Miracle

by Pam Tribble

  ~~***~~

  After school that day she headed over to Barty Master’s house for her lesson.

  She unloaded her cello and lugged it up the front walk and wrap-around covered porch to the front door of his canary yellow Victorian cottage. Barty had converted his front living room into his music studio where he taught his students. He used a smaller room toward the back of the house for his personal living room. As was expected, Lyra let herself in and, when she didn’t see him waiting for her, called out a greeting.

  He shouted back, “Coming,” from somewhere in the back of the house, and appeared a moment later.

  By then Lyra had unpacked her instrument and was warming up. She smiled and continued running through her scales. Once warmed up they visited briefly before getting started. Barty always inquired about her parents and school. He suggested they start with the Mozart concerto she’d been working on for several weeks. Barty collected his cello from its nearby stand and he accompanied Lyra.

  A typical Mozart composition, the melody was light and the tempo devilishly fast. Mozart never failed to lift Lyra’s mood and as they hurtled through the piece to the conclusion, their arms and bows blurred with the speed of the sixteenth and thirty-second note combinations. Lyra was laughing with exhilaration as they drew their bows across the strings holding the last note of the romping finale. Lyra and Barty shared a moment of laughter while they caught their breath and flex their cramped hands.

  “I’m impressed, Lyra. You’ve been practicing, I’m glad to see. You had me worried a couple of weeks ago.”

  Lyra smiled with chagrin remembering the day. “Yes, well, I was just preoccupied that day. But I have been practicing. That is a particularly fun piece to work on.”

  “Yes, it is. Okay. Let’s see how you are doing on the technical exercises I assigned you last week.”

  Lyra played and he critiqued for another half-hour. At the close of the lesson, as Lyra repacked her cello and music, Masters surprised her by asking, “Have you been thinking much about college, Lyra, in particular, a major?”

  “Um, no. Mom and Dad have been asking me the same thing. I haven’t decided. I don’t want to hurt their feelings, but I just can’t see spending my life in a boring office preparing legal documents all day. They’d be happy to see me go into medicine too, but I don’t have the stomach to cut people open. I guess psychology wouldn’t be that bad,” she frowned and shrugged her shoulders.

  “Have you considered a career in music?”

  Lyra was taken aback. “No. Honestly, I haven’t.”

  Masters gestured to the chair she’d just vacated. She sat back down.

  “You are an excellent musician,” he began. “Your technique is flawless and you play with real passion. I think you would do well and thoroughly enjoy taking music in college. What you need, however, is to play with other musicians—besides me.”

  “How could I do that? You know the school band doesn’t have a string section.”

  “You are far above the level of most high-school musicians. No, I wasn’t thinking that.” He shifted in his seat. “Susan Bourke, one of the cellists in the Sinfonietta, I am sorry to say, has been diagnosed with brain cancer. She has resigned her post and it is unlikely she will return. We will need to replace her. Would you be interested in joining our group?”

  Lyra was astonished, first about the diagnosis of Susan Bourke. She’d met Susan after one of the Sinfonietta’s concerts and had truly admired her, a talented and vivacious musician. Second, she was flabbergasted Masters would even consider Lyra as a potential replacement. “Am I…am I good enough?”

  “Most certainly. I have always felt it was a terrible waste that you were not able to hone your skills in a group setting.” His eyes were lit with excitement and he continued, “We get together about once a month over the winter and spring to practice for the summer concert season, but it is nothing arduous—nothing that would interfere with your school schedule. In June, we’ll bump it up to once a week. Our first concert will be in July and the season will be over before school starts back. It would primarily involve you learning the music at home and, of course, we can work on anything difficult during our lessons together.”

  Excitement began to build inside Lyra too. She had attended the Sinfonietta concerts with her parents for years and would always imagine herself up on the stage playing alongside the other cellists. She had, however, never dared to entertain the idea seriously. She jumped up and started pacing.

  “Oh my gosh. That would be totally awesome! I would love to, Barty! When do we start? When is our first practice?”

  “Well, hold on just a minute. First you need to go home and clear it with your parents. They have to approve of the idea.”

  “Okay. No problem there. They’ll be thrilled.” Lyra waved away his concern.

