Happy Any Day Now

by Toby Devens

  “All best. Well, if that isn’t ‘as dictated to.’ Okay, soon is when?”

  “Tomorrow night. Need to talk.” I gobbled the mini cannoli in my right hand followed by the mini éclair in my left. “I hate that. Waiting for the shoe to drop.”

  “Hmm. Could be he’s ready to go exclusive and invite you to move into that house in Georgetown he’s considering buying.” She licked a dribble of chocolate from her finger with her gossip’s tongue.

  I’d made the mistake of sharing Charlie’s e-mail with her, the one asking me to take a look at the listing of a $4.2 million house with a conservatory and an indoor lap pool because I might live there someday. About as likely as my relocating to Mars, but Marti, being a writer and a drama queen to boot, always put the most sensational spin on any story.

  “That’s just Charlie doing his pie-in-the-sky, toe-in-the-water routine,” I said. “I pay no attention. Besides, I’m nervous about the prospect of sharing the beltway with him, let alone a house. Don’t even want to think about it.”

  “Really? Why? You want to try Charlie out for another twenty-five years? Most women would snap up this guy faster than Coach on clearance. This is a long-lost love returned, the dumpee’s triumph, the stuff that Jennifer Aniston films are made of. So let’s have a happy ending, please. And don’t tell me you haven’t thought about Charlie long term.”

  “Honestly, Marti, the performance anxiety and then having to play at Richard’s funeral used up all of my obsessing time.” I shuddered at the memory. “I was really on the tipping edge of crazy.”

  “Well, that’s finished, right? The stage fright?”

  “Don’t I wish. I was back to my normal, such as it is, at Richard’s funeral, but those were special circumstances. His vote of confidence with the Goffriller was still fresh. Sarah Tarkoff broke the news only ten minutes before I went up there. I was in a kind of shock that overrode the nerves, I guess.”

  “And now you’ve had time to work yourself up again.”

  “Auditions are stressful under any circumstances. And this one is a nightmare. I feel my whole life depends on how I do up there. My future is hanging in the balance. I could have another panic attack in front of the judge’s panel. I could sit there like a frozen lump.” My fingers were tingling just talking about it.

  “Or you could sail through the nerves and knock ’em dead,” Marti retorted. “Of course, after that you’ll seamlessly cruise into whatever neurosis is next in line. Personally, I hope it’s sexier than wanting to throw up into your cello. My prediction is something in the love department. I’m not saying now, mind you, but maybe down the line a piece, the judge will show up with something pear-shaped in five carats. And then—” She spun her voice into a sugary soprano and began to sing, “Sadie, Sadie, married lady . . .”

  Even attached to Charlie, the M-word made me wince. It wasn’t as if that particular state of the union had a brilliant success rate in my nuclear family, what with my mother and Irwin’s ill-fated fiasco and my short, strange marriage to Rebound Todd.

  Ending her song on a high note, Marti chirped, “How did that sound?”

  “Off-key,” I responded. “And from the quality of Charlie’s attention, highly unlikely.”

  “His flowers starting to wilt?” Marti asked, archly.

  “Holding up so far,” I said.

  “And you?”

  “Ask me after this weekend.”

  • • •

  My mother, had she been around, would have helped me sort things out. Pre Irwin’s return, she’d been a reliable source of relationship wisdom. She dosed me with semi-Buddhist stuff about acceptance and patience, and with a calming cup of tea it usually set me on the right path.

  On the other hand, she’d been a living example to me of what was in store for women who put all their eggs in one man’s basket.

  Amazing that despite her experience with Irwin, she never bad-mouthed him in particular or the gender in general. Even when her pain was fresh and she wasn’t allowing him to wriggle his vermicular self back into our lives, she didn’t say a word against him.

  In my adolescence, when I cursed him with Bed-Stuy-groomed eloquence, she’d say, “Wash nasty mouth, Judith. Your father have reasons I don’t know. Know only, you can’t argue heart.”

  After I’d left Todd, she’d said, “Sure from start that marriage never last. You try to forget Charlie so pick up Todd. You can’t argue heart, Judith.”

