Perfect Pitch

by Amy Lapwing

  “It’s okay.” Her frown touched him. “Don’t worry, Justina. It’ll be okay.” He went to her.

  She looked up into his face, her eyes caressing the beloved lines, the small smile, the dark, lit eyes, and permitted her feeling to flood her heart. She let herself down from her perch and embraced him.

  He did not care, she could slap him if she wanted. He kissed her hair, her cheek, her sweet, softly pushing mouth. “Te amo.” He held her a long moment, just feeling her with him, and finally looked at her.

  “I’m going to miss you,” she said. “You have no idea how much of a meal I can make with a half-hour’s view of your face.”

  “That’s such a small part of me.”

  “Not to me.”

  “There are many, many more interesting parts of me.”

  “Like what?”

  “There’s the upper body, you see?” He flexed his arms for her.

  “I see. Very nice.”

  “Thank you. Then there’s, ahem, the rest of me.”

  “Naturally.”

  “Oh, and I almost forgot.” He held his hands in front of her. “These.”

  “Don’t these belong to the aforementioned upper body?”

  “I know, but they’re special.” He put his hands on her waist.

  “How?”

  “Well, they know how to do things.”

  “Like what?”

  “They can play the piano.” He slid his hands up to her shoulders and slipped a finger inside the neck of her sweater.

  “Yeah. I’ve seen them do that, actually.”

  “And conduct.” He slid one hand to the middle of her back and fingered the closure of her bra through her sweater.

  “Seen that, too. Michael—”

  “Cook. They can cook, more or less.” He moved his hands down her arms to her waist, slipped a finger into the warm space inside the waistband of her skirt.

  “I know. Cut it out!”

  He parked his hands on her waist and squeezed. “Then you know all about them.”

  “I guess so.”

  “No, wait, no, you don’t know one of the most special things they can do.”

  She waited. “And what’s that?”

  “Not telling.”

  “Why not?”

  He pulled her closer. “Because I don’t need to. Do I?”

  She kissed him again. It was so wonderful, this moment. Why was he going, again?

  “Don’t be hurt that you don’t see me at lunch,” he said.

  “I understand,” she said, frowning.

  “No, I have a lot to do, before Christmas, since I’m leaving so early. You know we have a concert on the sixteenth,” he reminded her.

  “Of course. I’ll be there.”

  He smiled and squeezed her again. “I’m happy you came to see me.”

  She kissed him, and she told him she loved him. How happy he was when she indulged herself with the feel of his hair. She said goodbye and left, and he watched the hem of her skirt swing in and out, brushing the backs of her thighs.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Impromptu

  It was snowing lightly as the audience arrived at the school’s white clapboard playhouse. The performers were glad to have arrived earlier and have dry feet. The snow-dusted patrons cheerfully stamped their feet in the lobby but still tracked slush into the auditorium, past the smiling student ushers, dressed up in blouses or dress shirts instead of plaid shirts, skirts or slacks instead of jeans, and even some lipstick on the girls, and wrinkled ties retrieved from bottoms of drawers on the boys. The whitewashed room was bright with wall sconces and chandeliers. The stage had been swept and looked mopped, even, the curtain of green velvet dusty but still luxurious-looking.

  Denis Jeanblanc followed his wife and Justina down the gritty aisle to their seats. He checked that both of the women were happy with their views, took Pascale’s coat from her shoulders and would have done so for Justina, but she beat him to it. While Pascale looked around her, waving to people she knew, Denis began reading the program notes on the works to be performed. He considered the creation of music a miracle performed by human beings transformed into instruments of God. That a professional classical musician was in his circle of acquaintance was a source of wonder and pride to him. He owned a complete set of the Kennemac Concert Chorus’ tapes, from the first year he and Pascale had lived there. He kept his favorites in the cab of his truck and played them when he got sick of the radio stations’ list of twenty songs they all played over and over wearing a rut in his brain till it hurt.

