Where Do I Start?

by Chase Taylor Hackett

  But what was this strange feeling? I suddenly had this tightening in my chest, and I felt an enormous wave of a terrible sadness sweep over me. Was this—what? Nostalgia?

  I needed to focus.

  Why are my eyes burning?

  Unlike the damned Danube, I’d played this piece a thousand times, and I could play it in my sleep. Muscle memory. Which was a good thing, because I couldn’t see the notes any more.

  I have to focus, damn it.

  So I closed my eyes and played. And all this strange sadness in me, this devastating sense of having forever lost something enormously precious flowed down my right arm into the bow, and it sat in the vibrato in my left hand, and I played Gershwin’s tune as I had never played it before. The bow arm pulled the despair out in long strokes and then drove back up through the notes, pushing this aching void, this unbearable, fierce longing out into the world. The others played a supporting accompaniment, and then the melody passed back and forth between them, while I played this variation above them. My left hand moved of its own, improvising ornamentations I’d never played, the saddest I’d ever heard. I let the violin sing. No, it was more like some part of me was singing through that little wooden box next to my head. I realized that this was what all the practicing was for, this was what technique was for. So that when the time came, the technique wouldn’t get in the way. I could forget about hand positions and double-stops, and I could just let this music open up in a way that it had never done before.

  The end of the solo was a run of 16th note triplets with a ritard, to a long G way, way up there, and I held that last, long, very high note of the song, the ring finger of my left hand on the E-string not far from my face. I savored that note, as Mrs. Kleinmeyer had taught me so long ago, before I let it

  gently,

  gently,

  gently

  die.

  But remember, this was a medley—another thing I had forgotten. And the medley wasn’t over.

  The last tune in the piece was “Strike Up the Band,” a bouncing march that featured Bob on the cello. It started way down on the C-string in the bottom of the cello range, Bob would play the first line—ba-da-bum-bum-bum—and then we played this sort of flourish, and then Bob again, then flourish, and so on. By the time it got to the bridge, we were all playing, and it developed to a big flashy finish with lots of tremolos.

  I’d written the damned arrangement, so I shouldn’t have been so surprised when Bob came in, but I was, and the last thing I felt like doing at that moment in my life was striking up the frigging band. I had to wipe my cheeks with the sleeve of my bow arm, and by the time we got to the second flourish, I was able to come in only a little late. What key is this thing in anyway?

  Not that one.

  Jeez.

  Focus.

  In spite of me, we rallied and got to the big slam-bang ending. Well, anyway, as slam-bang as you can get with a string quartet.

  The old ladies clapped enthusiastically. They must have really liked it because thirty old broads managed somehow to produce a sound like a couple of pigeons flying away.

  I realized after a second that I didn’t hear Fletch.

  I looked out. He was still there, but not clapping. He sat quite still, his hands covering the bottom half of his face, just his bright blue eyes showed above the fingertips. I had no idea what that meant or what he was thinking. Maybe he was moved. Maybe he was laughing at me again.

  Maybe he was horrified.

  Mrs. Greenbaum thanked us, some old ladies came up and nattered, and then Katrina was talking to me.

  “I don’t know what happened to you with the Strauss, Rog, but you certainly redeemed yourself.”

  “I hope I wasn’t too awful.”

  “To play a wrong note is insignificant, but to play without passion—”

  “Inexcusable, yeah, yeah. You know Beethoven never actually said that.”

  “I had that poster on my wall for four years at Northwestern. Of course he said it. Anyway, he would have if he’d heard you today.”

  “He was deaf.”

  “Stop being an ass. That was really something today, and you know it.” Then she seemed to think of something else. “And Fletch got to hear it. How nice is that?”

  “Yeah, I didn’t—you know—ask him or anything.”

  “He came anyway. Go figure. Anyway, good job today. I don’t know where that came from, but seriously, Roger, I will never forget what I heard this afternoon.”

  Wow.

  “Thanks.”

  “You are an extraordinary talent.”

  From Katrina—double wow.

  Then she reminded me that she still expected this extraordinary talent to schlepp her stuff for her. And then Cruella swooped out the door in a whoosh of possibly Chanel.

  One of the old ladies brought me a small plate of cookies, which I didn’t touch.

  I tried to concentrate on the immediate. Relax the bow, pack things away, get Katrina’s scores in her tote bag, get my scores in mine.

  What happened to me today?

  Jeez, I need to focus.

  Janine and Bob congratulated me on the Gershwin; I wasn’t really listening. It only occurred to me later that I didn’t know if I’d actually responded or just stared at them like a fish. When I finally looked up, there was Fletch, standing in front of me, waiting. How long had he been standing there? He was wearing a hoody, the kind with one big pocket in the front, white. A light behind him caught the golden curls like a halo. He was—just—dazzling. I could forget that sometimes.

  He had Katrina’s violin case slung over one shoulder, her tote in one hand and that damned music stand next to him. He opened a bottle of water and passed it to me. I didn’t realize how much I needed it until it was in my hand and I gulped greedily.

  “Subway?” was all he said. He took an Oreo from the plate, popped the whole thing in his mouth, and started chewing.

