by Jane Lebak
Back to me, Walt.
I pointed to the “No Bills over $20” signs the MBTA helpfully installed all over the toll plaza.
Walt seemed unamused. And I realized—he wasn’t going to back me up.
Inside me, a volcano rumbled. Had Josh felt this way, facing Harrison as a self-styled King of the Mountain? Because if so, he deserved a medal for not punching him.
Or rather, punching me, because the problem here wasn’t the King of the Mountain. It was the loyal backup who suddenly was neither loyal nor a backup. Maybe Ted was going to suspend me after all. But I didn’t care any longer. I couldn’t keep lying down and taking it.
Then, unbelievably, amazingly, Walt said to The Gentleman, “Do you have another bill, sir?”
The blood rushed to my head. That—that right there—should have been a fanfare.
The Gentleman tilted up his chin. “If I don’t, she has to accept this.”
Think like Josh. Hold silence. Just hold silence.
Walt shrugged. “If you don’t have a smaller bill, we’ll charge you the unpaid toll plus a processing fee. Please hand me your driver’s license.”
Relief gushed through me as Walt took the spotlight of The Gentleman’s rage squarely on himself. Which yes was his job. But he’d done it for me.
The Gentleman removed a ten from his wallet.
They don’t throw parades for this. They don’t throw parades for ten dollar bills the same way they don’t throw parades for ordering pickles or taking an Amtrak home. Sometimes you’re the only witness to victory.
The Gentleman left. As Walt turned to go back to the office, I whispered, “Thank you,” and he shrugged: “Nothing at all.”
But it wasn’t nothing, was it?
For five minutes, I fought giggles. In honor of the triumph, I opened my celebratory “dinner” of chocolate and pirouetted to Tchaikovsky with Johann Sebastian Bach.
My shift ended. Exhausted and hungry to the point of shaking, I hung up my orange reflective vest and slipped into the dark conference room. I dropped onto the couch at the far wall and scrunched down under my jacket until I fell into a light sleep, the kind when you’re in a place you shouldn’t be, where if caught you’d need to explain. Footsteps, voices, doors slamming—anything startled me.
When the janitor flipped on the lights, we frightened each other. I apologized, grabbed my jacket, and staggered to the kitchenette for whatever I could scrape out of the coffee pot. Eventually a plastic cup held artificial sugar and powdered creamer, plus a liquid strong-smelling as gasoline. I choked it down, the acid burning a trail to my uneasy stomach. Using bread and peanut butter from my locker, I forced calories into my body. I’d need another food source. Maybe a bag of apples.
I checked my cell phone and learned it was six-thirty. Josh had texted two hours ago.
“You’re not shallow.”
He’d be asleep right now.
I finished my sandwich wondering what this overture meant and whether Josh wanted a response; what might soften him up and what might lure a skittish cellist back to his quartet. Back into a friendship.
No. It was all too much thinking. I sent, “I miss you.”
On the subway, I fought jitters and grins, my body alight with anticipation. Time for busking.
At the same time as the text from Josh, I’d gotten one from Harrison: “Practice is extra early tomorrow. Come at nine.” Maybe. If I went at nine, I’d lose the last part of the rush hour. Maybe Harrison could just cool his jets until whenever I happened to show up. My phone had so little battery now that I didn’t respond.
I opted for Tompkins Square Park over a subway station. I played for an hour and a half, alternating Bach with extemporized songs, smiling at anyone who tossed in change—until a square-shouldered cop my father’s age asked if I had a license.
I did what Harrison would have quipped was second nature to a violist: I played dumb. “You need a license to play?”
He nodded. “You might cause a disturbance.”
Yeah, the crowds surrounding my viola would rival Bono shooting that video on an L.A. rooftop.
I set my instrument back into its case, him watching every second. I should have tossed him twenty nickels to buy a donut. Jerk. He was earning money while stopping me from doing the same.
When he said, “You’re free to go,” I stopped myself from replying he was free to go to hell because I shouldn’t get arrested. To raise bail, I’d have to do the thing he’d just arrested me for.
Without anywhere else to go, I walked toward Harrison’s. At a coffee cart I paid for a small coffee in dimes and nickels. The Pakistani vendor snapped, “This isn’t an ice cream truck, and you’re not six years old.”
What was it The Gentleman said? “You can take my legal tender.”
Good thing I already had the cup in my hand. He told me I could fuck myself.
I checked my phone in case Josh had texted, and instead, there was a missed call.
And it was from that damned attorney from the Eagles. The one Harrison had said would never bother me again. And here she was again, bothering me.
With all sorts of profanity ringing through my head, I punched the button to retrieve her voicemail. Nasty crap, right? I still hated her clipped voice, and she said they were still having to deal with our nonsense, and I been snakey enough to organize some kind of social media war?
Snakey? We’d done everything we were supposed to! We’d pulled money out of our ass so we could have an attorney to trade latinesque phrases with her and argue what the meaning of is is. We hadn’t spoken to the media, hadn’t recorded their precious song, hadn’t screwed them over, which was better than they’d done. What the hell was her problem?
Unable to choose which horrible thing I’d say first, I pushed the callback button. And wonder of wonders, she answered her own phone. Maybe at this hour she hadn’t unchained her slaves yet from the dungeon. I said, “This is Josephine Mikalos, and you just called me. Aren’t you supposed to be harassing my lawyer?”
