For Better or Worse

by Donna Huston Murray

  Extracting the Arts and Entertainment section of the paper made Chelsea think of Eric’s amazing rendition of Ol' Man River. What fun it would have been had he sung at Marilyn's birthday party! Everybody would have gushed and fussed. Brimming with confidence, Eric would vigorously pursue his dream. Success would flow like champagne...

  Instead, he hadn’t sung one note, and Chelsea was dying to know why.

  "If you want an answer—ask the question," she preached to her students. But who was there to ask? If Eric refused to sing so much as “Happy Birthday,” giving him the third-degree about it would be the worst thing she could do. Also, if she confessed that she’d heard him rehearse, the garage concerts might end.

  The Internet offered a much safer start. Cheered by the prospect, Chelsea propelled herself off the unforgiving chair and returned to the house. Settling down with her laptop on the dining room table, she signed on and typed "Philadelphia schools for the performing arts" in the Search box. After the picnic lunch at Cissie’s house, Chelsea’s mother mentioned that Eric’s high school hadn't offered football, which made sense. He had probably attended a specialty school designed to nurture his talent. Not Chelsea’s own route since she'd chosen her music later than most, but Eric's gift would have been obvious well before high school.

  One hundred eighty possibilities popped onto the screen. Many were dance studios or limited to instrumental instruction. Two schools admitted only elementary-age students. The revered Settlement School had a long and successful history, but the nuts-and-bolts academics were left to others. Because of its promising name, Chelsea clicked on The CEG Performing Arts Academy, but it focused on acting, ballet and belly dancing. A second site of the same name offered dance and modeling instruction. She was aware of The Curtis Institute of Music's astounding reputation, but theirs was a college level program. That left only the Philadelphia High School for Creative and Performing Arts on Broad Street.

  A couple clicks later she had the name of the two people responsible for the Vocal Music Department. Time to talk to a real person. With only a little trepidation, Chelsea punched the school's number into her cell phone.

  The receptionist forwarded her call to the first name listed; but no one answered. It was late June after all. Her second try also went to voice mail.

  Not feeling very hopeful, she requested her third choice, and a counselor named Ms. G. Benge picked up on the second ring. After introducing herself, Chelsea asked if the woman remembered a student named Eric Zumstein.

  A sigh carried across the line. "Sad case," the counselor bemoaned. "One of my failures, I'm sorry to say. What's your interest in him, if I may ask?"

  Good question. Chelsea chose to keep it brief. "I've heard him sing.”

  "Then you're one of the rare lucky ones," Ms. Benge replied. "A voice to make the angels weep, but the worst stage fright I've ever encountered."

  Chelsea's pulse pounded in her throat. "You worked with him? Personally, I mean?"

  "Yes, for all the good it did. I'm a guidance counselor, not a therapist, but I've had a number of stage-fright cases over the years."

  "What did you do?"

  "Same as I did for the others. Positive reinforcement."

  "Did it help?"

  "Didn't do a damn thing. Eric was usually able to sing in a chorus, but solo performances were his personal hell. And his is a solo voice if ever there was one.

  "I also had him stand alone on stage with no one in the theater and let him have all the time he needed to calm down. He stood there over an hour, but it just didn't happen. Tragic. I have no idea what he's doing now. Do you?"

  Chelsea related what she knew, that he'd been working at a bank in New Jersey, but when he lost that job he'd come to live with his grandmother, “next door to me."

  "How is it that you heard him sing?"

  "He was vocalizing in his grandmother's garage, and I happened to be out back."

  "So now you're making him your own little project. Are you single by any chance?"

  "Married. I'm a music teacher."

  "Oh, well then. You're in."

  Chelsea overlooked the hint of sarcasm. "What do you mean?"

  A wry chuckle. "Eric only sang solo for his vocal coach...in a soundproof rehearsal booth."

  Ms. Benge had washed her hands of her "worst failure," once; and apparently she was ready to do so again.

  Chelsea thanked her for her candor and promised to let her know if anything came of her own efforts.

  A grunt and a dial tone ended the conversation.

