No more whining, she told herself as she walked down the hall. But she wasn't sure what she would do if he didn't show more interest in them. She didn't want to nag him into it; she wanted it to come from him.
She knocked on the door of Holly's room. "Daddy's on the phone; he wants to talk to you."
I'll find a way, she thought. Something that will get us through the next few months. I'd better; otherwise when I move to Houston I might discover I've gone to live with a stranger.
Holly didn't want Elizabeth at the audition. "Please, mother; I can't stand the idea of you sitting there worrying. I don't even know if they'd let you in. They probably wouldn't. They don't want hordes of frantic parents wandering around worrying. ..."
"I'm not worried," said Elizabeth mildly, understanding who really was worried, wishing she could make it easier for Holly, and knowing she couldn't. "I was worried at my own auditions, the first time we faced the Chieftain staff" and the first time my column appeared, but I'm not wor= ried about you. You'll do your best, which is superb, and I think you'll make it."
"You really think so?" breathed Holly. "Well ... but still, please don't come."
"Of course I won't, if you don't want me to. But how wiD you get to Albuquerque?"
"Peter said he'd drive me."
"And go to the audition?"
"I'm thinking about it. He can wander around the campus if I don't want him there."
Elizabeth nodded. "Call me if you'll be late for dinner."
Sitting beside Peter on the high seat of his new car, cozily warm with the heater on, Holly gazed dreamily at the snow-covered mountains on the horizon. "Mother's so nice these days. Like she's trying to make everything . . . nice."
Peter grunted.
"What does that mean?"
"She's trying to make us not worry about her and Dad."
Holly sighed. "I know. She's trying to make herself not worry, too." They were silent. "I guess we should have moved to Houston last fall; things would be okay then."
"So it's my fault they're going to split!"
"I didn't say it was your—What do you mean, they're going to split? Did mother say that?"
"She doesn't have to; look at them, for Christ's sake. How much are they together? And have you watched them when they are? They used to touch each other, you know, little . . . touches. And they'd kiss, just quick ones, like Dad'd walk through the kitchen and give her a kiss and a little pinch on her ass—"
"Peter!"
"What?"
"Well, it doesn't seem right to talk about Mother that way."
"Everybody has an ass, Holly. Even mothers."
After a minute, she sighed again. "You're right. They don't do those things anymore. Daddy just . . . visits."
"We're his Santa Fe hotel."
"That's what I meant. We ought to be his Houston family."
"Well, we're moving there in June. It's really not fair to you; I get to graduate here and you don't."
"Peter!" Holly exclaimed suddenly.
"What?"
"My audition!"
"What about it? You afraid we're late? We have plenty of—"
"No. What if I win?"
"I don't get it. Isn't that the whole idea?"
"It's all summer with the opera company. I can't go to Houston!"
He scowled. "Shit."
"Well, you and Mother will go, that's all. And I'll stay here."
"She'd never let you stay alone."
"Of course not. In Grandma and Grandpa's guest house."
"Heather lives there."
"Heather will be married to Saul."
"When?"
"Any day now."
"Heather will never marry Saul," Peter predicted gloomily. "She'll keep putting it off forever. And Mother and Dad will split. And Grandpa will stay in his workshop day and night. Everybody we know has a fucked-up marriage."
"That's not true!"
"It sure is. And I'll go to Stanford and Maya will stay here and find somebody else—"
"Oh, that's what's bothering you!"
He shrugged. "Everything seems so . . . useless. Maybe I'll just spend my life being high."
Holly peered at him. "On what?"
"Coke, I suppose."
"Have you ever?"
"A few times."
"You never told me."
"You never asked."
"Did you like it?"
"Sure. It makes everything seem real simple. You never tried it? Even once?"
She shook her head. "I'm scared it might ruin my voice."
"Coke doesn't ruin your voice."
"I don't want to take the chance."
"Well, I can understand that. It's not that you're scared of coke; you just want to protect your voice."
"That's exactly right." They were silent. "Why did you only try it a few times, if you liked it?"
He shrugged. "I didn't want it to ruin my research."
"Oh. You mean, it's not that you're scared of coke; you just want to protect your brilliant mind."
'That's exactly right."
They burst out laughing. Peter reached over and tapped Holly's shoulder. "You're okay, you know. You and Maya are the only ones I ever told about being scared of it. Actually, it's not coke or pot I'm scared of as much as keeping it under control. I hate the idea of not knowing what's happening inside me—like, letting something besides my brilliant mind be in charge."
Holly nodded. "That's the way I feel."
"I figured. You're not bad to have around, you know, now that you're growing up."
"I'm growing up? You're the one who finally caught up with me! Boys are slower than girls; everybody knows that."
"You tell me often enough. The guys at school think you're a cold fish, you know. And a snob."
She shrugged. "That's too bad. You don't really think Maya will find somebody else, do you? She worships you."
"You think so?"
"You know she does. Peter?"
"What?"
"Do you and Maya make love?"
Peter frowned at the highway. "Sure."
"Really?"
"Sure."
"Is it wonderful?"
"Sure."
"You don't sound very romantic about it."
"Well . . . Christ, Holly, I can't talk about it!"
