by Noah Bly
Arthur glowered down at them. “I don’t have ‘man-boobs,’ as you call them. I’ve simply been doing push-ups lately, if you must know, and my pectoral muscles have been getting larger as a result.”
The boys laughed harder. Arthur’s physical vanity was an easy target, and the children dearly loved to wind him up. I had to bite my cheeks to keep from laughing, too. The only push-up Arthur ever did was when he lifted himself from our mattress each morning on his way to the shower. He loathed exercise of any kind, and his sedentary lifestyle was beginning to catch up to him.
Jeremy rolled out from under his brother, fighting for oxygen. “Oh, I see. Those are your pectorals, then. Thank God. I thought they were silicone implants.”
Paul howled and held his stomach. “Yeah, same here. I’m really relieved to know you’re such an athlete, Dad. I was worried you might have been playing around with hormone therapy instead, so you and Mom could have a lesbian relationship.”
Jeremy buried his face in Paul’s side, choking with mirth.
“All right, all right,” Arthur growled. “That’s enough.” He spoke with wounded dignity, but it was mostly an act. He knew quite well that both of them adored him, and he loved watching our sons have fun together, even when their silliness was at his expense. “Let’s settle down. This nonsense isn’t helping your sister to focus.”
He returned his attention to our daughter, who was watching her siblings writhe about on the floor with an odd, bruised expression. Their closeness was something she was seldom part of, and her anger now seemed to be tinged with sadness, too.
When the boys were younger, they invented an asinine game called “Donkey Butt,” which required four things—a Nerf ball, a basketball hoop, a piano, and the ability to make oneself belch. The rules of the game were as follows: Player One would shoot a basket, belch, and play a note on the piano. Player Two would follow suit, but play two notes—the first being the note Player One had played, the other of his own choosing. Player One would add a third note on his next turn, and so on, until a player at last bungled the notes in the sequence and lost the game. The real “catch” was that neither player was allowed to look at the keyboard as his opponent added a note. This posed no real obstacle in the first rounds (both boys were blessed with perfect pitch), but their impromptu “melodies” could sometimes exceed twenty notes, and were all over the keyboard, so eventually it became quite difficult, even for them.
And for Caitlin, it was impossible.
Her memory was more than equal to the task, but her musical “ear” was not. Nor did she have any inclination to grossness, or horseplay, which were both at the heart of everything her brothers did together. I don’t believe Paul and Jeremy ever intended to exclude her from their relationship, but games such as these were exclusive by nature. In short, there was very little overlap between their world and hers, and though I knew she often felt like a third wheel around them, I could see no way—aside from asking the boys to give up the things they enjoyed doing together whenever she was around—to make her feel more welcome.
“I don’t need to focus,” she now blurted. “What I need is to be left alone. I’ll be fine at the audition tomorrow, okay?”
Arthur ignored her. “Start with something really easy, sweetheart,” he coaxed. “How about a ‘C’ scale?”
She stomped on the rug. “Why are you guys making me do this? What’s the big deal?”
I put a hand on Arthur’s arm. “We’re only doing this for your sake, Caitlin. It would be good for you to earn a spot in the Youth Symphony.”
She snorted. “You mean it might make me feel like less of a failure.”
There wasn’t much I could say to that. She was right, and we both knew it.
Arthur and I wanted so badly for her to succeed at something musical, because we saw, daily, how it hurt her to be so overshadowed by the rest of us. In any other family but ours, she would have been the golden child, due to her exceptional talents in many other fields. But with us, she could only see herself as the runt of the litter.
“You are not a failure.” Arthur put his elbows on his knees and stared into her eyes. “And you can do this audition, if you’ll just try.”
Jeremy and Paul had finally sobered and were sitting upright again. Jeremy was watching Caitlin closely.
He cleared his throat before speaking to Arthur and me. “Don’t make her do it if she doesn’t want to, okay?” His voice became gentle. “It’s just a stupid audition, Caitlin. It doesn’t matter at all.”
There were sudden tears on her face. “That’s easy for you to say.” She waved her flute at the rest of us. “It’s easy for all of you to say. There’s not one of you who’s ever been anything less than Wolfgang Fucking Mozart.” She brushed away her tears with impatience. “It’s not fair. I’m sick of being the house retard.”
Paul, too, was looking at her with concern. Unfortunately, tact was not one of his strong points, even when he was attempting to be kind.
“You’re not a retard,” he said. “You’re just … I don’t know. You’re just musically challenged.”
Caitlin flinched and Jeremy tried to shush him.
“Don’t be an ass, man,” he muttered. “That makes her sound like she should be in special ed courses or something.”
Paul took umbrage at this. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” He turned back to Caitlin. “I just meant that music isn’t your thing. We all know you’re smarter than shit at everything else.” He looked away. “Hell, you’re smarter than all of us put together.”
This was the first time I’d ever heard either of the boys acknowledge Caitlin’s superior intelligence. The balance of power among the three of them was a tricky thing, and it was only her exposed vulnerability that allowed him to make this concession.
But it didn’t help.
