Perfect Pitch

by Amy Lapwing

  He smiled at her insight. “Youthful friendships are perishable, then?”

  “Like youth itself.”

  “I don’t like how that sounds.”

  "Maybe I’m wrong.”

  “I hope so,” he said, taking her hand.

  The ballroom was a large hall with tables crowded around the perimeter of the dance floor. An orchestra supplied music from the forties and fifties, with an occasional arrangement of a rock song, to thrill the younger dancers. The tables all seated eight, so Michael and Justina shared one with three other couples, all middle-aged or older, excited and laughing like children at a birthday party.

  It did not surprise Justina that Michael was a good dancer. Justina had learned while in college so that she could dance at a cousin’s wedding. She had danced with her father, but had not been able to relax enough to really feel she was dancing. Michael’s grace made her awkwardness disappear after a few numbers.

  They came back to their table, with moist, smiling faces. One of the couples was sitting there; the man was ordering drinks from the roller-skated waitress.

  “It’s so nice that the young people are learning to dance now.” The woman’s muddy eyes were magnified behind her glasses, her beaver-like teeth white against her red lipstick. “I mean really dance, you know?”

  Michael and Justina smiled to her. Michael signaled to the waitress.

  “Is this your first dance, honey?” the woman said to Justina.

  “No, I’ve been dancing before.”

  “That’s so nice.” The woman’s jowls hung from her smiling cheeks.

  “What’s nice?” said the man.

  “This young lady here, learning to dance.” The man winked at Justina. “Gus tried to teach our daughter to dance, but, I don’t know, she just didn’t go for it.” Michael’s smile froze. “It’s nice that you care, honey,” the woman concluded to Justina. An amused look flickered across his face, then disappeared.

  “She’s a very good pupil,” he said.

  “Is she?” gushed the woman.

  “It’s only the second time I’ve brought her dancing.” He ordered drinks from the waitress.

  “Really? Oh, you’re doing real good, honey, isn’t she, Gus?”

  “Real good,” said Gus, watching the dancing women.

  “Your father must be a very good teacher,” the woman prompted.

  Justina smiled at Michael, who touched the tip of her cute nose. “The best,” she effervesced. The band started a salsa number. “Oh! Spanish music! Come on, Pop!”

  “That’s salsa,” warned the woman.

  “Now, Justina, are you sure you remember the merengue?”

  “I’m sure I can, if you help me.”

  “Sure she can, Pop, she’ll show you!”

  Out on the dance floor Michael showed Justina the merengue. She watched him carefully and imitated him. They danced together, staying in view of the couple at the table, then abruptly stopped and Justina whispered to Michael, glancing over at the woman who applauded them, her hands high over her huge head, the fleshy arms shaking mightily. They put their arms around each other and kissed. The horrified woman’s jaw dropped and she elbowed Gus who reluctantly drew his eyes away from the bold-stepping Carmen Miranda look-alike in the red dress. The man and woman argued over their interpretation of the shocking sight before them as Michael and Justina merengue’d into the crowd.

  Justina had learned the new dance quickly, so Michael drew her in closer to him, their hips moving in synchrony. The dance ended and they stayed on the floor for the next number, settling into the simpler box-step.

  Doing the merengue with Michael was like kissing for the first time, all over again. Justina was glad they were in a crowded ballroom, and she cursed it. “I don’t know how you Latins can do this,” she said softly in his ear.

  “Do what?”

  “Dance like that, and ... that’s all, just dance.”

  “Who says that’s all we do?”

  “Big families in Latin America?”

  He smiled. “Justina—”

  “Hm?” She rested her head on his shoulder.

  “Justina, Justina, Justina,” he said, returning the missile to the silo.

  They stayed till about eleven, saw Gus and his wife on the floor a few times, Gus oblivious of them, his wife keeping her back to them. On the drive home, Justina felt like a dumpling waiting to be eaten. She tried to ignore her loins. She could not think, the tension squeezing out only one thought, like an order from central command in a state of emergency: this situation demanded sex. She was glad of the hour-long ride back home.

