Aidan got swallowed up by the sudden crush of people, but I found Mother and made her take my arm, and I walked her up Broad Street and whenever someone stopped to tell me how talented I was (and for one so young!), I made them acknowledge Mother.
“You don’t have to—” Mother said.
“Yes, I do.”
“Francis, there’s a girl over there looking at you.”
“Let her look.” I glanced around all the same. Four girls were standing on the corner of Broad and Nutmeg, some my age, some older. They smiled and giggled, covering their mouths with their hands. Except for one. I looked closer, not entirely convinced it could be the same girl. She didn’t giggle—and I remembered she was bashful.
“Hey Francis,” she said. Although she’d moved away years ago, I could never forget those dark, expressive eyes. But now she was tall and rounded in all the right places. I wondered what she remembered about me. I wondered if she was visiting Festival for the day, or staying longer.
“Hello Elena,” I answered, aware of Mother watching. I tightened my grip on Mother’s elbow, and walked on.
“I hear a collective sigh,” Mother said. “You’re destined to break hearts, Francis.”
About time, I thought.
Buster and I, slap-happy over having broken all of Aidan’s cardinal rules and thus far escaping consequences, passed on the art show, what Festival was actually most famous for, and grabbed one of the shuttles chartered for the dance, back to Chadds Ford. At Washington’s Headquarters we shed our uniforms and put on dress suits, then sneaked behind the pavilion to share a cigarette before heading up to the bandstand, where, finally, the inevitable: facing down Aidan’s disapproval—or so I thought. Incredibly, Aidan seemed totally disinterested in me. He kept looking over his shoulder, eyeing the crowd on the dance floor. I snuck in a trill. No reaction. I followed his gaze to where Mother was standing off to the side by herself—and I suddenly loved Mother for coming. But I didn’t love the lump in my throat loving her made. I looked away, hating small towns and the stupid small people who lived in them, who shunned my mother.
We were wrapping “Polka Dots and Moonbeams” when Aidan motioned for me. He handed me his baton and took my horn away, setting it on his director’s stand.
“I heard what I thought was an attempt at a trill. I told you, Francis, no trilling. Now, ‘Moonlight Serenade’ is next, and you’ve got a girl singer on this one—and it’s not your job to drown her out. Think you can manage that?” And then he left—but not before waving a woman up on stage.
Stunned, I watched Aidan make his way through the crowd of spectators, over to Mother. He led her onto the dance floor, then looked up at me expectantly, Mother in his arms. I felt as if every pair of eyes in the two counties were on me—and so I turned my back against those eyes and gathered up my wits, what I’d left of them, at the same time glancing back at the young woman hesitating at the top of the bandstand steps. That’s when I did my second double take of the night. It was Elena, gorgeous in a green gown. I beckoned her closer. She inched toward the microphone, nodding shyly.
I raised Aidan’s baton, and just like that, as if I were a magician pulling a surprise out of a hat, Buster’s trombone made a tender sound: the haunting intro to “Moonlight Serenade.” Elena picked up the refrain smoothly, as if the three of us had practiced every day that week:
I stand at your gate
And the song that I sing is of moonlight …
The roses are sighing
a moonlight serenade …
Which prompted my third double take of the night. Elena’s voice was cool and breathy, charged with intimacy. She sounded like a full-grown woman. But something was missing; it was tiny, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I impulsively pantomimed a message to Buster, took my horn and stood beside Elena, waiting, listening, savoring her lyrics, once pure corn, now pure magic:
I bring you and sing you
A moonlight ser-e-nade.
That last syllable, that was the note, the signal. I snapped my fingers and did a smart sidestep away from Elena, holding the trumpet to my lips with one hand—pure show. Buster stood up then, and the sound from his trombone swelled round and large—I was exhilarated by how we’d missed scarcely a millisecond of time, starting our giant sweep just as Elena’s voice still hung in the air, regardless that Buster and I’d never worked with a singer before. We pointed our brass skyward, improvising, trilling all over the place, and the band picked up behind us, and I have to say it: Buster and I were magnificent. We were theater at its best, flying loud and jazzy, brass weaving in and out of brass, and I knew without even having to look that the crowd had stopped dancing and was standing rapt, openmouthed, caught up with me and Buster.
