Perfect Pitch

by Amy Lapwing

“I just feel I can do it. Sometimes I have doubts. But then—” Ah, that moist smile he remembered so well— “if I just let the feeling come.” He clenched his fist. “Just like before. Everything, it’s just like before. It’s incredible, isn’t it?”

  Her face glowed up into his. “You always could, you just needed confidence. Sometimes, we need someone else to remind us, everyday maybe, that we can do it.”

  “How do we go about it?”

  “Let me make inquiries. Are you willing to go anywhere?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I can help you.”

  The courtroom was full, Paul waited outside. He saw the jury march in by a side door. They don’t waste time, they’ll get right to it. He got a drink from the water fountain, the white porcelain bowl was stained with rust from the metal spout to the drain. Perhaps all our throats are too. Red-throated saps. Suckers! No time to be inane, he tried to focus on what to say to Grace. He hoped to God she would win. They would leave her alone, if she won this. He wanted her alone, but not like them. He was sure she had never been in love before. He could tell because he never had either. That was their basic bond, they were virgins, she spiritually, he spiritually as well as physically, alas. How could he get her to take him seriously?

  A whoop went up inside. The doors opened and people came out, giddy from witnessing the spectacle. Paul peeked in. The Tau Nu brothers were high-fiving each other. He waited till Grace and her parents came out, silent and sullen.

  “Grace?”

  She looked at him blankly.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She blinked at him and went on, her shoulders brushing her parents’. The Tau Nu members and their friends and the other spectators who waited in the hallway shuffled out of their way, turning their bodies away and casting glances at the dirty girl whose depravity had unexpectedly entertained them that morning.

  Justina had sat in her office doing nothing, she finally realized, until well past her usual lunch hour. She went over to the fac at one and sat alone and ate soup and yogurt. Leaning on an elbow, she chewed on her thumbnail, her eyes flicking back and forth and gleaming with frequent blinks.

  “Here you are!” Pascale sat opposite her friend, her back arched as she leaned forward on her elbows. “You’ve heard?”

  “No.”

  “Not guilty.”

  Justina rocked her head back and forth. “I knew it.” She put down her elbow and played with her yogurt. “The guy is charmed.”

  “It’s just, the girl wasn’t convincing enough, so, the guy wins, by default.”

  “I don’t mean him.”

  Pascale sat more comfortably, her forearms on the table. “Justina, you didn’t just want Grace to win so Michael would lose?”

  “No!” She flashed angry eyes at Pascale. “But once he became a player, I definitely wanted him to lose.”

  Pascale shook her head. “He’s just caught up with this fatherhood fixation. He’ll get over it.”

  “He’s fucking her now.”

  Pascale held still, waiting for her to laugh and say, Just kidding. “Mon Dieu, oh-là, oh, Justina!” came out of her in spasms. She felt the smart of hot tears coasting in her eyes.

  Justina convulsed her shoulders and shook out, “He’s a shit and he’s history.” She snorted. “So much for love at first sight. You know what I read this morning, in the paper? Just this morning, I swear to God, in Dear Abby or Dear Ann, whichever? ‘Gem of the Day,’ right? ‘The best cure for love at first sight is to take a second look.’ I fucking cut it out, it was so great!”

  “How do you know?” Pascale leaned across the table and looked up into her face. “You don’t know for sure.”

  “He was out for four hours last night. Comes home, doesn’t say a word, not even, hi, goodnight. Just gets in bed, pretends I’m not there. And today, I was standing right there, right in front of them. I’ve never met the bitch, right? What’s he do, what’s the wonderful, charming man do? Hangs his head. In shame! Won’t even introduce her to me. Fucking coward. But you know what? I don’t even hate him. He just makes me sick. I wasted six years on him. Think of all the guys, all the affairs, Pascale, there’s your word, I missed so many great affairs. Just so I could have the most beautiful guy I’ve ever seen.” She pushed away a tear. “I mean, I could have been a bitch, I could have cheated on him, I could have spent all his money, you know? If it’s got to end like this.” She looked at her soup and then at her yogurt. Hot and cold. She put a spoonful of soup in her mouth. Warm. Then a spoonful of yogurt. Lukewarm. Tiède. Tiède frisson.

