Perfect Pitch

by Amy Lapwing

  “Look underneath,” said Justina to Denis, “there should be—”

  Denis found the small rectangular present beneath the afghan and opened it. He beamed and said, “Thank you, Michael,” and he showed everyone a cassette tape. “Which concert is this?” Pascale asked and she turned it over and looked at it. “Oh, last spring?”

  “And last fall. It has the Hansel and Gretel we did, you remember?”

  “Yes,” said Denis. He and Pascale thanked them all again on Nicolas’ behalf. He emerged from under his tent and Pascale sat him on her knee and rubbed his back as he attempted to focus his eyes on his loot. He chirped a burp of appreciation.

  “He’s ready to rock and roll. Who wants him?” offered Pascale. Alicia quietly stepped up and took the baby. She showed him to her polite boyfriend.

  “How many classes you got this term, Helena?” asked Justina.

  “Just two, same as always,” she responded. “They’re big though.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Justina. “I got thirty-one in my French One and forty in my French Two. It’s insane.”

  “Slash and burn,” said Charles.

  They looked at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Helena.

  “If they don’t slash your roll, you burn them.” They were still giving him puzzled looks. “You quiz their asses out of there. Everyday, if you have to. Make it tougher to stay in than to just get the hell out.”

  “All of Charles’ classes have ten students or less,” Michael pointed out.

  Justina squinted at the two men, first one, then the other. To Charles, she said, “I like big classes.”

  He raised his eyebrows: oh, really?

  “I make a little bet with myself that I can get further in the syllabus than usual and still get the same grade distribution.” She leaned on the word ‘bet.’

  “And do you win, your little bet?” asked Charles.

  “I don’t know. We’ll have to see. I don’t deserve to win, though.”

  “Why not?” asked Charles innocently.

  “Because, Charles, it’s insulting.” She turned to Michael. “Don’t you think it’s insulting, if you were a student, if your teacher was betting you could make this or that grade?”

  “Not if I bet she could make an A,” Michael responded. “That would be flattering, I think, encouraging.” He looked to Charles who cocked his head at Justina.

  She narrowed her eyes at him and then she looked at Charles and said, “So, Michael, you agree it would be insulting to bet my student could not get an A?”

  Michael cleared his throat. “I better go look at the stew.” He left Charles stranded who was smiling at Justina. She continued to eye him with derision.

  “Did you make a bet against one of your students, Charlie?” asked Helena, dying to know what Justina was talking about.

  “Not a student,” answered Charles. “And not a bet, exactly. A prediction.”

  “About what?” pressed Helena.

  “I was quite sure something would come to pass,” explained Charles, “so I bet someone it would not.”

  “Oh, sure, I do that all the time,” said Helena, giving a crazy look to Justina. “Can I have a Ph.D. too, now?”

  “But you see, Helena, I was perfectly happy to lose. Delighted to be the loser.” Justina’s smirk was changing into a head-shaking smile.

  “Then why’d you make the bet?” asked Helena, waggling her head with confusion.

  “Sport,” he said.

  “Oh!” exclaimed Helena. “Now I get it.”

  “Come to eat!” called Michael. Charles gave Helena his arm and offered the other to Justina. Pascale took back Nicolas from Alicia and they all went to sit in the dining room.

  As he pushed Justina’s chair in for her, Charles murmured, “Of course, I haven’t lost, yet. I have, let’s see, two more months in which to win.”

  “But then you wouldn’t be ‘delighted,’” she said.

  “No, I would not. I would grieve,” he said, and he kissed her cheek.

  All of the shared items, the salt and pepper, the butter and rolls, the hot sauce, seemed to end up in front of Pascale’s T.A. so that people were constantly calling, “Alicia, would you please pass—” The shy girl had numerous exchanges with everyone in this way and she began to join in the conversation.

  “I can’t believe I will stay home for four months!” exclaimed Pascale.

  “Or longer, Piggy,” added Denis. “You have the whole year, don’t you?”