God, we were good.
Before I was near ready, Buster and I pointed our horns at the floor and bent our knees, making an even bigger show of bringing the music down, bar by bar, until it was like an offering, mellowed, and Elena, framed by our magnificence and reflecting the offering back onto us, made us even better theater. Eyes locked onto mine, she picked up the refrain perfectly.
I bring you and sing you
A moonlight serenade …
“It’s been years,” I said when we met up outside the pavilion. “You left Mr. Madsen’s, when?”
“After second grade,” Elena answered. “My father got a job in the city, in New York. Francis, thank you for that back there.”
I handed her a glass of punch. “When did you know you wanted to be a singer?” She looked down. She was shy.
“Mr. Madsen’s always encouraged me.”
“I never realized you’d stayed in touch.”
“He made it a point. Even more so after my parents died. He got me singing lessons, and that led to meeting a few music people … I get a gig now and then.”
Elena wore lipstick. I’d never tasted lipstick before. I’d never even wanted to, the idea had always seemed a messy proposition. But now I was interested.
“I’m sorry about your parents,” I said. “So, are you thinking of branching out? Going on the road? Going big time?” Elena’s cheeks reddened and I knew what that meant. She mumbled something about a secretarial job in the city. “Fantastic,” I said politely.
“What about you, Francis?”
She knew she’d lost me, but she didn’t know how, when. She couldn’t know that her ordinariness, her secretarial job, the not wanting to reach for the moon and the stars, threatened me. She couldn’t know that I recognized myself in her, and the fact that if she got too close she’d squeeze me dead—and, worse, I wouldn’t even know she was doing it until I’d reverted back to my old, ordinary self. Still, there were those lips and that taste I wanted to try.
“I’m going to New York to audition. Someday soon, I think.”
“You’ll be snapped up by a big band. You’re fabulous, Francis.”
I led Elena behind the pavilion, and her voice shook as I bent my head, “Are you going to kiss me, Francis?”
Of course I was going to kiss her. I kissed her several times, savoring lipstick—but when a starry-eyed Elena left East Chester to catch the midnight bus back to the city, telling me she’d write, I let her go, forgetting the forgettable.
***
I spied Mother and Aidan, and emboldened by Elena, her words and the victory over her, joined them at their table.
“You did well, smarty-pants,” was all Aidan said. But I’d never felt such an intense look.
I leaned back. “Look, Aidan, I couldn’t help—” He put his hand up.
“Go home. Your mother’s staying a while.”
I’d no intention of walking home. It had been a long day, and I was suddenly bushed. Mother was supposed to give me a ride. There was no point to her staying, and I said so.
But Aidan, eyes steely, said, “Go.”
And I caved. I owed him.
I was hardly inside the door of Grayson House, setting my trumpet case and duffel bag down on
the floor, when I felt fingers encircle my wrist. She dug her nails in hard.
“Shit, Lothian!” I cried, flinging her off.
“Shut up! You’ll wake the dead.” She stepped back from me. She wore a wrapper, and her hair was a tangled mess, as if she’d been pulling at it. She folded her arms across her chest. “You know why, Francis.”
I didn’t have to take her crap anymore. “I never knew why,” I retorted. I headed for the staircase. “I’ve never understood anything about you, Lothian.” She moved quickly, practically skidding to a stop in front of me. “Move it,” I ordered. A liquid mask had slipped down over her hardness, softening her features. I’d have none of it. She leaned in way too close.
“Where’s your mother?”
I bit the words out: “At Aidan’s. Cleaning up.”
She stared. “You do fill that suit out nicely, Francis.” She turned and tilted her buttocks up at me, making it so I couldn’t get around her, retrieving Chesterfields from the foyer table. She lit a cigarette, then turned back around. The hard face was back. Her body matched it, a slab of stone I’d have to climb over to get to my room.
“Move it,” I said again. I was beat.