  She put her hand over her eyes and let herself cry softly. Pascale went round to sit beside her and took Justina’s head onto her shoulder. Oh-là-là-là.

  Who is that singing ‘Che gelida manina?’ God! Sounds like a baritone. Ow! That supposed to be a B? Must be having try-outs. I thought we were doing Otello. Maybe it’s just for the audition. It’s a nice aria, every tenor knows it. Ah, that’s better. I don’t know, he really sounds like a baritone. Well, if he is, Mr. C will know.

  If he is Mr. C, again. Okay, trial’s over, you’re my teacher again, right?

  Grace stopped at the doorway and peeked in.

  Derek’s mother sat at the piano. Mr. C stood on the side, where Grace usually stood for her voice lesson. He was the “baritone” singing the well-loved tenor aria from Puccini’s La Bohème. He stopped singing and said something to Derek’s mother. She played and he came in on the second verse. He strained his voice again at the high note; he shook his head when the siren scream came out, and stopped.

  Grace went in and sat noisily in a chair in the alto section behind Mr. C. He and Mrs. Bartel looked at her a moment as though she were a moose wandered in from the woods.

  Teresa looked at Michael and said, “Otra vez,” and she began the song again. Michael turned back to the music and sang.

  Grace’s shoulders fell and she grabbed her backpack, the metal chair clattering over, and went out.

  The breasts fall, out of their bra, but she is so eager for my touch. The skin of her back and her waist, her belly, is loose, but soft, she shivers as I move my hands on her, I am afraid she will bolt like a wild thing. I lift the fur and I touch it, all floppy and red, and she sucks in her breath. I reach in with my finger, it is dry, all the way in, so dry. She would love me to lick her, I smell the soap she used to clean herself, flowers in the musk. She is getting wet now, just thinking of my tongue there, the thought was all it took.

  No condom, no diaphragm, no fear of babies or disease. She has been without a man and without a younger woman’s need for caution for years. She has been dreaming of making love to me forever. I will be better than her fantasy.

  Good, so good, a monotony of good, so unreal. No tie to an actual woman, no anticipating peculiar likes and avoiding dislikes. A sleeve of sex, one size fits all, more or less.

  Her nipples fall on either side of her chest, nothing to prop them up. Her neck wrinkles as she brings her head forward to look at me. It is Teresa, she has come.

  Too late.

  A quiet vicarious thrill, then diminishing desire. Shit, I am going soft.

  “Lick,” she whispers, holding up her middle finger to his mouth, a dagger of red on its tip. He obeys, she reaches around behind his buttocks, finds the opening in the fuzz and pushes in her moistened arrow. A small stiffening of objection, not voiced, then a hush.

  Fuck me! A million seams burst open and a sea of molten needles washes out. More, there is more, fuck me some more. It trickles out of him onto her, coating them both, glueing them together, the invisible honey. Otra vez. Again.

  Pocahontas, Snow White, a cowboy, a dragon, a princess, the Blue Ranger, and a ghost stand at the end of the driveway of the red house on Thomas Road. The haunted house. Somebody died there. They were murdered. The son killed the father. Their spirit lives in the attic. The children see two cars in the driveway, a green Saab and a white Buick. No, the father killed the son. Whatever! Shut up! They a
dvance up the driveway. There are no outside lights on, but there are lights on on the first floor. The Blue Ranger points up and they all tilt their heads and notice the dim light on upstairs in one of the bedrooms. The ghost! Pocahontas looks at Snow White and says something over her shoulder to the Blue Ranger and they move forward up the driveway, the others following close behind, their bags of candy bars shuffling against their legs. It is a cold night, they are glad to be moving again. They will just try and if they don’t like something, they’ll just run back to the road, okay? They stop in front of the granite slab at the front door. Everyone looks to Pocahontas. She searches along the doorframe for a doorbell button. None. “Knock on the door!” the Blue Ranger exhorts. Pocahontas steps onto the doorstep and knocks three times and jumps back onto non-house ground. They hold their breaths, listening. “Knock again,” commands the Blue Ranger. Pocahontas repeats her step-knock-jump dance, banging harder on the door this time. They listen to the silence. Pocahontas looks at the Blue Ranger. “Go on!” She knocks again.