  Chapter 29

  ERIC STOOD WHEN the lanky man in green scrubs stepped into the waiting room and called his name. When they were close enough to approximate privacy, his grandmother’s surgeon clasped his hands behind his back and tilted toward him.

  “Ms. Zumstein’s operation went fairly well,” he stated with a wan smile.

  “Fairly?”

  “I’m sure you realize she was fragile already. Her recovery depends on how much fight she has left.”

  Eric blinked openmouthed long past the time for a question, so the surgeon nodded, pivoted on his heel, and disappeared back through wide mechanical doors.

  A hand grabbed Eric’s forearm. Dr. Quinn, Maisie’s attending physician. He stood a mere five-foot seven to Eric’s towering six-foot three; a slight hundred and sixty pounds to Eric’s two-twenty. Instinctively, he overcompensated with post-straight posture and a lifted chin. Today his eyebrows crouched together in troubled thought.

  “Come with me.”

  Without waiting, the doctor led Eric around a corner into a bland sitting room with seating for two to eight people. He closed the door, gestured at the chair a knee’s length from his own, then propped his elbow on a small round table of fake blond wood.

  "What do you know about your grandmother’s accident? Latest accident,” he quickly corrected. His voice conveyed grave concern, his expression, too.

  Eric rubbed a hand over his head. He'd been drinking coffee like an addict since his grandmother's fall earlier in the day, and now he could scarcely hold still.

  “What do you mean, what do I know?” Eric touched his jacket pocket to check on his inhaler.

  “How do you think she managed to remove her IV, lower the bedrail, and fall out of bed with her right arm in a cast and a broken left wrist?”

  Eric’s head felt gripped by a vice. “You can’t think I had something to do with that.”

  Quinn lifted his chin higher and pursed his lips.

  Eric glared at his accuser askance. “My grandmother is a determined woman. If she wants to do something, she does it.”

  The doctor sucked his cheek. “So you may say, Mr. Zumstein, but I’m not inclined to believe you.”

  “Believe whatever you want. I wasn’t even there.”

  “Really, Mr. Zumstein? The nurses saw you.”

  Eric sighed with impatience. “I was down getting coffee."

  Quinn folded his arms across his chest, a TV District Attorney doubting a witness.

  Eric breathed. Folded his own arms. Addressed the ceiling. “You know how you tell a kid not to touch an electrical outlet, and the next minute you catch him poking it with a fork? That's Maisie Zumstein. That’s Gram." Eric shrugged and spread his hands.

  Quinn looked aghast. "Are you saying she pulled out the tube because she knew she wasn't supposed to?"

  “No,” Eric drew out the word. “I’m saying she’s wicked clever and more stubborn than a Billy goat.”

  "If she wanted anything, her call button was right there."

  "Not in her nature to ask for help."

  “Enough of this nonsense,” Quinn shouted into Eric’s face. “She was sedated, Mr. Zumstein. Sedated!"

  "Are you sure about that?"

  The doctor forced himself to settle down. "Of course I'm sure. She was experiencing anxiety, so the nurse requested a sedative."

  Eric's eyebrows rose. “Only half-true. She was throwing one of her crazy, delusiona
l hissy fits, and I requested the sedative myself. She couldn't have gotten it, though, because she’d have been asleep.”

  "My point exactly."

  "She was not sedated."

  "It was noted on her chart."

  "And the nurses do whatever you order them to do the instant you ask?"

  “Yes!”

  A tap on the door, and one of the uber-obedient nurses stuck in her head.

  "Ready for you, doctor."

  Quinn rose to go. "I am not satisfied with this discussion, Mr. Zumstein."

  Eric reached into his pocket for his inhaler, "Not my problem," he told the closing door.

  ***

  AT TWO FOURTEEN the next morning Eric was awakened by a call from the hospital. His grandmother had suffered a stroke moments before. "She’s gone, Mr. Zumstein. We did everything we could...”

  Suddenly the cold room, indeed the whole house felt hollow, sucked dry of life. Emotions too numerous to name invaded Eric’s being the way an army overwhelms a stronghold. He realized he’d smashed his fist on the adjacent end table only when the objects on it crashed to the floor. Tossing his phone aside, he sat with bare feet on hardwood littered with ceramic bits and lightbulb shards.