As if she’d missed the scorn in my voice, she said conversationally, “Aren’t we the family, Francis? Aren’t we just the family? We’ve got an idiot, a loser, a jailor, a whore, and an escapee. Earl was the smart one, though, making the clean break. Who’d have ever figured Earl for being smart? And then there’s you. Just like your father. Did I put pawn on that list? She’ll never let you get away, you know. Never.”
I wanted to shake her, to rattle those little teeth of hers loose in her head. She looked pointedly at my hands, amused. I’d curled them into tight fists. She arched a brow, took a step closer.
“He had hands like yours.” She put a hand on my face, the one that held the cigarette, then laid her cheek against my coat lapel. God, she was tiny. Her smoke was acrid, it burned my nostrils. “Beautiful hands,” she murmured, her voice catching. “Beautiful everything.” She ran her hands up and down my arms. “Just like him. He was a musician, too. I can hear your heartbeat. It’s fast.” She taunted me: “You’re not afraid, are you, Francis?”
“Lothian, I don’t think—”
“Everything … like him. Hold me. I’m afraid. Hold me, Jamie. Please hold me.”
“No!” Now my voice was deep, rough—a stranger’s voice. I pushed her and she stumbled almost all the way back into the parlor—and then I made my move for the staircase, even making it up two steps before her words cut the air, sharp and incisive:
“But what about your father? Don’t you want to know about him? You know, you really are the bastard. You’ve figured that out by now, haven’t you? That your mother’s a whore and you’re our bastard? And that’s why everyone treats us like garbage?”
I turned around. Lothian was lighting yet another cigarette. She smiled over the burning match, then blew it out and tossed it on the floor. She wasn’t supposed to smoke in the house. She counted on her fingers.
“Eenie, meenie, miney … let’s see, who could your father have been, Francis? Was it Matthew Waterston? Did you know he painted music before he painted your mother? But, wait—what about Jamie? You do know about our Jamie, don’t you?” Her poisonous smile widened. “But wait again—what about your precious Aidan Madsen? Madsen’s been in love with your mother for years. Oh yes, your mother’s had them all, Francis. And any one of them could’ve been your—”
“I know who my father is!”
“You mean you know who Earl’s father is. Oh, come on, Francis. Earl’s father died years before you were born. Years.”
I flew off the step then—and, God help me, but my fist made contact with Lothian’s jaw. Her head snapped back, her body folded up, arms over her chest, knees buckling. I heard the dull thump of her head against the stretch of rug—and I jumped her, grabbing her skinny throat with my long fingers. My thumbs pushed against her soft flesh. She worked her throat, and, fascinated, detached, I watched the tendons bulge at her neck. It was what I’d always wanted to see, Lothian caught, cornered, helpless.
A trickle of drool escaped the side of her mouth, then blood. I tightened my grip. From the corner of my eye I saw the arm flail, saw the hand come up, heard her grunt, felt the searing pain; her lighted cigarette branded my jaw. I dropped Lothian’s head, kerplunk.
The overhead light came on. “Bitch!” I swore, blinking into the light. I staggered to my feet.
Grandmother stood at the top of the stairs, Stella huddled behind her. Grandmother spoke with eerie calmness.
“Gentlemen do not use profanity in the presence of ladies, Francis. And, Lothian, no smoking. How many times do I have to tell you? Stella, go pick up the cigarette.” Stella scurried down the stairs and picked up the offending cigarette and ran for the kitchen.
“That was my mother’s rug,” Grandmother said, as if doing inventory. “And her mother’s before her.”
Lothian struggled to rise. She worked her jaw. “Mama,” she moaned.
Grandmother, staring at me, picked her way around Lothian. I couldn’t read those eyes, I couldn’t see into them. Like old mirrors, cracked and yellow, they reflected a broken image back onto me, and the reality of what I’d just done, of what I’d wanted to do, hit home, hard. I’d wanted to kill. Stella hurried back into the room and helped Lothian to her feet.
“I’m sorry,” I said to Grandmother, meaning it. I was scared shitless. Still, I was the one who’d been hurt for years. If it hadn’t been for my noble silences, all the women would know how I’d worked to protect them, to fix them, and for how long.
I asked, “Is it true? Is what Lothian said true? Do Earl and I have different fathers?”
“Get out,” Grandmother said.