  “Look!” The princess points up at the window that had been lit. It is black now. The troupe stare open-mouthed at the mystery, their breath coming out in pulses of thin vapor just visible against the night. The lights on the first floor snap off. The children run down the driveway, their bags hitting against their legs— frock-frock-frock— their screams bouncing off the trees, carrier bats in the night.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Get It Right

  “Here he comes,” said Pascale. “Don’t worry, he’s not going to sit here.”

  Charles and Helena and Michael joined the lunch line. Michael checked his wallet and snuck a peek at their usual table: no Justina. He put his wallet back and swung around, pretending to look at the clock behind him. His pan spotted Justina at another table with Pascale. He spun back around and bobbed his head at something Charles was saying.

  Charles started for their usual table, stopping when he saw unusual people sitting there. He found Justina and Pascale and smiled, he would not have to decide on a table, and headed for them. Helena followed. They left the seat next to Justina empty.

  “I didn’t think you’d find us,” said Pascale.

  “Oh!” said Helena, afraid of having blundered. “Did you want to be alone?”

  “No-no,” said Pascale, trying to smooth it over, “we just thought we needed a change.”

  Michael came up and sat next to Justina.

  “Hi, everybody,” he said.

  Pascale kept her eyes on him as he took the toothpicks out of his sandwich and picked up a half. He raised his eyebrows and batted his eyelids and shook his topknot at her stare.

  She relaxed her expression and smiled, her head cocked to one side. “Elle est comment, ta musicienne? Hein? Avec ses tendres vieux nénés.”

  He turned an ear toward her, struggling to decode her slang.

  “Save your breath, Pascale,” said Justina tiredly.

  Pascale leaned forward and bobbed her chin at him. “Dis-donc.”

  He sat back from her.

  “Elle crie ton nom, quand tu lui manges la chatte? Hein?”

  His brows were low, his mouth slightly open. Eat the cat?

  "Elle te lèche les burnes, bonhomme?”

  He blinked and shut his mouth. She lick my—?

  He threw down his sandwich and got up from the table and went out, dumping his lunch, tray and all, in the trash.

  “T’es la dernière des ordures!” Pascale cawed after him.

  Charles and Helena sat up like cadets, big eyes on Pascale. Helena snapped out of it first and asked, “What was that all about?”

  “I just asked him how life was treating him,” answered Pascale, shrugging one shoulder as she picked her sandwich back up.

  “You didn’t have to,” said Justina. She pushed away the air in front of her, waving away his aura, and said, “It’s over.” She rested her chin on her hand and let Pascale tell Charles and Helena about Michael’s infidelity.

  “I can’t believe it,” said Charles, squinting at Pascale and then at Justina. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, she’s sure! Why do you think he walked away like that?”

  “She’s got him bewitched,” said Helena. “No man in his right mind would prefer her over you, Justina.” She shook her head. “He’s messed up.”

  Pascale looked at her with impatience.

  “I’m not making excuses for him,” Helena said. “He’s an asshole! He just doesn’t know what he’s doing.” She looked at Justina to see if she had hit a note of truth yet. “Has he ever done this before?”

  Justina raised her shoulders. “Who knows? Before this, I would have said, ‘no way.’”

  “She’s giving him some shit that’s making him crazy,” said Helena.

  “Lookit,” said Justina, turning to them, “he wants her now. I was fine, for a while, but now she’s here, so he doesn’t want me anymore.”

  “Justina,” Charles deepened his voice, “he used to talk about her, a long time ago. I could tell he was still a little in love with her.”

  “Great,” said Justina.

  “But that was a long time ago.”

  Charles shared a glance with Helena. “Helena’s right,” he said. “There’s something strange going on here.”

  Justina sat up and slapped her palms on the table. “That’s it, then. The Love Court has spoken. Michael is loony. I feel so much better.”

