave my father a kiss goodbye and prepared to leave him. His foot tapped a little to the beat of the song that was playing, and the simple gesture made my heart ache a little less when I left.
Not for the first time, I was nearly late for Harmony and Counterpoint. I rushed inside the classroom, taking my seat at the front. Jenny was waiting for me and offered a pleasant smile as I sat down beside her. Juliet was speaking about something from the readings I couldn’t discern. Before I knew it, she’d handed off a marker to write with, and I moved to the whiteboard, Jenny right behind me. When Juliet and I focused on one another, I suppressed the plethora of emotions that were raging through me. It was clear I was doing a terrible job at it by the way a hint of concern flickered in her eyes.
Surprisingly, Juliet was engaged with the lecture that day, speaking about the history of Counterpoint. I took careful notes, trying my best to focus on Jenny and the class instead of the millions of other things I wanted to be far away from my mind. Before I knew it, the lecture was over. Juliet fetched her violin from its case. As she opened it, she looked up. Would you like to accompany me? Her hands moved in front of her. I wondered why she hadn’t asked aloud but shook my head, regardless.
I’ll just watch today, I signed back. She nodded, taking a seat to tune. I settled back in my seat next to Jenny. Juliet often took her time readying herself to play, taking care of how she placed her fingers and bow, pondering over the first bit of notes. Today however, she was in a different mood. She burst into the melody quicker than I’d ever seen. It was a song I wasn’t familiar with, but it was an emotive piece that had her ripping across the strings almost violent in nature.
Every once in a while, Juliet would meet my eyes. She never turned towards the students, just me. Embarrassment flushed my cheeks and I averted my gaze downward. Just when I thought she’d given up looking at me, she’d do it again. I waved my hands in front
of me. Stop it, I signed to her. I thought she was smirking at me, but it was so brief I wasn’t sure.
When she’d finished, students applauded for her. I kept my hands folded in my lap. She nodded, excusing them from the class. As they turned to leave, she caught my attention. “I’d like to talk to you,” Juliet said, her face calm. “You’re excused, Jenny. Thank you.”
I was taken aback by her graciousness towards Jenny. Ever since they’d met, she’d been brash and curt towards her. Jenny nodded, packing up her things and giving me a friendly wave before she left for the day. Once the room had emptied, I crossed my arms over my chest.
“What do you need, Professor Hamilton?” I asked her, somewhat curtly. The last thing I needed was more pointless arguing with her after the morning I’d had. “I have practice to get to.” Just to annoy her, I continued, “With Lydia.”
Juliet’s face twitched just for a moment but she didn’t retort. Instead, she took a small breath and turned her full attention to me once her Vuillaume was stowed away. “Ms. Harvey, are you all right?” Concern was stretched back across her face.
“The only thing I’m concerned about is whether you’re going to change my grade,” I replied, trying my best to tame my voice when I talked to her. “So, if that’s not what this conversation is about, I’m going to go.”
“I am not changing your grade, Ms. Harvey,” Juliet said, her facial expression having not changed. “I do, however, care if you are focused and ready to work when you come to this class. If there’s something going on, I would appreciate knowing.”
“My behavior was fine,” My voice was curt. “I took notes for you and didn’t barge in over your lecture, just like you asked me to do.”
Forbidden Melody Page 6