Pickup Notes

by Jane Lebak

  At a partitioned area she told us to get changed. Harrison pretended he’d accompany me until Shreya and I shoved him out.

  As we got ready, I asked, “You’re photographing with the wig?”

  She nodded. “At least for the cover. Gotta look dignified.”

  Per Harrison’s instructions, we’d have two sets: one formal and one casual. Five minutes later, Shreya and I reappeared in concert blacks, and both guys wore tuxes.

  “You look awesome.” I grinned. “Almost like professional musicians.”

  Josh flashed a smile and pointed toward me.

  I winked. “You’re going to have to say something.”

  Out came his phone, and he texted, “You look terrific.”

  “Cheater,” I texted back.

  The photographer whistled. “Let’s get started!”

  How did Harrison find these folks? Oh, right, his mother recommended them. His mother who allegedly liked us.

  The photographer herded us and our instruments toward two bookcases and a leather couch. We’d look intellectual: wouldn’t our “Hotel California” fans be surprised? As if we were store mannequins, she didn’t hesitate to put her hands on our arms, heads, hips, shoulders, to position us. Then she’d snap a dozen shots, pose us again with her hands doing the talking, then shoot.

  Finally she ordered, “You! Hold up that big violin!”

  Ignoring Shreya’s snicker, I raised the viola. The photographer positioned it on my lap so the scroll pointed up. She examined me from different angles, then came around behind to adjust my dress.

  I was so used to her manipulations that she had two buttons undone before I realized she was undressing me.

  With a shriek, I jumped away. “What are you doing?”

  “You’ve got a good body,” she said the same way I’d say, That was a good dinner. “I want you wearing your viola.”

  Retreating, I wondered if she’d lost her mind. Or, worse, whether Harrison had put her up to this.

  “You need your album to stand out,” she said, “and it worked for Lara St. John.”

  I held my viola with one hand while the other fumbled at my neckline. “I’m not doing that.”

  Harrison turned to her. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Harrison!” I cried out, while Shreya said, “What are you, nuts?”

  “She’s the professional.” He looked curious, not scheming. “Let her talk.”

  That the idea originated outside Harrison’s head didn’t mean it was a good one, though. “She can talk all she likes. I’m not taking off any clothes.”

  Looking grumpy, the photographer explained her inspiration to the non-visionaries in terms simple enough for even a violist to understand: a stern-faced quartet with everyone dressed for the role except me. I would sit with my viola placed like Eve’s fig leaves to indicate that our music had decorum, discipline, and sex appeal.

  Harrison turned to me. “What do you think?”

  “I think I already told you what I’m thinking.”

  Shreya said, “I don’t want a naked woman on my album.”

  I said, “Aren’t you the one who always spouts that garbage about being professional?” He shrugged. “If we start as we mean to go on, three albums from now we’ll all be naked. Are you aiming for an uptick in nudist weddings?”

  For a horrified second I could see into Harrison’s head: calculating how much he could charge.

  Josh stepped closer, I would hope to defend me and not to undo the rest of the buttons.

  The photographer walked off with instructions to wait right here, as if we’d go play hide and seek among the lights.

  Shreya redid my buttons. “Hey, Fearless Leader, did you ever look up Eskimos and snow?”

  “Yeah, and I learned things about linguistics I never wanted to.” He laughed. “But you’re right. It’s an urban legend.”

  “Busted,” she said to me, and I held a hand over my wounded heart.

  The photographer returned with a velvet drape. “We can achieve the same effect with this.”

  Was she channeling my mother? “This isn’t up for discussion.” Then like an idiot, I kept discussing it. “What I’m wearing is what you’re photographing.” Turning to Harrison, I said, “Would you pose nude?”

  “If it got us attention, I believe I would.” Only the honesty on his face prevented me from slaying him where he stood. “It wouldn’t, though. Not the kind we want. She has a point about your body.”

  “Excuse me!” Shreya called out before I could tell Harrison to go to Hell. “We’re not discussing Joey’s physical qualities. Joey is wearing clothes. I will be wearing clothes. Harrison will be wearing clothes. Josh, you too will be wearing clothes.”