  Pascale said, “Justina, Charles and I have known Michael a long—”

  “No!” Justina put up her hands. “Here’s the deal. He’s fucking another woman. There is no going on from this point. It’s over. He killed it. He wants her. I could care less, I’m out of his life and he’s out of mine.” She stood up. “Quit telling me I’m wrong.” She bussed her tray and got her jacket and went out, the legs of her slacks kicking about her ankles, her buttocks bobbling, the gleaming doll’s hair falling about her face and onto her bowed neck.

  The accompaniment was brilliantly written to suggest riding horseback. Bum-bum, bum-bum, bum-bum! The men sang, the women echoing them.

  “Swaz hie gat umbe!

  Swaz hie gat umbe!

  Daz sint allez megede!

  Daz sint allez megede!

  Die wellent an man!

  Wellent an man!”

  The men and women came together to sing:

  “Alle, alle, alle, ah—”

  Michael sat upon his stool, his hands up and almost touching, keeping the sound suspended. Some of the voices descended to the next note without waiting for his signal.

  “No!” He clapped his hands angrily. “No! You’re not watching!” He held his hands chest level, to begin again. “If you can’t watch, don’t sing!” he snarled. “From sixty-eight, the women’s ‘daz.’”

  The chorus sat up straighter, their music out in front of them, their eyes on their director. They sang again, staying on the note until he brought his hands down to continue. They rushed the next couple of measures, botching the rhythm.

  “Now you forget note values?” The sarcastic note stayed in his voice as he sang, “‘Su-mer,’” bobbing his head twice with the notes. “Quarter notes, I believe?” He held up his hands. “Again.”

  They came off the fermata and made it through the ‘sumer’ and on to the final ‘ah!’ Too many of them stopped singing too soon and the sound thinned.

  He let his hands flop onto his thighs. “Can’t you count past four?” He got down off his stool and went to the piano. He waved the wide-eyed accompanist out of the way and lifted the bench lid. He took out a black-and-white-striped croquet mallet and pushed the stool to the side. He stood before the stand, heaving the mallet in one hand.

  “At the ‘alle,’” he commanded. The anxious accompanist sat back down and played. The chorus sang: all were together on the fermata, the rhythm was correct for ‘sumer,’ they proceeded without a hitch to the final, long ‘ah.’ On the seventh measure, Michael brought the mallet crashing down on the se
at of the stool. Instead of the bullied silence, he heard, “‘Slà!’” shouted, the final note, as written.

  He looked over at the sopranos, the sound had come from there. Eyes on the floor, eyes on the walls, eyes across the room upon the altos, frightened eyes on him, one pair of glaring eyes. Grace Hardy’s.

  He hefted the mallet and returned her icy look. “So you can count.” He glanced at the clock over the basses’ heads. “Spot check next time.” He shuffled into his office and tossed the mallet on his desk. He fell into his chair and sat looking out the window, a hand cradling his jaw, one finger pushing his cheek up to his eye.

  Their unsinkable spirit slowly returned, but not their ebullience. The cowed chorus gathered books and papers and slung bags over their shoulders and exchanged cheek-puffing looks of incredulity. They would survive and forget this group belittling, no one had been singled out to make it memorable. Grace smirked at Magda and let her go without her. She went to stand in Michael’s doorway.

  “Mr. C,” she began, a quaver in her voice nearly subdued.

  He glanced at her. Why didn’t she just go away? Why didn’t they all just go away? He had work to do, he needed to practice. He couldn’t help them, it was just another forgettable college course, what was the point?

  “You’re still my teacher.”

  He put his hands on the chair arms and, keeping his eyes on the window, he enunciated, “I pick my students. They don’t pick me.”

  “I’m your student!” she cried.

  He passed her to sit at the piano, opened to the “Che gelida manina” aria and played the intro.

  She followed him and said, “I want you to be my teacher!”

  He hummed the first note.

  “Mr. C!”

  He stopped playing. “It’s a mistake,” he said, and hazarded a look at her. She stood behind him, her shoulders hunched over her backpack, her eyes on the piano bench, contemplating some misery she could not express. An ugly little mole she was, she couldn’t see beyond her own body and its wants. Her sound was a fluke, she had not the depth to sustain artistic growth. She was a waste of his time. His own growth took precedence now.