  “I won’t need the whole year. Nicolas and I will be sick of each other by then, we will both need to get out. Alicia, would you pass the hot sauce? Thank you. I’m counting on you to keep me up to date on the department gossip,” she said when the girl had passed the bottle to her.

  “I’m not much for gossip,” said Alicia, regretting it when she realized it made her sound disapproving of her boss. “I mean, I only really know the grad students, really.”

  “That’s who I’m talking about!” inveighed Pascale. “The rest of them never do anything. It’s exciting when Richelieu decides to wear pants with pleats one day.”

  “I remember that,” said Justina.

  “Didn’t he look fabulous?” cried Pascale.

  “Made for sin,” agreed Justina.

  “Piggy—” said Denis, the second syllable at a higher pitch, checking to see if the students had been paying attention. Alicia had paused her chewing and was watching the two women.

  “Who’s this?” asked Michael, picking up on the ‘sin.’

  “The Cardinal, Michael,” said Pascale.

  Michael carelessly lowered his lids: ah. No threat there, apparently.

  To Alicia she said, “So, what happens with the scum so far this year?”

  Alicia shrugged. “Let’s see. Roger is switching his thesis topic again.”

  Pascale shrugged.

  “And Kristen is thinking of taking next semester off.”

  “She is?” said Justina with surprise. "I was counting on her to help with Survey."

  “She’s just thinking about it, she hasn’t decided yet.”

  “I’ll talk to her,” said Justina.

  “Come on, Alicia!” moaned Pascale. “What is happening? Really happening?”

  “I told you I’m not very good at this.” She stopped to ponder. “James says he likes his job in Paris.” She checked Pascale’s look to see if this was satisfactory.

  “James!” Pascale beamed.

  “He didn’t say if he had a girlfriend yet,” said Alicia, wanting to show she was alert to the possibility, anyway.

  “I got a note from James last week,” recalled Pascale. “He said he wants to come to see the baby on his way home at Christmas.”

  “What’s he doing in Paris?” asked Justina.

  “He’s working for a software company, I think,” said Alicia, trying to be useful.

  “He does the English, the, comment ça s’appelle—” She conferred with Denis who said, “interface.” “The interface,” resumed Pascale, “for some computer game, some really popular French game.”

  Michael watched Justina say, “Oh. Well, probably pays well, anyway.” She turned to her husband, “You remember when I did that translation work for Robin and those guys?” To the others she said, “Made a small fortune. Just to translate some soporific user’s manual into French. Had to learn all the terms. ‘La souris—’”

  “Mouse?” guessed Denis.

  “Correct. ‘Le système d’exploitation?’”

  “Operating system?” guessed Alicia’s boyfriend.

  “Very good! What’s your name again?” she said, tossing him a coy look. “Here’s a tough one: ‘une bogue.’” No one knew. “Bug. Like a software ‘bug?’”

  “I think James is doing graphics, like he used to do before he came here,” said Pascale.

  “I suppose that makes it bearable,” said Justina. “Alicia, could you pass the rolls, please?”

  Michael passed Jus
tina the butter and smiled pleasantly for her: see, do I not behave well? “I have news from an old student, too,” he said, and he told them about Minnie Maus’ first impressions of Rutgers where she had just started as an assistant professor of music, after graduating from Oberlin with her Ph.D. the previous spring. “She says ‘hello’ to everyone.”

  They all commented on how nice it was to hear from one’s former students. Alicia made a mental note.

  The guests left mid-afternoon. Pascale stayed longer than she should have and fell asleep in the car on the way home.

  After cleaning up, Justina got out the packets of photos that had been accumulating in a desk drawer since last Christmas and set about updating the album with the year’s snapshots. Michael went upstairs to check his email.

