by Andy Mozina
“You’re right,” I say. “I should just call. God, why can’t I think of these things?”
“They’re going to charge extra for time after five-thirty.” Education and child-care-related costs have always been a flashpoint in our relationship, ever since Milena’s parents, frightened of Chicago’s public schools, talked us into enrolling Audrey in Near North Montessori as a three-year-old and offered to pay most of her tuition—an offer that we accepted, resulting, I suspect, in my everlasting emasculation in Milena’s eyes. “And don’t forget she has to be at the Y for swimming lessons at seven.”
“How is Audrey?” I ask.
“Fine.”
“That’s good.”
Milena sighs. “She had another bad playdate yesterday.”
“Oh, no.”
“She threw a toy at Natalie and hit her in the face. Her lip was bleeding.”
They’re only six, but their relationship is alarmingly fraught. They’ll play together great for hours, but often, at a certain point, Natalie will withdraw, and Audrey can’t stand that and will plead with and badger her to no avail and then break down crying. Lately, they sometimes don’t make it through sleepovers, and an unlucky one of us parents ends up shuttling one kid or the other home in the middle of the night.
“My God, what did she throw?”
“I don’t know, I think it was a plastic zebra.”
“I mean, why?”
“Because I was paying too much attention to Natalie.” Milena’s disgust is at a perfect smolder. “Audrey got jealous, she just lost it. And Natalie said she would never talk to Audrey again in her whole life. And I have to explain this to her mother?”
“Did Audrey apologize?”
“Yeah, but Natalie wouldn’t accept it. So when Marilyn came to pick up Natalie, Audrey was the one crying and Natalie was looking daggers at the wall.”
Silence overtakes the line. And beneath the silence are the unspoken accusations: if you were a normal man, we would have had a second child and Audrey would have worked out her jealousy issues in the privacy of her own family; if you didn’t make me divorce you, Audrey wouldn’t have been traumatized into becoming a controlling little pest from whom I have to protect her own friends. And so on.
“Dang, I don’t know what to say,” I murmur.
She sighs, as if this is par for my course. “Look, her last day of swimming lessons is Wednesday night and parents are invited. She’s excited about it.” Another sigh. “She wants you to be there.”
“She actually said that?”
“Yeah.”
“Does that mean you won’t be there?”
“I’ll be there.”
“Wow,” I say. “Never thought I’d see you in a swimsuit again.”
There’s another pause. I squinch my eyes shut, bracing for a verbal cuff upside the head.
Finally, she breathes into the line: “What am I going to do with you, Matthew?”
The intimacy of her tone catches me off guard and my body starts to respond.
“So Wednesday, then, we’ll swim with Audrey,” I stammer, swiveling Vikram’s leather executive chair. “What about Steve?” I add, an ill-advised afterthought.
“What about Steve?” she says.
Just then Vikram opens the door and finds me turning in his chair.
“Gotta go, Milena, thanks,” I say, and I hang up.
Only his respect for the rule of law keeps Vikram from choking me with both hands. All he allows himself is “Get out there,” spoken with withering contempt.
I stand up. “I’m going,” I say moronically. I grab my plate and glass.
“Stop,” Vikram says. Once he has me frozen there, he fixes me with his eyes and says, “I can fire you.”
“That makes sense,” I say.
He also sighs. “Please, Matthew. It is very, very important to start on time, and the cover for your harp—we want things looking nice around here.”
“I’m not against a new cover for the harp—”
“And we need upbeat music. Why do I have to repeat these things?” He clenches his fist and brandishes it. “Celebration!” he says.
“Okay,” I say, making a break for it.
I scoot down the hall and into the restaurant. My harp stands like a friend who’ll wait in a crowded corridor while you use the restroom. I hand my dishes to a waitress, hop on the stool, shift the pedals into gear for “Stardust,” and keep the music coming.