  The lights came down before Denis could finish the notes on the second half, but he would come back to them at the intermission. He closed his program and held it in his lap. The curtain parted on the small orchestra and the Concert Chorus behind them on risers, the men somber in black trousers and white shirts buttoned all the way to the top, and the women in long skirts and white blouses. Michael, in a black tuxedo and white bow-tie, strode to the maestro’s podium, smiling amid strong applause from the audience and self-conscious smiles from his choristers. He bowed to his public, then turned and made the glad eye to the different sections of his chorus and then to the orchestra. He held his hands aloft, made a small movement to establish the tempo, and brought the baton down on the opening movement of the Fauré Requiem.

  Denis entered the piece slowly, savoring the transition from the world he was accustomed to, disjoint and confusing like a city downtown, into a softer place, like the long straight stretches in Mississippi where he would suddenly find himself flanked by cotton fields, the whispering white crop waiting to be picked, his truck inexplicably slowing down to forty-five or even forty. He closed his eyes, opening them now and then to look at Michael’s back and arms moving gracefully and insistently to keep the young chorus skimming along the top of the cotton and not turning somersaults in it as they seemed eager to do.

  Justina let the music set her mood and place as backdrop for her images of Michael. Fauré took her to a quiet glass room where she looked out and saw her beloved moving among the people he knew, patiently teaching, generously encouraging, confident always that they would be good. Fauré left out of his Requiem the “doom and gloom” verses of the mass, so her meditations did not take up her lover’s turbulent side. The actual man on the podium in front of her seemed a thing of beauty, his masculinity not stirring her so much as assuring her, yes, I am part of you, it is wonderful, isn’t it?

  The chorus whispered “Requiem” to the peaceful, dying spirit and the piece ended. Denis smiled, opened his eyes and clapped loudly, shouting, “Bravo!” before he could think whether it was appropriate. He was seconded and tierced, so he smiled more broadly and clapped with even greater fervor. He was about to stand, when he remembered that should be saved for the end of the concert. Michael bowed, and graciously indicated his chorus who tried to smile without showing their teeth, that would be too self-satisfied-looking, they all seemed to think. He had the embarrassed-looking orchestra stand and acknowledge the applause, took one last bow and walked off to try to rest.

  Feet shambled off the stage beneath the closed curtain as Justina and Pascale and Denis looked at each other and exclaimed how wonderful it had been.

  “It was like, walking on clouds!” exclaimed Pascale.

  “I loved it,” said Justina, looking at the closed curtain.

  “What do you think, Denis? What was it like, to you?”

  “It was great.” He looked back at the lobby. “Want to go get some punch?”

  “‘It was great!’ mimicked Pascale. “Of course! Denis is the Hemingway of music critics.” She cuddled his arm when they got to the aisle, the two small round people reminding Justina of her parents as she walked behind them up to the tables in the lobby.

  Denis handed them plastic cups of a pink punch and Pascale took a bunch of cookies to share. They moved off to the side and spilled crumbs onto the dirty, wet floor as Pascale tried to get Denis to tell them about his last trip th
rough the Southland. Did he meet any characters at the truck stops? Did he have to stop for directions? Were the people in the Delta really poor? What did their houses look like? Denis responded that he did not remember the people at the truck stops, that he stopped for directions every time he got off the interstate in that part of the world, that many of the people were quite poor and lived in one-room shacks.

  “Denis! I want color! Give me some color, my angel!”

  “Piggy, I don’t need to give you color, look at you.” It was true, she had on a black dress with a large green and red scarf and a light-up Rudolph pin over her left breast.

  “But you are out in the world! I’m in my stupid office looking at words or at a poster on the wall, or in my insipid classroom, listening to children master the obvious. I see nothing of real life. You must be my eyes.”

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “I want to hear about the waitress who is crying between orders because she has to leave her baby all day and is too tired to play with her when she gets home at night. And the black boy who works picking cotton but has a dream to work as a bag boy at the local market. Or the old southern gentleman who still opens doors for ladies and gives up his seat to them on the bus and calls everyone ‘sir’ or ‘ma’am,’ he can’t help it, that’s how he was raised.”

