Perfect Pitch

by Amy Lapwing

  “What was that with the kid and the soprano note?” Grace asked Magda.

  “He has all the notes in his head. You can ask him to sing anything, E flat above middle C, anything. His sister says he hates it.”

  “Why?” asked Grace.

  “Don’t know. Maybe it makes him feel weird.”

  Grace looked at the boy’s back as he went with the rest of the crowd out of the room. Paul saw his chance. He stepped closer to Grace.

  “Grace!” called Mr. C.

  Grace sighed to Magda who said, “Probably just wants to know if the jonagolds are ready yet.” Magda raised her eyebrows encouragingly at her and went toward the door, taking a look in passing at Paul who stood by scribbling into a notebook. Grace went up to Mr. C at the music stand as Paul hurried from the room.

  “I heard you today,” said Mr. C.

  “I know, I’m sorry,” she said, looking contrite. “Listen, I’m sorry about yesterday. I have a lot going on right now.”

  “I mean your singing,” he went on. “It was really very, very good. Really, full of fire. And passion. A lot more feeling than I had gave you credit for.” He could not resist the dig, he was still peeved at her for her smart-mouthing him the previous day. She was looking blasé again; at least she was not firing off a retort.

  “Look, there is a soprano solo I have not yet assigned it. Would you like to audition for it?”

  Her face brightened as though lit by a spotlight. “Sure! I mean, I’ll try.”

  He smiled at her response and said good and gave her a copy of the solo. “It’s called ‘In trutina.’ Let me know when you’re ready.”

  She said sure again and started out.

  “Oh, Grace!” he called again. When she turned, he asked, “Justina wants to know, when are the jonagolds ready?”

  She could not help laughing out loud. “In another couple weeks, I think.” He nodded his thanks and turned to gather up his scores. On her way out, she noticed a piece of paper stuck in the door frame with “Grace” written on it. She unfolded it and read: “I am a blank sheet.” She smirked at the mystery and stuck the paper in her score.

  The orchard lands were vast. Even with the hordes of weekenders up to pick apples, there remained truckloads of apples to be picked. Grace worked as a professional apple-picker at the Abbey Orchards, weekday afternoons and weekends, a total of fifteen hours a week. Her father did not like it, he wanted her to devote all her time to her studies; her mother was thankful for something else besides boys to occupy the girl’s time. To Grace, it was an extracurricular activity, something non-academic and enjoyable. She went from tree to tree and filled her shoulder bag, collecting the fruit of the labor of hundreds of bees trucked into the orchard the previous spring. She sometimes worked side-by-side with other workers, migrant laborers usually, but occasionally college students like herself. The orchard brought her mind alive, as it had when she was a little girl acting out fantasies among the twisting branches. Now, a nearly grown woman carrying her ladder down the orchard’s aisles, her mind meandered pleasant pathways, thinking about a novel for her English class, or a poem she had to memorize for a French class, or a song she was learning for Mr. C. She was happy to work alone. She chose a medium-sized tree of Cortlands and climbed her ladder.

  The branches on the other side of the tree rustled. “Hi, Grace!” said a voice.

  Grace peered through the branches. “Hi, Paul,” she said, barely looking at him before returning to her picking. She heard a branch near him noisily settle back into place after he wrenched an apple free. “What’re you doing?” she asked, annoyed.

  “I’m proud to say I am now an employed person, just like you,” he said and grabbed another apple.

  “Yeah, well, employed person, your technique stinks. Like this—” she deftly separated an apple from its twig— “upward motion, see?” She put the apple lightly in her bag. “Then you lay it nice and easy. Comprendo?”

  Paul copied her movement with an apple on his side. His eyes blinked when the apple came off with a soft “pip!”

  “Now get lost,” Grace commanded. “This is my tree.”

  “We can work just as fast if we work on the same tree,” said Paul, trying not to sound argumentative.

  Grace went down her ladder. “I don’t think so,” she said. She went to dump her apples in the square wooden bin.

