Happy Any Day Now

by Toby Devens

  “Todd was a cantor.”

  “Todd was a goofball. With terrible table manners. He held his fork like a shovel. And just when I thought you finally acquired some judgment with Geoffrey, you start up again with the blue blood, which is a setback if you ask me. Look at him, in his own little world. All afternoon on his iPod or whatever. Not circulating. Not even a glance in your direction.”

  Not entirely accurate. He’d kissed me when he’d arrived. Perfectly appropriate, lip to lip, more than chaste.

  We’d just broken apart when I got tugged off to greet my guests. As I moved among them I caught glimpses of Charlie making small talk with strangers—occasionally glancing my way to smile and shrug—until finally I saw him drift off to a corner with his always conversational electronic friend.

  But now he must have felt the burn of my aunt’s stare, because he looked up, broke out a decorous wink, and made his way toward us.

  “A pleasure,” Aunt Phyllis murmured at the introduction while making it clear it really wasn’t, that she was more than ready to move on. “Look at your uncle Arnold, Judith, with the plate full of sliced sirloin. A triple bypass and the man is determined to kill himself with cholesterol. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go save my husband from himself.”

  “So that’s the famous Aunt Phyllis,” Charlie said as she trotted off. “Of the Magic Carpet stores. See, I remembered.” Trying to score points.

  “She’s a retired social worker. Actually a pretty smart woman,” I said as he guided me out of the crowd. My mother’s searing beam of death followed us. She’d cornered me in the ladies’ room earlier to tell me he’d introduced himself to her.

  “No handshake. He make little bow like I’m Japanese person. He call me Grace, not Mrs. Raphael. I bet you never call his crazy mother by first name. So disrespect. What kind of name anyway, Key-Key? Now I think maybe big-time judge not good enough for you. Not worth your pinkie.” She sniffed. “He is like haepari.” Jellyfish. “Not bad man, but weak. No bone in back. Also too old. His hair more white than Uncle Arnold. And he walk bent, like he work in field whole life. Hunch over desk too much, I think. Reading, reading, all time reading. Man like that no fun. You only fifty. Just beginning new half. Best half, I know. Why you want someone like that?”

  In that one over-the-sink lecture, my mother had given me two blessings. I was Good Enough. Which, after Richard’s legacy and my own victories, was coming through at last. I didn’t need Charlie or anyone else to validate the rest of what was going to be my new, better than enough, life. Grace had gotten it before I did—it being everything really: endurance, forgiveness, the triumph of time over pain, the power of love and of letting go when you should and holding on when you wanted to. It didn’t hurt that she was there as a shining example. I finally got it too.

  At a window facing Chase Street, in the harsh light of day, I stared fondly at Charlie. Fondness was my default feeling for the man I had once loved so fiercely. As the music played on behind us, he congratulated me on my birthday and my audition. Then he lifted my bow hand, turned it over, and ran a finger down my lifeline. “So talented. I’m very proud of you.” He brought my hand to his mouth and kissed the palm. “And grateful we found each other again. You have no idea how much I care for you, Ju-ju.”

  “Me too, Charlie. And always will.” What I had to say next caught in my throat. I swallowed hard. “The thing is, you and I aren’t a good fit anymore. Maybe we were the only ones who thought we ever were. But now it should be obvious even to us. You’re pretty much who you used to be. And I’m pretty much not. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve changed.”

  “Oh, I’ve noticed,” he said in a mournful voice, as if it were a bad thing. “I turn my back for a paltry twenty-five years and—presto—you’re a whole new person.” His laugh was sardonic. “How the hell did that happen?”

  It was only when I said it aloud that I realized the strength of its truth. “I made it happen, Charlie.”

  Charles Evans Pruitt was no dummy. His smile became a melancholy curve. “It’s over, right?”

  I gave myself a moment to say it the right way. After twenty-five years of fading bitterness and then the sweet reprise, it deserved the right way. I took a deep breath, as if preparing to draw across strings.

  “It’s over.” My voice matched my feelings, soft with regret for my own wasted dreams as I put us to rest. “I guess our version of happily-ever-after turned out to be not with each other.”

