Happy Any Day Now

by Toby Devens

  And then I had an Oh God moment as I realized she’d soon be sitting in the sanctuary, up front, I was sure, following my every bow stroke, judging my every intonation.

  Geoff materialized beside me. “You okay, Jude? You look a mite green about the gills.”

  Beyond him, Eloise eyed us with unabashed curiosity. I laid one hand on Geoff’s arm, proprietarily. Strictly for her benefit.

  “Feeling queasy,” I said, accepting the small pack of tissues he pressed into my hand.

  “Ernie alerted Joan as backup and she’s standing by. But you can do this, Jude. I know you can.”

  As Eloise’s inappropriate cackle split the air like a hen screeching out an extra-large egg, I said, “Right.” What I needed was some pharmaceutical assistance. Richard would have thought I was cheating, but a half-full vial of just-in-case pills buried in my handbag jiggie-jigged a maraca rhythm against my hip when I moved.

  Which wasn’t fast enough for the woman behind me. “Nu already, sweetheart?”

  She leaned in, giving me a tight, burgundy-outlined smile. “The book? You want to sign the book?” She tapped her Movado. “Hopefully before the Second Coming?”

  I signed. Geoff signed, and took my elbow. “Now shall we pay our respects to Sarah and the boys?” he asked.

  The condolence line stretched through the door of the reception room. As we inched along, I got a view of Sarah accepting sympathy hugs at the other end. She looked pale, but put together.

  We were almost at the grieving family when she and I made eye contact. She held up a pause finger to me and leaned over to the older of her boys, the Stanford professor. I heard her say, “Joel, darling, I need a break. Give me five minutes. And keep the line moving. It’s almost time for the service anyway.”

  She crooked the finger and beckoned me to follow her.

  “Be back,” I said to Geoff.

  I had no idea why I’d been singled out or where we were going. It turned out it was to the sanctuary. There, she took my hand.

  As she led me in I said, “Sarah, I’m so sorry. You know how I felt about Richard.”

  “I do know, Judith. And how he felt about you. Come, let’s sit for a minute.”

  We took adjacent seats in the first row. If we’d been in Ghana, the deceased might have been buried in a coffin carved in the image of his beloved cello, but here he rested center stage in a simple casket of rich oak. The gorgeous Matteo Goffriller instrument was positioned five feet away. I still had no idea why I was here, but it had to be something important to pull the widow from the receiving line.

  “Truthfully, I don’t think you know how much Richard loved you and respected your talents, but you will soon enough.” Sarah checked her watch. “I’ve had them keep the main doors locked, so we can have this talk. But as you can hear from the lobby, the natives are getting restless, so I’ll make it quick.”

  Her voice thinned to a thread that seemed just about to break. “I can’t believe he’s in that coffin. Of course, he selected it himself. Which is just like Richard—in control to the very end.” She gave a short, parched laugh. “They say you can’t take it with you. Now, had he played flute, I would have tucked it in with him. But the Goffriller? That has to stay behind.” Her glance flitted from the cello to me. She was dry eyed, sharp eyed.

  “Can you imagine how much pleasure that cello has brought to the world over the last four hundred years? And how much more it has to give?” Then she said crisply, “Richard was very clear about its disposition after his death. Because it’s a substantial bequest, he took all the necessary legal steps to make sure his intentions would be honored. The Goffriller would bring an astronomical price in a private sale, perhaps even more at auction. But he knew where he wanted it to end up.”

  Her grip on my hand tightened. Where she was heading had begun to seep in, but the destination seemed so implausible, so outrageous, my brain refused to go there.

  “For Richard it was a purely emotional decision. On my part—and he wanted my concurrence—I felt a decision of this magnitude required some thought. Our sons have no musical inclinations. The gene doesn’t seem to run in the family. Financially they’re both well off. I will never be homeless. And the prospect of selling that gorgeous instrument, the possibility that someone like that detestable Eloise Flint—and this is hypothetical, of course—might empty her bank account, add it to the proceeds from her new book—Richard called it a grim fairy tale, by the way—and walk off with it . . . Well, that was unthinkable to both of us.”