"Okay."
"It's . . . what you said. Wonderful." He paused. "You never have?"
"No."
"Because you don't want to?"
"Not with anybody I know. I think about it a lot. Did you? Before you and Maya . . . ?"
"Sure. I still do. All the time, seems like. It keeps butting in on my classes and my senior paper and everything. You really can't find anybody you like?"
"I like some of them. But I can't stand the idea of them pawing me. I mean, I read about it in novels—every position you can think of, really kinky stuff—but the more I read the more awful it seems that somebody I don't love would . . . invade me." A shudder went through her. "I'm about the only girl in the junior class who hasn't done it, and sometimes I feel like they're all grown up and I'm not, but I just can't do it—not with the boys I know. Did you feel more like a man when you did it the first time?"
He shrugged. "I guess. Mostly I just felt happy."
"Oh. I like that. Nobody who talks about it in school talks about being happy. They just talk about making it, like it's fudge or catching a bus. Ordinary. I want it to be beautiful and glorious and . . . happy. I know they call me a bitch and a tease at school, but . . . oh, it's so confusing! I want it and I don't, and it's scary but I'm dying to know what it's really like . . . Can't you tell me at all what it's like?"
"Close and warm and tight."
"Not for girls, big brother."
They giggled. "Right," Peter said. "I don't know how it feels to a girl. It depends on the guy. He has to be careful."
"That's another thing. I want somebody who knows what he's doing and thinks about me. I'm afraid of some kid who just want
s to score, or find something better than his hand." She blushed. "Luz and I talk about it a lot; I'm sorry if it makes you uncomfortable."
"Why should it? I don't treat Maya like that."
"Because you love her. If I loved somebody. ..."
"Well, but you could like somebody a lot. I mean, I love Maya, but I'm not sure it's forever. Her mother told her she shouldn't let anybody touch her until they were married."
"Nobody believes that anymore."
"Maya's mother does. I wanted to talk to Dad about it, once. How he felt about screwing and girls and getting married . . . But he didn't come home that weekend."
"You could have called him."
"I did. He wasn't there. I thought about driving to Houston to see him, but, shit, I'm not going to chase him around. If he cared about being a father, he'd come home and be a father."
Holly nodded. "I think Mother feels the same way. That's why she doesn't call him so much anymore."
"Shit."
"You say that too much."
"Everybody says it."
"Well, everybody does coke and you don't."
"That's different." He paused. "Would you tolerate hell and damn?"
"Sure." They laughed. "I'm going to miss you when you go to Stan-ford."
"Some family we'll be. Me in California and you with Grandma and Grandpa. ..."
"Maybe."
"Probably. And Mom in Houston. Probably. And Dad traveling around and popping in now and then for a piece of ass."
"Peter, that's an awful thing to say!"
"Why? Shit, Holly, I'm mad at him."
"Me, too, but you shouldn't talk about him that way."
"A lot he cares about how we talk about him. One thing I've been wondering. About Mom. Do you think she's got somebody else?"
"No! Peter, what is wrong with you? Daddy doesn't have anybody else and neither does Mother! They'll be together in June and everything will be fine."
"Sure." He drove in silence. "We seem to be in Albuquerque. Where's the University of New Mexico?"
Holly unfolded a map and gave him directions. "Oh, God, I'm starting to shake."
"You want me to come with you?"
"I don't know. Yes. No. Oh, Peter, I'm scared to death!"
"You're going to knock them off their chairs. You're going to be sensational. You're going to be the greatest soprano the Santa Fe Opera chorus has ever seen. Heard."
Holly drew a long breath. "You can come with me. I guess I need you, after all."
"If you win, are you going to call Dad and tell him?"
"Of course. Peter, could we not talk about him anymore right now? I've got enough to worry about . . . turn left here ... let's not talk about him or Mom or anything. Okay?"
"Okay." A few minutes later, he said, "Is that the building, up ahead?"
"I think so." A shudder went through her.
Peter touched her shoulder again. "Take it easy. I'm your family and I'll be there. And you're going to win. And everything is going to be fine."
In a pale blue dress of light wool, her shining ash-blond hair falling halfway down her back, Holly stood alone on the stage of the university auditorium, looking at the group of people in the first row of seats. She had no idea that her loveliness had made them catch their breath when
she walked out from the wings; she saw on their shadowy faces only the same polite interest they had shown other singers. Far behind them, from the center of rows and rows of empty seats, Peter blew her a kiss.
But she couldn't sing. She couldn't remember her songs. Her throat was blocked. Her stomach was a hard knot and her feet and hands felt like lead and she was going to throw up. I've got to get out of here. Vm going to die in front of all these people.
The white-haired man at the piano cleared his throat and she turned toward him. "Everyone freezes at first," he said very softly. He smiled at her. "Shall we begin?"
Holly nodded in desperation. Still looking at her and smiling, he played the first chord of the accompaniment—and Holly remembered everything. With her hands clasped lightly in front of her, she held her head high and let the notes of Mozart's "Non mi dir" soar upward. The song told of a woman's love for a man, and in Holly's voice was all the love that was locked inside her, making her feel she'd explode because there was no one to whom she could give it.