  He had a note from his brother-in-law Ernesto, padre. The last hurricane, Luis, had missed them, and it looked like Marilyn would, too. Pepita sent a couple of gif files of pictures of her two-year-old, and she sent her love to them both. Michael was about to call down to Justina to ask her how to print out the pictures, but he decided to finish reading his mail first. There was something from a bartel@boston.odb.com. Why was that name familiar? He could not think why any of Pepita’s co-workers would be sending him mail. When he saw it was in Spanish he thought it must be another note from Pepita, that she had an alternate user name. He opened the file and read the note.

  “Hello, Miguel. I expect you’re surprised to hear

  from me. Can it really have been twenty years since

  New York? So many memories, but just one regret. I

  wonder how things are with you, Miguel. Poor as it

  is, I hope this is not our last communication.

  Teresa Bartel.”

  Teresa.

  He pushed away the image of her neat dark head, the bright eyes and red lips smiling up at him; but then the figure in his rear view mirror coyly shuffled itself to the front of his brain.

  Teresa.

  It had been her, after all. And so that boy must be her son. She must work for ODB. He checked the trail on the message. So, she was married, working and living in Boston. Or here, in Kennemac, with her son.

  Why was she contacting him?

  He felt a flurry of panic, like rolling off a cliff. Justina’s step came up the stairs and hurriedly, without thinking why, he closed the window containing the woman’s message.

  Justina came in with a photo. “Look at this picture of Daddy,” she said. She showed him a picture of George, the year before his illness, standing in the garden with his silly little hat on and wearing his flowered gloves, smiling jauntily at the camera. “Isn’t this great?”

  Michael hummed a short laugh. “You should frame it.”

  “That’s what I thought.” She opened the closet and rummaged in a box.

  Michael watched her trying the photo against the empty frames she found. Make it go away, he had an urge to ask her, here, right here— he would bring the note up onto his screen again for her to see— chase it away, Justina!

  She backed out of the closet and stood back up. “I guess I’ll look for a nice one at the mall. I want to put it on my desk at school.” She showed the photo to Michael again. “Isn’t he a love? Was. Is.”

  Michael smiled at the picture and pulled her onto his lap and tried to kiss her.

  “I want to finish, I’m almost done,” she pleaded. She kissed him and he let her up and she went back downstairs.

  After supper, Michael returned to his computer and looked again at Teresa’s message. He would delete it, he did not want it hanging around. “Just one regret.” She must mean leaving with no explanation, after spending the week with him in New York. Well, I’m not going to ask her now, certainly not. He sat back in his chair, resting his arms on the chair arms, and tilted his head up. The shelves were loaded with books, Justina’s mostly, and some computer software, not much, they did not play games. He had built those shelves himself, the biggest carpentry project he had ever undertaken. He had had to pull them apart at one point when he discovered they were not level, and put them together again. They were wondrously level, now, a marble would just sit there. The doorways were not so level, but they were fine for an old house. It was a solid house, well-grounded on the hill and sheltered by the surrounding trees. It was a good house, well-taken care of by careful owners over the years, he and Justina felt they could live here forever, provided she got tenure, of course. They would raise a child, maybe more than one, here, in this house. He knew what he had, here, and he knew how to take care of it. He would respond cordially, but finally, to this woman.

  “Dear Teresa,” he began, oblivious of the email convention of greeting with ‘hi’ or ‘hello’ or simply the name,

  “Thank you for your note. I am glad to see you

  are working for such a fine company. My wife

  and I are very content here at Kennemac.

  Good luck to you.

  Miguel Calderón.”

  He re-read his message and was satisfied he was polite but not encouraging. He pressed control-s and a box popped up reading, “Reply sent to bartel@boston.odb.com.” He brought Teresa’s message to the top of the screen and pressed another key and a box popped up asking him whether he was sure. He pressed ‘y’ and the box said “Message deleted.” He felt he was correct. He also felt the weight of a box of photos and mementos in the attic above his head. He resisted an urge to go up there and look for a photo of her. He went downstairs and sat with Justina on the sofa where she was reading. She put her book aside and he rested his head in her lap and they talked about the people at the dinner party and whether Pascale could really stay away for two whole semesters. Justina thought she would be back before Christmas. Michael said he had given up trying to predict what people would do. But wasn’t the baby sweet? Justina pulled on a lock of his hair and watched it curl back up, and she said they were both sweet, he and Nicolas, and they both thought of the lost baby for a moment. He sat up and kissed her and they eschewed the sofa for the more comfortable bed.

