by Jodi Lamm
I can almost see Esmeralda’s laughter floating down from the organ loft like volcano ash after Valentine’s eruption of music. He’s playing a fugue, which can only mean one thing: Valentine is showing off. He’s trying to impress his guest. He’s putting everything he has into this performance for an audience of one.
It’s dark, but I know my way through the sanctuary well enough. The pews are the same cold benches I’ve used as my living-room furniture for over a year, but they’re different somehow. I lie back on one and stare up at the domed ceiling. It’s magnificent. When I first moved here, I imagined it was a planetarium filled with stars. I could almost see them glittering in the darkness. Now all I see are the shadows of Valentine and Esmeralda projected on the dome. The light he uses to read his music sends their images to me, like shadow puppets, telling me a story I was never meant to hear.
Valentine’s song comes to an immaculate end. I hear him sigh after the ringing of the last note finally dies. “You don’t have to watch me if it makes you uncomfortable,” he says to her. Aloud. He never talks to anyone. He’s never been able to get past his own accent. But now he’s speaking to Esmeralda like she’s an old friend, someone who knows him as well as I do. Or better. He chuckles. “My face takes a little while to get used to, I know.”
Like a bonfire, she’s warming him. I can almost hear the crackling sound of her, the snap of the pine, the sizzle of fire and water. I curl into a ball on the pew and imagine my hands and feet turning to ash.
“But I want to watch you play,” Esmeralda says.
So he’s told her he’s a lip-reader. He’s abandoned the ploy he usually uses to avoid talking to people.
“You’re amazing.” She’s breathless. She means what she says. “Your music is beautiful.”
“I play for Mass sometimes,” he says. “I like that no one can see me in the loft, but they still hear the music. Sometimes I feel…” He pauses, and I know he’s worried about opening up too much. He doesn’t connect well to people. They don’t understand him. The risks he’s taking with this girl, this stinging creature, are unprecedented for him. “Sometimes I feel like my body’s a mask I’m forced to wear, and the only way I can introduce my real self is through music.”
I would put money down that he’s blushing right now.
“That sounds stupid,” he says. “Sorry.”
“No.” Her voice is pleasant and sweet. “It’s not stupid. It’s so far from stupid. I think you’re brilliant. I think the church is lucky to have someone like you working here. And I’m lucky, too.” Silence, and then, “Why did you help me, Valentine?”
His shadow shifts. She sits beside him on the bench, way too close for his comfort. “I’m afraid to tell you,” he says. “I don’t want to remind you. But I was in trouble because of what happened after the dance. My foster parents were so angry. I was actually afraid of them. And then you came, even though I didn’t deserve it. Anyone who would do something like that for me, especially after I scared them so bad, is not someone I could abandon. Ever.”
Oh, Valentine. You were always loyal to a fault.
“Is that why you’ve been sneaking into my room to watch me sleep?” she says, and I have to fight myself to keep from leaping to my feet.
The silence between them is palpable, and I feel squeamish for Valentine. He has betrayed her, like I did, and now she won’t trust him. He’s a stalker, a looming shadow, like me.
His shoulders hunch more than usual. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I thought it would be harmless, just watching you. I know I make you uncomfortable, so I stayed away when you were awake. But I wanted to see you a little bit, at least.” He pauses and turns away from her. “I just think you’re beautiful.”
I sit up and grip the back of the pew in front of me far too tightly. Esmeralda does not recoil or tell him to leave her alone. No, she slowly wraps her arms around his huge shoulders and lays her head against his back. I want to scream. I can see that Valentine is too frightened to move a muscle. How does it feel to have her whole body pressed against your back, Valentine? How warm is her breath on your skin?
I’m shaking now and furious, though I know I have no right to be. Why is it so easy for him? Why can he get so close to her without getting burned?
When she releases him, he jumps to his feet. “Listen,” he says. “Sleep here at night, in the loft, and I won’t bother you ever again, I promise. I’ll set up a bed for you.” His voice is excited, rambling, nervous. “This is how you start the bellows.” He demonstrates for her. “Make sure this stop is pulled. Every night, keep it like this: bellows on, stop pulled.” He turns to see her nod. When she does, his shadow disappears. He sinks to the floor.