  “Next, you will need to audition for the Board.”

  Lyra stopped in her tracks and her face fell.

  “It’s just a formality,” he continued hurriedly. “I have no doubt of your being accepted.” He smiled wryly. “Especially since I happen to be chairman of the Board. I’ve been bragging about you to everyone for years. Unless you manage to break both your arms between now and then, I can almost guarantee your acceptance.”

  Lyra squealed and ran over to hug him. He laughed and hugged her back affectionately.

  “Now,” he clapped his hands, getting her attention once more. “If you enjoy playing in the orchestra this coming season, and you want to think about majoring in music in college, I can get you letters of recommendation and interviews with the music directors at Browne, NY State, Cornell—wherever you want to go.”

  Lyra’s face sobered once more. She wasn’t so sure her parents would be thrilled with that idea. “Is it possible to make a living playing music? I mean, would I actually be able to support myself one day?”

  Masters patted the chair beside him and she returned to her seat obediently.

  “I grant you, the average professional musician makes far less than a tax attorney or brain surgeon,” he conceded with a grimace, “but thousands of musicians the world over manage to support themselves in their profession, some extremely well. And I do believe, Lyra, you are one who would do extremely well.”

  “What exactly could I do?”

  “Well, most musicians combine teaching and performing. Those who teach full-time may be part of a smaller, less-demanding orchestra, like the Sinfonietta here in Placid. Others, who are part of larger, world-class symphony orchestras like the New York Philharmonic, may supplement their income by teaching part-time. There are the rare few who manage to make it as composers. The most profitable composers usually write for television and/or movies.”

  Lyra stared at the floor biting her lip.

  Barty patted her shoulder. “Just think about it, Lyra. You do not have to make a rash decision, but let me give you a bit of advice: You will work many years, even with a family and raising children. Do something you enjoy. Life is too short to waste your time in a job you do not love.”

  Lyra later wondered how she made it home from Barty’s house; she did not remember the drive at all. She was consumed with ideas of being part of the Sinfonietta and a possible career in music. For the first time in her life, she was excited about the thought of college and eventual profession. Could her livelihood actually be made in an occupation she enjoyed, was passionate about? Images of herself in college (playing and learning alongside kids her own age), being on stage with other professional musicians, and teaching little children the notes on the staff, filled (and thrilled) her mind.

  Lyra wasn’t satisfied with walking Harry when she got home; she had to run with him to work off some of her nervous energy. She called her mom at work to see if she and her father would be home for dinner. Upon hearing that they would be, she got busy in the kitchen preparing broiled lobster, angle-hair pasta with pesto, steamed caulif
lower, and garlic-buttered focaccia bread. By the time her parents made it in an hour-and-a-half later, the delicious aromas wafted through the house.

  “Mmm. What in heaven’s name are you cooking in here? It smells wonderful!” her father exclaimed as he came into the kitchen removing his coat.

  Her mom followed closely behind, her nose lifted and smiling in appreciation.

  “Hi Mom, Dad. It’s just about ready,” Lyra sang as she darted from the oven to the counter removing the lobster and toasted bread.

  Olivia and Gordon got busy setting the table and pouring iced tea. As they took their seats at the table, her father stretched his hands out, reaching to grasp one of each of theirs.

  They bowed their heads and her father prayed.

  “…and, Lord, we thank you for the beautiful, priceless gift of our daughter, Lyra. She makes us so proud. Amen.”

  Lyra’s heart warmed at her father’s words. Her parents were not overtly religious; their faith was more personal and their worship spontaneous, which made his words of praise much more special.

  The food was excellent, and in much less time than it took to prepare, they had finished eating it. Gordon and Olivia were lavish in their praise of the meal.

  “Is there any particular reason for this lovely treat?” her mother inquired as they lingered at the table after dinner.

  “Yes and no,” Lyra admitted. “I was in the mood to cook and just wanted to surprise you…I do, however, have something to talk to you about.”

  “Well don’t keep us in suspense. Tell us,” her father urged.

