Happy Any Day Now

by Toby Devens

  The cake was presented, I blew out the candles, and my guests sang the English rendition. For the Korean version, waiters threaded among the guests handing out the traditional sweet rice cakes. Then, with the lights dimmed, the words projected on the wall, and the band reprising the tune, I was serenaded with:

  Sang-il chookha-hapneeda

  Sang-il chookha-hapneeda

  Jul guh woon sang-il ulh

  Chookha-hapneeda

  Forty-nine voices sang out—no, fifty. In the front row, standing next to and towering over my father as the old man blotted his eyes, was Geoff Birdsall. He must have just slid in. He let loose in his lusty bass Chookha-hapneeda! And as the last note faded, he touched his fingers—those elegantly long, sublimely supple fingers—to his lips, and released a greeting kiss.

  The butterfly beneath my breastbone soared at the sight of him. The bewildered moth that shared its habitat bashed around in the dark wondering what the hell was going on. Hi-Jude kisses to start. Bye-Jude kisses no doubt at the finish. Well. I wasn’t kissing so fast.

  Oh God, even if only for the length of my party, Geoff was back.

  • • •

  “Glad you made it before the cleaning crew arrived,” I grumbled preemptively as we seated ourselves at a corner table out of the Electric Slide line of fire. Irritation was a stand-in for the sadness I felt just below the surface. I shoveled in a forkful of Fugit. I needed a sugar hit to get through what promised to be a depressing conversation.

  Geoff looked up from toying with his cake. “Sorry. Getting home turned into something of an adventure. My original flight was canceled last minute and then there was a mix-up with . . . Well, in the end, I’m here and happy to be. This is a spectacular party.”

  “Thanks to Marti and my mom,” I said. “They put it together. Always there for me.” As you used to be before your defection to the redcoats was the implied and extremely unfair accusation.

  Geoff didn’t or wouldn’t pick up on it. Instead he said, “Jude, you’ve got an entire cheering section these days. Starting with your colleagues. Vijay told me you had a brilliant audition. He said the Don Juan was the best he’d ever heard it played. The bloody Phil can count itself lucky to have you in the principal seat.”

  And there it was on a silver platter, my lead-in. I took it. “And I’m sure the UK Concert Orchestra is busting its braces to know Geoff Birdsall will be on trumpet. Sounds like a dream job,” I said, doing my damnedest to sound sincere, not quite pulling it off.

  He must have caught the rough edge on my voice. “It wasn’t something I initiated,” he said. “I got an e-mail from an old friend who plays with the UKCO—”

  I interrupted. “You don’t owe me any explanations, Geoff.”

  “No, I want you to know how it went down. My friend said the trumpet seat was about to open, he’d already spoken to management about me, and I had a leg up. Their vetting process is not nearly as structured as ours. I told him I’d think about it. Next thing I knew, management was on the phone. They needed to fill the seat in a hurry and asked would I hop over.”

  “So you hopped.” For God’s sakes, I scolded myself, cut the attitude. Make your exit with some dignity.

  “I thought it might be time for a change of scenery,” he continued. “After all, you and I were over and done with. And I didn’t want to be the mourner at the wedding feast.” He swiveled to take in the room. “Where is Charlie, by the way?”

  “Been and gone,” I said. “Very been and very gone.” But Geoff was fighting jet lag and the inference zipped by him.

  “Yes, he’s a busy man, no doubt.” He resumed: “So I thought perhaps it was time for a move. I’m always up for a bit of adventure—that’s what I told myself. And it was a plum of a job. Odd coincidence, but the same day you were auditioning here, I was giving them a little sample there. And I reckon I wasn’t half bad.”

  “They made you an offer on the spot?”

  “They did.”

  Had that five-pound plastic model of a heart fallen off the toljabee cart, it couldn’t have plunged any faster than my own flesh-and-blood heart. Get a grip, I told myself. My white-knuckled hand was already clutching the edge of the table.

  Always sensitive to my moods, Geoff’s uh-oh detector must have gone off. “Something wrong?” Those stunning hazel eyes were cloudy with confusion.