At first, I can’t figure out what he’s doing. Then the largest pipe sounds. The ground rumbles with the power of it. My insides quiver and turn to mush.
Valentine’s shape emerges from the shadows like a creature from the deep. “Like that,” he says. And I know exactly what he’s done. He’s taken Esmeralda’s little foot, and taught her how to sound that behemoth of an instrument. He’s showing her which pedal to use to get the lowest possible note. “Any time you need me, for whatever reason, press that pedal and I’ll come to you.”
She folds her arms and shivers. “You can hear that?”
“I can feel it.” He laughs. “Couldn’t you?”
Of course, she can. Our organ is not merely sufficient. It’s the pride of the church—of the whole city, in fact. The sound of its largest pipe, if it can be called a sound at all, is just short of an earthquake.
“Try it again.” Valentine is giddy. I can hear it in his voice.
Esmeralda leans in, and I feel the rumble again. That power. It scares me—it truly does. Valentine hasn’t just given Esmeralda a music lesson. He’s given her his own reins. That tone, that quaking voice isn’t the voice of the organ at all. It’s Valentine’s voice. And now it’s Esmeralda’s. She owns him. And he is as powerful as his favorite instrument.
There’s more. I hate to admit it. It hurts too much. I know the reason he’s given her this power. He wants to protect her, but only the two of us even know she’s here. So who is a danger to her? Me. He is protecting her from me.
As soon as the needle of realization pricks my skin, the real poison floods my veins. Valentine rescued her from the greenhouse, but he couldn’t have known where she was. Not unless he followed me there. Not unless he watched from the shadows and saw what I did, how I left her to die. He knows. And I have just lost my most powerful ally, my closest friend, the only one who keeps me sane.
My sanctuary is crumbling.
VI
Weeks. That’s how long I’ve been in limbo. Esmeralda is living with Valentine and me, but she won’t come near me and I don’t have the courage to talk to her. Especially not in front of Valentine. What would I even say? I’m sorry I left you for dead, but can’t we all just get along? No, she may as well be a ghost.
I’ve locked myself in the lab every day after school. The Chemistry Club is officially a one-member operation. I have no intention of letting anyone else in. They’ll take the lab away from me if they find out how I’m hoarding it, but not until the end of the year. I’ll have it until then, at least. And I need this—I need this so much. I’ve turned off all the lights and closed the shades. There’s no way I can work in the dark, but work isn’t the reason I’ve come to the lab. What I need right now, more than anything else in the world, is sleep.
I ball my coat into an uncomfortable pillow and stretch out on one of the narrow, yellow countertops. This is going to be glorious. I can’t remember the last time I’ve slept more than an hour straight. There’s something about knowing she’s under the same roof, nestled in the shadows of the pipe organ, under the watchful eye of that enormous beast. I just can’t rest when she’s so close.
My fellow club members shuffle by one at a time. I hear their pens and pencils rolling over the door as they sign the at
tendance sheet taped there. They don’t even try to enter. Why would they? They’ve never attended before. So why does it hurt this time? I think I know. On any other day, I would be hunched over a book or beaker. I would be learning, filling my head so full there would be no room for my heart. But today I’m exhausted, and my heart is slowly leaking into all the corners of my mind. It’s a little voice in my head that says, “No one wants to know you, Claude. You’re just not worth their time. You’re antisocial. You bring them down. If they ever tried to describe your personality to someone who didn’t know you, it would sound like the description of a serial killer: He was quiet, kept mostly to himself. He was a strange person. Just being close to him made my skin crawl.” But what no one ever knew about that quiet, strange person is he didn’t want to keep to himself. He just didn’t know how to exist any other way, and no one would teach him because no one knew how badly he wanted to learn.