My final number is a reprise of “Wonderful World,” my signature. I hold my head perfectly still, staring into space, playing from memory, as the lyrics course through my mind. Then I notice out of the corner of my eye two women—one about forty, one pushing sixty—standing by a table, observing me as if I’m performing a concert. The younger woman wears a blouse and skirt, the thin strap of a small purse hanging from her shoulder. The older woman is heavy, in a green pantsuit, with a clunky green plastic bracelet on her wrist and green hemisphere earrings; her red-brown hair, no doubt colored, sprouts in different directions like the fronds of a palm tree.
When I finish playing and close my music binder, the younger woman approaches. There’s something weathered about the pallor of her skin and the way her bodiless dishwater-blonde hair clings to her head and drops to her shoulders, but her eyes are bright. I fall in love with her, a little bit, right then.
“It is a wonderful world, isn’t it?” she says, smiling. “You’re pretty good with that thing.”
I can’t stop staring at her, or smiling sheepishly.
“Do you mind if I introduce myself?” she continues. “I’m Marcia Marquardt. I’m the director of a hospice in Elmhurst.”
She puts out her hand.
“Matt Grzbc,” I say.
“Ger-bik” is how we pronounce it, though most people want to say “Grizz-beck.” I wonder if it’s significant that my name is spelled like something an infant would randomly type at a keyboard. I can hear my founding ancestor, faced with choosing our surname, saying in Slovenian: “I don’t care what it is! Christ! Just pick five letters!” He sounds like my father.
Marcia and I shake. Her grip is matter-of-fact.
“Are you familiar with hospice care?”
“Sort of,” I say.
“When treatment is over, we make people comfortable. We’ve just had a harpist leave us—she moved to Florida.”
“Lot of dying people down there, I bet,” I say.
“Yes,” she says, eyeing me a bit more closely. “Well, how’d you like to come out and play for us sometime?”
“I don’t know,” I say as politely as I can. I shouldn’t add commitments with the audition looming. “Probably not.”
“Probably not?” she repeats incredulously. She turns to her older companion: “Eleanor, he says, ‘Probably not.’ ”
Of course, Marcia has no idea that my father has just died or that her request puts pressure on my fundamental life conflict: practice time versus time I can spend with people. I desperately need to accomplish something musically in order to feel I deserve to exist, and I desperately need to be with people to make existing at all tolerable.
Eleanor shakes her head. She’s seen it all before. You can’t supervise death on a daily basis without getting a wry outlook on the human condition.
“Eleanor’s our volunteer coordinator, by the way. Eleanor, come on over here and help me strong-arm this gentleman.” Marcia adds, “We’ve just had brunch with some donors and we’re on a roll.” She laughs and her eyes sparkle at me.
Eleanor approaches and puts out her hand. “How do you do?”
“Good to meet you,” I say, my shoulder muscles tightening.
Marcia leans in and touches my upper arm. “In the past, we’ve had musicians on a volunteer basis,” she says confidentially. “But maybe we can do something for you.”
It’s the hospice Mafia with an offer I can’t refuse. “Well,” I say, “I don’t want to sound mercenary…”
Her touch melts me,
and having disappointed Cynthia, Vikram, and Milena in a sixteen-hour span leaves me highly disposed to please and connect, no matter the cost. And I may have shaken off belief in my parents’ religion, but they succeeded in pounding in the value of sacrificing for the good of others, so even though I am often a selfish bastard, I am also vulnerable to this sort of appeal. Then there’s the prospect of cash…
“What would it be?” I ask. “What would you want me to do?”
“We have a patient—our other harpist used to play for her on Wednesday afternoons. She’s a very frightened old woman. The music seems to help. Then there might be others.”
“I think I can do it this once,” I say. Then, panicking, I add, “But this Wednesday is too soon. Can it be next Wednesday?”
“Sure.” she says. “You may do it once and realize it’s not for you, but it can be rewarding. And I’ll talk to the board about compensation.”
“All right,” I say. I look over at Eleanor, who smiles, looking down at the carpet.
Marcia gives me her card and we make arrangements.