  “No, fine. You were saying?”

  Only I realized I didn’t want to hear what he was about to say. At that moment, whatever Geoff and I had over the last three years—a liaison so light it couldn’t help but take off in the first ill wind—turned heavy. Not the kind of heaviness you couldn’t lift. Not a burden to be shouldered or a cross to be borne. This was a weight like a bundle of feathers—lightness multiplied infinitely—that anchored you in place so you didn’t get blown away, didn’t even think of running. You stayed and allowed whatever it was to find you and wrap itself around you. Love. The breathtaking, in addition to the heavy-breathing, variety. We’d had it all along, but who knew? I didn’t, until Geoff’s absence defined its presence.

  He was still talking. “So I auditioned, they offered, and we spent a long afternoon haggling over the contract. I had some reservations about the benefits package. I asked for a night to sleep on it. Then you called, Judith.

  “I heard your voice—that’s all it took—and the whole deal came apart. I asked myself, Who was I kidding? I couldn’t get far enough away to erase what the sound of your voice alone did to me. The adventure excuse was bullshit from the start. The truth was I just didn’t want to witness your happiness with Charlie. Selfish of me, I know, but I was afraid I’d be hurt beyond healing seeing you with him.” He pushed his plate away. “It’s never a good idea to run away from your fear, is it? I could tell myself that I was moving toward a new start in London, but I knew it was really running away. And that never works. Ask Irwin.”

  As if on cue, we both turned to follow Irwin the runner, who was walking very slowly and carefully toward us, balancing a tray of full champagne flutes.

  “I know to you he’s half bastard, half buffoon,” Geoff said. Actually, not quite anymore; he hadn’t been updated. “But it took a lot of courage for your dad to try to make amends. Anyway, I spent most of that night thinking through the move. It sounded ideal. But there was an awful lot of Mahler on the concert calendar. So depressing. And the Brits are a bit stodgy for this Aussie. Also, English weather really does suck. It rained for the entire week I was there. I’m a fan of sun, as you know. Bottom line, I told them thanks but no thanks.”

  I thought I’d misheard him. The band was loud. “You said no?”

  “Yes, I said no. I declined the offer.”

  Which is when the world, or maybe it was just my heart, stopped for at least ten seconds.

  “So it appears I’ll be hanging around a while longer. At least until something better comes along. Which isn’t bloody likely. Don’t worry, Jude. I’ve pretty much made peace with the new order. I won’t get in your way.”

  I want you in my way, I thought. Didn’t say. Couldn’t talk.

  “With the symphony season just about over, I can make myself scarce. Maybe I’ll visit my folks for a start. And I’ve been thinking Tahiti would be just the ticket to take the chill off after that.”

  I found my voice, but nerves made me babble. “Tahiti, really? I’ve always wanted to go to Tahiti. Since I saw my first Gauguin at the Brooklyn Museum, I’ve dreamed about Tahiti.”

  “It’s a good place to holiday.” He went glum. “I have a feeling even Charlie could stand a week there if he was guaranteed reception for his BlackBerry.”

  “Honestly, I can’t see Charlie wearing a pareo.” The image of the distinguished judge wrapped in a sarong made me giggle. At that moment, almost anything would have made me laugh.

  Geoff had turned seriously somber. “In any case, I’ve come to term
s with the situation. I wish you the best, Jude. Whatever makes you happy.”

  The band had just gone on break, and in the sudden silence it all came in loud and clear. “You make me happy,” I blurted, astonished to hear myself say what I realized I’d been feeling, tamping down for a while now.

  He gave me a searching look. Vamped three beats. “No kidding? You’re saying I do? Me, not Charlie?”

  “The Charlie fling is over.”

  “It was a fling, was it? That’s all it was? And you’ve sent him packing? Really? Poor bloke.” Geoff looked remarkably cheerful for a man expressing sympathy. “He’s going to take it hard.”

  “I think he’ll be fine.” He would be, too. Oh sure, it might sting for a while, but that would be pride more than love. Not the kind of love I needed, anyway. “He’s got a rich, full life, Charlie does. More than he can handle.”

