by Annabel Lyon
What other field? his father asked. He had eaten little but drunk steadily. Foster watched the men’s faces like a ball game. Mr. Hammond must have judged his father to have reached a point of optimum pliability, before the wine turned back round and made him contentious.
What about sales?
Should I be a salesman, Cass? his father asked his mother. Would you like that? Sample cases by the front door? Me walking the streets every day selling – what am I selling, Jim?
Within a company, I meant. An office job, of course.
Encyclopedias, isn’t it?
His mother put her fork down.
All right then, Mr. Hammond said. All right. Let me think. You’re a researcher, an investigator. Policeman?
Too old, his father said.
Ah. But – private dick.
The boy and his mother laughed. His father looked wounded, then worried.
Hey, he said. Hey. That’s a real possibility, isn’t it? I mean, I’m a shoo-in for that job. Hey!
Our man from Pinkerton’s, the boy said, making his mother laugh harder.
Stop it, now, his father said irritably.
It is a good idea, his mother said, sobering immediately. But isn’t that more of a big city job? How many firms would there be in a town like Vancouver?
You’d be surprised, Mr. Hammond said. And I understand it’s not so glamorous, anyway. Missing persons, divorce. There’s adultery everywhere.
His mother coloured.
I have years of experience, his father said carefully. I’ll just have to put together a cv. References, of course –
His mother stood to clear the plates. Mr. Hammond cleared his throat and said, Wonderful, Cassie, wonderful.
We’ll have coffee in the living room, if you like.
There’s no alternative, Mr. Hammond said. This boy of yours has promised me a performance.
That’s it, his father said, and the boy could see he was in deep water now, far out and on his own, trying to keep his head up, trying not to drown. Some music for dessert.
They waited for his mother to bring in coffee on a tray. Now, who’s first? she said gaily, meaning she expected Mr. Hammond to play too.
The boy caught the man’s eye and took his seat on the piano bench. The front legs were carved into paws so that he always felt he was facing into a maw, paddling at the teeth of some beast. As a toddler once he had trapped his fingers in the lid, probably the source of this fanciful dread. He disliked the instrument but understood he needed a fluency in it if he was to continue in composition.
Play your recital piece, his father said. That Brahms.
Brahms’ Waltz in G-sharp Minor. He had last played the piece the day he met the girl in his father’s office. Instead of going home after his father’s interview with her they had driven to one of the cathedrals downtown, where Mrs. Agostino had entered him in a competition. Down there in the basement he had tied with three girls for third, a contemptible insult to all of them, he had thought at the time. A girl with a Russian name had taken the little gold-plated cup, her prettier sister the silver ribbon. Five of them played the same Brahms waltz; the pretty sister played Rachmaninoff. But the girl who won played the Brahms so well she might have been playing a different piece entirely. He heard lines and turns in the music when she played, buried counter-melodies brought out like gold and silver veins in a mine wall, that he had not noticed himself, in his own study of the piece. He felt humiliated and fascinated both. She had opened the work up like a book and taken out what she wanted. He had studied the score feverishly, in the car, all the way home.
You played it differently tonight, his mother said, when he lifted his hands from the keys. I heard a little thing I never heard before.
This, he said, fingering out the figure. He had cribbed it from the girl.
That’s it, she said. It’s very familiar, but I never noticed it.
It was always there.
It was and it wasn’t, she said. You never played it quite like that.
I like that one, his father said. I haven’t heard you play it since the recital. The evening –
Yes, he said.
You see, what I don’t understand, his father said, turning abruptly to Mr. Hammond. What I don’t understand –
All right, Ben, Mr. Hammond said.
No. She was just a girl. How do you look at a girl like that and think what you thought? How do you make that leap?
When the purchase and the claim are so close together, you investigate, Mr. Hammond said softly. You know that yourself. It’s standard. I was just following procedure.
But I got a little spark off her, he had said earlier, the boy remembered. Which was the lie?
She was grieving, his father said. My God, Jim. You could see it in her face.
Now it’s Mr. Hammond’s turn, his mother said, sprightly-brightly.
After you.
No, not tonight, she said, her smile firming up a little.
His father shook his head, like a dog shaking off water, and said, Please, Cass.
The three of them looked at his father.
Please, his ruined father repeated.
His mother played her old standby, a Beethoven second movement she had learned as a girl and liked to soothe herself with. She would play it at twilight on Christmas Eve, waiting for his father to come home from work, aggravating the boy enormously with her sweet, affected melancholy. Once he had called it a chocolate, to hurt her, but she had only smiled. On those rare occasions when she was out and he was home he tried to play it himself, but its winding intricacies were beyond his sight-reading, and pride prevented him from giving it serious practice when she was around. She played it as well as she ever did, batting .500 on the ornaments and taking the tiger-purr bass line far too slowly, luxuriating in it too much. He hated the way classical music made otherwise intelligent people go gooey, willing to expose the worst parts of themselves, physically and spiritually. He suspected sex did something similar and feared that, too.