  When she came back to her ladder, Paul said, “Why not?”

  “‘Cause you talk too much, for one thing,” she said, folding her ladder.

  “I won’t say another word,” he hurriedly said. She was taking her ladder to another tree. Paul resumed picking apples, trying to determine if he had failed, or whether he had not even begun to try yet. He turned to look at her, his shifting weight driving one leg of the ladder further into the grassy ground. Nothing about her posture suggested she was still annoyed with him. She seemed to have forgotten he was there. He tottered down his ladder and walked over to her.

  “Unfathomable,” he said when he had reached the bottom of her ladder.

  “What?” said Grace.

  “Word of the day. ‘Unfathomable.’ As in, ‘It is unfathomable—’” She had stopped picking to look down on him. Her hips looked wide beneath her face, the hair falling down before her shoulders. She looked to Paul as though she would fall into his arms and be no heavier than a pillow. He hoped his planned pronouncement was strong enough. “‘It is unfathomable that I would not take this opportunity—’” He was going to fail, he knew it, but he could not think of anything else to say. “‘To ask you—’” Fuck it! “Will you go out with me, Grace?”

  She looked at him, frozen there on the ground below him, like a paused video. She knew what he wanted. She knew she had a reputation, guys were always coming up to her and asking her for dates with no more preamble than this. Although, no one had ever used ‘un-whatever’ to get her attention before. She sighed. Had things really come this far? “No,” she said. She turned back to her picking.

  Wasn’t she supposed to make up some reason, try not to hurt his feelings? “No?” he repeated.

  “No,” she said.

  “Why not?” he asked, knowing he sounded stupid, but, shit, she was supposed to say something.

  She looked at him a moment. Usually the guy had some back up plan, such as, meeting somewhere on campus to ‘study.’ This guy must have been told she was a sure thing. Probably a virgin. “I don’t know,” she said. “I probably would have said yes if you’d asked me a week ago.” That was supposed to make him angry; he seemed confused. “But from now on, I expect more from a guy,” she said.

  “More?” he parroted. “What? What, Grace?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. She came down her ladder and moved it forty-five degrees around the tree. “But I’ll know it when I see it.” She cooed to him, “You let me know if you think of something,” and climbed up her ladder.

  He stood frowning at the grass. His brow widened with an idea and he went again to the bottom of her ladder. “I’m a v—” Should he say it?

  She looked at him, intrigued by his hesitation.

  “I’m a violin,” he announced. “And you’re the bow.”

  “I’m the what?”

  “I’m an orchestra,” he said.

  “I thought you were a violin,” she said.

  “And you’re the conductor. Conductrix?”

  She was leaning back against her ladder, taking him in as a spectacle.

  “Conductor,” he decided, “definitely.”

  He seemed to have run out of material. She turned back to her work.

  He had not wanted to say this, but he felt the desperation of the date-fixated. “I’m a blank sheet!” he nearly shouted.

  She stopped working, trying to remember— oh, yeah, in chorus, this morning.

  “I’m a blank sheet,” he repeated, “and you’re the composer.” He shook his head at her. “Grace, I’m stuck in musical metaphors. Trite musical metaphors. You got to help m
e.”

  She smiled at his bumbling. He was cute, for a dickhead. “Yup, I’d say you got a problem there.”

  “It’s not a problem!” He was afraid he had insulted her, led her to think she was a false muse. “It’s—” She was smiling at him, but it wasn’t the kind of smile to make a confession to. “It’s not a problem,” he repeated.

  She came down her ladder. “I’m happy for you,” she said. She went to the bin.

  She was talking a little more than she had been. Perhaps his clumsy banter was bringing her around to him. “How about we go to Moe’s after work?” he said, following her.

  She turned and leaned her back against the bin. “Moe’s, you say?” she said, as though considering.

  He shrugged, trying to shake off the weight of her eyes on him. “Just for a little while, unwind a little.”

