The Distance Between Us

by Noah Bly

  I shrug. “More or less. May I come up?”

  He glances over his shoulder. “Uh, yeah. Just give me a second to straighten up, okay?”

  I frown. “There’s no need for that. Not unless you’ve been making blood sacrifices to Satan on my clean linoleum, or something along those lines.”

  I start up the stairs and panic flares across his face. “Wait, Hester. Please? It’s a mess up here and I don’t want you to see it like this.”

  I’m halfway up the steps by now and I catch a distinctive whiff of something I haven’t smelled in a long time. I stop still and put my hands on my hips. “Oh, my. Are you smoking marijuana, Alex?”

  His cheeks and forehead turn crimson to match his hair. He begins to stutter. “No, I’m … it’s not, I mean, it is, but it’s just something I … oh, shit.” He looks like he wants to cry, and he hangs his head.

  I continue climbing the stairs. When I get to the top I stand in front of him and wait for him to look up. After he finally meets my eyes, I reach up and pat him on the shoulder. “It’s hardly the first time I’ve encountered pot, dear.” I pause. “Or that it’s been smoked in this house, for that matter. I’ve been a musician my entire life, remember?”

  He blinks behind his glasses. “You’re not mad?”

  I shrug. “That depends. Are you willing to share?”

  His face goes blank. “Holy shit, Hester. You smoke weed?”

  “Well, no, not really. It’s been at least thirty years since the last time.” I shrug. “But then again, no one’s offered me any since then, either.” I gesture for him to lead the way. “Shall we?”

  He laughs. “Sweet. Come on in.”

  He spins around on his bare heels and I follow him into the kitchen. I’m surprised at how clean things are; there are dishes drying in the rack next to the sink, and the white-and gold-flecked counter is sparkling in the sunlight coming through the windows. Aside from a plastic sandwich bag and a cheap red ashtray on the table (and a pungent wisp of smoke still hanging in the air like a shredded phantom), the entire room is spotless.

  “I’m impressed.” I sit kitty-corner to him at the table. The window next to me is open an inch, but the cold air blowing through it is more than offset by the warmth in the rest of the room. “You’re a much better housekeeper than I thought you’d be.”

  He takes a pinch of marijuana from the plastic bag before looking up. “Yeah, I like to keep it neat. I get depressed when things are messy.”

  He builds a small green mound in the ashtray, then he takes a brass pipe about the size of a cigarette and mashes the end of it into his pile, tamping the pot in tightly. He examines his handiwork with a critical eye, then offers me the pipe, along with a lighter he digs out of his front pants pocket.

  I stare at the things on my palm. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to talk me through this. I don’t remember what I’m supposed to do.”

  He grins again. “It’s easy. You just put it in your mouth, then you light up and hold the smoke in as long as you can.” He leans forward as I put the pipe between my lips and flick the lighter. “Yep, just like that. Don’t take too big a drag, though, since you’re not used to it. This stuff is great, but it’s pretty harsh.”

  I fill my lungs and immediately wish I hadn’t. I only manage to keep the smoke in for a few seconds, then my throat ignites and I begin to cough in spasms.

  Alex’s face fills with concern when I can’t seem to stop. “Are you okay?”

  I can’t answer because I’m too busy hacking.

  “Oh, God!” Alex hops to his feet and hovers over me. “Should I call an ambulance?”

  I shake my head, still coughing, and wave my hand at the sink. “No, I’m fine,” I gasp. “Just get me some water, please.”

  He flies to the counter and fumbles a glass out of the cabinet, almost dropping it before he manages to get it under the tap. He hurries over to me and I trade him his pipe and lighter for the water. He remains standing as I take a few sips, and he doesn’t step back until he’s convinced I’m not going to die. I slowly straighten in my seat and he drops into his chair with a relieved sigh.

  A few more coughs shake my body. “God,” I croak, wiping my face with my wrist. “Those horrid fundamentalists are absolutely right. That stuff should be illegal.”

  He checks out the end of the pipe. “Jesus.” He shakes his head. “No wonder you had a fit like that. You cashed it all out in one toke.” He begins to laugh. “That’s awesome, Hester. You’re gonna be so fucking stoned in a minute, you won’t believe it. This shit is hardcore.”