  Her hand was trembling ever so slightly. Or maybe that was mine trembling in the cave of hers. “So.” Sarah swiveled to seal the deal with a widow’s sad smile. “It’s yours, my dear. We’ll get it to you in plenty of time to work with it for your audition. Oh yes—on that subject, Richard said to tell you that whatever doubts you had about your gift, this gift should put them to rest. I should remind you, Judith, that he was not only a brilliant musician, he was also an astute critic. I’d take his word for it.”

  She gave me a moment to let it sink in, this incredible legacy, this vote of confidence from the coffin. Of course, I was flabbergasted. Astounded by the sheer scale of the gesture. But that was in the first aftershock seconds. Then, very quickly, it all seemed to make perfect sense. Richard had been so generous to me from the beginning, he wouldn’t let the end of him be the end of his goodness.

  “One more thing. He left you an annual stipend to cover the insurance. Bottom line is you won’t need anything but you and the Goffriller to make magnificent music. ‘Nothing extra’ were the precise words he asked me to repeat to you. Whatever that means, he said you’d understand.”

  I did. Although I swayed under the impact of the last few minutes, the pill bottle in my handbag had lapsed into guilty silence.

  Confounded by the joy of owning this exquisite cello and the pain of not being able to thank Richard for it, I stammered, “How can I ever express my—?”

  Sarah cut me off. “Just make the best music you can, Judith. Now you have no excuse not to.”

  How was that for a burden and a blessing?

  “After Joel speaks, he’ll move the cello center for you.” She was on her feet.

  I thought the echo in that vast auditorium had mangled her words.

  “The Goffriller. You want me to play it today?”

  My stomach plummeted so suddenly that my center of gravity shifted. Even on that awful night at the Berenson when the first panic attack had struck, I hadn’t felt the crushing force to double me over. Now I fought to stay upright.

  “Yes, of course. I want you to play it today.” Sarah and her pearls shimmered too bright in my vision. “But more important, that’s what Richard wanted. He loved what you coaxed from that Goffriller. And your new bow is also a beauty.” Richard’s François Tourte bow had an equally distinguished pedigree.

  I watched Sarah pat my hand reassuringly, but hardly felt it. Most of me had gone numb, but shock and dread must have been readable on my face. “You’ve played the instrument before, Judith. A number of times. Always beautifully.”

  The Dvorák, when he was dying. Maybe five or six other times total. The first was a winter evening in the Tarkoffs’ living room fifteen years before. Richard had rocked in his chair as though he were davening a prayer of thanksgiving as the cello exploded torrents of tone in Chopin’s G Minor Sonata. My fingers flew and the Goffriller’s heart nearly burst with emotion. An aristocrat, a peasant, a revolutionary—a superb instrument can be everything.

  Sarah, the attorney, clinched her closing argument. “And now you have the opportunity to play one last time for Richard. That way the both of you can say good-bye to him.”

  • • •

  Geoff was waiting for me in the lobby, arms folded, expression self-satisfied. “So how’s that for a parting gift? Oh, Jude, wait until you get your hands on that Goffriller. It
will be transcendent.”

  “What?” I snapped to incredulous attention. “You knew?”

  “Richard couldn’t keep it to himself. He was thrilled for you. Me too. He did the right thing, leaving it to you.”

  I flared. “And having me play it today? Unprepared? Unrehearsed with it? You think that’s the right thing too?”

  “Today? Here? Now that I didn’t know.” His laugh was so boisterous, it turned the head of an outraged mourner. “Why, that old fox. And yes, he did the positively right thing. Brilliant.”

  • • •

  We took seats in the second row. It was like being strapped in a taxiing plane. Doors shut. Fate sealed. Too late to back out. We took off so quickly, I barely had time to think.

  The rabbi recited the “time to sow and time to reap” passage from Ecclesiastes.

  The cantor chanted.

  I felt for the vial of Inderal in my right pocket. There was no water for a pill and had there been I would have choked on it anyway after Richard’s coded command from the grave. I stared at the Goffriller, willing myself to absorb its centuries of confidence.