  Lyra relayed Masters’ news of the vacancy in the orchestra and his invitation for Lyra to audition for it. She explained the rehearsal schedule, emphasizing that it would not interfere with school, and the concert schedule for the summer. She did not mention Barty’s and her discussion about college and possible music careers; there was no need to go into that until she had thought about it some more herself. They were saddened upon hearing of Susan Bourke’s cancer diagnosis, but as happy for her as she had hoped they would be. They were delighted at her accomplishment. After she and her mom finished cleaning the kitchen, she called Barty to let him know he could schedule the audition.

  Lyra showered and completed her homework, and then practiced her cello for an hour. She was determined to be worthy of the honor of becoming a member of the orchestra group. She spent most of the time on exercises in her advanced method book before allowing herself to play a few of her favorites, including Music of the Night, which she’d felt compelled to play often over the last few weeks. She had finally tired herself out, so after spending a moment at the window looking over the misty mountain range, she went to bed and slept soundly.

  Tuesday at school Lyra smiled so much, Aimee and Katie asked her at different times what in the world she was so happy about.

  “That’s fantastic!” Aimee congratulated when Lyra told her. “I’m not much into classical music, but I’ll come to hear you play. Maybe some of that high-class will rub off on me.”

  Katie was just as enthusiastic to hear Lyra’s news.

  At lunchtime, Lyra followed Jonah through the lunch line and sat with him again. She just couldn’t bear for him to continue to sit by himself. There was such a crowd at her table anyway, she wouldn’t be missed.

  Jonah too asked her what she was so happy about. She was a little shy telling him about auditioning for the Sinfonietta. He seemed genuinely happy for her.

  “So, do you ever listen to classical music?” she asked him.

  “As a matter of fact, I do. I like a lot of different kinds of music. I can’t say I prefer one genre over another; it just depends on my mood. I listen to classical mostly at night to wind down and contemporary or alternative rock in the morning to get myself moving,” he said with a smile. “So when is the audition?”

  “I don’t know yet. I wonder what I’ll have to play—something new or a piece I’m already familiar with?” she mused. She worried about it for a few minutes, then shook her head to clear it.

  “How are you doing on your president?” she asked, changing the subject.

  “Oh, okay. I’ve got an outline for my essay. I’ll probably get through writing it by the weekend. I’m glad I picked Lyndon Johnson. I really like him.”

  “Do you want to get together over the weekend to start on the comparison part of the project?”

  “Um, okay. What about Gina?”

  “I’ll ask her in Government. We can meet at my house. Mom and Dad will probably be out, but even if they’re home, it’ll be fine.”

  “Okay.”

  The bell rang and Jonah walked Lyra to Computer Programming before heading to Spanish. Lyra wasn’t worried about Kyle; she didn’t believe he would try to harass her in a school full of students and teachers. He had done nothing more unpleasant than throw vicious glares their way at lunch for the last couple of days. However, she enjoyed walking with Jonah so much, she didn’t raise any more objections. She could feel warm energy radiating from him as they walked close together in the halls. Even though they didn’t speak much, it just felt so good to be near him.

  Gina said she had already written her paper on Theodore Roosevelt and agreed to get together on Saturday at Lyra’s house. They decided on one o’clock in the afternoon.

  The rest of the week passed much the same, with the exception that Barty called to let her know the audition would be held the morning of October 30th—the day of the Harvest Dance. Well, at least she wouldn’t have much time to be nervous about the evening with Jonah; she’d be too busy obsessing about the audition.

  She increased her practice time to two hours a night. Barty had told her she would perform two technical etudes (thankfully he told her which ones) and the Allegro movement of Spring from Vivaldi’s Four Seasons. She had learned the Vivaldi piece a couple of years ago, but had not played it lately, so she dug it out and began to refamiliarize herself with it.

  On Saturday morning she zipped through her chores and helped her mom bake apple bread. Her parents would be home after all and had suggested that she, Jonah, and Gina convene in the den.

  Gina arrived first. Lyra (and Harry) answered the door and showed her in. “Hi, Gina. Did you have any trouble with my directions?”

  “N…n…no, they were p…per…perfect.” She smiled apologetically, self-conscious of her stutter.