  I settle back in my chair with a growl. “Good, because otherwise I just reenacted the Marlboro Man’s last few moments on earth for nothing.”

  He refills the pipe for himself and lights it. The green grass stuffed in its tip becomes a glowing red ember as he inhales, then fades away to ash soon after he removes his thumb from the lighter. His shoulders twitch as he suppresses a cough, but other than that he seems unaffected.

  My scalp is starting to itch, and my eyelids are trying to come together. I giggle. “Oops. I believe something out of the ordinary is happening.”

  He aims his chin at the ceiling and releases a plume of smoke from his lips. He looks like a steam whistle on a train engine. I giggle again.

  He laughs. “You’re already getting wasted, aren’t you?”

  I draw myself up. “Nonsense. I’m only pretending.”

  He snorts. “Uh huh.” He extends the pipe toward me again but I shake my head and he sets it back in the ashtray. He rubs his neck. “So is your son always like that?”

  It takes me a moment to realize he’s expecting an answer. “Like what, dear?”

  He shrugs. “You know. Pissed off. And kind of, I don’t know, kind of … well, mean, I guess.”

  “Oh, that. Yes, I’m afraid so. But what Paul lacks in charm, he more than makes up for in malice and aggression.” I tug at my lip. “Do you still have my brandy? I’d very much like a glass.”

  He flushes and hops up again. “Sorry. I stuck it in the cabinet after breakfast this morning, just to get it out of the way, then I forgot about it again. I was going to bring it back to you later.” He pulls the bottle out from under the sink.

  “That’s fine,” I murmur. “I’m glad it’s still up here. We should make it a point to squirrel away at least one container of liquor in every room in the house.” I smile at him. “Did you know that when you’re embarrassed your face turns the same shade as your hair?”

  My ears feel heavy. My head tips first toward my left shoulder, then back toward my right. I watch Alex dig out two more glasses from his stash above the counter, but it seems to take him forever to return to the table.

  He sits down again and fills the glasses. The brandy comes out of the bottle in slow motion, like runny gold ketchup.

  “So how come he’s like that?” Alex asks.

  “Who?”

  “You know. Paul.” He pushes my drink toward me. “Why’s he such a prick?”

  I raise my glass and stare through the liquor at him. “Well, between us, I blame his parents. Especially his unstable mother.” I down the brandy in a single gulp, and instant heat spreads from my throat to my belly. “The wicked old witch should be burned at the stake.”

  I expect him to smile, but he doesn’t. He sips his drink and studies me.

  I point at the bottle. “May I have another shot, dear?” I look out the window, down at St. Booger. From this angle, the snow on the statue’s head looks like a white football helmet. “Paul wasn’t always like this,” I say. “Twenty years ago he really wasn’t all that different from you.”

  There’s a long pause. The metal legs on his chair creak as he shifts his weight. “How do you mean?”

  I keep my back towards him. “He was gentle, and thoughtful. Just like you. And ever so much kinder than he is now.”

  I lean toward the window and expel a “hah” of hot air to steam it up. I write my name in the resultin
g fog, and my finger makes soft squeaking noises on the moist glass.

  Alex stirs behind me, and when he speaks, his voice is strangely subdued. “Do you still love him?”

  I freeze for a moment, and the silence in the air between us vibrates like a piano string.

  “No.” I bite my lip. “Isn’t that awful?” I turn away from the window and find that my drink has been refilled. “God knows Paul needs the love, but he’ll have to find it elsewhere, I’m afraid. I’m fresh out.”

  The marijuana is making me sluggish. My hand swims through the air and latches with effort onto my brandy. “Oh, well. Down the hatch.”

  He drains his glass, too. “That’s kind of sad, isn’t it?”

  “I suppose.” I make a face. “But how in the world am I still supposed to care for that man?”

  His pale blue eyes are troubled behind his spectacles. “But you’re his mom.”

  “True enough. Yet the older he gets the less that means to me.”