“So what?” she snapped. “Do you think that matters with this family?” She gazed with grief into the music on the stand in front of her. “I could win a Nobel Prize, and Mom and Dad wouldn’t even notice. They’d just say, ‘Caitlin, who?’”
Arthur and I were both stunned by this announcement. But while he just sat there in bewilderment, I was on my feet in an instant, enraged.
“That is the single most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard,” I fired off. “Why in God’s name would you say such a thing?”
“Don’t, Mom,” Jeremy implored. “She’s just upset.”
“Oh, hush, Jeremy.” I turned back to Caitlin. “Do you really think your father and I give a damn that you’re not exactly Jean-Pierre Rampal when it comes to the flute?”
She lifted her eyes from her stand and peered into my face. Her cheeks and forehead were flushed, and her nose was running. “Yes,” she whispered. “I think you give a damn about that, Mother. You’ll never admit it, of course, but that’s the truth. The only thing that matters to either of you is music, and if you say otherwise, you’re lying.”
I fell into a troubled silence in the face of her conviction. She wasn’t completely wrong, and I didn’t know how to answer her.
Arthur and I loved Caitlin dearly, and were proud of her, in our fashion, for her mind, and her spirit, and her many, many gifts. But music was the heart and soul of our existence, and she was our only child who couldn’t speak the language that we—and the boys—so effortlessly understood. And with that being the case—as Caitlin and I both knew it was—what could I say to her that wouldn’t be a lie?
There are moments in my life that have stood out as particularly awful. This was one of them.
She spun away from whatever she saw in my expression, then, and she ran from the room. We all sat there, quietly, feeling sick, as we heard her feet on the stairs, and the door to her bedroom slamming shut. Arthur got up without a word and went to talk to her, but suffice it to say, she didn’t end up playing for us that day.
And the next day her audition was a disaster. She played as badly as she could, as if to further illustrate her point.
But I also remember thinking, with shame, that even if there were a way to pull my talent out of me in the same manner, and hand it over to Caitlin, I probably would not be willing to do so.
Because my gift meant more to me than she did.
That’s a horrible thing for a mother to say, but it’s the truth. And it’s just as true today as it was then.
I can assure you I am not proud of this. But nothing in my life has ever mattered more to me than my musical ability. Not my parents, not my children, not even Arthur. It is the only thing I own that no one else can touch, nor sully, and it is mine forever.
I hear music in each and every one of my dreams. I always have; even as a little girl this was the case. It was only when I was older that I realized most people don’t have the same experience. And the thoughts that flit through my head when I’m awake often come with a melody of some kind as well, like a libretto for an opera. I do this automatically, and I couldn’t stop if I tried. Nor do I want to. I require notes more than food, polyrhythms more than air.
And it’s the same for Arthur. Our passion for music, and our ability to play it, is the strongest bond we have.
Caitlin was the apple of Arthur’s eye. He doted on her because she was our youngest child, and our only daughter. Every time he came home from a tour, he brought her a gift—candy sometimes, or a sweater, or a book she’d been wanting—and he’d more often than not forget to pick up anything for the boys. Even when she was a teenager he would still sing her to sleep sometimes, when she’d let him, and she was the only person he’d allow in his study when he was in there reading. She shared his love of books, and silence, and the two of them would curl up together on his big chair for hours on cold winter afternoons, turning pages and not speaking.
But even so, Caitlin knew all too well where she truly stood with him. How could she not? Music always came first for Arthur, just as it did for me.
And I’m only beginning to understand the cost of this, for each of us.
CHAPTER 11
It’s after four in the morning when Alex comes home, but I’ve been sitting here in the kitchen since two-fifteen, drinking chamomile tea (with brandy, of course), hoping desperately that it might put me to sleep. The fiasco at the reception earlier today—yesterday, now, I suppose—has been playing itself over and over in my mind, like an evil little melody. Especially the last part, when Arthur’s face filled with disgust and loathing.
Disgust and loathing for me, as he bent over Martha.
To console her. And protect her.
From me.
Dear God. I may never sleep again.
The small lamp over the sink is the only light in the room I’m using, and there are shadows everywhere, beneath the table and the chairs, at the base of the cabinets and walls and appliances, and lurking around everything on the counters—the bread box, the microwave, the toaster, the spice rack. I’m living in a house of shadows, and they appall me. But I’m too tired to get up and turn on the lights, too tired to do anything but nurse my drink in the darkness.
When Alex opens the door I jump in my chair, frightened by the noise. He steps in and shuts the door behind him, then stands in the entryway, peering in at me. He’s lost in the shadows, too; I can scarcely see his face from across the room.
“Hester?” he asks. “What are you still doing up?”
There’s something wrong with his voice.
“Nothing, child. Nothing at all.” I beckon him to come closer.
He keeps his distance. “The door wasn’t locked. You should always lock your door at night.”
His words are muffled and hesitant.
“I left it open for you.” I gesture at him again. “Alex? What’s wrong? Come in here and let me see you.”