  Joel, the older son, read the poem “Invictus,” his voice cracking at the reference to the “unconquerable soul.” When that was over, he carefully moved the Goffriller front and center and announced, “As my father wished, the ‘Meditation’ from Thaïs by Massenet will be played by Ernst Leonard at the piano and Judith Raphael on the cello Dad loved.”

  I walked the last yards, my heart thumping in sync with my steps. Once seated, I allowed myself a moment to settle in. After all, Richard wasn’t going anywhere except to heaven and, as Aunt Phyllis used to say, quoting maybe the Bible or maybe Warren Beatty, heaven can wait.

  Ernie would also have to wait for my cue. Stop, smell the funeral flowers, my dearly departed mentor would have instructed. The Orthodox don’t do flowers (no music either), but this synagogue looked like the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. I inhaled, giving myself ten seconds of sweetness. I embraced the Goffriller, my Goffriller almost, and breathed in its centuries-old promise of brilliance. As Joel exited stage right, I caught a glimpse of the exiled Tecchler cello that had served me well all these years and was about to be turned in for a new love. Which reminded me to look for Geoff’s reassuring smile. Got it. Quickly scanned the house. Zigmund Manheim, at the end of the third row, eyes downcast, was thumbing through the program. Daniel Kassakov, probably my favorite living cellist, fidgeted next to him. Danny liked me too. His gaze caught mine and he winked. Inappropriate but appreciated. Lucian Landau, having escaped Eloise Flint’s braceleted clutches, was two seats left of Daniel.

  I found my nemesis on the aisle, fourth row. In spite of having given a command performance at Buckingham Palace and being descended, according to her auto-bogus-ography, from Priscilla Alden, Eloise was simultaneously and energetically chewing gum and picking her nose. Somehow, that indecorous image of Eloise short-circuited my anxiety. She was only human, my nemesis was. We were all only human.

  With that reassurance, I nodded to Ernie, lifted Richard’s legacy François Tourte bow, and drew my first stroke. Velvet. Then, in a miracle worthy of Moses himself, whose sun-drenched, stained-glass image cast vivid spotlights on the stage, I relaxed and let muscle memory take over. And then I did forget them all out there, except for Sarah and the family. And Richard, of course. I was playing for Richard in that zone that surpasses rational thought. My hands were detached at the wrists, moving on their own. I conjured up images of my old friend alive and healthy. By the last sixteen bars, it was Richard playing the “Meditation.” The final chord stretched mournfully as if he and I couldn’t quite say good-bye.

  In the ensuing silence, pierced only by a single echoing sob, I returned to my place next to Geoff.

  “Well done,” he whispered as I slipped into my seat. “Richard would be . . . what’s the word . . . kvelling. Ah, look at you.” He pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed tears from my cheek. “I’ll bet there’s not a dry eye in the house.” His eyes were glistening.

  Limp with relief, back in the real world, I still needed reassurance. I whispered, “Was it too schmaltzy? Passion can edge into schmaltz.”

  “It was perfect.”

  “I didn’t know I was crying up there.”

  “That’s what happens when you’re lost in the music.”

  After the prayer for the dead and the final amen, Geoff was called as a pallbearer to hoist the coffin with its shell of a cargo down the aisle and out the door. Sundergard and Chumsky were honorary pallbearers taking up the rear, and when the procession had passed, the rest of us peeled from our rows to converge in a single stream flowing toward the exit.

  Somehow I wound up shoulder to shoulder with Zigmund Manheim and we picked up Eloise on our slow shuffle. “We’re going to miss him,” he said. “One in a million. By the way, you played superbly.” That meant a lot to me coming from a musician of his caliber.

  Eloise bit her lip and said nothing. She seemed to be waiting for Ziggy to move out of earshot. Honestly, with all the residual energy from the Thaïs, if she gave me a raft of critical crap, I wasn’t sure I could restrain myself from reaching over, grabbing her bow hand, and squeezing her fingers into long-term disability. Except that among them was the one that had been playing dig to China with her nose. Ugh.

