Perfect Pitch

by Amy Lapwing

  The man stepped back from the woman, smiling farewell and, patting the heads of the two children, he left them and went deeper into the store. The woman’s turn to check out had come; she turned her attention to getting her order on the conveyor belt as the little boy watched and the little girl pestered her for a candy bar.

  How much bitterness, wondered Pascale, had they had to endure before this brief tenderness was possible?

  In a cinder block and aluminum building in New Jersey, a printing press produced sheets of red-lettered sayings that a machine cut into little strips and then folded dough around. A conveyor belt moved the dollops of folded dough into an oven and the little cookies came out the other end and tumbled into cellophane bags onto which were slapped labels: “Chinese Fortune Cookies.” Cardboard boxes were filled with the bags, labeled and put on a truck. Every two weeks one of them ended up at Wokking Tall in Kennemac, New Hampshire.

  Order number fifty-seven: one order spring rolls, one order egg drop soup, one order hot and sour soup, one order General Tso’s chicken, one order pork fried rice. Total: $21.45. Duck sauce, hot mustard, soy sauce, fortune cookies, 2.

  Order number fifty-eight: one order scallion pancakes, one order won ton soup, one order sesame chicken, one small steamed rice. Total: $17.85. Duck sauce, hot mustard, soy sauce, fortune cookies, 1? Toss in another, 2.

  Charles and Justina arrived at the same time to pick up their orders, Charles for number fifty-seven, Justina, fifty-eight. The hostess handed the bags onto the counter and there they sat while the customers paid. Charles let Justina go first. No hard feelings about Moe’s, forget about it, already. Sorry about the separation. Authorization number 100237823. She signed, took her bag and left.

  When Charles got home he discovered he had taken the wrong bag, or, rather, that Justina had. No matter, said Helena, it looked good. They called Justina to see if she wanted to switch; she didn’t; in fact, she had already started to eat and she was glad there were two soups, she was hungry. Charles and Helena shared the won ton soup, there really was enough for two.

  Justina smiled at the fortunes: “You are a true and faithful friend,” and “You are capable of more than you know.” Charles and Helena. She wondered what her fortune was. The fortune cookie fairy had given her these, though, so perhaps these were meant for her. She read them again. Could be.

  Charles got, “You have a deep interest in all that is artistic.” Helena cracked hers open and cried, “Oh my God!” which made Charles look at the T.V. screen, expecting a fight had broken out among the hockey players. She showed the fortune to Charles: “Love truth but pardon error.” She said they should have made Justina switch back.

  When she finished Charles’ and Helena’s dinner, except for the pork fried rice, she did not care for it, Justina sat down with the November bank statement and the checkbook. How is Michael writing checks? Two were torn out; he had entered them in the register, one for Val’s Garage, the other for Dunster Road Cleaners; he is mobile and laundered. He comes in when I’m not here. He’s afraid to see me? He thinks I don’t want to so much as see him? She remembered that the afghan she had made for him was not on the back of the sofa; he must have taken it. She checked off the bank’s list of their deposits. Two direct deposits of her paychecks, two of his. A deposit on the sixth for $700. Thirty-five dollars an hour, four lessons a month, $140 a month. Just five students? He had six. Grace had probably stopped coming. Stupid man, she was his most promising student. A stock dividend. Another one. Her mother’s voice: those should be reinvested, for a rainy day. An ATM deposit, $180, on the twenty-eighth. And another, $135, on the first. She had no receipts, she could not account for them.

  When she had finished balancing, she went into the kitchen and put the fried rice into the refrigerator, for Michael, next time he came by. No point in letting it go to waste, for goodness’ sake. She put a stickum note on the fridge door, to let him know it was there.

  The outfoxed fortune cookie fairy put a curse on the factory in New Jersey and the next week’s output contained misprints such as, “You are anal and contumacious by nature,” “You are a mental lightweight in the boxing ring of life,” and “You will ingest a large sum of money.” No orders were cancelled, however; the customers were satisfied. Wokking Tall doubled their order, in hopes of receiving more of the whimsical sayings.