  And that was it. No appeals, just a pat on the hand before he let it go, a smooth segue into his business voice and an unsurprising apology. He’d have to leave early. Soon in fact. He was due back in Manhattan for a cocktail reception for the parents of prospective Columbia students. Good thing I hadn’t counted on him for forever after.

  “So I’m afraid I won’t be around when you open your gifts.”

  “The invitation specifically said no gifts, Charlie.”

  “Do people really mean that? In any event, you’ll have to forgive me because I did get something for you.” He extracted a small gray velvet box from his trousers pocket. “Actually, I planned to give you this when the world was young, but now seems as good a time as any. Consider it a farewell token from an old lover or a birthday gift from a new friend. Better yet, both.”

  I opened the box to find a pair of diamond and ruby earrings. Gorgeous, if your taste ran to heavy, ornate, antique, and exceedingly pricey.

  “I can’t accept these, Charlie.”

  “I know what you’re thinking, but they’re not my mother’s. My aunt Honora left them to me. You’ll be pleased to know Honora couldn’t abide my mother. She thought Kiki was a terrible snob.” He held the box up to catch the sun. “Look at those rubies. Have you ever seen such spectacular fire? They’ll be beautiful with your dark hair, Ju-ju. You’ll do them justice.”

  Well, it was all very flattering. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that carting around those heavy gems on my earlobes was a weight I didn’t want to carry. What I wanted—what I needed, I’d discovered lately—was lightness and joy. But my mother had raised me to be polite, so I accepted the wildly expensive jewelry. It was the least I could do, considering our history.

  “I’ll enjoy the thought of you wearing them.” Charlie checked his watch, craned his neck to peer twelve stories down, and said, “Looks like my driver’s here. Happy fiftieth, Ju-ju. Let’s stay in touch, shall we?”

  A BlackBerry gong set to deafening cut through the noise, precluding my need to respond. I gave Charlie’s free hand what I knew would be a final squeeze. Then he went one way and I went another. But not quite forever.

  • • •

  As I was making my way to Marti to break the news, I was pulled aside by Angela Driscoll.

  “Wonderful party, Judith. Big year for you.”

  If she only knew. “It has been,” I replied.

  “Actually, I meant the big five-oh. But yes . . . Richard. So of course it has been. Well, I think what’s up ahead will be better. Much.”

  She handed me a fancy gift bag. Another flaunter of the no-presents policy, but she was my boss and I wasn’t about to reprimand her.

  “I wouldn’t normally suggest this, but I’d like you to open it now.” She was conducting this conversation. Her eyebrows rose encouragingly.

  I parted a cloud of tissue paper and removed a blue lacquer box decorated with plum blossoms inlaid in mother-of-pearl.

  “Gorgeous,” I said, turning it to catch the iridescence in the light.

  “It’s Korean, of course. I understand plum blossoms signify new life, new beginnings, so I thought, Just right for Judith’s fiftieth. New beginnings, exciting things on the horizon.” She hitched her chin, cuing me to lift the lid.

  It was a music box. With all the noise around us we had to strain to hear the first four bars of Arirang, the folk song that bridged the two
sides of the Korean divide. The melody every Korean knew from the crib, the one my mother used to sing to me.

  “I thought that might hold special significance for you,” Angela said, smiling. I bobbed an assent, overcome, eyes welling. She paused. Angela Driscoll knew how to milk a dramatic moment. “What a haunting melody. I assume you’ll be happy to play it next spring in Pyongyang?”

  I looked up from the red-velvet-lined box. “You’re kidding. Oh my God. We’re going?”

  “We’re going. Contract signed. Of course, there can always be last-minute glitches, like nuclear holocaust. North Korea has tons of WMD and a short temper. And I admit, there was a time when I thought the concert would fall through. It was dicey for a while.”

  “Yes, I heard a rumor . . .”

  “Honestly, the CIA should sign up the entire orchestra. Nothing is secret, nothing is sacred.”

  “I heard a rumor it had something to do with background checks.”