  I suppose her Can’t Argue Heart theory proved out when Irwin made his encore appearance. This week, the two lovebirds were off on a gamblers’ trek up the East Coast. They’d packed up the Jaguar (I’d begged her to rent something closer to a tank after I’d found out he’d memorized the eye chart to get his Arizona license) and stopped first in Atlantic City for a warm-up—at the craps table for him, baccarat for my mother. Next on to Foxwoods in Connecticut for an Elvis impersonator festival. Last stop was New York for the Belmont Stakes, third jewel in horseracing’s Triple Crown. They’d be back in B’more Monday night.

  Geoff was also mostly off my radar. We were onstage together that week with no solos for me. We mouthed hi from a distance, chatted briefly a few times about the upcoming audition, but that was all. He felt we’d pretty much perfected the selections and he didn’t want to move me from sublime to stale. Practice on my own for a few hours a day would be more than enough to keep me in top form.

  We wouldn’t see each other at all the following week. Neither of us was on the roster for the all-Mozart program. Wolfie composed for the limited number of instruments available in the 1700s and that’s the way our philharmonic played him: with a reduced orchestra.

  So the coaching sessions were finished, the Phil’s season was almost over, and Geoff was taking the summer off. Which meant for two months we could steer clear of each other. By next fall, whatever we’d had beyond “hi” would be past tense. I’d be good with that, I told myself. I harbored no deep-seated need for someone who’d follow a ski whim to Colorado or take off last minute for a balloon ride over the Napa Valley. This was a man who only flirted with commitment, though he seemed to have perfected an annoying version of flirting with Deena, the blond goddess of the harp. Maybe she was the instigator, but he wasn’t fighting her off. Admittedly, that smarted. And that wasn’t me being jealous. Just me being my natural competitive self. No Geoff, no problem.

  • • •

  And then, a blip on the radar. At Friday evening’s intermission, I wandered into the musicians’ poker game to ask him a question about a tricky bit in one of the pieces we’d been working on one-on-one. He waved off my approach, eyes on the cards, mouth set to grim.

  No big mystery what was pissing him off. He’d spotted Charlie Pruitt out front in the first half. Seated row D center, silver hair shining like a beacon, yellow bow tie flashing “caution” in the houselights, Charlie was hard to miss.

  I never did get to ask my audition question because the second half ran late and then I had to rush to meet The Barrister at the artists’ exit.

  I did see Geoff later, though. We did. Charlie and I.

  Chapter 34

  Last-Minute Charlie. That had been my nickname for him back in Cambridge.

  “He take you for grant,” my mother used to tell me when I complained he was never on time for dates in the early stages, or for dinners that sat getting cold when we lived together. “You put up so much. So old-fashion, Judith.”

  When this was said, we were fifteen years post Irwin’s defection, Gracie had been made a supervisor at the bathing suit factory, and the New York Post, which she read to improve her English, raised her consciousness as it banner headlined the shattering of some of the highest glass ceilings: Sandra Day O’Connor’s appointment to the Supreme Court and Jeanne Kilpatrick’s landing the UN ambassador job. Gracie might have been uneducated, but she was not stupid. She caught on faster
than I did.

  “That Mary Tyler Moore”—my mother insisted her favorite actress was part Asian (“her eyes very slant”)—“she work big job. Smart. More smart than Ted Baxter. She not need man. You give in too much. Treat Charlie like God.”

  Gracie was right. But that was then and this was now, and when Last-Minute Charlie had phoned from the Washington beltway at six p.m. Friday to tell me he was on his way to Baltimore a day early, I’d said, “The orchestra’s playing tonight. If you want to hear the best parts of Candide, I’ll leave a ticket for you at the box office. Afterward I promised Marti I’d go with her to this jazz joint in Fells Point.”

  “We’ll work it out,” he said. “See you onstage.”

  He’d been late, of course. Fifteen bars into the Bernstein overture, I heard the rustle as he took his seat. His glance found me and he smiled. The core of me always thawed a little when Charlie beamed a smile my way. Love or approval or just charm radiating, it warmed me.

  It was all ensemble work that night. I played effortlessly, with not a flutter beneath the breastbone. As we walked offstage, Joan Farley, the cellist one down from me, caught up to say, “I probably won’t see you before the auditions, so I want you to know I’m pulling for you.” And then I did feel the black butterfly spiral high in my chest.