  “I’ve been to Moe’s,” she said, and she took her ladder and went deeper into the orchard.

  Chapter Four

  Just One Regret

  “Come in with that baby!” Justina held the storm door open as Pascale hurried in out of the rain with Nicolas all bundled up in the infant carrier. Denis closed the door of their new all-wheel-drive sport utility vehicle— la Blah-zaire, Pascale called it— they had bought when they found out Pascale was expecting. Although they had lived in this climate for many years, and Denis the Québecois for all his life, and had done fine with front wheel drive sedans, the addition of Nicolas somehow made them feel less sure-footed. Denis hustled up to the door carrying the enormous pastel green bag of baby provisions.

  The guests all stood as they saw the little family enter. Pascale and Denis quickly doffed their coats and went into the living room to show off their creation. Pascale sat on the couch with the infant carrier beside her while Denis stood guard by them. She unbuckled the straps, and peeled back the ends of the blanket the baby was encased in and lifted him as the audience murmured.

  “He’s so tiny!”

  “Isn’t he beautiful!”

  “He’s a darling!”

  “How old is he? Only 6 days? What a big fellow!”

  Denis walked him around to show everyone. Michael came in from the kitchen, taking his apron off over his head. “Let me see him!” he said and he drew his face forward, brows in a knot, lips puckered as he looked into the baby’s eyes. “What a beautiful boy!” he crooned.

  “You want to hold him?” offered Denis.

  Michael kept his eyes on the baby and after an awkward exchange involving manifold arm segments, he held the infant expertly, head nestled in the crook of his arm, tiny thighs supported in his hand. The baby looked a little seasick at Michael for a moment, his eyes crossed and his mouth a thin jag, then his expression became placid once again.

  “He likes you,” said Denis.

  “All children like Michael,” said Justina.

  Michael went to his wife and showed him his treasure. “You hold him?” he offered.

  “He’s doing fine with you,” she said. She smiled at the baby a moment more and went into the kitchen to fill in for the absent chef.

  The guests talked about the new school year. Things were underway, but not yet intense. Seeing Pascale in her new role put everyone in a holiday mood. Even Denis was more talkative than usual, carefree even, as though a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He let them know he was adjusting to his office job, but he still got out on the road about once a month and spent maybe two nights away from home. That’s not bad! everyone enthused, believing he had had enough of long trucking trips. He did not tell them he missed it; but he was glad to have Nicolas. And he was so happy for Pascale; he had about given up hope when she hit forty. Perhaps it was that looming milestone that had been the problem. She had conceived five months after her fortieth birthday, maybe because she too had given up hope, and with it the stress of trying, temperature-monitoring and procreative sex, which seemed to be the opposite of creative sex, for them, at least. So at last the baby was here, and they could get on with their lives, changed forever and all that.

  And forever changing. The baby began to fuss in his arm as Michael stood talking with Pascale’s T.A. and her boyfriend. Pascale said it was probably time for Nicolas to eat; could Denis change him, please? Denis stepped up with the baby bag and Michael showed him into the laundry room and put Nicolas down on a towel on top of the washing machine. Michael stood by and watched carefully, his hands on his hips, as Denis changed the tiny diaper. He watched Denis wipe all the black excrement off the baby’s bottom and from either side of the surprisingly large penis-and-scrotum assembly. He came in closer for a good look as Denis swabbed the shriveled umbilicus with alcohol. Denis attached the new diaper, snapped up the little suit and gave him back to Michael.

  “Does he want to eat?” called Pascale from the couch as they came back into the living room. Denis and Michael looked into the baby’s face.

  “He’s sleeping!” whispered Denis, amazed.

  “Well, let Michael keep him, then!” said Pascale, throwing her hands in the air and letting them fall on her thighs roundly plumped with maternal reserves.

  “I put them all to sleep,” said Michael softly.

  “You don’t have to whisper,” said Pascale. “When he’s sleeping, nothing will wake him.”

  The volume in the room rose subtly with this announcement.