“Is it true?”
“Oh, Mama,” Lothian whined. I looked down. Lothian was puffy and mottled, like rotten fruit, and I suddenly wished I’d hit her harder. I wished I’d squashed her to a pulp. I wished I’d silenced her forever.
“Upstairs,” Grandmother said to her. “You sicken me. But you, boy, out of my house. Gentlemen do not strike women, no matter how provoked.” Grandmother’s mirrored eyes narrowed. “Go.”
I took a step backward, scanning faces. Lothian’s was crumbling fast, and Stella’s mouth had turned into a big O.
“But, Mama!” Lothian wailed. “He has to stay! This time he has to stay! Please, Mama! Don’t let him get away again!”
“He’s not him, girl.” Grandmother’s frightening eyes held mine. Suddenly she shrieked at Lothian, “Now get upstairs!”
I saw my opening.
“Stella,” I pleaded.
Head bowed, hands trembling, Stella approached me.
“Stella.”
She raised her head. Her eyes had darkened to slate.
“Stella, no.” I laid my head inside the crook of her neck. Stella’s fawning over me and squealing at the other women had always been annoying as hell, sure, but I’d never have made Stella mad. I’d always stopped short of provoking Stella … I loved Stella. I needed her.
Stella moved her head to the side. “You’re an angry boy,” she said indignantly. “You get me in trouble.”
And that’s when I understood I’d somehow made Stella hate me, she who didn’t even like Lothian and shouldn’t have minded Lothian getting taken down a notch or two.
I picked up my horn case and opened the door and stumbled into the dark night. Then I ran, Stella’s howls following me all the way down Grayson Hill, pushing at my back like a hard wind.
It was early morning, and of course the cleanup crew had already finished with Washington’s Headquarters, and of course I was a babbling mess, falling all over myself, telling my story.
“Grandmother doesn’t mean it, does she? I mean, Mother, where am I supposed to go? What am I supposed to do? Grandmother can’t kick me out, can she? I’m only sixteen!”
Mother stared at the top of the tabl
e, as if memorizing every striation of its grain. Neither she nor Aidan had uttered a word, not one word of commiseration. Didn’t they realize I’d just been kicked out of Grayson House? Newly confused, I came off defiant.
“Look at me!” I shouted. “Can you never look at me? All my life, Mother, you’ve looked at everyone and everything but me!”
So Mother looked at me. Her face was devoid of color, and her lips were bloodless where her lipstick had worn off. A dress sleeve had slipped down her shoulder, and her slip strap showed. I stared, suddenly comprehending her tawdriness, and Lothian’s taunts, and then I looked at Aidan, comprehending him as well. He didn’t flinch.
“Close your mouth,” Aidan ordered. “And pull up a chair and sit.”
“Wait—is that why, Mother? What Lothian said about Matthew Waterston? About Aidan? Is that why people hate us? It’s not because of Stella or because Grayson House looks like crap, is it? It’s because you’re a whore, Mother! Right? And you,” I breathed, turning to Aidan. “Are you my—?”
“I said sit!” Aidan roared.
I sat, glaring at them both.
“Now, where do you want to go?” Aidan asked.
“What? I don’t want to go anywhere! I want to know what’s going on! I want to know why I don’t know anything! And now—I’m dead tired!”
“No doubt you are. Do you want to go home to Grayson House?”
That stopped me. “No,” I answered sullenly.
“Well, you can’t stay here. There will be … repercussions. Always are with your family. So I’ll ask again. Where is it you want to go?” Aidan’s eyes traveled to the chair where I’d tossed my trumpet case. “There, Francis. That’s what you want to do. You want to blow a path clear through to the very top—something I wanted once, too. But I’m not the musician you are.” Aidan got up. “It’s New York then. Either that or the service. You’ll have to make yourself older. Still, service or street, same difference, you have to be older. But you can fool them—just don’t think you can razzle-dazzle them to death right off the bat. It doesn’t work that way. They’ve seen them all, ones as good as you are right now. Get yourself ready. I’m driving you into Media. You best know Lothian will swear out a complaint. But no one will be looking for you in Media. You can take the bus from Media.”
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