“So nice to meet you, Matt!” Marcia says, shaking my hand with both of hers.
“See you,” I say, already feeling a pang of remorse over the lost practice time.
7
TOWEL OVER MY shoulder, wearing only my unfashionably short navy swim trunks, I walk through tiny cool puddles on the tiles, making my way to the instructional pool. Among a long row of parents scattered on a wooden bench, Milena is looking down into a tote bag, showing me the new red highlights in her hair, putting off eye contact.
“Hey, Matt,” she says, without looking up.
Audrey huddles with a friend, yammering the poor kid into submission. She doesn’t seem to notice me.
“Hey,” I say, sitting down next to Milena, though not too close. She finishes with her bag, from which she has extracted nothing, and looks ahead at the pool, which is so still and gleaming it looks like it’s filled with Jell-O.
She smooths her hands over her thighs.
My armpits are sweating. A glimpse of her bare right leg has a strong effect on me—there’s so much sexual pressure behind my wall of inhibitions that it threatens to burst out at the slightest opening from Milena—and I must take care not to embarrass myself.
“These kids look weak to me,” I say, affecting disgust. “I hope these instructors test them the way they need to be tested.”
“I hope so, too,” she says soberly, playing along.
“Let’s get ’er done!” I call toward the kids.
The instructor, Jean, a large tan woman in a brown one-piece, stands with her arms folded and gives me the eye, as do some of the other parents. But their looks don’t bother me because I catch Milena controlling a smile. Then, all at once, Jean claps her hands: “All right, guys, time to line up!”
I’m nervous now and not just because I’m sitting next to Milena, but also from worrying about how Audrey will do, if she’ll have a meltdown, if she’ll have to be rescued, if the gangly older boy in the long yellow trunks will surreptitiously try to hold her head underwater.
Jean orders her charges to the edge of the pool and puts them through their paces: sit dives, back floats, treading water, and so forth. “That boy in the yellow suit wouldn’t get in the water the first day,” Milena says. The grand finale is swimming the twenty-five-yard length of the pool. Jean lines them up again and sends them in one by one. Some kids set out at odd angles like mindless wind-up toys; others bitch-slap at the water; few make steady progress. Audrey jumps in, bobs to the surface, and begins swimming, chugging slowly but steadily across the pool. Five yards from the wall, she seems to lose steam, but then she recommits, and she makes it.
“Look at that,” I say. “She can swim!” And all without whining, a crying fit, or other demands for attention. We haven’t destroyed her yet!
“All right,” Milena says with a smile, and puts a power fist in the air. This is the old Milena, for sure.
After this final skill demonstration, Audrey runs instead of walks to get the pool toys out of the basket, but that type of disobedience seems downright reassuring.
“She did good,” Milena says.
Jean invites the parents to come on in. We get up and walk toward the water. I let my hand touch Milena’s as we walk.
Her hand slips away.
I lower myself into the pool with my arms at my sides, then crouch in three feet of water until my head goes under. When I surface, Milena also comes up for air on the far side of the pool. Audrey swims to Milena and clings to her neck, her pale green eyes lit with excitement.
I swim slowly toward them. Milena looks past me, it seems, as if someone is following me.
“Group hug!” Audrey proclaims, reaching one hand toward me.
I walk on the bottom of the pool, the water now up to my chest, taking heavy strides.
“Group hug!”
When I arrive, I put my hand on Audrey’s small shoulder. At the same moment, Milena kisses the side of Audrey’s head, then swims away, one stroke at a time. Audrey is left treading water, so I offer her my arm to hold on to if she wants. Instead, she grabs my shoulder and puts her arms around my neck from behind. “Swim!” she commands. Wearing her like a cape, I try to swim but find it hard to get my face above the water to breathe right. Soon I coast into shallower water and let her slip off.