  Josh exaggerated the motion of wiping sweat from his brow. I giggled, and when he met my eyes, I relaxed.

  Shreya turned to the photographer. “Let’s get a move on. A professional should know how to photograph clothed people too.”

  “Your loss.” The photographer glanced at Josh. “You don’t talk much.”

  He nodded.

  Despite her unnecessary fascination with nudity, the photographer had talent. She got some great shots, accounting for dead space for our name and album title. These photos cost half the earth, but the quartet could take the hit right now. Besides, if we got sued, the lawyers couldn’t seize the photographs.

  Next we changed into casual clothing, me on alert in case the photographer leaped around the partition with a snap/flash of the camera. Surprise! Now go tune up because you’ve got a bachelor party in ten minutes and the spray glitter needs to set.

  While the photographer and Harrison conferenced at her monitor, the rest of us sat waiting, Josh on the couch and Shreya on the floor. Minus her wig, Shreya wore a silk blouse that accented her hair. She said to Josh, “Really bad day for stuttering, huh?”

  She did it again. It totally didn’t bother her.

  He rolled his eyes, and then wonder of wonders, he spoke. “It k-k-k-k-kicked my ass.”

  Shreya sat back on her heels. “What happened?”

  “Sss-someone wanted d-directions to—” He struggled, then said, “—C-c-c-c-canal street. And I c-couldn’t do it.”

  I bit my lip. “Ouch.”

  He nodded. “Fff-finally I pointed it o-out on a mmm-map. Where to ch-change trains. And then...” He flushed. “She looked em-mbarrassed and ap-p-pologized for asking.”

  “Double ouch.”

  His shoulders slumped.

  Shreya said, “Don’t feel you have to answer this, but what’s it like?” She tilted her head. “Stuttering.”

  Shocked, I waited for a snarky comeback or a hurt look. You couldn’t do that, couldn’t go up to someone missing a leg or with two weeks to live and say, “What’s it like?”

  Josh thought a moment, then pointed to her violin.

  A moment later, Shreya had her instrument tucked under her chin. Josh was saying, “You’re the s-s-soloist. Everyone c-c-came to see you.” He gestured. “Play something simple.”

  She started with “The Happy Farmer” from Suzuki Method 1. After three notes, Josh put a finger on the string, stifling the sound, then released it. She hesitated as she played. This time he depressed the string multiple times, so it trilled.

  Cute: a violinistic stutter.

  She shifted to the next lower string in a higher position to hit the same note. This time he pulled the bow so she dragged out the note.

  Oh—prolongation!

  He wrapped his hand around the neck and deadened everything but the G, then blocked her hand with his other so she couldn’t play higher up the fingerboard. By now she knew he’d change things up, so she repeated that note until he let go.

  Watching the pair of them in a “Sonata Against The Violin In G Major,” I felt...well, that my focus was all wrong, that the opinion of the bystanders didn’t matter.

  But then I caught Josh’s expression: a cat playing with prey. He pressed on the scroll so the violi
n tilted; her note came flat. She corrected only to have him deaden the A again. She tried the same shift, only now he deadened the D. She crossed to the G with her wrist cocked so she was all the way up the fingerboard.

  He glanced at me: my predatory cellist needed me to re-enact the role I hated.

  But I did it anyhow. “Violins, what the hell is going on? Just relax and play!”

  She lowered the violin and looked Josh dead in the eye. “Dude, you live in a war zone.”

  Harrison returned with the photographer. “Shreya, I teach three-year-olds who play better than that.” He took a half step back under the chorus of our glares. “Kidding! Geez. Let’s get these pictures done.”

  I trailed them to the unforgiving cameras, the lights, the props…and a cellist who had recovered his voice.

  NINETEEN

  I stepped from the shower on Saturday to find a missed call. Figuring it was Harrison with another idea of brilliance, I rolled my eyes, only—

  “Peter!” I exclaimed. After I’d emailed him so often and he’d never replied, I’d given up. But now here he was!