  His expression bothers me, and I roll my eyes. “Oh, stop looking at me like that. It’s perfectly natural to despise your children. Animals devour their young all the time, and no one makes a fuss about that, do they?”

  He shakes his head. “You’re being weird. Maybe you shouldn’t smoke pot anymore.”

  I smile at him. “On the contrary. I’m feeling extraordinarily clearheaded. Perhaps I should become a dealer so I can buy my marijuana in bulk.” I glance over his shoulder at the far wall and Paul’s high school picture is staring back at me. I feel my smile evaporate.

  I settle my gaze on Alex. “I’m sorry to break this to you, darling, but the unconditional love that’s supposed to exist in families is a childish fantasy. A mother’s affection can be revoked at the drop of a hat. And the people in the world who need love the most—like my vile, turgid son, Paul—are the ones who will never get it, because they no longer deserve it.”

  He doesn’t answer me, and he seems upset. I almost ask him what’s bothering him, but before I can he excuses himself to use the bathroom.

  He’s far too sensitive for his own good.

  CHAPTER 8

  In the eyes of the world, Hester Parker should have, long ago, been “put out to pasture.”

  Just ask anybody.

  She is a relic from a forgotten era, a dotard, and a cracked antique in society’s attic. She is a poster child for every sorry old has-been who clings like a leech to bygone glory, refusing to retire with dignity and make room for the next generation.

  I even heard through the grapevine last year that I’d died.

  The dean’s secretary, Marla Sorenson, scurried up to me in the hallway at school one morning with the news; she told me her phone had been ringing off the hook. It seems somebody, somewhere, had seen an obituary for a retired composer/pianist from Illinois named Hester Parkinson, and was confused by the similarity between our names and ages. Several of my colleagues on the East Coast swallowed the report without question; many called Arthur to offer their condolences, and the piano faculty at Juilliard went so far as to send a lovely bouquet of flowers in care of Carson Conservatory, for use during my memorial service.

  On one level it was all very amusing and touching, but on another it illustrated—with grisly clarity—just how far from the limelight I’ve fallen.

  When Vladimir Horowitz died, he was eulogized by every major newspaper and magazine in the country. Radio stations from Los Angeles to New York rebroadcast his most popular recitals, ad infinitum, and every time you flipped on the public television channel there was Vladimir again, hamming it up at his final performance in Carnegie Hall.

  By way of contrast, no one of stature in the vulturous press even bothered to inquire about the possibility of poor old Hester Parker’s demise. It’s not that they didn’t hear about it, mind you—but no reporter outside of Bolton could be enticed to follow up on a story that simply wasn’t considered newsworthy.

  The first of my colleagues who phoned Arthur to console him told me later that all Arthur said to debunk the rumor was, “Hester dead? Don’t be ridiculous. The only way to kill Hester is to cut off her head and stuff her mouth full of garlic.”

  She thought Arthur was joking, hence the reason she chose to share that little tidbit with me.

  “Oh, yes,” I agreed. “Arthur is very witty.”

  But I digress.

  My anonymous status notwithstanding, I still manage to pack in a crowd whenever I’m required to give a master class in the concert hall at Carson, and today is no exception. The national media may never again pay any attention to me, but locally, at least, I am yet considered to have a smidgeon of entertainment value (not unlike the bearded lady in a traveling freak show). And while there is precious little comfort in such limited notoriety, at this juncture I’ll take what I can get.

  Though to be honest, it’s a mystery why anybody would want to see me teach one of these things, has-been or not.

  There are musicians who never feel alive unless a student is present. For them, nothing measures up to the thrill of helping a raw talent evolve into something resembling a mature artist. Such people live for the moment of revelation in a protégé's eyes, that instant of connection when they say a magic word, and the student’s brain opens wide to receive it. Mentors such as these may be fine players in their own right—although they are rarely first-rate—but their passion is not about playing. All they truly care about is passing on the “sacred flame.” More often than not, they are zealots and/or tyrants, and they are gifted amateur psychologists, and once in an aeon they may even be saints. But they are not performers.

  They are teachers.