  Driving home, Michael realized that he had designed the perfect seduction, quite by accident. Then he reminded himself that dancing had been her suggestion. He tried to squelch the idea she was telling him she was ready, if only to keep from getting his hopes up. She was a straightforward girl. Didn’t she always say when she wanted to be kissed? Wouldn’t she also simply say when she wanted sex?

  They jumped from topic to topic, saying foolish things or simply obvious things. They talked of the different flamboyant dancers they had seen at the ballroom. How about that dress with the feather train? Justina laughed. The woman-as-bird fashion statement? She asked the names of the other Latin dances, and did Michael know them? He knew them all. He knows all the sexy dances, she thought, and shivered. She told of the first dance she ever went to, in the eighth grade, and how disappointed she was to have only two dances. She concluded later that it had been a bad strategy to sit alone, instead of staying in the group. She had thought a boy would be less embarrassed to ask her if no one else was around, but in fact the embarrassment arose from being so exposed when he went up to her. Groups were more comfortable.

  “I would have asked you,” he said.

  “No, you wouldn’t. You were probably popular.”

  “Popular?”

  “Yeah, you know, lots of friends.”

  “Oh, yes. I was very, very popular,” he said, looking in his rearview mirror as he switched lanes.

  “I knew it.”

  “That’s why I would have asked you. Popular kids can do whatever they want.”

  “You prick!” she laughed.

  “What!” he said.

  “You think you’d be doing me a favor, or something?”

  “No.” He looked at her again. “‘Prick!’”

  “You just sounded so pleased with yourself.”

  “What’s wrong with being pleased with myself?”

  “Nothing, she said, “as long as you’re not condescending to those of us who might not have arrived at your lofty place yet.”

  Michael pulled off the highway onto the shoulder and put on his flashers. “Do you really think I’m a prick?”

  “I was just teasing. Come on.”

  “That’s not a nice thing to call someone, even if you’re just teasing.”

  “No, I know. You’re right.

  “I will never call you a bitch, no matter how mad I am with you.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He was afraid he had been too emphatic, too authoritarian, too paternal. “That’s okay. I don’t know why I make such a big deal about it.” He shook his head and rolled his eyes at himself. He turned off his flashers and got back on the highway.

  “I hurt your feelings. I’m sorry. I think I need to stop talking about myself when I was a kid,” she said.

  “No!” He showed her a smile. “I like to hear about it.”

  “Tell me about growing up on a sugarcane plantation.”

  Michael told her about the tall, soldier-like cane plants, playing war and hide and seek with his sisters and the children of the campesinos. About the hard work to bring the crop in, and the celebrations full of food and drink and music and play when it was done.

  “There were always plenty of playmates, then?”

  “Truckloads of them.”

  “How old were you when you had your first girlfriend?”

  �
�First girlfriend? Lordy, I think I was eighteen.”

  “Eighteen?” She was incredulous.

  “You don’t believe me?”

  “Seems, old.”

  “Ah! You have many, many rules about these things.”

  “I do not!”

  “First, I’m supposed to have many women, dating all the time, constantly, but not too seriously, and now I find out I should start before I am eighteen.”

  “It’s just...” He waited for her explanation. “It’s not that they’re rules, it’s just that that’s normal.”

  “Ah!” he yelled. “You’re the most maddening girl!”

  They arrived at the Kennemac exit and joined the main road toward Merrifield.

  “Where we going?” asked Justina.

  He looked at her in surprise. Her small, shy smile deepened with self-consciousness. He turned the car around.

  “Novel Girl, I’m taking you to my place. That okay?”

  Justina-dumpling nodded yes, and was suddenly aware of her breasts.