  Pascale went into the kitchen to see if she could help Justina.

  “It’s under control. Oh, you could put those rolls into a basket.”

  Pascale found a basket and a cloth napkin and arranged the rolls for maximum heat retention. “Michael’s a wonder with the baby.”

  “Yes, he is,” said Justina, acknowledging it as an understatement.

  Pascale could hold herself back no longer. Everyone must want a baby, her own joy was so great! “Are you going to try again to have a baby?”

  “Oh, sure,” said Justina. “Just need to slay the tenure dragon first.”

  “I bet Michael will be a wonderful father.”

  “I bet you’re right,” said Justina. She chopped the parsley and pushed it into the stew pot. “He’s a walking advertisement. ‘Look at me! Aren’t I the perfect father? Get your sperm here, while it’s body-temperature!’”

  “Has he been pressuring you?” Pascale was hungry for melodrama.

  “No,” she said, her tone qualifying it with ‘not in so many words.’ She got out a stack of bowls and went into the dining room to place them on the table. Pascale followed her.

  “You’re not sure you want a baby?” whispered Pascale.

  “Just not right this second, you know? You know how hard it is for me to concentrate on more than one thing at a time.” She did, indeed. “I wish he’d just hold off talking about it for a few more months.”

  “Why don’t you tell him?”

  Justina looked over at her husband. He was talking with Charles and Helena, the sleeping Nicolas in his arm. “Look at him,” she said, poking her chin in his direction. “You feel that?”

  Pascale looked at Michael’s sloped shoulders. “I feel it everyday, every time I see Denis holding him.”

  The two women laid hands over their breasts and sighed, in unconscious sync. “I can’t very well tell him to cut it out,” Justina said. They stood watching him a moment; he and Charles and Helena were laughing softly; Michael looked down into the baby’s face, his eyes two black velvet pom-poms. Pascale found herself getting short of breath from standing and she went back in the living room to sit down. Justina laid down the last bowl and went to Michael.

  “He’s very happy with you,” she said, smiling at the sleeping infant and then at her husband. “You and Pascale got something you want to tell Denis and me?”

  Michael’s head sunk into his shoulders in embarrassment. He looked around for Denis. “Allez, mec! Prends ton gamin!” He handed the baby to Denis and he promptly began to cry.

  “Oh! He’s hungry!” Pascale came to the rescue. She sat up on the couch and
fumbled with her bosom as the women watched and the men tried not to. She held the tiny face up under the flap of her blouse and the cat squalling stopped. She grimaced and drew in a quick breath through her teeth before settling back against the cushions.

  “Now that the guest of honor is awake,” said Justina, “what say we let him open his presents?” Denis sat on the couch with Pascale to open the gifts for his son. Alicia the T.A. scrambled to be first, certain that her present would be the puniest. It was a wooden pull-toy, a quacking duck, such as one finds at the educational toy stores; they all commented on how thoughtful it was, it would last forever, it would become a family heirloom. Alicia beamed with relief. Charles gave a couple of Audubon bird prints for the nursery, similar to ones he had had when he was a tike; he remembered gazing at them and memorizing every feature. Helena gave him stuffed Piglet and Winnie-the-Pooh dolls and an Eeyore bib and a Pooh spoon, she was a big fan of the A. A. Milne characters; luckily, Disney had chosen this year to license all manner of Pooh merch.

  “This is from Michael and me,” said Justina, laying a large flat box upon Denis’ lap. He opened it and Pascale widened her already round eyes as he lifted out the afghan blanket made of stitched together squares of pastel blue, green, pink, orange and yellow trimmed with white. She told Denis to hold it up for everyone to see. It was big enough to cover his crib. “Que c’est joli!” she said. “You made this, didn’t you?”

  Justina nodded.

  “And I see Michael’s handiwork in here, too, don’t I?” Pascale teased.

  “Absolutely,” said Justina. “He helped with the design.”

  “Didn’t you put,” said Michael to Justina, “the other one?”