Oh, I want to love someone, she thought as the trills and phrases flowed like liquid silver from her throat. I want to be loved and held and made love to. I want to make love to . . . someone.
She held out her hands, filled with love, offering love. Passion and pain were in her voice; the sexuality of a young woman longing to be awakened was in her graceful body as she leaned toward the audience. When she finished there was not a sound in the auditorium.
"Bravo!" Peter shouted. Holly blushed with embarrassment.
"Quite right," said one of the men in the first row. "Have you something in English?"
Quite right. Suddenly radiant, Holly nodded to the accompanist, and when he began to play, she sang "The Little Drummer Boy," a Christmas folk song so ditferent from Mozart in its simple, storytelling cadence it was hard to believe the same young woman was singing.
But in one way it was the same: the song was about someone who longed to be noticed, admired, loved, and, just as in her first song, the longing was so passionate in Holly's pure voice that everyone broke into applause when she finished.
A woman among them nodded to the accompanist, who gave Holly a sheet of music. Nervously, she glanced over it: an aria from Peter Grimes, a modern opera she had not studied. But sight reading was a requirement in these auditions and with a deep breath and another glance at the accompanist, she began, making her way carefully through the song until she began to feel its rhythms and emotions. Finally, in the last few bars,
she let go, her voice gathering force and volume, reaching a note she had never managed before without difficulty, holding it and gradually letting it fade away. While the reverberations still hung in the air, she made a slow curtsy, though her heart was pounding so she could barely breathe, and forced herself to walk off the stage without a backward glance.
Peter met her there. "I'm the proudest brother in the world." He held her while she tried to stop trembling. "Why didn't you tell me you're a superstar?"
"I'm not," she managed to say.
"You are to me. You will be, to everybody. You're the greatest, most wonderful ... do you know how you sounded?"
"Miss Lovell," said one of the men from the group in the front row. "Would you come with me, please? We'd like to talk to you."
Elizabeth sat at the head of the dining room table, listening to Holly and Peter tell Maya about the audition. Three weeks had gone by and they'd told the story dozens of times, but each time they added new details. "They said they'd never heard anyone her age with a voice like that," Peter exclaimed as excitedly as the first time, when they came back from Albuquerque and their voices kept climbing over each other as they told Elizabeth about it. "They only take forty apprentices from all over the country, and usually only people at least twenty years old, but sometimes they make exceptions and this was one of them. They said Holly has a brilliant future. They said she didn't have to wait to be notified. They said she starts in June."
"It's like a dream," Maya said.
"Better," said Peter. "It's real."
She nodded. "I meant ... to get what you've always wanted."
"I don't have it yet," Holly said. "This is just the beginning. Two summers with the opera, and years in a music conservatory, and then maybe back here with the opera again ... a lot of the apprentices do that, they come back and sing with the opera and help new apprentices, like me. ..."
Elizabeth listened to Holly's bubbling voice and Peter's proud one and Maya's envious one. Now and then she suggested they eat their paella before it was cold, but mostly she listened, wishing Matt were there, angry that he wasn't.
He had known Peter was bringing Maya to dinner for the
first time: a special occasion. But at the last minute he'd called to say he couldn't make it; he'd try to get in on Sunday, even if only for a day. "Tell Maya I'm sorry; the way Peter looks when he talks about her, I really am
anxious to get to know her better. Maybe we'll drive to Nuevo on Sunday."
"If you're here," Elizabeth said.
"I'll do my best. By the way, I've been looking at houses for us; you should plan to come down and help choose one."
"All right."
"Not much enthusiasm there."
"That's asking a lot, Matt, when you've just disappointed Peter, and all of us."
"I was there last weekend; I helped celebrate Holly's audition triumph. I do the best I can, Elizabeth. So much is going on here; even Keegan hasn't taken a vacation."
It isn't a vacation to spend weekends with your family.
But she didn't want to quarrel; too many of their calls ended that way. "Fine," she said briskly. "We'll look for you on Sunday."
"And I love you all."
And miss us all?
"We love you, too, Matt. And miss you."
"It won't be much longer. Three months."
Holly was singing a passage from "The Little Drummer Boy." "It's easy," she told Maya. "You keep the rhythm of the drum the whole time. Try it."
Self-consciously, Maya hummed along with Holly, then began to sing the words. Peter joined them, unashamedly off-key. Elizabeth smiled at the three heads close together—Holly's pale blond, Maya's black, Peter's flaming red—like a mosaic, she thought; like my life these days, crowded with different events and people and emotions.
In some ways, she had never been so content. Through Matt's newspaper purchases, her column was carried in twenty papers with hundreds of thousands of new readers, her mail was heavier than ever, and when she was at the Chieftain her telephone rang constantly with calls from readers giving suggestions, asking advice about their problems, wanting to argue about something she'd written, telling her how wonderful she was.
He was finally doing what he really wanted. She'd written that about Spencer, then wondered if it was about Matt—but what about her? For the first time she was working full time at writing; she was taken seriously as a writer instead of as a housewife indulging a part-time hobby; she was earning enough from her writing to live on even if Matt weren't there.
Private affairs : a novel Page 24