Beautiful, Cassie, Mr. Hammond said. With a feeling that was some dark, unsmiling cousin to amusement, he saw the man was genuinely moved.
Oh, stuff, his mother said. I’m rusty as old nails. I’m afraid my boys have heard that old piece far too many times.
Never too many, his father said fervently, nodding his head. Never too many.
That’s a fine instrument you’ve got there.
A wedding gift from my parents. It keeps its tune very well. It was made specially for the West coast climate.
A piano built for the rain, Mr. Hammond said.
For the humidity, the boy said, and both his mother and Mr. Hammond laughed. He didn’t know why.
Now then. His mother got up from the bench and smoothed down the front of her dress. Enough chocolates from old Europe. She shot the boy a wink. Give us something from the new world, Mr. Hammond.
Pearls before swine, I’m afraid, he said. That makes me the swine.
No, his father said.
Mr. Hammond dragged the leather bench back before he sat on it and worked the knobs until it was down as low as it would go. Then he played jazz, his playing as fast and strident as his mother’s had been soft and unfocused. His mother started to clap along, but when neither he nor his father joined in she stopped. Mr. Hammond played on, oblivious, occasionally shifting the bench under himself with his exertions, until it was completely out of alignment with the instrument. His technique was fast and only occasionally sloppy. As the big man slapped and slaved away the boy realized for the first time it was possible to gain proficiency on an instrument with no conservatory training whatever. The world was full of treachery.
One of my favourite composers, Mr. Hammond said, stressing the last word a little, when he had finished. Mr. Duke Ellington.
That’s not simple music at all, is it? his mother said.
He was classically trained.
They looked at the boy, who found he had spoken the thought aloud.
You’re really making a study, aren’t you? Mr. Hammond said. Maybe one day you’ll be as big as him. Maybe one day we’ll be sitting down in the parlour to play your work.
I doubt it, he said frankly.
That’s right, Mr. Hammond said. I forgot you’re with the avant-garde.
Not always.
I liked your King Lear music very much, his mother said, in a private voice just for him.
John never tells us what he’s working on, do you, son? his father said. We find out when it’s all over.
Like a strange physics, they were, each exerting a force he must fight or yield to. And he would be a moon amongst planets for a few years yet.
I want to hear that piece you were showing me upstairs, Mr. Hammond said. This, too, was treachery.
All right, the boy said.
Upstairs he unpinned the page of manuscript from his corkboard. His bedroom still held a faint thread of Mr. Hammond’s cologne, and the bedspread was dented where the man had sat. He remembered the girl in his father’s office had worn a scent, and spent a moment imagining it had been her, not Mr. Hammond, in his room an hour ago. The idea hit him so hard his face dipped, his body sang.
What are you working on? she had asked.
This is a treat, his mother said, when he went back downstairs, page in hand. The three adults sat up straighter.
Seven minutes later – he knew, had sat on a kitchen chair in front of the clock on the stove and sounded it out in his head – he lifted his hands from the keyboard and put them in his lap. For a long moment there was no sound at all. Then he looked up and saw his mother was crying again.
I’m sorry, she said. I’m sorry.
What was that? Mr. Hammond said.
Through the stifling return of all the little sounds that plugged up the world, the breathing and fidgeting and white noise, he murmured: What I’m working on.
That’s not what I was looking at upstairs.
No, he agreed. That was something else.
I thought you were going to play chords.
I changed my mind.
Jesus, Mr. Hammond said, more to himself than anyone. What was that.
He glanced at his father and saw that although his head remained lowered, in a posture of listening, he was staring at him.
John? he said.
I’m sorry, Daddy. It’s what I hear.
That’s all right, son, he said softly, without moving, as though the boy were some feral creature that could be frightened by a sudden movement.
Mr. Hammond left soon after. The boy watched him do a curious thing: at the door, as his father turned away to rummage in the closet for the camel’s hair overcoat, Mr. Hammond caught his mother’s eye and mouthed an apology. The boy saw it clearly, the soundless shapes of the words: I’m sorry. His mother did not react beyond a very slight shake of the head.
Here we are, his father said, handing over the expensive coat. He seemed suddenly very tired and did not pretend he wanted Mr. Hammond to stay.
We’ll see you tomorrow, Ben, the big man said, and with a start Foster realized his father faced the additional humiliation of working out the week, wrapping up his last few files. Somehow he had just assumed it would be a holiday for both of them for a few days, until his father found his next job.
Tomorrow, his father repeated. Good night.
Good night. Thank you, Cass.
Good night.
Keep in touch, Mr. Hammond said, a remark seemingly, strangely, directed at the boy.
Goodbye, he replied.
After the door closed the three of them stood for a moment, suspended.
I’ll do the dishes, he offered.
His parents moved together towards the stairs, as though he were the adult who had released them from an habitual duty. Then they seemed to remember themselves and turned back to wish him good night.
Are you all right? his mother asked.
Fine.
It will all look better in the morning, his father said.
Sure.