  And then, with Ziggy taking a detour to catch up to Landau, it was just us two surrounded by a crowd of chatter. Eloise turned to me and I got a close look at what the years had wrought. Time was a real bastard—it brought you to your knees and then you needed to replace them. We were the same age, she and I, but she’d already had a rotator cuff repair and treatment for thoracic outlet syndrome, classic cellist’s injuries, as well as some complicated ophthalmic surgery, according to the chapter in her bio titled “Falling Apart.” No wonder she had dark circles under her eyes. Once, those hollow cheeks had been plump and dimpled. No more. Could you lose dimples?

  This wasn’t the pretty face that Charlie had looked into as they thrashed about in the Wendell Street bed. Well, I’d had him first, and I might have him last. And even when she’d had him—if he’d told the truth up in Maine—he’d been pining away for me. For the length of an eighth note, I felt sorry for her.

  Her voice, when it finally emerged, was unexpectedly muted and barely abrasive so I had to crane to hear her. “He was right, Ziggy Manheim. The ‘Meditation’ seems easy, but it’s deceptive. I always rush the passionate spots. Your pacing was faultless. In fact, the entire piece was well done. Very well done.”

  I was waiting for “You’ve come a long way, Judith” or some other snide tag. But no, that was it. Finis. After more than two decades of fuming over her laudatory reviews, switching channels when she was on PBS, and taking unwanted vacations to duck her when she played with the Maryland Philharmonic, my obsession with Eloise Flint ended right there with a whimper, not a bang.

  So what did you say when you got thrown a compliment from a longtime nemesis? I responded with a simple “Thanks,” astounded once more by the gifts life handed you if you lived long enough.

  At the lobby doors, under the tablet crown that proclaimed “Teach Us to Number Our Days That We May Apply Our Hearts unto Wisdom,” Eloise Flint and I parted ways.

  Chapter 33

  “Such sweet satisfaction.”

  I didn’t know whether Marti McDowell was referring to my Eloise story or to the mocha rum brownie she was chewing, but the woman was in full-out ecstasy.

  It was the following Thursday and we were spending the afternoon at the Belvedere’s caterers for a tasting session of the food planned for my birthday party. We’d worked our way through the hors d’oeuvres and were into desserts, heavy on the chocolate. All that caffeine had tuned Marti’s sarcasm to a twanging pitch.

  “I, for one, am delighted you and Eloise played nice at Richard’s funeral. Very mature of you both. Of cou
rse, it helped that she buttered you up like a baguette about your performance and that Charlie Pruitt said she was the worst kind of skank going after him lo those many years ago and so defused your jealousy.” Marti licked her fingers delicately.

  I gave her an offended glare. “I was never jealous, just ticked off. It was a vile thing she did, going after a dormmate’s ex. And ‘skank,’ by the way, is not a word Charlie would ever use.”

  “Yeah, well, shut my lower-class mouth because The Judge is presiding. Speaking of whom, you haven’t been making puss-in-heat noises about him for a while. Has the sizzling romance cooled? I thought by now you’d at least be pinned. Sig Chi, of course.” She gave me a snarky smile. “So the final Jeopardy question is: Where’s Charlie?”

  I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of admitting I was a little miffed at what I interpreted as his neglect. I’d phoned the afternoon of the funeral to tell him about the service and Richard’s gift of the Goffriller and ended up mortifying myself by sobbing and babbling into his voice mail. Out of control was not the best approach with Charlie, but I’d been keeping the grief tamped down so far and just lost it.

  There had been no answer from him that night, but the next one, as I was about to sit down to a solitary dinner, my doorbell had rung. I’d opened it to find a delivery person just about hidden by a suffocatingly enormous bouquet of yellow roses and purple irises.

  “He’s flower fixated.” Marti dabbed crumbs from her lips. “It’s the easy way out, you know, to say it with flowers. You tell your administrative assistant to write something appropriate on a card and you don’t have to deal with all that messy back-and-forth that we call communication. So what did his AA have to say?”

  I’d memorized the card. “‘Ju-ju. Forgive not calling. Swamped here. Major case exploding. Sorry about Richard. What is Goffriller? We need to talk. See you soon. All best, Charlie.’”