  “Well, I can tell you I missed you. Those weeks without you were like someone lopped off my right hand. And you know how important a right hand is to a trumpet player.”

  “Me too. My bow hand. It was only after it was gone that I realized how much I needed it . . .” My voice was shaky. “. . . to make music.”

  “Really?” He couldn’t quite get over it. “Isn’t this a corker? Me, not Charlie.” He took a long pull of beer. “Fortifying myself.” Then he planted the beer bottle on the table, took my hands in his, and said, very formally, very adorably, “I may be presuming here, but I’ve got to chance it.” He cleared his throat. “You do know I love you, Jude. And . . . if you want to get married, I’m willing. More than. There, I’ve said it and I’m still standing. Marriage is a definite option. I’m up for it, if that’s what you want.”

  “Not necessarily,” I said.

  Taking the “necessarily” off the table made me feel suddenly, incredibly free—free enough so I could foresee a day when “possibly” might find room at that same table.

  On a wing and a prayer I said, “I love you too.” Softly, because it scared me so. As I’d been recently reminded, I didn’t have the most sterling record when it came to picking men. But Geoff heard it, I could tell by his hard swallow. And then because, what the hell, I was risking my ass anyway with this conversation, I reached over and stroked his jaw, bristly with the red-eye flight stubble he hadn’t stopped to shave. “My love,” I said, and again, “My love.”

  “Ah, Jude.” His voice was tender. “I love you so much. I am one lucky bastard.” Then the big Aussie grinned and changed key. “Okay, got that settled. Now, what’s next?”

  “Tahiti for hang gliding. Do they hang glide in Tahiti?” I was high on the moment, half talking, half laughing.

  “If they don’t, we’ll teach them.” He slowed the tempo. “But first, winter in Sydney. You’ll love it there and I can introduce you to my mum, my family, and the best of my mates. They’ll fall head over heels for you, the lot of them. Then the week in Tahiti and home.” His glance turned merry, mischievous. “Crikey, maybe we ought to figure where home is exactly. You have space for my didgeridoo collection at your place? I’m thinking long term. Curator accompanying, of course.”

  Geoff moving in with me? Those didgeridoos, huge aboriginal horns, required a room of their own. “We’ll manage,” I whispered.

  He reached over, drew my hand toward him, and pressed his lips against my palm.

  Marti, standing nearby in a chat circle with my mother and Lulu Cho, caught the move. She issued a loud, exaggerated “Ahem” and sent me a cartoon wink.

  I nodded to her, then turned to the shuffle of my father inching toward us with three flutes of champagne.

  Arriving with a smile, he handed me a glass. “Hey, Geoff, here you go. And one for me.” I had a feeling it wasn’t his first. “Happy you made it, young man. I see you didn’t get a tan in London. Lousy weather those limeys have. Judith, beautiful party, beautiful birthday girl. I gotta tell you, when you blew out those candles with the spotlight on you, it struck me how much of your mother you got in you. The Korean genes combining with the Jewish genes make you a real knockout. Ain’t she a looker, Geoff?”

  “She is that, Irwin. An absolute stunner.”

  I stared at another birthday surprise, the freshly grown gray smudge under Irwin’s classic Raphael nose. “And I like your mustache,” I remarked. It was the nicest thing I’d said to Irwin Raphael since he’d turned up a month earlier. My version of “We’re okay.”

  “Something new,” my ap-ba responded. “When you’re old, it’s good to try something new. Just for the heck of it.” He flashed his caps at Geoff. “But not too new, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” I said, my voice taking on a melody I recognized as joy.

  It was on that note that the party ended for me and the rest of my life began. Then again, the rest of my life had the promise of turning into one long party.

  Geoff and my father lifted their glasses.

  The old man said, “Here’s to you, Judith. Happy fiftieth, kiddo.”

  Geoff chimed in, “Cheers, luv.”

  My mother, who’d strolled over from the women’s circle, slipped in next to me. “Don’t forget best Korean toast.” She lifted her glass in the traditional fashion, supporting her right arm with her left hand. “Gun-bae.”