  He covered his face and whispered, "Sorry, Gram," into the void. "I’m so, so sorry."

  Chapter 30

  “YOU SOUND WEIRD,” my daughter remarked when I answered her call the following morning.

  "Exercise,” I confessed. I’d been doing some actress’s muscle-toning routine on the living room floor. “What's up?"

  "Bad news," Chelsea warned. "Mrs. Zumstein died early yesterday."

  "Oh my! What happened?"

  "She fell out of her hospital bed and broke her hip. She survived that surgery, but they think a blood clot probably broke loose and caused a fatal stroke.”

  I murmured something appropriate.

  “Yeah,” Chelsea agreed. “Rotten luck, but it gets worse. Cissie says the doctor was extremely rude to Eric. Practically accused him of causing the fall. He was so rattled he phoned Cissie at her house."

  "At least he didn't go over," I thought out loud. "How is she? Do you know?”

  "Okay for now.” Chelsea explained that when she’d noticed Cissie bringing in her trash can, she had scurried out for hers just to check on her next-door neighbor. “That's when she told me about Eric's call."

  "What had the doctor said to Eric?"

  "That he doesn't believe Mrs. Z could have removed her IV by herself, not with a broken left wrist and her whole right arm in a cast. She'd been sedated, too.

  “I don’t know, Mom. It does sound suspicious, but Eric said he wasn't anywhere near the room when it happened.”

  I appreciated that my sensitive daughter preferred not to think ill of her private singing project, but I also remembered how frightened Maisie had been of her grandson after her original fall. So frightened she refused to let Eric accompany her to the hospital. At the time Maisie had believed Eric was her ex-husband, so I’d assumed her fear was part of her delusion.

  The doctor's suspicions prompted me to have second thoughts. Mistaking a face was common among the elderly; failing to recognize physical danger was not. So it wasn’t impossible for Maisie to be wrong about who Eric was but perfectly correct about the threat he posed.

  Although the second accident may not have directly caused Maisie's death, any fall at her age certainly held that potential—as anyone who'd seen how fragile she was would have known.

  "The funeral is eleven on Saturday. You want to go?" Chelsea inquired.

  We agreed to go together, but not for the same reasons. While I applauded my daughter for wanting to nurture Eric's talent, if he’d had anything to do with his grandmother's death, I wouldn’t hesitate to orchestrate his downfall. Would I hate for that to happen? Certainly. But for Maisie’s sake— and my daughter’s long-term safety—I would.

  Still, my internal conflict disturbed me the rest of the day. I hammered down an exposed deck nail so hard that the impact bruised my hand. I scowled at the ground all the way through the park and back; and when the government census guy came knocking again, I slammed the door in his face.

  ***

  BIG SURPRISE. What men did when they were gone all day wasn't the magic act Susan Swenson had been led to believe. The paycheck in her purse proved she could do it, too; and the revelation made her feel as if a larger, stronger woman had taken possession of her body.

  She also saw her husband with fresh eyes. Watching him across the table as they ate a late supper, he seemed ordinary, like just another guy eating and drinking and talking about himself. Where was the powerhouse she’d married back in Minneapolis? When had he become a thin-haired, pasty-faced Clark Kent?

  At long last the monologue about the fluctuating economy and how it irked Mike personally sputtered to an end, and Susan had her opening.

  "Where were you this afternoon? I called your office, but you weren't there.” She’d been obsessing over how to deliver those lines ever since she’d spoken to the newspaper’s receptionist.

  Shock registered on her husband's face in slow motion.

  "It was the third time in three days, Mike. Where have you been?”

  "I’m not listening to this shit." He grabbed his empty drink glass.

  Susan dogged him to the kitchen. Leaned loosely against the doorjamb. "I'm just curious," she stated in what might have passed for a reasonable tone. "Why can't you answer me?"

  Mike gave her one of his long-suffering sighs.

  "I was working, Susan."

  "Doing stuff for the paper." Even to her she sounded snotty; and, just that fast, super-Susan deserted her.