  • • •

  Outside on Cathedral Street, Charlie took in the circus of light, color, and chatter as the audience spilled out of the lobby. Then he had eyes only for me, his hand slipped to my waist, and he pulled me to him. Before I went in for the kiss, I checked the immediate vicinity for stray musicians who carried gossip like birdseed. And for Geoff. He wouldn’t pass the morsel; it would stick in his craw, and I didn’t want to hurt him.

  I looked around. No witnesses. No Geoff. Great kiss.

  As we disconnected, Charlie curved a hand around the back of my neck and thumb-stroked the tensed muscles.

  “I’ve missed you, Ju-ju. You’ve had quite a couple of weeks, poor girl. I’m sorry I wasn’t more available, but my schedule was nearly as grueling.”

  Unless he’d lost a close colleague who was also a cherished friend, I doubted that.

  “I can’t tell you how eager I’ve been to see you and how much I’m looking forward to easing up for a day or two. Starting immediately, if not sooner. So home, Jeeves? My car or yours?”

  “Both.” I pulled away. “You’ll follow me. And not home. I told you I had plans to meet Marti at the Bard on Thames. A jazz club? I did mention it.”

  “You did. That’s still on the docket, is it? You know I like jazz, but it’s been a long day, heavy on meetings, and I’m beat. What I’d really like is to put my feet up and spend the evening just you and me.”

  “Sounds wonderful. We can pencil it in for tomorrow night.”

  It was kind of nostalgic to watch Charlie rev up for the argument. His upper lip drew taut over the classic Pruitt overbite, his jaw tightened, eyes narrowed. I’d seen that expression enough times in my youth—at moot court, before finals, accompanying his recurring complaint about the way I stacked the Wendell Street dishwasher.

  From my amused smile, I supposed Charlie realized this wasn’t going to be the easy win he’d anticipated. He closed with a push. “Marti’s just over the garden fence, so she gets to be with you all the time. I’m sure she’d understand.”

  Well, no. She’d be royally ticked off. She’d called twice that day to make sure I still intended to show up. It was half-price hamburger night at the Bard and the Benny Brown Jazz Quartet was on the bill. I’d love Benny Brown, she had promised. For whatever reason, this evening was important to her.

  My Bed-Stuy experience hadn’t been a total disaster. I’d picked up some major life lessons on the street. I might have let “watch your back” slip my mind a few too many times, but I always, always practiced “never dis a sister.”

  I said sweetly, “Tell you what, Charlie. I’ll give you my house key—you can let yourself in and make yourself to home, as we say in Bawlmer. But I’m not going to bail on Marti.”

  It took him maybe ten seconds to process my intransigence and he became the Lance Armstrong of backpedaling. “Right. Of course, a promise is a promise.” Charlie Pruitt stared at the stranger at his side—me. I decided I saw a flicker of respect spark his blue eyes.

  “They serve coffee at this place? Great. A shot of caffeine with my scotch and I’ll be powered up.”

  He took my arm—sweetly quaint and chivalrous even in defeat—and we began to walk toward the garage. “Jazz,” he said. “Do you remember my collection of John Coltrane and—what was her name, ‘My Funny Valentine’?”

  “Carmen McRae.”

  “Carmen McRae, that’s it. I think I’ve still got those tapes, eight-tracks, at the Maine house. Amazing how you lose touch over the years with something you love.”

  Amazing.

  • • •

  Thames Street—pronounced with the h and a long a because we defeated the hoity-toity British at the Battle of Baltimore—runs along the waterfront in Fells Point. A neighborhood of bars, restaurants, galleries, boutiques, and gentrified Federal-style row homes, it stays up late on weekends, and when we arrived at eleven its cobblestone streets were well lit and buzzing.

  The Bard was packed. Marti was already seated in the main room chomping a burger. She halted midbite, took in Charlie, and sent me a curious look. “Well, this is a pleasant surprise.” She wiped ketchup from her lip. “I thought you weren’t coming in until tomorrow, Charlie. Not that I’m not over the moon to see you.”

  “Likewise. I was able to duck a dinner meeting.”

  The table was a small four. His shoulder rubbed mine. “How’s that hamburger?” he asked. “I missed dinner and I’m starved. This was a good idea, Judith.”