  “Uh—yeah,” I said after a second.

  I collected my things. He snagged the rest of the cookies, and we walked outside.

  And damn!

  “It’s freezing!” I said. It had been mild and sunny earlier, and I hadn’t worn a jacket. Now the cold, damp air slapped me in the face. I was going to freeze my little butt off.

  Fletch didn’t say a word, he just set everything down, pulled the hoody off over his head and handed it to me.

  “What are you doing? You’ll need that.”

  “Put it on, Dweeb. You’re still sweaty from playing. Feel your shirt! You’ll catch pneumonia.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’ll be fine. I’m always fine.” He took my violin from me and pressed the sweatshirt in my hand. “Put it on.”

  I did.

  As I pulled the sweatshirt over my head, pow, I was hit with yet one more thing that I had not seen coming. The scent of Fletch. No, “scent” suggests something subtle, and this was anything but. With my head deep in the soft sweatshirt, still warm from him, it was just there. Male, earthy, animal, him. Something I’d forgotten but of course hadn’t forgotten, a scent that was still immediately familiar, cozy even. And sexy. And very, very confusing. Two years later, and this smell brought a thousand memories racing at me, lots of them not exactly G-rated, and each one waving its hand and demanding attention. I finally pulled the hoody down and poked my head out. The sweatshirt that had been all snug and sexy on Fletch was, of course, laughably too big on me, and yet it was somehow amazingly—comfortable. No—comforting. It was like being held by him.

  Jeez, listen to me, I thought. I must be reallllly tired.

  For the fiftieth time that day, I reminded myself. Focus.

  He gave me my violin back, we picked up our things, and we walked.

  I hate the Upper East Side. Jeff lives up here, and it’s always a pain. You can never f
ind a taxi, the subway cars are small and overcrowded, and they never go where I want to go—which is back to the West Side as quickly as possible. Inevitably I end up having to change trains to get anywhere.

  For now we just had a longish walk, to the closest subway stop. Neither of us spoke. I half expected Fletch to put his arm around me, but he didn’t, of course. What would I have done if he had? Bitten his head off, I suppose.

  Walking together, wordlessly, but somehow in synch, in harmony. It was a lot like before. Maybe even closer somehow. It was like playing duets. When you just have the other person in the corner of your eye, you occasionally exchange glances, but you’re somehow always together and you don’t know how? That’s what it reminded me of, a kind of silent duet.

  What’s wrong with me, I thought. “Silent duet???” Jeez. Get a grip, Prescott.

  We waited for the train, the train came. Of course there were no seats, and poor Fletch with that dumb-ass music stand.

  “Hey,” said Fletch, “can I have my cookies back?” I had no idea what he was talking about. He gestured with his head and added, “In the pocket.”

  I stuck one hand in the big pocket in front of the sweatshirt—there was a bundle in a paper napkin. I gave him the little package, which he opened. Two cookies, one of which was peanut butter, which he held out to me, and I took it.

  “Thanks.”

  He had something chocolate.

  Of course he had something chocolate. He really liked chocolate. And I really liked peanut butter. We knew these things. History. I watched him chewing for a couple seconds, and he smiled a little as we lurched in the aisle of the train car.

  We got off at Fifty-First Street, made a longish transfer, including an escalator that must be four frigging stories tall, and then we got on the E train, but this time we found an empty seat together.

  It was what? Maybe five in the afternoon? And I felt completely drained. I found myself with my eyes closed, half leaning against Fletch’s shoulder. So warm. When I realized what I was doing, I immediately sat up straight.

  “Sorry,” I said, a little embarrassed.

  A little later, I was leaning again, nodding off.

  I sat up. I have to focus, I thought. Today’s mantra.

  Another stop, and my eyes were closed and I was up against that warm shoulder again.

  Screw the mantra.

  Chapter 17

  Pizza Night

  Fletch

  I didn’t want to wake him. He felt so warm and wonderful on my shoulder. I thought, who cares, let him sleep and we’ll take this train to the end. As far as I was concerned, Far Rockaway wasn’t far enough.

  But that’s the A train, this was the E, and it only goes as far as the World Trade Center. The poor Dweeb was obviously exhausted and probably as hungry as I was, so I nudged him gently as we got to Twenty-Third Street.

  We had hardly said a word all afternoon, and it was somehow fantastic.

  You can’t fight if you don’t talk.

  As we walked from the subway to the apartment, I thought it was a good thing I was carrying all of Katrina’s crap. It kept me from trying to put my arm around him.

  Instead, I had a violin slung over my shoulder, the world’s biggest knitting bag full of a ton more music than they had played today, and a clunky music stand.

  Why doesn’t she use a collapsible stand like the others? I’ve always meant to ask Roger.

  We got to the door of his building.

  “Thanks, it was really nice of you to help me carry all this stuff.”

  “It would have been churlish to walk away and leave you with it.”

  “Churlish?” he said.

  “Is that the wrong word? Didn’t I use it right?”

  “No. It’s fine. It’s perfect. Anyway, thanks.”