  His living room seemed darker to Justina, even after he turned on a couple of lights. The lines of the furniture seemed crisper, the edges sharper. The table tops shone coldly, as though he had just cleaned. It was a different place than it had been that Sunday afternoon when she first came here to lick her too intensely-remembered wounds, when she had felt him protecting her. Tonight he would be her lover. She glanced over her shoulder at him as he took her coat. His unsmiling mouth and hard eyes as he hung it in the closet gave her a chill. She felt the bareness of her shoulders and stood holding her arms, unable to decide whether to stay on her feet, or sit.

  Michael asked, “Would you like some brandy?”

  “Sure.” Michael went into the kitchen and she sat on the couch and trembled. She moved to a chair, then realized she wanted to be on the couch and moved back. I know how Goldilocks felt, she thought.

  Michael poured brandy into snifters. Music? Oh, God, that would be so obvious. I can’t believe this is happening. It is happening, isn’t it?

  He brought the brandy in and sat with Justina on the couch. “You still have your jacket on,” she said.

  Michael looked at the wine red lapels then took off the jacket, laying it over the back of the couch.

  She took a sip of her brandy, put it on the coffee table and sat back, scooting closer to him. “And your tie. I thought men hated wearing ties.” She loosened it for him beneath his wondering, hopeful gaze. She pulled his tie from around his neck and began unbuttoning his shirt.

  Michael’s mind was telling him it was a sign, a very strong one. Should he wait for another?

  He did not have to wait. She kissed him and he sprang to action. He drew her up onto his lap and caressed her, the soft skin, the smooth back and the hard ribs, the roundness of her buttocks and her breasts.

  She caressed his chest and thighs, wanted to see them.

  He wanted to simply undress her, that was all, then he would see. “Justina—” He kissed her neck, her cheek. “I want to make love to you.”

  His whisper. Warm tearing, a gift discovering. Joy. How could she say no?

  You want it, don’t you? You cunt.

  She got off his lap and sat apart from him, shivering. The brandy in front of her was sickening, it looked like motor oil.

  Michael shut off the part of his mind that was cursing, and whispered, “You don’t want to?”

  She did not answer. She did not want to think. Only to lose this fear and lose control. She closed her eyes and felt her desire turn sullen from an undeserved tongue-lashing.

  He touched her shoulder. “Justina, I only want to if you do.”

  His eyes were sad, and there was a shard of self-reproach, but they stabbed her just the same. “Of course I want to.” She stood and went toward the door. “Take me home, Michael.”

  Michael caught up with her at the closet. “You want to, but I have to take you home?” he asked.

  “I can’t stay here, with you. I just can’t.” She put on her coat and Michael followed her to his car. They drove to her apartment in silence.

  He parked the car. “Justina—”

  “I’m sorry.” She looked straight ahead and opened the door. “Don’t walk me up.”

  Michael watched her walk up the steps, then rushed home and called her.

  Kim was still out, at a concert in Boston. Justina sat in a ball on the couch and listened to the answering machine kick in.

  “Justina, please pick up. I don’t understand. Tell me what I did. I didn’t mean to offend you. I don’t understand. Justina? Please, talk to me. Please.” He waited. She could hear his uneven breathing. He hung up.

  She sprang to her feet, went into her bedroom and threw the door shut.

  Chapter Eleven

  Grin in the Window

  It was hardly worth raking this early, the bulk of the leaves would not come off till October. Jack usually called the landscaping service in early November and they did a fall clean-up by Thanksgiving. But the leaves on the deck made it look messy until then. Grace put on a sweatshirt and went out after breakfast to rake them off. She swept them under the railings and onto the lawn and then raked them into piles and onto a big blue tarp. She lugged them over to the street and put a rock on the gathered ends of the plastic to keep it from opening.