  “That got out too, did it?” Then she read my face. “Oh, Judith! It never even occurred to me—you thought it was about you, didn’t you? No, no. Nothing to do with you. This isn’t for publication, but the issue was Lyndon Shin.” Our piccolo player. “Lyndon’s uncle is vice president of South Korea. That was a sticking point for the North Korean culture minister. Touchy kind of stuff, propaganda-wise. But it got ironed out.”

  More proof of Geoff’s Galilean notion that the world, especially when its orbit was off-kilter, didn’t revolve around me.

  “So Korea next April. How’s that for a gift, huh? You won’t get two of them.” Angela gave me a hug, turned to leave, halted mid-pirouette, and turned back. The woman had mastered the art of stagecraft. “One other small item. We’re not bringing in any guest artists on this trip. We’re showing off our own. As principal, you’ll be featured. You’ll be playing Arirang solo in Pyongyang.”

  Ten seconds into my stunned silence, she placed her index finger under my slack lower jaw and pushed up.

  “Much better. You’re speechless. Good—that means you can keep the news quiet for a few more days. I don’t want it to get out yet. I’ll announce it to the troupe an hour before the official press release is e-mailed out. It really is a history-making moment for the orchestra.”

  I was still in shock. She filled in my answer. “And yes, I can only imagine, Judith. History-making for you too.”

  • • •

  “Tell me the truth,” Marti said, embracing the room with open arms. “Is this not everything you ever dreamed of for your second birthday party? The joint is jumpin’. Check out your parents or whatever you call them these days.”

  Irwin and Grace were doing a mean foxtrot to “From This Moment On.” They’d been on the dance floor for most of the afternoon.

  “Did you see that? He just dipped her like Fred and Ginger. Amazing. Irwin’s eighty and his knees are better than mine.”

  “They look good together,” I admitted. I was making progress accepting the new status quo, was no longer nauseated watching them exchange adoring glances. In fact, I found it mildly endearing. Maybe they were beshert, preordained to be a couple, as Aunt Phyllis contended. Who was I to buck fate?

  “What a turnout!” Marti was saying. “I can’t believe you pulled a ninety percent acceptance rate for this party. Who knew you had so many friends? Even Sarah Tarkoff came out of mourning for you.” It had been a month since Richard’s passing. Sarah had told me he would have wanted her to be there.

  “And that one over there flew cross-country just for this.” Marti nodded toward Tim Beckersham, engaged in earnest discussion with a woman I didn’t recognize.

  “He arrived at BWI this morning and afterward he’s going to turn around and catch the red-eye back to California. He left a very pregnant wife at home and traveled twelve hours to be here for five. Now that’s a tribute.”

  I’d known Tim since he was a kid and he’d been a good one. Mrs. Beckersham hadn’t dragged him to Bed-Stuy on the days she navigated the New York City subway system to get to me for my lessons, but he’d sat through most of our recital rehearsals at the Brooklyn Academy of Music. While we played, he’d be down in the first row doing his homework or reading his book. Now he was a physician, a gastroenterologist with a wife and twin sons.

  “The next baby is a girl,” he’d told me excitedly in the few minutes we snatched to chat off to the side. He’d added with a catch in his voice, “We’re going to name her after Mom. I just hope she has her character.” My beloved Florence was going to have a namesake.

  “Tim is a gem,” I said to Marti. I squinted. “Okay, who’s the woman with him?”

  “That pretty young thing is my date. She and Tim are probably talking large intestines. Kendra’s an OR nurse at Hopkins. I went for my mammogram, the elevator was crowded, we two were jammed together like moles in a burrow, and the rest is not quite history.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding. What happened to Nora?”

  “Nora is on a business trip. And I’ve decided commitment is one of those overrated systems like communism. I’ve overthrown it.” She gave me a nudge in the ribs. “Uh-oh, check who’s sashaying by . . . Hi, glad you could make it,” Marti tossed off a greeting as Deena Marquis, flitting a wave, sailed by us, large fake boobs making a prow of her profile.

  “Explain,” I said when she’d passed. “What’s she doing here?”