  Lyra led her to the kitchen to meet Olivia and offer her something to drink. Jonah arrived minutes later. Lyra met him at the door and he followed her back to the kitchen where Gina and her mom were talking. As usual, Harry was overjoyed to see Jonah. Despite Lyra’s continual reprimands, Harry jumped up on Jonah and nipped at his shirt hem and blue jeans, assuming Jonah had come solely to play with him. Jonah laughed at Harry’s irresistible enthusiasm. He set his books down on the kitchen table and bent to return Harry’s affection.

  Her mother greeted him graciously. “Hello, Jonah. It is good to see you again. Will you have some apple bread?”

  “No thank you ma’am, but it sure smells good.”

  “Lyra and I baked two loaves, so I want you to take one home with you—a belated welcome-to-the-neighborhood gift.”

  “Thank you. We will certainly enjoy it. Jet is a good cook, but he doesn’t bake.”

  Supplied with glasses of iced tea and a plate of the bread, they made their way to the den. Lyra closed the door on Harry so he wouldn’t be nuisance. They spread out on the floor and unpacked their notes and books. Lyra knew Gina was nervous being around Jonah so she started the discussion, reading her essay first. Then she asked Jonah to read his. By the time it was Gina’s turn, she had relaxed marginally and she had better control of her stutter. At first, Lyra watched Jonah obliquely to see if he would get impatient with Gina’s faltering speech, but soon her worry was allayed. Jonah was kind and patient. He kept his eyes downcast while Gina read, and not being watched seemed to ease her anxiety.
In fact, Lyra was astonished at Gina’s fluency; she didn’t stammer at all. An odd tranquility seemed to pervade the room while they were closed in together. During the ensuing discussion on the presidents’ administrations and major legislative decisions, Lyra took notes.

  Around three-thirty they called it quits for the day. Gina had volunteered to write a draft of the composite essay to which Lyra and Jonah had readily agreed. They decided to get together once more to make any changes or revisions before finalizing the paper for submission.

  Lyra walked Gina to the door. Jonah had stopped to play with Harry a few minutes before he left.

  “Thanks for h…ha…having me over and p…p…picking me for your group.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad to be with you and Jonah,” Lyra assured her. “We make a good team. I hate group projects where one person ends up doing all the work.”

  “Me too,” Gina agreed.

  Lyra hugged her and watched her walk to her car, get in, and drive away. She turned back inside and saw her parents coming down the stairs. Jonah was still on the floor wrestling Harry.

  “Jonah. How are you?” Her dad walked forward to shake Jonah’s hand as he stood up.

  “Fine, thank you, sir.”

  “It seems your uncle and I were of like minds today,” her mother said. “He invited us over for dinner tonight. Regrettably, I had to decline. We’ve had long-standing plans with some friends who are up from Albany—an old college buddy of Gordon’s and his wife.”

  Lyra tried to hide her disappointment. Dinner with Jonah and his uncle would be a thousand times better than a night spent listening to her dad’s ancient college stories or staying home alone (as she’d secretly hoped to beg-off going with her parents at the last minute).

  “Oh. I’m sorry you won’t be able to make it,” Jonah returned, looking uncomfortable. “Jet was just starting the sauce for lasagna when I came over. I didn’t realize he had intended to invite you.”

  “I mentioned to him that Lyra would likely prefer to have dinner with the two of you than go with us. He assured me she was welcome to come without us,” her mother confessed, adding, “If that’s okay with you.”

  Lyra’s heart leapt with joy. She looked at Jonah hopefully.

  There was a split-second hesitation before Jonah confirmed, “Of course. That would be great.”

  Was it Lyra’s imagination, or was there a hint of apprehension in his voice?

  He turned to her and smiled and she dismissed the thought.

  She grinned back. “Yeah, I’d like that. What time should I come over?”

  Her mother intercepted again. “Jet suggested Jonah drive over to pick you up at six o’clock and then bring you back after dinner. That way you won’t be coming home to an empty house after dark.” Apparently Olivia had been quite sure of Lyra’s preference and thus arranged all the details. Lyra restrained herself from skipping over to her mother and kissing her while Jonah was present.

  Jonah nodded and looked at Lyra. “Okay then. I’ll be back at six to pick you up.” Addressing them all he added, “I’d better get going and see if Jet needs some help. Thanks for having me over this afternoon.” He went to the table, retrieved his books, and left with a final wave.