  Although I guess he had kept hearing from me: being on our CD entitled him to royalties. Once per quarter, about as often as it made sense, Peter’s bank account got a visit, so without fear it would be a legal threat, I played the message.

  His long-ago baritone sounded just right. “Joey! It’s been a while. I’m with a new show, and I can score tickets for you and Josh to see Winter Branches this week. Call me back.”

  Okay, so he was in the small minority who didn’t hate me, but Harrison still capped the list of people he’d like to run up a flagpole. Peter knew about manners, and he’d clearly excluded his fearless-ex-leader.

  While I phoned, I made coffee. There was the initial rush, the “I’m so glad to hear from you” and “How are you doing?” How cool to be talking to him again, to Peter-who-had-vanished. I didn’t mention the quartet until he asked.

  “You really want to hear about it?”

  He sounded tense. “I never hated you. I just had to get out.”

  I said, “We’re recording again,” and he groaned. I grinned.

  “Listen, we could use a decent violist.” He let that trail off. “If Harrison gets to be too much.”

  “We’re managing him. Hey, have you seen our video?”

  Peter laughed. “Was that The Archer’s hare-brained scheme too?”

  “No, the Village Voice did it, and it got us into a world of hurt.” Good to know the entire musical world wasn’t tracking our fiasco. I rested my feet on an open desk drawer and read Peter the URL. Momentarily Shreya played through the phone, and I closed my eyes. Oh, to be half that good.

  “Holy cow,” he breathed. “Where’d you find her?”

  “Harrison picked her up in a bar.”

  Peter laughed. “He’s so lucky he’d make a four-leaf clover jealous!”

  You mean, Green with envy. I didn’t say it. Violas are the jokes, not the jokers. “Enough about us. What about you?”

  Playing in the theater pits was, according to Peter, much more crazy-fun than playing on stage in a tux. For five minutes, he entertained me with stories of pranks, mishaps, and the lunacy of life as a theater musician. “Plus, cozy up to management and you get free tickets.”

  Translation: the show wasn’t selling out. For all that Peter was having a blast, the truth was that any musical could fail, and failure meant you were out of a job. I’d be a wreck thinking my gig could end at any time.

  I leaned back. “Are free tickets okay? I don’t want you to get in trouble.”

  “It’s fine. Afterward, you and Josh should meet the music director.”

  A light-bulb shone over my head. “Ah. You’re poaching!” And pretty damn desperate to be poaching me.

  “I’m showing you an exit, but I can tell you won’t take it. That’s fine. I wanted to catch up anyhow.” Peter paused, and then, sounding tense, “I know I left on bad terms. I didn’t want to cut off you and Josh too.”

  My voice softened. “It’s cool. We’re talking now.”

  Peter said, “Speaking of Josh, have you two gotten together yet?”

  “What?” The floor dropped out from under me. “He’s not interested!”

  “That’s not how it was when I left.”

  Peter laughed, but my mother’s voice echoed: that nice brain-damaged boy. And Josh’s words: Stuttering filters out the people I wouldn’t want to be close to anyhow.

  So I said, “He’s never had any interest in dating me.” The finality in my voice was a closed cadence.

  “Fine, fine. So, how about a Wednesday matinee?”

  While he waited, I IM’d Josh. He was available, surprised I had Peter on the line, and agreed to Wednesday.

  I hung up with an ache in my middle, looking at the notes I’d scrawled on the back of a pink envelope. I kept pondering Peter’s roundabout apology: I left on bad terms. If you could leave on good terms, wouldn’t you stay? For a year, I hadn’t dwelled on how much I’d missed Peter’s dark sarcasm, his sly eyes, his direct approach. There’d have been no point. He’d still have been gone, and Harrison wouldn’t have let him return.

  Speaking of which, Harrison might react any number of ways. For the past year, Harrison acted as if Peter never existed. Given what Harrison said about his father cutting off his aunt, it made sense. Flouncing out of the room meant you were dead.