—
I linger in the shower, convinced Milena and Audrey will take a while in the women’s locker room. Terrific water pressure pounds up my spine, against my neck and down again—maybe enough to knock some sense into me. I know I shouldn’t have touched Milena’s hand the way I did. I know that, just to cop a jolt of sexual confidence, I am causing everyone pain, confusing myself, and betraying Cynthia, who needs support against this Whitaker prick. I finish showering, get dressed, and grab my duffel.
When I step out into the corridor, they have just emerged from the women’s locker room. Milena walks by me without a glance, and I fall into step with them—we are not together but we are in the same place at the same time—out the doors of the Y and into the parking lot.
“Can Daddy come over and read to me before bed?” Audrey asks, holding Milena’s hand.
“I don’t think so,” Milena says.
Audrey grabs my hand and Milena lets her. We walk all the way to Milena’s car like this. Milena presses her remote and a vehicle beeps, lights flash. Turns out she’s driving a new red SUV—a Ford Escape.
Near the end of our marriage, I said to Milena, “We’re not getting an SUV just because everyone else has one.” Despite their size, most are nowhere near as convenient for hauling a harp as a good old-fashioned station wagon. The argument escalated quickly, like a refinery fire, and two days later, Milena left the apartment with a suitcase. I’d called her “herd-minded” and a “TV slave” and other apology-proof phrases. I had no idea how much damage even one of those fights could cause, because my parents had stayed together despite thousands.
Milena opens the back door. I let go of Audrey’s hand.
“Good night, guys,” I say.
“Good night, Daddy!” Audrey calls.
“Good night,” Milena says.
I walk away slowly. My own car is parked three blocks away so I wouldn’t have to pay for the lot.
“Wait up!” Milena calls.
I turn. As she walks over, she puts her hands in the front pockets of her jeans, which raises her shoulders in her fleece. Behind her, Audrey sits in her car seat, lit by the dome light, the door wide open.
Milena stops and looks past my shoulder.
“We might be getting engaged,” she says. “Just so you know.”
“I figured that,” I say. “With the house and everything.”
I have not actually figured this. Audrey’s comments in the car on our way to the wake had made me discount the staying power of Steve, notwithstanding their current living arrangement.
We make eye contact, but her lazy eye makes ever
ything feel wrong.
“Thanks for coming out,” she adds. “Audrey was happy.”
“No problem,” I say.
Milena gives a low, awkward wave of her hand, and then she turns and walks back to her SUV.
8
THURSDAY MORNING, I sit down to the harp to work on audition pieces. I’m still catching up on the practice time I lost last week for the funeral, yet despite a desperate sense of urgency, I can’t make myself tackle Symphonie fantastique.
With the harp off my shoulder, I hold the top of the soundboard with both hands. The weak sunlight through the window seems to be detaching from objects and receding upward. I keep hearing Milena say, Just so you know.
Is the joy of empty-headed lovemaking life’s highest good? Yes. And what are harps for? No one knows.
Though I’ve been touching the harp for minutes now, it seems impossible to tip it back, raise my thumbs, and begin.
Once, as a nine-year-old, I hesitated in the frigid, ankle-lapping waters of Lake Michigan, afraid to take the plunge, prompting Bart and George to pick me up and hurl me in. Bart, my oldest brother, is a butt-chinned marketing executive at Harley-Davidson. He took my tentativeness as a personal insult, and George has always had a weakness for mischief—together, they tossed me about fifteen feet. After that minor humiliation, I adopted a method of running full-tilt down the beach and into the water until the waves tripped me and I would dive under. As I ran across the sand toward the lake, I was essentially telling myself, Here comes the pain; your way is through the pain. And something like that mantra has saved me thousands of hours of angsty procrastination before practice sessions. It has, basically, enabled my entire harp career.
So while Symphonie fantastique is insurmountable right now, I turn to another piece I’m unsure about, Ein Heldenleben. I find the score and quickly flatten it on my music stand, telling myself that these actions represent enormous progress. The piece’s many double-handed arpeggios promise pain. I finally tip the harp back and, almost blindly, send my fingers running toward that pain.