  At ten o’clock that night Grace walked from the library to the Tau Nu house. She ignored the calls from the boys around the keg and went upstairs. She stopped in Aaron’s doorway. He sat in a black beanbag chair; there were two other guys sitting on the floor with their backs against the bed. Ryan and, Ralph? Renard? Rafael? Whatever. Cute, though, funny little pug nose. They were passing around a joint and watching the hockey game. Their arms thrusted into the air above their heads. They called aw-right. Aaron popped open a cool one and turned his head and saw Grace there. He beckoned her in with his voice and an arm.

  Grace went in and sat on the bed. Aaron asked her what was up. She sat looking at the television screen. Arms in the air. Victory was certain. Aaron whined for Grace to come sit with him. She sat in front of him in the bean bag.

  Aaron put his arms around her chest and nuzzled her neck. Ryan and the other R shifted their eyes to this action, then back to the screen. Grace leaned back in Aaron’s arms and he kissed her. From her eager tongue he calculated he could get away with feeling her tits in front of the other guys, so he did. She arched her back, pushing her breasts against his cupped palms. Aaron got a great idea, something he’d always wanted to do.

  He moved his hand down her belly to her legs as he kissed her. His hand crept up to her pussy and rubbed. She turned and straddled his lap, kissing him. He reached back an arm and prodded Ryan.

  Ryan came to kneel next to the bean bag. When Aaron stopped kissing Grace and leaned away from her, he kissed her.

  Grace bowed her head a moment. She seemed to come to a decision and lifted her chin, and Ryan kissed her again, caressing her breasts and her buttocks. Aaron gave a signal to the other R and he joined the threesome and got his turn to kiss the girl, this piece of ass, Aaron’s fuck. Aw-right.

  It was not unpleasant, kissing three boys at once. It was a little confusing, less predictable than with one boy, much sexier. They were so gentle, as though she might spook and run away at any moment. And they were so fast. R took off her shirt while Ryan unzipped her pants. Aaron put on a condom, more for neatness than for anyone’s protection, and he got on top of her when his buds finished stripping her. The other two sat by watching, her, of course, not him, not thinking to uncover their pup tents. Ryan frantically undid his pants when Aaron got off her, but there was no need to rush, she did not seem to want to go anywhere. Aaron crooned softly to her, telling her how hot she was, how he would never forget this, she was so incredible, as Ryan had a go.

  Grace Hardy was still on R’s To Do list. Perhaps it was the unfamiliarity of him, or perhaps the way he thrusted so hard, God, why was he doing it so hard? Or maybe she was just sore, she had gone dry with Ryan when she realized she wasn’t going to come, even in all this excitement. She pushed R’s shoulders, trying to get him off her.

  R responded with a grin and he bore down against her chest with his. He was holding back, he was having too much fun for it to be over now.

  “Get off me!” she cried and she bit his cheek.

  He yelped in pain and sprang away from her. She sat up and Aaron tried to hold her by the arms.

  “Let me go, you asshole!”

  Aaron knew that tone, only force would keep her here. He let her go and kept Ryan from trying to stop her. She pulled on her clothes as the boys zipped up their pants. By the time she was pulling on her jeans, they had settled back into their original configuration, their eyes on the television set.

  Grace stood and put her bag over her shoulder and looked at Aaron’s profile. He glanced at her, he had the look of a poker player claiming his winnings. Read ‘em and weep. He took a drink from his can
of beer and put it down on the floor, just missing the clammy school bus yellow condom. She walked out of there. Their arms punched the air.

  At lunchtime on Monday Michael went by the house to get his tux. He went into the kitchen first to check the mail in the basket. Bills were paid, just statements. He opened them and took them upstairs for filing, got his tux and came down. He went back into the kitchen and opened the freezer. He really wanted to take some of the Terrazu to Charles’, all he had was a flavorless store brand. He took out a packet of beans. This was what he liked to drink on Sunday mornings when he and Justina lingered over the fat newspaper. He would come to sit with her on the couch to show her something interesting or funny. She was so soft and warm and fun on Sundays, till about four and then the prospect of the coming week made her tense with plans. He did not mind it, though, he knew that was how she worked, she was a more intense person than he was. He liked it, he admired her for it. But Sunday mornings she was as close to all his as she ever got, outside of bed.

