by Noah Bly
Another woman’s voice begins speaking after the beep.
“Hi, Hester.” It’s Marla Sorenson, the dean’s secretary. I’d recognize her voice anywhere; she wheezes a great deal. “It’s Marla. Listen, I just got a call from Walter at campus security, saying the police arrested Paul for being drunk and disorderly.” Wheeze. “Apparently he got in a fight with Evan a few minutes ago, and Evan called the cops on him. Walter says Evan has some bruises, and is threatening to press charges, but he’s also pretty drunk, so it may all blow over.” Another wheeze. “Sorry to be the one to tell you, but I thought you should know what was happening.”
She hangs up without saying good-bye.
I suppose I should be grateful for the update, but Marla only called because she enjoys being the bearer of bad tidings. Nothing makes her happier than to ruin someone else’s day.
“Who’s Evan?” Alex asks in the stillness.
I pour more whiskey into my coffee mug. “Evan McCartney. Paul’s roommate. The clarinet teacher at Carson.” For some reason, an image of Paul as a young man, sitting at my piano, laughing, pops into my mind just then. I shake my head to clear it. “This is a bit of good news for us, I believe.”
“Huh? Why?” Alex cocks his head; he didn’t used to do that. It takes me a moment to realize where he picked that habit up.
Dear God. He’s imitating me. I don’t know if I should be flattered or horrified.
I hold out the bottle to him. “Because if Paul’s in jail, he can’t come after you. Or me, either, for that matter. At least until he sobers up and bails himself out, that is.”
He takes the whiskey and pours more in his mug, too. “Maybe we should call the cops, too, and file a complaint. That way he’ll be seriously screwed, and they may keep him for a few days.”
I almost agree, then remember something. “We better not. You could get in trouble for striking him.” I chew on my lip. “Unless we said it was self-defense?”
He perks up for a moment as he considers this, but then his face sags again and he sighs. “I don’t think that will work.”
“Why not?”
“Because I also kicked the shit out of his car.”
I cock my head, too, before I can catch myself. “Did that do much damage, do you think?”
“Yeah, some. I kicked it about five or six times. And I broke his headlight, too, remember?” He unbuttons his flannel shirt and shrugs out of it; he’s wearing a ragged black T-shirt with a quarter-sized hole in the collar.
“Oh, yes. I’d forgotten. Why in God’s name did you do that, by the way? Wasn’t punching him enough?”
He flushes and takes another drink. “I kind of lost control,” he mumbles into his mug.
“Yes, you most certainly did.” I’m torn between affection and irritation. “But I’m sure the judge will be very understanding when you’re hauled into court for assault.”
He hangs his head. “I know. It was stupid. But I just couldn’t help it. He was being such a prick.”
I massage my temples and wonder if I should call my lawyer to alert him to this latest potential legal snafu. I’m beginning to get a terrible headache. “Is there anything else of Paul’s you feel compelled to break at the moment, besides his nose and his headlight?” I demand peevishly. “His arms and legs, maybe? His dinnerware?”
He looks so woeful that despite everything I almost laugh.
I cease my interrogation. “Oh, Alex.” I take a shaky breath. “What on earth is the matter with the two of us?”
His mouth twitches. “I don’t know.”
We finish our drinks and switch to straight whiskey, and we bat around our alternatives: lawyer vs. no lawyer, police vs. no police, how to protect ourselves vs. trying to make peace with Paul. We get nowhere, because every choice either has a significant downside, or is really no choice at all.
The phone rings again.
“What now?” I mutter.
Once more, I let the answering machine intercept the call. Alex and I are both less tense this time as we wait to see who’s on the other end of the phone; at least the alcohol is having the desired effect.
It’s Oscar Schneider, the oboe instructor at Carson.
“Hello, Hester, it’s Oscar.” His voice is dry and polite, and uncharacteristically nervous. “Could you give me a call when you get a chance? I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me this coming weekend.” There’s a pause. “I’d really enjoy that.”
He gabbles on for a moment, says thank you and hangs up.