  Chapter Five

  For Always to You

  The week was going so smoothly for Michael. His choruses were learning their music quickly. He had the usual few problems with the giddy students who needed a lesson in keeping quiet as he instructed another section, but they responded to his chiding without his needing to escalate again with solo singing. Grace Hardy came on time for her lesson on Tuesday and sang with intelligence the more modern Hindemith song he had given her. She even smiled and blushed when he praised her. Really, I think I’m helping her. And Justina seems more relaxed now that the semester has started; she is always happiest when she works, I think. The sources of joy or woe in his life, his wife and his students, his love and his work, he seemed to have herded each to a jocose, sunny meadow where he could keep them happy and safe. He felt gratified and generous. Except when he thought of Teresa. Perhaps it was mean of him to brush her off. She was probably new here, a stranger to this part of the country, and he was one of the few people she knew, and probably the only person who was not a co-worker. Could he not afford to be more magnanimous toward her, welcome her, even? He felt he should communicate with her again, send her a note. He could pretend he had met Derek since her note and he could make some overture, some neighborly gesture, since her son was a student of his, after all.

  He sat at his desk reviewing Carmina. ‘Pleasant is the season.’ The first Concert Chorus students came capering in, talking in soft voices when they saw him at his desk. He smiled to himself as he thought. She is all alone; I will see if I can help her settle in. I wonder what she regrets?

  Pretty white wooden buildings. Great big trees with high spreading canopies. The walkways busy but not crowded. A nice place for Derek, class of ‘97, Kennemac College. Cum laude? Summa cum laude. Of course.

  Teresa came to the common and looked at her campus map. She asked directions of a girl passing by. The student pointed her down the hill to one of the oldest build
ings.

  Once inside the tall double doors, she followed her ears to the choral classroom. She stood on tiptoe and peered in through the window. There he is, he’s leading the men. And now he cues the women. How sweetly he responds to their soft singing, as though they caress him. Now he cues the accompanist and looks at his music. He brings the men in again, his face is grave and full as he listens to what they say. His hands wave so slightly as the women come in again, he wants them even quieter than before. Oh, he shakes his head, they have broken the spell, they are too loud. They correct themselves, his pleasure at their sound shows in the corners of his eyes and his upturned lips. The accompanist watches him for her cue, then the men come in, but he stops them. He tells them something. He sings it for them. Ah!

  Teresa held her breath as Michael sang, his voice driving into her body. “Sweet Philomena,” “many smiling flowers,” “chorus of virgins,” “a thousand joys.” She stared in confusion at the old boyfriend who had invited her to see him, his son’s teacher, a married man who had made a gracious gesture, whose singing was making her forget the passage of twenty years. He stopped singing.

  Teresa turned her eyes to the beige-flecked brown linoleum floor. Shouldn’t she leave? No, she would just say hello and ask how Derek was doing in his class. Like a parent-teacher conference?

  The door opened in and the hubbub of talk burst out on her ears, followed by clumps of students, their bodies camouflaged in baggy pants and sacks-for-shirts. How young they were, how vibrant, their thoughts running swiftly, grasping ideas in passing, juggling them till they lost their grip, laughing and going on to the next class or the cafeteria or the library or to the dorm or to a rendez-vous. Shoes scraped the floor near her and stopped.

  “Teresa?” He stood in the doorway, looking at her. She caught a glimpse of his diffidence. “¡Ay, Dios mío!” His words hovered in the air by their heads.

  Her confusion was complete, standing in his embrace. She had never seen his hair this way, shorter and freer, free of the hair lacquer he used to wear. He squeezed her arms as he looked at her. His body, had he grown?