  “See? You already know all about the world. I don’t see half what you see. You’re the eyes in the family.”

  “And you are what?”

  Justina smiled to herself as she looked at Denis, the round, dark eyes, the thick eyebrows, the fleshy cheeks, already starting to sag, the protruding ears like jug handles, the receding hairline, the burnt brown hair. His barrel shape was far from her ideal, yet she felt his appeal as she watched him talk with his wife. She imagined he was a wonderful lover.

  “I don’t know, Piggy.” He smiled, as Pascale shook her head teasingly. The lights went off, then on, then off and on again.

  “He doesn’t know,” Pascale said to Justina, “and he doesn’t care. Why do I love this man?” She tossed her cup into the trash can, and they went back to their seats.

  “You like imagining what I am, Pascale,” murmured Denis as they walked down the aisle.

  “Idiot,” she cooed.

  They took their seats and Denis resumed reading in the program where he had left off.

  “What are you doing after?” Pascale asked Justina. “Come to our house, we’ll have eggnog and listen to Edith Piaf. We’ll invite Michael and be your chaperones.”

  Justina really had not thought about the after-concert portion of the evening. She had thought only, concert tonight, Michael leaves tomorrow. Something about Pascale’s invitation did not appeal to her. The lights came down and the festive part of the concert began. The chorus plodded onto the risers, the boys this time in green bow-ties, the girls wearing gold scarves. Michael came back out, his white bow-tie traded for a merry red one. They did two light classical Christmas pieces and received polite applause, but the audience had used up its serious appreciation allotment in the first half, they wanted the fun stuff now.

  Michael straightened up from bowing, and his smile as he thought of the fun carols to come reminded Justina of all the times he had cajoled kisses from her, before she had put an end to their togetherness. She was jealous of the audience who got to see that smile, she longed to have him all to herself again. Michael popped the carols out of the chorus, one after another, his manner relaxed from years of repetition. Beating time to “Here Comes Santa Claus” with his right, he put his left arm behind his back, then switched hands, to show off. The audience laughed, and the choristers’ lips stretched wide in renegade smiles.

  The chorus sang, “‘Cause Santa Claus comes tonight!” and a thunderous “Ho-ho-ho!” resounded from backstage. The music stopped and Santa Charles stomped onto the stage amid great applause. Michael started the chorus on “Jingle Bells,” Santa waved to the audience to sing along, plunged a hand into his bag and broadcast candies out into the space between the audience and the stage, taking care not to actually hit anyone, that had happened before, and there had been a big stink and near-lawsuit, John Q. Tightass vs. A Hershey’s Kiss. The fusillade of sweets beat the children from their roosts and they flew to the front to succumb to greed. One last time the room sang “In a one-horse-open-SLEIGH!” and Michael turned to face his audience, some of whom jumped to their feet clapping, most of the rest more or less good-naturedly heaving themselves to stand so they could see. Michael bowed, smiling happily, indicated his chorus, his orchestra, bowed again, handed the credit to the singers and players again, and then finally walked off.

  Denis reached behind Pascale and helped Justina on with her coat, then patted Pascale’s already-coated shoulder and led them out to the aisle. “Do you want to go get Michael?” asked Pascale.

  Justina looked toward the stage. Pieces of the crumbled chorus were tumbling into the room from the side stage doors, their parents and friends sweeping them into their midst. She saw Michael come out the far door and pause on the steps, looking over the crowd. Someone congratulated him, he smiled his acknowledgement. He came down the steps and quieted a blubbering child with a handful of cellophane-wrapped candies from his pocket. He saw her wave and went to meet her.

  “There he is,” said Pascale.

  “Um, I’m going— I’ve got plans, actually, for tonight.” Justina smiled an apology for her lie. Her smiled deepened with embarrassment at Pascale’s wide eyes.