  The two of them had gotten along pretty well at first, respecting one another as musicians. But Harrison was someone either you loved or you hated, and over time Peter migrated toward the down side. Maybe that happened whenever two virtuoso violinists found themselves in close quarters. It’s a wonder every string quartet didn’t go down in flames.

  So maybe Harrison would say, Go meet Peter, see if I care. Or he might tag along for the chance to sock Peter in the jaw.

  My computer chimed with an IM from Josh: “All set?”

  “Wednesday,” I typed back, “box office at 1:45.”

  During a minute-long pause, the screen only said “JoshGalen is typing.” Finally his message appeared: “Would you like to do dinner afterward maybe?”

  He wasn’t trying to rub it in. He’d have to get the taxi from his dad anyhow, so he needed to kill time. “In Manhattan?”

  “That’d be fine,” came the reply.

  I typed back, “Manhattan is $$$.”

  From him: “I’m good for it.”

  From me: “But I’ll end up washing dishes?”

  From him: “Not unless you want to.”

  My heart twinged. I typed, “Josh, I’m so sorry about being an idiot.”

  I imagined how he’d look while reading it, how he’d struggle to tell me it was better he found out who I was sooner rather than later.

  Yeah, no. I highlighted the whole sentence. Delete.

  Eventually he typed, “So—yes?”

  It felt so odd having this conversation, knowing he’d put a black X over me. No, not odd. More like a punch in the gut.

  “I’ll think about it,” I replied. Because there was lots to think about.

  An hour later I walked out the door and bumped into my sister.

  “Hey, I need your milk.”

  I held up my trash bag. “Just finished.”

  She opened the top to see the carton. “You’re such a jerk. What’s Zaden supposed to do?”

  She followed me downstairs. Before I could get out the door, my mom showed up. “Where are you going?”

  “Practice.”

  “Without your viola?”

  “I left it there. Should I lug it all over the city?”

  She took the trash from my hand. “Come visit with Grandma.”

  I said, “I live here.”

  She said, “You know, you’re young and have your health. She may not have many years left. You should hope you never have grandchildren who treat you as an obligation.”

  Viv said, “She didn’t have any milk.”

  Mom tsk
ed at me.

  “I needed it for breakfast and coffee.” It sounded lame. “Hey, have you thought more about the music festival?”

  My mother said, “What festival?”

  “The one my quartet is playing. In Westchester? In May?”

  She said, “Oh, you did mention that. That’s really not my thing.”

  If Viv were playing, she’d be camped out already. “It’s kind of a big deal. And you said if we ever were in concert, you’d come listen.”

  She said, “It’s not only you, right? It’s a lot of groups?”

  “But we’ll be playing for half an hour, and you don’t have to stay for the whole thing.”

  She shook her head. “Think how it looks if you walk out on another group.”

  Viv said, “Like Joey ever stuck around for anything.”

  In Grandma’s kitchen, Grandpa was watching TV while Grandma put coffee on the table.

  Mom said, “You never wanted to be with us. You were always gallivanting off on your own, doing your own thing, running off to your grandfather’s—and then you moved here because you thought it would be more fun.”

  “Fun?” My cheeks flushed. “You kicked me out when I turned eighteen!”

  Mom gasped. “Josie! How could you say such a thing?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Because it’s true.”

  “But it’s not! You always wanted to leave.” She shook her head. “Vivvy couldn’t leave us because she could never live on her own, but when Vivvy had Zaden, you didn’t want to live with a baby.”

  “You kicked me out!” Was I losing my mind? Was she? “You gave my room to the baby!”

  Mom said, “That never happened.”

  That never happened? “You boxed up my stuff!”

  “We were helping.”

  Oh dear God in Heaven... I turned to Grandma, who paid close attention to her coffee cup. “You remember this!”

  Grandma said, “Don’t be like your Uncle Bill. Your mother was so unselfish to let you live here, having you clean and help with your rent money. She doesn’t deserve all this nastiness.”

  Speechless, I just stood there. They were lying to me. We all knew they were.