Thank you for entertaining us tonight.
Guilt seeped sweetly in his chest. He said, I don’t mean to be secretive.
You’re not, his father said, surprised, and the boy saw he really believed this was true. So either he had been quite drunk or the remark had meant something else entirely.
What was that strange thing you played? his mother asked shyly. She was always tentative when she asked about his work, knowing he hated to talk about it.
Nothing.
She hesitated, then followed his father up the stairs.
After he finished the dishes he recovered the little bag of toffees his mother had squirrelled in her baking cupboard and the evening paper his father had left on the table next to his chair, and went up to bed. But when – lying on his belly, sheet pulled to his waist, mouth sweetly full – he finally unfolded the Daily Province on his pillow, he saw someone had neatly scissored out the lead article, leaving a frail empty square in the front page.
That was Monday. On Saturday he rode his bike ten blocks west, to a house with vegetables growing in the front garden. From the sidewalk he could hear the piano.
Yes, Mrs. Agostino said, when he crept by the open door of the studio, where a straight-haired girl sat weeping silently on the piano bench, to the waiting room. I see you, John.
When it was his turn, he explained that he would not be continuing his lessons through the summer after all.
Where is your mother? Mrs. Agostino asked.
He explained that his mother was busy at home.
I see, Mrs. Agostino said. A stroke had left one side of her face paralyzed, and her mouth hung ragged when she listened. She had a withered hand also, and taught from a chair across the room.
He was unsure whether he should take his usual place on the bench. He had not brought his books. From his pocket he took an envelope and said, My mother says this is for today.
With some difficulty Mrs. Agostino tore the envelope, put the money on the table, and unfolded the note.
Instead you are going to spend the summer exploring your interest in sports? she asked.
He said nothing.
There is money trouble at home?
His mother had instructed him not to speak of this.
Sit down.
I didn’t bring my books.
Sit down.
His lesson lasted one hour. Scarlatti, Bartók. At two minutes to eleven he heard the front door. A student crept by to the waiting room.
Yes, the crippled woman said. I see you.
He stood up and said, Thank you, Mrs. Agostino. I’ve enjoyed my lessons.
All right, she said, glancing at the clock. You are a talented musician, though not at the piano. But you have an interesting ear.
Thank you.
You will come back in the fall?
I think so.
No, she corrected, shaking her head. I don’t think so.
Outside he got back on his bike and wavered home. His mother had explained they would be living on a budget for a few weeks, just until his father was confirmed in another position. They would simply cut back on a few frivolities until that time.
Summer poured long and yellow and smooth, with its interminable days and brief hiding nights. Foster tried to continue his life in its old patterns. He wrote and read and drew and took the streetcar to the park and to the beach, and closer to home to the fairgrounds, where he sauntered among the roller coasters and the carousels, inhaling the rich prize stench of livestock. After a day’s work he liked to walk, anywhere where there were crowds, alone in his head but insulated from the sounds that came to him in quieter places.
One evening, early in August, he came home with his mouth still sticky from a five-penny wad of cotton candy, panting a little, a little dazed still, to find his father had got a job at an investigative agency.
Where? he repeated. The house seemed small an
d dazzlingly dim after a long white day in the sun, and the faint sugar-sickness that had been pleasant enough out of doors turned bilious when he stepped through the front door and smelled the supper he would be expected to put away, something thick with cheese. He had had to hide his need for sweet things ever since his mother had started watching the flow of pennies, and guilt added to his swelling discomfort. He thumbed surreptitiously, hard, at the corners of his mouth.
Ghent and Coutrell, his father repeated. I start Monday.
They’re detectives?
Investigators, they call it.
They kept their voices carefully neutral.
That’s great, the boy said.
Yes, his mother said, setting her empty glass down. She had left the olive in it, lolling on the bottom. When he was a boy he would beg her olives and she would give them to him, cool and plump with gin. The thought of putting the slick thing in his mouth now made him close his eyes with queasiness. Immediately he was back at the fairgrounds, listening to the harsh, glassy cadences of the carousel, watching a fatty blond woman throw darts for a teddy bear, watching children queuing for the Teacup, a tilting, spinning ride in cup-shaped cars; then a brief cooling walk through the cavernous exhibition hall to watch a horse auction, all but incomprehensible to him, and back outside to see teenagers older than himself in a screaming, preening knot, sending a flask from mouth to sucking mouth, the girls’ red pursed lips, the boys’ chapped and paler, swigging; and a carny hawking tickets for the freak show and the burlesque.
I’m fine, he replied to a question that broke through this film of thoughts.
Too much sun today, maybe, his mother said.
Where’s the office?
Cordova, his father said, naming a brick-cobbled street in one of the oldest parts of the city core, in Gastown. From the street it looks like nothing, just a door and a stairway up to the second floor. It’s all very discreet. I’ll have a desk next to the secretary’s for the first few weeks, but definitely an office by October. There’s a printing firm next door and we’re planning to take over that suite as soon as their lease is up. I’ll have a proper office in there.