Alex and I stare at each other, and I feel myself blushing.
“Damn.” He giggles. “That dude wants to hook up with you, Hester.” He throws back his head and laughs at my discomfiture. “Who is he, anyway? You’ve never mentioned him before.”
I make a face. “Oscar’s an old friend, and I’m sure he’s only interested in a platonic relationship.”
In truth, I’m baffled by this development; Oscar has never once expressed any desire to see me outside of work. Of course, I was never available before this year, and he’s too much of a gentleman to have approached me until it was clear to him that Arthur was permanently out of the picture.
“Uh huh.” Alex reaches for the bottle, which is draining rather quickly. “Do you like him, though? Is he hot?”
I fake a growl. “He’s nearly my age, so ‘hot’ is hardly the word I would use to describe him.” I give him my best wilting glare. “And we have far more serious matters to attend to than Oscar Schneider’s possible sex appeal, don’t you think?”
He’s not intimidated by me at all anymore. His smile doesn’t alter in the slightest. “I think it’s cool, and you should go out with him.”
I snag the bottle back from him, not trusting him to fill our glasses at this point.
“Yes, well, thank you for your input. But I seldom pay attention to dating advice from bare-knuckled brawlers.”
He laughs harder, and I can’t help but smile. It’s lovely to see him enjoying himself for once, even if it’s at my expense.
I refill our glasses, and the phone rings, yet again.
I sigh, annoyed. “I wish people would allow us to drink in peace, don’t you?” I blink at my watch. “After all, it’s nearly one in the afternoon, and they can’t really expect us to be sober at such an ungodly hour.”
Alex nods. “Maybe it’s your boyfriend Oscar again, hoping to catch you in person. Do you want me to answer and make him jealous?”
The machine picks up before I can retort, and Alex mimics the greeting of my recorded voice, matching it word for word: “Hello, this is Hester Parker’s residence, please leave a message if you would like me to return your call.”
“Very impressive.” I sniff. “Apparently there’s parrot blood in your family’s gene pool.”
The caller begins to speak and I stiffen. “Hello, Hester, it’s Bonnie Norton. Call me back as soon as you get this.” She sounds abrupt and cold. “You need to make an appointment to see me.”
She rings off without any further explanation.
The laughter is gone from Alex’s face; he knows about the free-for-all with Martha following the master class, of course, and Bonnie’s tone just now did not bode well for my future at Carson Conservatory.
“Your boss?” he asks, subdued.
“Yes. The dean.” I feign disinterest. “I fear my days as a piano teacher may be numbered.”
“I thought you said you had tenure. How can they get rid of you?” He’s indignant. “You’re famous, Hester. There’s no way they’ll fire you.”
I snort. “My tenure—and my reputation—may indeed protect me from the consequences of flinging a drink on Martha at a public reception, but I’m not counting on it. In the end, they may not be enough to save my job.”
“Why not?”
“Because Bonnie Norton is a mule of a woman, and if she’s decided she wants me gone, it’s likely she’ll find a way to do it.” I stare at the tawny gold liquid in my glass, admiri
ng its reflective qualities as the sunlight hits it. “Even if she failed to dismiss me, she could make my professional life a daily torment, and I’d eventually be forced to resign of my own free will. I know how she works. I’ve seen her do this sort of thing before, and she always gets what she wants, sooner or later.”
He doesn’t know what to say to that, but he gazes at me with compassion, and I have to quell an impulse to cry. The last person to look at me like that was Jeremy. The similarity between the two of them finally hits home, and it’s all I can do to not run around the table and plead with this sweet young man to take me in his arms and comfort me, the way my son might have if he were still alive.
Jeremy had a gift for expressing love. He’s the only one of my children I can say that about. As a little boy a day never passed without him climbing into my lap at least a dozen times in the course of an afternoon, or resting his head on my shoulder in the car, or crawling up beside me on the couch while I was napping. Even when he was in junior high and high school, he was perfectly at ease with embracing Arthur or me in public, right in front of his friends, who wouldn’t be caught dead doing the same thing with their parents. He was especially adept at knowing when I was down, and could be counted on to show up at my side, like magic, whenever I needed a reminder that I wasn’t alone, or forgotten, and never would be.