  And while there are numerous examples of musicians who have been equally terrific at teaching and performing (Leonard Bernstein and Isaac Stern, to name two), if you got them in private, they would tell you their hearts belonged, mostly, to one discipline or the other. Both fields of study require commitment and enormous patience; both call for talent and sacrifice and heartache. But no honest musician is as invested in one facet of the art as much as the other—unless he or she is schizophrenic.

  You are either a teacher, or you are a performer.

  And I am a performer.

  Which is why I’m always flabbergasted when the unwashed multitudes flock to these once-a-semester classes, as they have this afternoon. Especially since I am no longer able to do much playing myself, which implies that the audience, in defiance of all logic, must be coming primarily to observe my questionable prowess as a teacher.

  Granted, the spectator sport aspect of a master class also has something to do with the heavy attendance. I’ve long believed most people show up for these things for the same reason the Romans packed the Colosseum whenever the lions were lunching on Christians. They’re hoping the open lesson format of the class will turn into an emotional bloodbath—say, for instance, an ugly clash of egos between a young virtuoso and the more experienced musician leading the session, or, even better, a painful public dismemberment of said virtuoso if he finds he is unable to do what is asked of him.

  It’s most unsavory, and thus irresistible.

  As I walk onstage to begin the session, a hush spreads through the auditorium. Since this is not a concert per se, the houselights have not been dimmed and I can clearly see who’s here. I scan the crowd for familiar faces and am shocked to find my daughter Caitlin staring back at me from the back of the room, sitting off in a corner by herself. She’s wearing a bright green dress and her best glower, and when my eyes lock with hers, she sniffs and looks away.

  Dear God. What on earth is she doing here?

  I haven’t seen her since….

  I rip my attention away from her. My heart is beating rapidly but I keep my face expressionless and continue my sweep of the audience. A moment later I get another unpleasant jolt when I find Arthur planted—a portly, angry weed—in a row of Conservatory faculty members. He’s a head taller (and half a foot wider) than anyone near him, but I pretend not to notic
e him. He frowns and says something to Ben Hessling, the viola teacher, and both of them smirk.

  So. Arthur has turned Ben against me, too. That stings, but I’m not surprised. Ben doesn’t have a single opinion that somebody with more of a backbone hasn’t spoon-fed to him.

  I square my shoulders and turn away from them. It’s time to begin the class. Arthur and Caitlin be damned. I have a job to do, and I will not let their presence rattle me. I suppose I should count my blessings that Paul isn’t here as well.

  I take a deep breath to calm my nerves. I can smell the fresh wax on the floor at my feet, mixing with the scent of mildew coming from the heavy, red cloth curtains tied back at the corners of the stage. Dust and stale human sweat hangs in the air, only slightly diluted by the odor of old leather and wool pouring from the seats behind me. The familiar stench is a comfort; I’ve been on a thousand stages in a thousand concert halls, and they all smell the same.

  The recital hall at Carson seats five hundred (three hundred in the orchestra section, and a hundred each in the mezzanine and top balcony). The upper levels are closed today, forcing an intimacy between the watchers and the watched. The stage itself is large and rounded, with a polished wooden floor, and a Baldwin grand piano has been rolled out to the center, its lid raised high for full volume. Four alcoves surround the stage, each sheltering a white marble bust of one of the “biggies”—Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, and Brahms—perched on stout, black Roman pillars, like demigods.

  I’m scheduled to work with three pianists today. One of them is a student from Carson, and another is a young lady from Northwestern University who drove down from Evanston. Both are proficient players, but the star of the day is already seated at the piano, waiting for me. He’s a special guest from Russia, in town this week as part of an exchange program our development director set up with her counterpart at the Moscow Conservatory.

  I walk up to him and he rises from the bench to shake my hand, introducing himself in a thick Slavic accent as Viktor Katavasov.

  “It is a great honor to meet you, Ms. Parker,” he tells me, gripping my fingers. He’s a handsome, black-haired boy in his late teens, with long arms and legs, and a huge nose, rubbed raw and red from an apparent head cold. He lowers his voice so the audience can’t hear him. “Thank you so much for agreeing to teach me today. I’m very nervous to play for you.”