  “We’ll just say ‘Merry Christmas,’ anyway,” said Pascale.

  Michael came up to them and kissed Justina, and kept hold of her hand.

  “Michel, un baiser!” pleaded Pascale.

  He kissed Pascale’s cheek and shook Denis’ hand. “Are you home for Christmas now, Denis?”

  “Till the first,” answered Denis, remembering the cotton fields and trying not to be in awe of the maestro. He praised the concert, saying it was “great, just, really great. The Requiem, especially.”

  “We invited you and Justina to come to our house to wind down,” pouted Pascale, “but she said you have other plans.”

  Michael looked at Justina with surprise, quickly masked it from Pascale. “Thanks just the same. Perhaps another time.” They wished each other a Merry Christmas and parted.

  Justina was wide-eyed with date-making anxiety. “I don’t really have any plans, really,” she began. “I just didn’t want to go to their house. You mind?”

  Michael told her it was okay, he didn’t want to either, and maybe they could go somewhere and get something to eat, he was starving. She said okay and he led her out to his car behind the building.

  They sat deliberating in the idling car. “Trying to think what could be open,” he said. “You think, that sub place next to Moe’s?”

  Justina did not want to go to a sub shop at ten thirty at night. “Why don’t you just come to my place, I’ll fix you a sandwich or something.”

  Michael felt butterflies again, but not for Fauré. “You sure?”

  She smiled like a hostess.

  He drove to her apartment in the flurrying snow. The lights of Merrifield had come down. They passed a gas station still open, its lights making the storm appear to be centered over it, but all the other shops were closed. She told him how she had enjoyed the concert, how they all had, what a nice contrast between the first and second halves. But, gah, what a lot of music for the students to learn.

  I'm not going to think about it. We're going to her place to eat and talk, that’s it. Besides, there's the roommate, so forget it. He felt like he was driving really fast, but the speedometer said only thirty-five. He could not shake this feeling that he was a blur in a tape under fast-forward.

  “Are you going home to Illinois?” he asked.

  “Soon as I turn grades in. Guess I’ll be home for a couple of weeks.” He was going home for four months. Four months, for Christ’s sake! “You need to give me your address, in Costa Rica.”

 
; “Of course. You give me yours at your parents’?”

  “Sure.”

  She seemed to be thinking about something. “Are you sure you don’t want me to just drop you off?” he said.

  “Michael, you’re going away tomorrow.”

  “I just didn’t want to make you, you know—”

  “Nimrod!” They parked before her building. “Come on up.”

  They walked carefully up the snowy steps and stamped their feet outside her door. Justina let them in and turned on the lights. Michael smiled at the well-remembered, cheerful place, graced with a small Christmas tree in the living room.

  “Kim made the popcorn string,” Justina said. “Can you believe that?”

  Michael looked around for signs of the roommate. “Where is Kim?”

  “Gone. Home. Or I guess to Colorado, actually. Skiing.”

  “Already?”

  “Finished his papers and he was outta here.”

  “Must be nice.”

  “Yeah.” She took his coat.

  “Momentico,” he said and he foraged in one of the pockets of his coat. “Merry Christmas,” he said, and he handed her a small gold foil-wrapped box.

  “Shall I open it now?”

  “Why not?”

  She sat on the couch. “Please, sit down,” she invited.

  He laid his coat with hers over the back of the couch and sat next to her.

  She bit the side of her lip as she unwrapped the present. “Oh!” she exclaimed and she held up the fine gold necklace, suspending a delicate gold cage holding captive inside a small, perfectly round, black ball.

  “It’s a black pearl,” he said, “from Costa Rica.”

  She held it up to her neck and turned her back to him so he could fasten it for her. “Are they very rare?”

  “Very, very rare,” he said, gently laying his fingertips on her neck when he had fastened it.

  She held the pendant out where she could see it. “I’ll always think of you when I look at it.”

  “Then I hope you will look at it every moment.”