  “You can pay me back. Buy me dinner—I’m starving.”

  “Dinner?”

  “You order pizza while I walk the Scottish terror.” A familiar routine from back in the day.

  “Deal.” We went inside and set stuff down. We each bent over to pet the dog, who as always scooted away from us. I took the leash down from the hook, and Roger picked up the phone. He didn’t need to ask what to get on the pizza any more than he needed to look up the phone number. Like violin fingerings, Roger had once explained to me. Muscle memory.

  “Hey,” said Roger when we came back inside. He was still wearing my hoody. “I forgot to say it—thanks for coming today. It was quite a surprise.”

  “Where else would I be?”

  “Lots of places besides an old folks’ home listening to a string quartet. You didn’t used to come to these things.”

  “That’s because I was a dick.”

  “And you’re not a dick anymore?” he said, skeptical.

  “Well, yeah, but I’m a much nicer dick now. And besides, I had nothing else to do.” A lie—I’d given up a matinee to be there.

  “And about yesterday—”

  “Hey, Dweeb, don’t.” The last thing I wanted to talk about was a rehash of our conversation from the day before over his stupendous relationship with what’s-his-face. “I had no business sticking my nose in. I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m sorry. You know I’m not very good at—anger—and I’m sure I was way out of proportion—”

  “Hey!” I said.

  “What?”

  “You don’t have to apologize. Believe me. You don’t need to apologize to me ever.”

  “Oh.”

  We stood looking at each other for a second. Oh man, I didn’t mean for this to get weird, but I’d just made it weird. I needed to get us back. I went and flopped onto Roger’s couch.

  “I wasn’t sure they’d even let me in—the old ladies, I mean.”

  “No problem?” he said, sitting in his usual chair.

  “Somebody said, ‘Can I help you,’ and I said, ‘I’m with the band.’”

  “You didn’t.”

  “I always wanted to say that. And she just pointed me toward the door. And then there was Ethel in her wheelchair, who wasn’t going in because she hates music, she said, but I talked her into it, and we rolled on in together. She loved it, by the way.”

  “You talked her into it?”

  “I told her that she had to go in because my boyfriend was playing, and he was brilliantly talented—and so good-looking.”

  “You lied.”

  “Only the very first bit.”

  “Anyway, thanks,” said Roger.

  It amazed me he could still blush like that over a compliment.

  “And I could hardly explain that you’d been my boyfriend and how great it had all been and how crazy we were about each other, but then I screwed it up and I was really-really sorry—”

  “Okay! You talked her into it.”

  “And the rest was true. You are brilliantly talented.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And so good-looking—” I teased.

  “Stop!”

  “Hey.” I went for a new subject. “Did I see Bob and Janine get into a cab together?” I asked.

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “Is there something going on between those two? Are they a thing finally?”

  “Beats me. Not that I know of,” he admitted. “Finally?”

  “Bob’s been in love with her as long as I’ve known you guys.”

  “He has?”

  “We should ask Katrina,” I said—the we just slipped out. “She’ll know.”

  “You’re right. She’ll know.”

  A silence followed. The silence between us on the train had been an easy, comfortable one, but this was a little strained.

  “Hey,” I said. “That waltz was really beautiful. I’m sorry I made you mess up.”

  “No you’re not. You love
d it.”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Jerk.”

  “The whole program was really nice, Dweeb. And then—you know—there was that song.”

  “Yeah.”

  He knew which one I meant.

  “I told Ethel you were brilliant, but I didn’t know you were that brilliant.”

  “Thanks,” he said quietly.

  “Honest, it was really beautiful. Moving. I’d never heard you play like that.”

  “Me either!” He almost laughed a little. “I was pretty surprised, too! Even as I was playing, I knew I’d tapped into something. Wish I could figure out how to do that all the time.”

  “And, of course, you know, it made me think of that first night.”

  “Yeah. Me, too.”

  “It’s a good thing I don’t cry,” I said.

  “Get out,” he said, and he hit me with the little couch pillow.

  “I’m serious!” I said.

  I had to wonder. Had he played like that—for me? Or because of me? At least a little bit? I know that sounds like more of my usual egotism, my mind-boggling hubris, but really—it couldn’t be a coincidence that he played like that on that particular song, could it?

  “Something I’ve always wondered about—but hearing you today—I mean—you don’t seem to like being a lawyer much…”

  “So why don’t I pack it in and go fiddle for a living?”

  “Yeah. Something like that.”

  “Weddings, christenings, bar mitzvahs?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I know—I’ll combine the two careers. I can write your prenup, play at your wedding, and then handle your divorce. Bundle, and save big.”

  “Dweeb.”

  “There’s lots of reasons, and the first is that I don’t think I’m really good enough.”

  “I can’t believe you think that.”

  “Another reason is—I’m scared. I might make a living at it, but what if I end up playing Phantom of the Opera eight times a week?”

  “Still…”

  “And then there’s the traveling. Face it, professional musicians travel. Can you really see me living out of a suitcase? In hotels? No Scottish terrier?”

  “Someone—you know—somebody could look after the dog while you’re—”