  As a figure swaggered toward the table, I wondered how long he’d hold that thought. When Marti was pushing for this girls’ night out, she’d mentioned she had a new romance in her life and Nora might join us. “I’m warning you. She’s not my standard frilly femme.”

  Not even close. Lanky as a cowpoke in jeans, a maroon crewneck, and tooled leather boots, Nora was a Ralph Lauren ad come to life. Where Marti’s hair was a froth of curls and her delicate features seemed carved from alabaster, Nora looked like a cross between a marine drill sergeant and Brad Pitt. Androgynously handsome, even with the buzz cut, she had the grip of a steamfitter.

  “Hey. Judith. Heard a lot about you. All good.” She nearly dislocated my shoulder on the down stroke. “And this is . . . ?”

  I filled in the blanks, introducing Charlie.

  Marti bit her lip, holding back laughter as Charlie and Nora shook hands. He inspected her as if she were a brand-new species.

  “I like the bow tie, Charlie. Harrods?” Nora had a nice open smile. “Very cool.” She turned to Marti. “Hey there, babe,” she said, bending down to kiss her full on the lips, then sliding a nuzzle to her neck. Charlie squirmed beside me. And that was just the start of the evening.

  The actual consuming of food was done in relative silence. The conversation was, to put it asexually, a three-way. To his credit, Charlie tried to talk sports, but Nora was a fervent Ravens fan and Charlie was big on lacrosse; she was NASCAR, he America’s Cup. So the chatter was polite but awkward, with me refereeing and Marti observing, amused.

  Finally, the houselights were doused, a spotlight bloomed onstage, and the Benny Brown Jazz Quartet—piano, bass, sax, and drums—launched its first set with “Stars Fell on Alabama.” Nora tried not to look bored. She managed to entertain herself playing with Marti’s fingers.

  “And now, ladies and gentlemen, a special treat,” Benny Brown’s velvet voice at the mike announced. “Y’all know Baltimore has some fine musicians, and tonight one of them is doing us the honor of sitting in with the Benny Brown Quartet. This cat works the Maryland Philharmonic Orchestra for his
day job, but my classical man’s got a set of chops when he gets to wailing our kind of music. So now, playing his own composition for the very first time in front of an audience, let’s give a big bad Bard welcome to Geoff Birdsall and his ‘Suite for My Seoulmate.’”

  In the pulsing dark—and yes, that was my heart whomping—Marti McDowell had to have been counting her lucky stars. Because she’d set this up, and if I could have seen her, I would have killed her. I swear.

  Chapter 35

  “Is that who I think it is?” Charlie whispered after Geoff lowered his horn a quarter way through to give Benny space for the piano interlude. “Isn’t that your . . . ?”

  “Geoff. Yes. I had no idea,” I whispered back. “Believe me.”

  Marti, known for her tell-all mouth, had managed to keep this unveiling a secret. And I knew exactly how she’d defend herself when I got to laying her out. I could hear her in high Southern dudgeon: “Did I know you were bringing Charlie? Hell, no. I thought it would be an all-girl gathering and you’d be happy as a dog with two dicks that Geoff’s composition was finally finished and you’d hear it complete first time out of the box. It was written for you, after all. I thought it was going to be an ass-kickin’ surprise.”

  That’s what it turned out to be. As Geoff unraveled the exotic, erotic melody, my annoyance with Marti turned to gratitude. Imagine missing this. It was a fusion of sensuous American jazz and sinawi, the mudang’s rhythmic otherworldly ritual music, with Geoff’s trumpet standing in for the Korean double-reed piri.

  The first three movements were upbeat and intricately patterned, alternating sizzling and cool. I was sure the ending had been written since our breakup. Bittersweet and bluesy, it spun a heartbreaking requiem for lost love.

  Thank God we were in the dark throughout—I didn’t want Charlie to see me blotting my eyes with a grease-stained napkin and I didn’t want Geoff to see me at all. Only when the last jagged flight of melody faded did the houselights come up and the crowd rise to clap and cheer and stomp. Our group stood, though I crouched down a few inches, hoping the big guy at the table in front would block me. Geoff bobbed a quick bow and immediately turned to acknowledge his backup squad. Then the room went dark, a milky spot spilled to light my ex, and he began to play “My One and Only Love.”