  Grace removed the cushions from the dirty lawn furniture and put them into storage in the garage. She dragged the Adirondack chairs into a sunny spot on the driveway and hosed them down. She got a bucket from the garage and pulled up weeds from the planting beds, the landscaping service never did a thorough enough job. She added the weeds to the leaves and stood looking around. The yard looked pretty good. The shrubs needed a pruning, but she was not sure she knew how to do it right. She put away the hose and the bucket, closed the garage door and went inside to see if her parents were up yet.

  Linda sat in the kitchen reading the paper and sipping coffee.

  “Where’s Dad?” asked Grace.

  “Up in the office, I guess. What you been doing? You smell all outdoorsy.”

  “Just cleaning up the yard a little. What’re we doing today?”

  “I don’t know. You want to do something?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe we could go pick apples or something.”

  Linda put down her cup and looked at her daughter. They had not been apple picking as a family since Grace was nine or ten. “We’ll ask Daddy.”

  Jack came in and winked at Grace— “Hi, Punkin—!” and got his jacket.

  “Where you going?” Grace asked.

  “Computer store.” He headed for the side door to the garage.

  “Can I come?”

  Jack had bought her game after game, loaded them onto the computer, showed her how to use them, and she had never looked at them again. “Sure.” Grace followed him and they got in his car. He opened the garage door and backed out quickly, without looking. He bashed a couple of the lawn chairs.

  “What the—!”

  Grace scampered out of the car. Jack followed her and stood staring at the broken chairs.

  “How’d they get here?” They were the expensive kind from a woodworking shop in Cambridge. “Did you put them there?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Jesus!

  “I’m sorry, Daddy! I’m sorry!”

  He dragged the broken slats out of the way.

  “I’ll fix them,” said Grace as she helped him.

  He picked up the seat of one of the chairs; the slats were splintered. “Shit!”

  Grace neatly stacked the pieces to the side and tried to stifle her crying.

  They finished clearing the driveway and got back in the car. Jack went down the driveway and onto the country road. He noticed the tears on her flattened, down turned face. “Forget it. Doesn’t matter.”

  She sniffed. “I’ll pay for them.”

  “It’s okay, Punkin. Really. I hated them, anyway. Mom wanted me to paint them.” She was wiping her eye
s. “Yeah. Right. Just call me Mr. Handyman. ‘Okay, do I use a regular paint brush or do I need a Phillips one?’” He grinned. She giggled. He squeezed her knee. “I know. Let’s get some donuts. A whole box. Really piss off Mom.” He winked at her.

  She smiled at her father.

  The incident with the chairs convinced Grace that perhaps she could back off on the do-gooder zeal. Her father loved her! She spent a happier week at school, joining Kelsey in making fun of their teachers. She sang happily for Mr. Nordstrom who was thinking of giving her a small solo in the fall concert. He hoped she could handle it, no, I want her to be dazzling and for Calderón to come so I can show her off. Holy moly, she’s something else!

  Going home on the bus on Friday, Kelsey told Grace she was thinking of having a sleepover for her birthday.

  “That would be totally awesome!” exclaimed Grace.

  “You remember when Nicole had hers? And they had a seance? It was so creepy!” They had tried to call up the spirit of the teen idol of the moment.

  “It was so bogus,” said Grace. “Like, I’m sure you can talk to the spirit of a live person.”

  “So? Why does the person have to be dead for you to talk to his spirit?”

  “‘Cause he’s supposed to be in dead person land, otherwise his spirit isn’t available. He’s busy, being alive.”

  “You should get a busy signal, then?”

  “Yeah. Unless you have call waiting. Then you should get a click.”

  Kelsey guffawed. “Okay, this time we’ll listen for a click.”

  The bus came to their stop and they clambered down the steps and out into the day. The clouds were thick and brilliantly white and the sun moved behind them as Grace walked to her house. “Josh! Hey, Josh! Remember to come to Kelsey’s party next weekend!” she called.

  “Click! Click!” called Kelsey. Grace waved at her and looked ahead at her house. The strange van was in the driveway, dull and menacing in the cloud-covered light. Grace instinctively slipped behind a tree.