  "Yes. Doing stuff for the paper. I work for the paper, remember?"

  She was sniveling already, but now that she’d started, she needed to finish.

  "The receptionist said Ernie’s been all over you for taking too much personal time. Is there somebody else, Mike? Do I need a lawyer? Tell me. I have a right to know."

  "Oh, for God's sake, Susan. I've been looking out for you and Jackie. Same as always."

  "But Cathy said..." The receptionist. The person who set this train wreck in motion.

  "Cathy has a big mouth." Mike moved as if to leave the room, but he couldn’t get past. "Do you mind?"

  This close he felt like the hot stove Susan’s mother had warned her never to touch.

  Voice thin as glass, she asked if they needed to move again.

  Mike put his hands around her arms. The chill of his drink glass made her shiver. "Don't I always take care of you and Jackie? Eh? Don't I?" The look in his eye resembled pity. "Don't I?"

  Susan averted her face, tucked her chin tight against her shoulder, gave him the required, "Yes."

  Victorious, Mike wheeled away.

  Then he turned back, forced himself to speak calmly into the hair that covered her ear. "I'll kiss Ernie's ass for a week or two, put in a little overtime, and be back on track. Don’t worry, Suze. Okay? That's an order."

  He clamped her in a tight, if not loving, embrace.

  She was ready to let go first; but, as it was, she had to wait for him.

  ***

  CISSIE VOIGHT ACHED to her bones. The baby had a summer cold, maybe even an ear ache, and until moments ago cried every time she was put down. It was midnight now, and little Caroline had finally—finally—succumbed to her own fatigue.

  Cissie lay rigidly alongside her husband, facing the window to pretend she was alone. Unencumbered by concern, Ronald had begun to snore seconds after his head hit the pillow. He hated air-conditioning, or air-conditioning bills, he never said which, so the bedroom window was raised five inches—too narrow for Cissie to float through and fly away, open enough to suggest another world beyond these walls.

  Ever since the first awful meltdown, each time Ronald came home had become a cruel game of Russian roulette. Some days Cissie got a husband who wanted nothing more than for her to be his wife. But too often a control
ling tyrant came through the door, a man it took heaven and earth to please. And when he wasn’t pleased, the blows landed on body parts where a bruise wouldn’t show.

  She wished she didn’t know how he portrayed her to their friends, but the information arrived second, and sometimes third hand—gossip disguised as concern, nosiness masquerading as advice. "Are you okay? Ronald says you've been acting strange ever since the baby, like maybe you need help." "What a catch that Ronnie is! You better look out or some young babe will steal him. Maybe even me." Ha ha ha.

  Merely speaking to Eric on the phone was a terrible risk, but their conversations had become Cissie’s link to the outside world. Without the comfort of Eric's voice she feared she would lose her mind.

  And now he was in trouble. She sensed it in the hushed way he told her about his grandmother's death. He sounded frightened, maybe even guilty. But of what? She refused to pursue the thought. He was her lifeline, and now she would be his.

  Silent tears made cool trails across her cheeks. Life could be simple, she thought, if it weren't so complicated. In spite of everything, she still cared for her husband, still hoped and prayed he would become the husband and father he promised to be.

  That he would hurt his child seemed unfathomable, but even the slightest chance he might raise his hand to Caroline became Cissie’s most compelling reason to stay. Men were being granted sole custody left and right these days, especially if the woman was a screw-up. And, as Ron was so fond of reminding her, she was a mess.

  Chapter 31

  MAISIE ZUMSTEIN’S funeral took place in the smallest parlor of the Huff and Metcalf Funeral Home on East Lansing Street. A smattering of folding chairs projected an underwhelming attendance while soft, completely forgettable, recorded music underpinned the few awkward conversations going on. Long shadows from the heavily draped windows contrasted with three harsh strips of sun and so dulled the three sprays of flowers displayed behind the deceased’s urn, that you couldn’t help thinking how quickly the flowers would suffer Maisie’s fate. The trail of worn carpet looping from the right-hand doorway, around the front, and back saddened me further, while the stuffy smell of clothing too long in the closet tempted me to hold my breath.