He didn’t lose this capacity, either, as he got older. I remember one time, specifically, shortly after he began teaching at the conservatory, when he came to find me in my studio. I had just received news that a former student of mine, Sarah Lawson, had won the Van Cliburn International Piano Competition, and had been invited to do a series of prestigious recordings as a result. Though I was honestly thrilled for Sarah—and had strutted about like an obnoxious peacock in front of all my colleagues—I was feeling more than a bit sad, too. Her success was an unexpectedly difficult reminder of what I had once been as a pianist, and would never be again. But I said nothing to anybody about this, and I believe nobody in the world knew what I was feeling. Nor did I have any intention of telling a soul.
But Jeremy knew anyway.
He showed up at my studio that day, and walked in, unannounced. I was sitting at my desk, pawing through a score, and I looked up and greeted him, as cheerfully as I always did. He said nothing in reply; he only stared across the room at me for a moment, then walked over to stand behind my chair. I tilted my head back and started to ask what was the matter, but before I could speak he leaned down and put his arms around me, very gently. His cheek pressed into mine, and he held me, and he never said a word. But in his silence was understanding, and compassion, and grief for what I had lost. And there was love, too, of course.
I surrendered, then, and let myself cry. There was never any point in dissembling with Jeremy. He always knew what was in my heart, and always would.
It seems Paul and Caitlin may have been partly right, after all, about why I took Alex in.
Oh, Jesus. I miss Jeremy so very much.
I pull myself together. The last thing Alex needs right now is to have a weepy old woman on his hands.
“Oh, well.” I drain my glass in a single gulp. “There’s no sense in worrying about Bonnie at this particular moment.” A silly notion occurs to me. “Do you know how to play the piano?”
“What?” He looks confused. “Where did that question come from?”
“Just answer me, boy. Do you play the piano, or not?”
He yawns, long and loud, before replying. He has silver fillings in several of his lower molars. “Not really, no.” He plays with the hole in his collar. “I had a few lessons when I was a kid, but I don’t remember much about it.”
I slap the table lightly and prepare to stand. “Well, come on, then. There’s no time like the present.”
He laughs when he realizes I’m serious. “You’re crazy. I’m way too drunk to play the piano.”
“That’s certainly never stopped me.” I pick up the bottle and my empty glass and rise to my feet. “Are you coming? I’ve had a brainstorm. Once I’m unemployed, I intend to open a new music salon in town. I’ll be considered the Nadia Boulanger of Bolton, Illinois.”
“Who’s Nadia Boulanger?”
I roll my eyes. “Your education has been appalling. Let’s just hope you have enough talent to offset that deficiency.”
He indicates his damaged fist. “What about this? I’ve got a gimp hand, Hester.”
“That makes two of us, dear. Come along.”
We almost make it to the music room before the phone rings for the umpteenth time. We stand in the living room and listen to the message, and halfway through it I thrust the things I’m carrying into Alex’s hands and run as fast as I can to pick up the receiver before the caller hangs up.
CHAPTER 20
“Hurry, Alex!” I call across the living room, hoping my quavering voice will carry through the door of the small bathroom off the study. “We have to leave right this moment!”
I’m in a panic. The last phone call was from a nurse at the emergency room; she told me that Arthur has apparently had a massive heart attack, and is now in surgery.
“Alex!” I cry again.
“I’m coming!” he yells back. “Just a sec!”
I’d leave him, but I’m too much of a wreck to drive myself, and Alex offered to act as my chauffeur. But he insisted he needed to relieve himself first, and he’s been in the bathroom for days. I have my coat and shoes on, and somehow I’m holding my purse, but when any of that happened is beyond my comprehension.
The doorbell rings behind me, and I spin around to answer it. I have no idea who this could be, and I don’t care.
“I’ll be outside!” I holler. “I’m pulling out of the driveway in fifteen seconds!”