  “Oh yeah, I meant to tell you about that bolt from the blue. Burt Silverman called me last night to ask if he could bring a date. The date turned out to be Deena. It seems a romance between the harpist and the timpanist has been in the closet for close to a year. Burt said musicians are a bunch of yentas and he wanted to avoid the gossip stirred up by an intra-orchestral romance. You know; you and Geoff had your share of it. Then your birthday reminded them they weren’t sixteen anymore and they decided to make their official debut at your party.” She gave me an impish smile. “I guess Geoff must have been a red herring, or a cover for what was really going on. And that, in turn, suggests the Aussie is, at this very moment, unclaimed.”

  “The Aussie is, at this very moment, unaccounted for. Or haven’t you noticed?”

  “Oh, ye of little faith, don’t despair. It’s only four o’clock. On the other hand, four o’clock means a big surprise.” She scared me when she got that Machiavellian glint in her eyes.

  I groaned. “No more surprises.”

  “Don’t be a whiny baby. Of course more.” Marti grabbed my hand and began tugging me toward the bandstand. Then she stopped.

  “Now pull yourself together, because your guests are about to sing you the Happy Birthday song.” She made her eyes Sesame Street wide. “Are you ready for cake and ice cream and other goodies beyond your wildest dreams?” I allowed myself a small whimper. “Excellent. You’re going to love this. I pulled out all the stops.”

  Chapter 41

  The cake’s inscription—“Happy 50, Judith. Tempus Fugit”—had been Marti’s idea, of course. Clever, but not outrageous. You always had to worry about outrageous with Marti.

  “What ‘tempus fugit’ mean?” my mother asked, staring at the letters in red icing.

  “It’s a saying in Latin. Time flies. You know, life goes by very fast.”

  “She put this on cake? Hahahaha. Very funny woman, Marti.”

  What happened next was nothing less than inspired. A waiter rolled out a trolley cart draped in a tablecloth. For one exquisitely normal moment I thought the cloth was hiding maybe a make-your-own-sundae bar. Then Marti produced a hot pink sequined blindfold, secured it over my eyes, and I knew I was in for it.

  “Go along with this,” she hissed in my ear, “or I swear I’ll have you barred from every halfway decent restaurant in Baltimore.”

  Whatever she’d concocted involved my mother, I deduced, inhaling the scent of Shalimar at my right shoulder before I heard the crinkle of pape
r unfolding and Grace begin to read. Marti must have written the script, because it had appropriate tenses throughout and a full freight of articles.

  “Many years ago— Okay, not so many because I say ‘many’ she be very mad,” my mother improvised, to the crowd’s amusement. “Judith had a first birthday party called tol in Korea. In this tradition, the baby chooses the symbol of how her life will turn out from a toljabee table. Judith chose a musical instrument. Today she plays principal cello with the Maryland Philharmonic Orchestra.” Much cheering from out front. “Now, for the second half of her life, she will choose again. What she picks will decide the course of her future. Good luck, my dear daughter.”

  Caught between laughter and tears, I swung my arm right, trying to grasp my mother’s waist, and nearly lost my balance.

  “Stop fooling, Judith. You act like child. You fifty-year-old now.” My mother’s mike was on and the audience whooped with delight.

  I felt a breeze under my chin as someone whipped the drape from the cart.

  My mother urged, “Go, Judith. Now.”

  As I groped the air, shouts from the audience directed me. “Warm,” someone yelled. “Warmer.” “Cool.”

  Oh no—mere mortals directing my life would anger the gods. I spun around, reached out, and grasped . . . what? Marti snatched off my blindfold.

  I held a heart in my hand (better than the toilet plunger she’d positioned dead center). A doctor’s anatomical model of a human heart, one of those awful four-chambered breakaway replicas with the auricles and ventricles in living color.

  “Life size, I’ll have you know. On loan from my cardiologist,” Marti said into the microphone.

  “Judith made the very best choice,” Lulu Cho, edging in, pronounced to scattered applause. She was no spring chicken and her voice magnified was tremulous, but still commanding. “The heart is the symbol of love. This means Judith will have love forever in her life, to give and to take. And now let us sing happy birthday to her in two languages. English first, then Korean.”