  He put the coffee package back into the freezer and closed the door. A paper on the lower door caught his eye. He opened the refrigerator and found the white carton with red pagoda drawings on it and took it out. He took a spoon from the miniature carreta he had bought for her in Sarchí. She had wanted a big ox cart, but it cost more to ship than to buy. He didn’t mind paying it, but she did. She told him she would be just as happy with a small one. She had used it as a model when she painted the table and chairs in the kitchen. Their kitchen looked more like a Tico kitchen than his mother’s, he had told her. He scooped some of the fried rice onto a plate and heated it up in the microwave. The machine hummed and clicked, on, off, over and over as the plate inside turned around and around. She didn’t really care if I found it or not, she just didn’t want to throw it away. He pushed down the ache that floated in his chest.

  She was throwing him away. Nothing he did mattered. He could make his music and get a thrill every now and then, but it was small and mean, like satisfying an appetite, like an animal with a meal. But he would do it, he would continue to teach because it was what he did best. But he would always ache, like this, nothing would replace her.

  The microwave dinged. He took out the plate, the noodles sizzled in the grease at the rim of the pile of food. She had left this food for him. It was the only communication they had had since she had asked for the divorce, a little over a week ago. He took the plate and got a fork and sat down at the kitchen table.

  He ate it all and filled the plate again. He would eat the whole container, show her he was hungry, that she had assuaged his hunger. When he finished, he rinsed the plate and opened the dishwasher. It was full of clean dishes. He put them away and then put his dirty dish and her breakfast dishes in. He went to get his tux from the kitchen chair and looked at her note again.

  “Michael, there’s Chinese in the fridge if you want it.”

  He got a pencil from the “J’aime Paris” mug by the phone— the “aime” was spelled with a red heart— and picked off the note and made to write a response. He got an idea and smiled, his eyes flicking back and forth at the row of cookbooks on the counter in front of him. He stamped his foot and wrote, “Thank you, sweetheart, it was good!” on her note and stuck it on the kitchen table.

  Joshua came at four that afternoon, instead of Wednesday, he had a rehearsal for a Christmas pageant then. The boy had made great progress this semester in controlling his temper. It was so difficult for him to reconcile the sounds he made with how they sounded in his head. He was merciless to himself when he was off the pitch, even if by just a hair. Michael was showing him how to adjust his pitch as he sang, gracefully, unobtrusively. Music is a human creation, he instructed him, it is by nature imperfect. We strive for the ideal, we reach it, or something so close, for brief moments and that is what we remember, that is what keeps us coming back for more. Joshua did not need to be encouraged to come back for more, his mother said, he was always making music. But she was so appreciative of Michael’s ability to help him direct his talent constructively. Before Joshua had started coming to Michael, he had been very hard to live with, all the time exploding in anger as he tried to sing or play the violin, and doing both well, it seemed to her. But not to Joshua.

  Michael wished he had a solo for the boy in the Christmas concert, but he had not reckoned on his being ready so soon. If they switched to Tosca in the spring, he could sing the shepherd boy’s part. Well, he could certainly sing with the children in the garden scene in Otello.

  As soon as Joshua left, Michael went to get his briefcase and coat. He needed to get to the grocery store, he had forgotten to check if anything was defrosted in the refrigerator. He pulled the door to on his office and turned to find Grace.

  “Hi,” she said.

  There was no animosity in her eyes; a little fear maybe; resolve. He said, “Hi.”

  “You’re just leaving, I’ll come back.”

  “No-no, I don’t have to leave just yet,” he said. He looked from his office to his piano. They should sit and talk. He got out his keys and unlocked his office. “Come in, Grace.”