There’s a knock on the door, but I ignore it. I don’t want to see anyone, not even Peter, not even…
“Claude, you in there?” It’s Gene. “Open up, man, I need to talk to you.”
Gene. My immediate instinct is to leap up and open the door for him, but something more powerful has me paralyzed. What if he sees the difference in me the way Valentine has? I can’t lose Gene, too. He’s all I have left. I curl into a ball and hug my knees.
“Come on! I know you’re in there. Look, I promise it’s not because I need money.” He’s leaning on the door now. I can hear it. “Okay, I do need money, but I promise not to ask for it this time. I mean it would probably help me out a lot, seeing as I need to pay for a new textbook after I loaned my old one to some jerk who never gave it back… But that’s not why I’m here.” I hear him slide down to the floor. He’s making himself comfortable. He plans to stay a while. I wrap my coat around my head and try to block him out. “Val says you’re acting weird lately. He asked me to check on you. Seems to think you won’t want to talk to him.”
It’s true. I haven’t spoken much to Valentine since Esmeralda moved in with us. I’m not angry with him; I just don’t know what to say to him. He knows what I did, or failed to do. And every time I look at him, I feel the nauseating combination of shame and a vicious, unfounded jealousy.
“Look, Claude, I’m your brother. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but you should know, no matter what’s happened, I’m here for you. Okay? So if you ever need someone to talk to, someone who’s not gonna judge you, give me a call. We can grab a bite or something, whatever you want.” He pauses. “It’ll just cost you forty an hour.” And he laughs. He’s trying to make me smile, even though he can’t see whether it’s working. That’s just the kind of person he is. He takes life lightly and tries to lighten the burden of those he cares about the only way he knows how. He may be a little misguided, but he has a warm heart. It’s that warmth that pulls me away from the pounding in my own ears and gives me the strength to finally open the door.
I blink in the brightness of the empty hallway. Gene has gone.
According to the hall clock, I’ve been in the lab for two hours. It seems I won’t find sleep anywhere. Esmeralda is not just in my home. She’s all around me. I have the sudden image of myself, small as an insect, sitting in her cupped hands. If she lets me go, I’ll fall to my death. But I can’t stay here.
I can’t stay.
Outside, the wind is biting. March lives up to its reputation, this time around. I turn up my collar and shove my hands in my pockets, but nothing eases the chill. I want to go home, but I don’t feel like I have one any more. Not really. I’m as lost as I was the day I turned eighteen and they let me loose like an unwanted stray that couldn’t learn to stop biting. All I can do is cross the street and head for the church. It’s warm there, at least. But as I round the corner to my private entrance, I see Valentine, leaning against the wall and looking every bit as chilled as me.
He signs, “I need a ride.”
I try to behave like my usual self. “Where to?”
“Phoebus’ house,” he says aloud. He looks miserable. I’ve never seen him like this. This isn’t the willful, fighting pain he usually exudes. This is pure dejection. I must be letting my confusion show because he quickly signs, “For Esmeralda,” and I get the first inkling of the kind of mess lurking in his head. He wants to show her kindness, but what can he do when the only kindness she’ll accept is poison? Valentine sees Phoebus for what he is. He knows what will come of this, but he’ll do as Esmeralda asks, no matter what she asks, even though it will hurt them both in the end.
I have to wonder, is blind obedience the only thing she wants in a friend? Is that why she won’t accept my kindness?
Valentine frowns and signs, “Can we go now?”
He wants to get this over with. I can’t say I blame him.
Phoebus’ house looks different in the daylight, far more harmless than I would have expected. It’s painted white, and the trim is that horrific hospital-green some people find soothing for reasons I can’t begin to fathom. But otherwise, it’s an average upper-middle class house. It even has a miniature white picket fence lining the front lawn, which seems to express the dual messages of We’re normal, damn it! and Keep off the grass.
Valentine waits on the porch far longer than he should before he rings the bell. He’s nervous, but I can’t blame him. I’m nervous, too, albeit for entirely different reasons. What if Phoebus knows it was me who stabbed him? What if he’s just waiting for me to come to him so he can exact his revenge? And worse, what if he wants me out of the way so he can get to Esmeralda without a fight? But as always, the one standing in the way of danger, the one shielding Esmeralda and I both with his unnaturally broad shoulders is Valentine.