  “Gun-bae,” we all repeated.

  But I had the final word over the Piper-Heidsieck, “L’chayim.”

  To life. Whatever it brings.

  Chapter 42

  It brought me the greatest gift in all my nearly fifty-one years the following April.

  Seated on the flower-banked stage of the East Pyongyang Grand Theater, I peered into the audience. The theater seated twenty-five hundred. That night they were mostly North Korean men in somber business suits and women in gorgeous pastel hanboks. Also a contingent of U.S. State Department representatives.

  We played the “Star-Spangled Banner” and “Patriotic Song,” the national anthem of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea. Then an all-American program: Aaron Copland’s Appalachian Spring, a medley from Porgy and Bess in which Geoff got to show off on trumpet, and the New World Symphony. As Dvorák’s final notes of tribute faded and the hall exploded with applause, I moved with my cello to the podium that had been placed for me up front, center stage. I took my chair, Angela raised her baton, and the orchestra behind me flooded the theater with the first stirring chorus of the national folk song, Arirang.

  My nerves were the right kind of strung for that night’s concert. Calm enough so I didn’t have to call up the tranquil image of the beach where on winter break Geoff and I had blissfully stretched out after windsurfing the waters around Maui. Taut enough so I would give the performance of a lifetime and remember every shining detail.

  I could see clearly to the fifth row. The first row lined up the country’s highest party officials. Backs straight, hands folded in their laps, they sat with expressionless faces. The second row showed sparks of emotion. As the lushest violin passages of the folk song soared, an older man dabbed tears and a few women mouthed the words they had known from childhood. In the middle of the third row, my mother and father never shifted their stare from me. The principal flutist played a melancholy interlude, Deena shone on the harp, my parents’ stare remained unwavering.

  Amazing. The old guy had shelled out a hundred thousand dollars of the chippie’s money to the Maryland Philharmonic’s Richard Arthur Tarkoff Foundation to earn the title of patron and secure the trip and the seats for him and my mother.

  Grace was dressed in her own mother’s now antique hanbok, a gift from her sister, my aunt Min Sun. The two women separated by war when barely out of their teens held hands. Next to my aunt were her husband and six of my cousins, who’d been discovered at a cooperative farm in Hwanghae by who-knows-what means by who-knows-what American agency under pressure from Secretary of State Eleanor Aldridge as a favor to
her cousin Charles Evans Pruitt. Charlie had connections and he had class. It had taken a single phone call from me for him to set the wheels in motion. His final gift to his lost love was my lost family. Better than rubies.

  Angela led the violins to a soaring transition as the first chorus ended and a spotlight bloomed over me. I took a deep, steadying breath—Remember this, Judith; remember this until your dying day—and gave an infinitesimal nod to my parents. My father sent me a wink and nudged my mother, who blew me a kiss. The signal from Angela and I lifted my bow, drew it across the historic strings of the Goffriller, and made it weep the music of Arirang.

  As I played, I sang the song’s familiar lyrics in my head. Their absolute meaning is lost in the mists of time, but most Koreans agree they have to do with love and abandonment. And, some say, hope.

  Photo by Fern Eisner

  Toby Devens has been an editor, public information specialist, and author of short fiction and articles for national magazines. She has lectured worldwide about writing and women’s issues and has led writing workshops. Her first published book was a humorous and poignant collection of poetry that was excerpted in McCall’s and Reader’s Digest. In 2006, she published her first novel, My Favorite Midlife Crisis (Yet). She lives halfway between Baltimore, Maryland, and Washington, D.C.

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  CONVERSATION GUIDE

  A CONVERSATION

  WITH TOBY DEVENS

  Q. What inspired you to write Happy Any Day Now?

  A. I’ve always been interested in the theme of return and how the past cycles into the present. When old friends and former classmates reconnected with me through social media, I recovered some who had been lost to me for decades. In several cases, there were reunions. The idea that people who had played a role in my life were suddenly back to make magic or mischief (or both) was fascinating. I wanted to explore that.