  “No,” she said, waving a hand. “Can we just— I want to audition.” He looked quizzical. “For that solo in Carmina?”

  His eyeballs scanned his eyebrows. Then he remembered. “Yes.” He went to the piano. “Was that ‘In trutina,’ or ‘Dulcissime?’”

  “‘In trutina,’ I hope.” She blew out a laugh at herself and came to stand at the piano, in her usual spot.

  He took off his coat and laid it on a chair in the alto section. He opened the Carmina Burana vocal score to Grace’s solo. “We warm up first,” he said. “‘Ah.’” He played scales and she sang “ah,” up, then down. As they climbed higher, he held his hand open, holding an imaginary baseball, and drew it down, pulling open his jaw. She copied him and a different sound came out of her, light, ringing, cool and surprising, an endless late summer day of ease and surfeit and the certain imminence of fall brilliance.

  “First the meaning,” he said and he studied the Latin text. “‘In trutina,’ means ‘In the balance.’

  “I am confused, undecided;

  What will I choose?

  How will I love?"

  “That is the first verse.” She was looking at the text, as though she did not believe him. “That’s all.” He repeated his translation.

  “But,” said Grace, confused, “what about ‘pudicitia’ and ‘lascivus amor?’”

  “Yes,” he said, his face pulled up by his eyebrows, “that is the question! It’s the question that you pose to yourself. You must have an answer, it is tormenting you! So, you think while the music goes on.” He played the transition between the first and second verses. “Then, you have an idea.” He looked again at the text.

  “Finally I open my eyes,

  I see;

  I take up the burden at my feet

  For it is meant for me—”

  He turned to her to give her the last line. “‘And it is sweet.’” He smiled to reassure her, erasing the tentative longing that had been there. It reminded her of someone, his look, someone sweet. Her father? No, someone new. Who? Someone whose look gave her a feeling like autumn, a beautiful orange maple in late afternoon, how it could open her heart with that soft pain she loved, fear and hope, imminent death and inevitable rebirth, both promised in the branches she imagined herself lying upon. Until her love came.

  He was playing the intro. She came in at her entrance, her mind on the mystery lover. Her voice closed down on ‘lascivus.’ Derek, that was who she was thinking of.

  “Try again,” said Michael. She could not hit the note, though it was not high, only a D.

  “I can’t. It’s too hard,” she said and she turned away from the piano.

  Softly he said, “It is hard. It’s hard to decide.”

  She turned back to him.

  “It’s hard to decide, but once you do, it’s easy. You’ll see, it will come.”

&nb
sp; She stepped back up to the piano and sang.

  “In trutina mentis dubia

  Fluctuant contraria lascivus amor”

  Her voice gargled the A and broke off again. She angrily picked up her backpack and started away.

  “Go, then!” he called. “Run and hide.”

  “I’m not hiding!”

  “That’s all you’ve done,” he said.

  “You don’t know me! Nobody knows me!”

  “No, I don’t know you. I only see what you show me.”

  He was looking too soothing, too gentle to be about to insult her. She waited for him to continue.

  “I see a great beauty in you, Grace,” he said, happy to be able to tell her, to try to help her. “I see it when you sing. Your voice is strong. It is so strong! Stronger than you know.”

  She stepped back up to the piano.

  “You have to have the courage to bring it out,” he continued. “It will push, it will always push, but you will never be happy until you let everything that you are come out in your voice. Then everything will change in your life. Because you will feel the truth of your life.”

  She was shaking her head, she did not understand him.

  He simply smiled. “Too many words, just listen.” He played the intro again. “Understand here,” he said pointing to his head. “Let it come from here.” He pointed to his breast.

  She closed her eyes and sang.

  “In trutina mentis dubia

  Fluctuant contraria lascivus amor

  Et pudicitia.”

  She watched the images of Derek and Aaron and the other boys glide in her mind as she sang, swinging on tires above the pond, daring each other to jump. Calm, now; they had nothing to do with her. She opened her eyes and sang the second verse.