“I have my key,” he murmurs. “It’s not safe for you to keep the door unlocked, Hester. You’re a little old woman, alone in a big house, full of antiques and stuff. Somebody could break in, and hurt you or something.” He steps closer, into the circle of light by the sink. “It’s not safe,” he repeats.
His left eye is black and blue, and one side of his jaw is swollen. He’s shivering violently, and there’s a visible patch of dried blood at the corner of his mouth.
I shoot to my feet. “For God’s sake, boy. What happened to you?”
“I’m fine,” he whispers. “Don’t make a big deal, okay? It was just a scuffle.”
He’s also intoxicated; the sour smell of beer fills the room.
“I beg your pardon? A scuffle?” I step over to him and put my hand up to examine his injuries. He shies away at first, but then allows me to put my fingers on his chin. I turn his head toward the light and wince. “You look as if you’ve been worked over by an angry mob, and you’re asking me to not make a ‘big deal’ out of it.” I release him in frustration. “So what should I make a fuss about, then? A public stoning?”
He just shrugs. “I’m okay, Hester. Really.”
I look closer at him; there’s a crust of ice on his flannel shirt and his jeans. I touch his collar and find it damp.
“Your clothes are wet, too! How did that happen?”
He gives me a twisted grin. “I fell into a ditch walking home, and broke through the ice. The water was a couple of feet deep underneath.” He tries to pretend this is all a joke. “Oops.”
“I see.” I glare at him. “I assume this stupidity happened during your brawl?”
“After. I guess I wasn’t paying much attention where I was going.”
I push him toward the stairs. “Get out of those clothes immediately, and go take a hot bath. You’ll catch your death running around like that in this weather.”
He nods and says okay, but then he just stares at me for a while. I give him another nudge and tell him to hurry, and he nods several more times before saying okay again and turning away.
Something in the set of his shoulders as he shuffles across the room twists at my heart. I don’t know what happened to him tonight, but I’m certain it goes far deeper than a ‘scuffle’ and a mishap in a ditch.
“Alex?”
He stops but doesn’t turn, as if he knows what I’m going to ask and doesn’t want to face me. “Yeah?”
“Who hit you?”
He draws a slow breath, and lets it out again before answering. “Eric.” His voice cracks. “It was Eric.”
Eric. The likable, attractive boy who spent the night with him recently. The boy I believe I referred to at the time as “sweet.”
Oh, dear. I think I can make an educated guess about what happened between them tonight.
I bite my lip and soften my tone as much as I’m able. “Go get cleaned up, and warm, and then come back down if you feel like it. I’ll make you a hot toddy, and we can talk.”
He finally looks over his shoulder at me. “Okay.” He studies me for a moment. “Are you sad about something, Hester? You look sad.”
I pull back, surprised. I was so fixated on him I’d almost forgotten why I was sitting in my kitchen at four in the morning, drinking brandy.
Arthur and Martha. Caitlin, and Paul, and Jeremy.
My job, my house.
My life.
Despair wells up and I frown, not wanting to discuss any of this with him at the moment, for fear of coming undone. “What does that have to do with anything?”
He doesn’t answer, and I look away, my lower lip quivering. I want him to take the hint and go away, now, like a normal human being would, but he doesn’t budge. He simply stands there, waiting for me.
Irritating child.
As if he knows that I’m as bad off as he is. As
if he’s actually concerned about me, in spite of his own obvious problems. As if I matter to him.
He’s still waiting.
I blink away tears, moved by his stubbornness.
The despair eases a bit, and I take a deep breath and look up at him again. “Yes, dear. I’m afraid I am a bit low this morning.” I gaze into his damaged face for a long time. “But then again, I’m not the only one, am I?”
His blue eyes fill.
I shoo him upstairs. “Go get warm, son, right now. Then come back down here, if you can stay awake that long.” I hug myself and sigh. “I believe it’s time we had a long talk, don’t you?”
By the time Alex returns to the kitchen, I’ve managed to rouse myself enough to turn on the overhead light and assemble the ingredients for his hot toddy. It’s too bright in here now, but at least the worst of the shadows have been herded into hiding beneath the refrigerator and the liquor cabinet.
I’m standing at the counter slicing a lemon when he steps into the room after his shower. He’s dressed in a white T-shirt and dark blue sweatpants, and of course he’s barefoot. He looks a bit less fragile now, although his bruised eye is still ghastly and the skin on his jaw is scraped raw.
He winces at the light. “Wow. That’s really bright.”
“Yes, it is,” I agree. “If you’d like, we can go into the living room after I’m done brewing this potion.”
He shrugs. “That’s okay. This is fine.”
I turn to pour hot tea from the pot into two mugs. He comes over to see what I’m doing and raises his eyebrows.
“There’s tea in a hot toddy?” He leans over and gives the steam rising from the mugs a suspicious sniff. “What else goes in it?”
I add the other ingredients as I list them aloud: “A few drops of honey … two shots of brandy, like this … and a slice of lemon. There. Perfect.” I pause, considering, and reach for the bottle of Courvoisier again. “Did I say two shots of brandy? I meant three.”
He manages a tired grin. His long red hair is wet, but for once it’s combed. “You’re just making this up as you go along, aren’t you?”