“Dammit, Hester!” he bellows. “I’ll be right there! Don’t go anyplace without me, okay?”
I fling the front door open and find Alex’s friend, Eric, gawking in at me through the glass on the screen door. I step out on the porch to confront him.
“We don’t have time for you right now, Eric.” My voice is far colder than the wind; I make no effort to warm it. “There’s been an emergency, and we’re leaving.”
Alex is suddenly beside me. “Eric?” He’s got his flannel shirt on at least, but he’s still barefoot and standing on one leg, struggling to pull on a sneaker. “What are you doing here?” He sounds thunderstruck, as if this tall boy on our porch with the idiotic orange antenna sprouting from his head is the living Christ.
I dig through my purse in a frenzy, searching for my car keys. “We don’t have time for this, Alex. We need to go immediately.” I can’t find the keys and I explode. “Goddammit! Where are my fucking car keys?”
I don’t believe I’ve ever said that word in my entire life.
Alex puts a firm hand on my shoulder. “I’ve got them, Hester. You gave them to me already, remember?”
“What’s wrong?” Eric asks in a small voice.
“Arthur’s had a heart attack.” Alex has managed to get both shoes on, at last, but neither is tied, and the tongue on one of them is mangled up in the laces.
Eric blinks. “Arthur Donovan? Her husband?”
“Yes, Arthur Donovan, my husband!” I snap, stepping around him. “We’re leaving now, Alex.”
I walk toward the carriage house as fast I’m able, then glance back after a few steps to see if Alex is following. He’s still standing beside Eric with a vulnerable, addled look on his face, but when he meets my eyes his confusion vanishes.
“I’ve really gotta go,” he says to Eric. “Sorry, man. Can you come back later?”
“Sure.” Eric frowns and takes a closer look at him. “Hey, you’re drunk as shit, dude. You can barely stand up straight. You really shouldn’t be driving like that.”
“I’m okay.” Alex sees me nearly prancing with impatience and finally moves in my direction.
He trips on something invisible on the sidewalk and falls down facefirst in a snowb
ank.
“Shit,” he says, rolling over and looking up at the sky.
“For God’s sake!” I scream. “Would you please stop mucking around?”
Eric helps him to his feet and takes the keys from him. “I’ll drive. Neither of you guys should be behind the wheel of a car right now.”
Alex is brushing himself off in what seems like slow motion. A broad, astonished grin nearly splits his cheeks apart. “Are you sure? Don’t you have other stuff to do?”
I stomp on the sidewalk.”Somebody drive! I don’t care who!”
“It’s fine,” Eric says, leading Alex toward me by the elbow. “It’s cool.”
Caitlin and Martha are in the waiting room at the hospital when we arrive. They’re seated side by side, facing the door, and when they see me enter they vie with one another to see who can give me the more spiteful frown. I walk over to them with Alex and Eric at my heels.
Caitlin rises to her feet. She doesn’t bother with a greeting. “Dad’s in surgery right now.” She hesitates. “He’s already been in there for over an hour, but we were told that it doesn’t look good, and he might be in there for the better part of the day.”
Her voice is even more curt than usual; no doubt she believes Arthur’s heart condition is somehow my fault.
“Hello, dear.” I’m calmer now than I was at the house, and as I was filling out the necessary paperwork at the front desk after my arrival, I promised myself I was going to remain in control—and civil—for the duration of this ordeal. “Yes, I know, the nurse filled me in about the particulars.”
The waiting room walls are mostly windows on all four sides, and I feel as if I’m in an ant farm, peering out at the halls. The only other person in the room besides us is an elderly gentleman in the corner, sleeping with his head propped against one of the windows. The nurse’s station and the elevators are next to the open door, and the large, terse woman I spoke with when I arrived is still seated at her desk, studying us with a suspicious eye.
Apparently Arthur had his heart attack in the faculty dining room at Carson and was brought here by ambulance. The nurse told me the paramedics had to revive him en route, twice, when his heart stopped.