He rings the bell and takes in a deep breath as the door swings open.
Phoebus’ mother is perfect in her pink jogging suit, with her manicured nails and professionally colored hair. But I also see tiredness in her eyes, like the tiredness I see in Gene’s foster mother every time I visit. I wonder whether this kind of exhaustion is just a symptom of motherhood or something more that these two women share: like being given so much responsibility, but no control; like having real, unconditional love for people who work so hard to destroy themselves; like the women they had to become in order to survive in the world are so far removed from who they really are, their façades are forever in danger of collapse.
“Well?” she says, half sweet, half exasperated.
Valentine fidgets. He’s afraid of her. He’s always been afraid of mothers.
“We’re here to see Phoebus,” I say on Valentine’s behalf. “My friend is deaf.” I always find it’s better to get that information out of the way.
“He can still talk, can’t he?” she says.
I do my best not to scowl at her. “He can. He just doesn’t like to. Look, can we see Phoebus? Is he home?”
She looks back over her shoulder like she’s checking for someone. “Pheobus isn’t allowed to see anyone right now. He’s grounded.”
I shrug and glance at Valentine. The look on his face is pure determination. He needs to do this. He still feels indebted to Esmeralda. It would be cruel of me not to help him. I’m not just doing this for myself, to see for myself where Esmeralda stands with Phoebus. I’m doing this for Valentine.
“Oh sorry, ma’am,” I say. “We didn’t know. Could you just tell him Claude and Valentine were here? We need to talk to him about his request to join the Chemistry Club that meets after school. That is, I think we can work around his soccer schedule, after all.” Then I turn to go, knowing she won’t let me.
“Wait.” When I turn back, Phoebus’ mother is looking over her shoulder again. She leans out the door. “My Phoebus is interested in chemistry?”
“Yes, ma’m,” I say. “He asked us about it a couple weeks ago.”
And there’s that hungry look on her face—that look every parent gets when they think they may have won; they may have finally gotten through t
o their wayward child. “He’s upstairs,” she says in a low voice. “Be quick about it. And don’t let his father see you.” She opens the door wide and lets us pass.
I admit to being terribly uncomfortable in places like this, and it isn’t just the post-modern art and minimalist décor. It’s the jarring feeling that I don’t belong. My whole body reacts with a flight instinct: get out while you can, or you may be stuck here forever. And this place is doubly terrifying, because this is where I finally lost my grip on reality and committed a crime so wicked, I can hardly believe it was me.
Phoebus doesn’t even look up when we walk into his room. He sits cross-legged on his bed and finishes whatever text message he’s composing before he pockets his phone. His room is filled with sports and military paraphernalia I imagine must have been selected for him by his father. When he finally glances up at us, I almost pity him. His eyes have the same tired look as his mother’s. Whatever expectations he has to live up to, they’re burying him. He doesn’t even bother to wear his usual cocky expression. We are not worth the effort. How could we possibly hurt him or his reputation? With Valentine and I, one plus one equals zero.
I wait for Valentine to start signing, so I can translate, but he says, “Hey,” aloud. Apparently, for Valentine, Phoebus isn’t worth the effort either. Or maybe it’s just that Esmeralda is.
Phoebus only stares at him.
“You should call this number.” Valentine pulls a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and tosses it to Phoebus. “There’s someone who wants to talk to you.”
Phoebus crumples the paper into a tighter ball and tosses it across his room into his wastepaper basket.
“Don’t you… Don’t you want to know who it is?” Valentine shifts his weight. “It’s a girl.”
Phoebus rolls his eyes. “So what? If I called every girl who tried to give me her number, I’d have to glue my phone to my face. Anyway, I doubt I’d be interested in a girl who spends her free time hanging out with someone like you.” He gives Valentine a cruel once-over that says more than words possibly could.