“Miss Mikalos, I have some questions.”
“You’re supposed to be talking to Amy Aitken.”
“You’re the business manager of the Boroughs String Quartet, so I’m talking to you.”
I said, “As the business manager, I know we pay our attorney a shitload of money to listen to your nonsense.”
“I want to know—”
“I’m done with you.” What a bitch. “Our cover wasn’t going to harm a world-famous group,” I said over her protests. “It was fair use, and in fact, I just finished playing it in public.”
“You’re going to court,” she said.
“Take me.” I stopped in a throng of pedestrians at the corner, raising my voice without caring who heard. “I’d love to see the judge’s face when you ask her to overturn a hundred years of legal precedent.” And then, “You know what? Come to the Westchester County Festival of Concert Music a week from Saturday. Because so help me, we’re playing it just to piss you off.”
She said, “Not only will I be there, but I’ll have enough important people with me to haul you off that stage in handcuffs.”
“Go ahead and try,” I said.
Well, I said most of it. My battery died. She probably got the gist.
I don’t care anymore. My eyes burned, and I shoved my dead phone into my pocket as I reached Harrison’s building. I just don’t care.
Upstairs, I opened the door to find Harrison at the table with Shreya. He gestured for me to sit.
They both looked serious. That meant one thing.
I should have fled. My brain kept urging my legs to run, but my knees refused to respond. Numb, I had only one thought: Fuck them. I wouldn’t make it easy. To get rid of me, they’d have to work like fishermen scouring barnacles off the bottom of a boat.
Without budging from the doorway, I said, “What’s going on?”
Shreya said, “Why don’t you tell us?”
Pulse skyrocketing, I looked from
her to Harrison. This was it. The only reason they’d kept me was to anchor Josh, and now that I’d failed to bring him back, I was a liability. And I’d already lost everything else.
Even as my eyes clenched, Harrison’s voice went plaintive. “What’s going on? Because you aren’t right. Today, yesterday—you still had your bag from Lake George, and you were exhausted. When I called, you were on the street, and today you look even worse.”
When remembering it later, I had the impression of darkness, as if they’d turned down the lighting like an interrogation. I quivered, starting with a tentative, “I—” and then my strength ran out. I covered my face in my hands and struggled to breathe because I couldn’t say it, couldn’t imagine choking out the words or what Shreya would tell me, someone whose parents were rock-steady no matter what, or how Harrison would react when he learned my family had done what he’d wanted to do for two years now.
Shreya tried to take my viola, but I clutched it back.
Harrison said, “Is this about Josh?”
Shreya said, “I’ve got an idea. Let her tell us what it’s about. Joey, sit.”
For a minute, I couldn’t. Shreya guided me from the door to the table, giving a self-conscious chuckle. “It can’t be worse than what I told you, can it?”
Harrison said, “Girl-talk?”
Rubbing my shoulder, Shreya glared at him. “You mean woman-talk?”
Harrison said, “How about I just retract the question?”
I hunched over my viola, awaiting the guillotine.
Harrison said, “Joey?”
I whispered, “They kicked me out.”
A sentence at a time, to their expressions of outrage, my story emerged. Harrison was on his feet, saying, “For God’s sake, why didn’t you call me?”
“But—” I fought the tears. “I don’t want you guys to get rid of me too!”
Harrison said, “What’s that got to do with anything?”
Shreya said, “Why would we get rid of you? We don’t need your apartment.”
Shuddering, I recoiled from her arm on my shoulder. “You needed me to keep Josh, but I sent him away, and I’m not a good musician, and I’ve never been good enough for you, and now I’m just a liability.”
Harrison had gone white. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Shreya said, “You are too a good musician!”
“Do you think I’m stupid?” Harrison’s voice carried an urgency. “Why would I have suggested the idea of a string quartet if I didn’t think you were an amazing musician? You were wasted in that orchestra! No one would ever have heard you!” Harrison leaned forward. “More than that, you’re our business manager.”
I tightened up. “Anyone can do that!”
“I could have hired someone to do that!” Harrison looked horrified. “You happen to be amazing at keeping all the balls in the air! We’d never have gotten this far—oh, God, I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “You’re good enough. You’re better than good enough.”
Shreya said, “You do great on that thing. I’ve never had a problem with your playing.”
She didn’t look like she was humoring me. Harrison, whose poker face had yet to be invented, was flat-out stunned.
Shreya said, “It never crossed my mind to get rid of you.”
Harrison bit his lip. “I...can see why you might have thought that. But unless you want to leave, you’re here for the long haul.”
I put my face in my hands.
Shreya gave a squeeze. “Where have you been staying?”
I couldn’t stop shivering. “There’s a couch at work.”
Harrison said, “What have you done to get the apartment back?”
“What can I do? She’s moved in.”
He raised his voice. “You call the police, that’s what! You press charges. You get an attorney.”
Gulping, I looked up.
“Even without a lease, they need thirty days’ notice to evict you. And eviction proceedings can take months.” Harrison folded his arms. “What did they do with your stuff? I know every attorney in Manhattan. How about your sister gets an eight-by-eight apartment courtesy of the state? Maybe right next door to your grandparents.”
I looked from him to her, cold. “But it’s my family.”
“Joey—” Harrison looked desperate. “Criminals have family too.”
Head bowed, I wrapped my arms around my stomach.
Shreya hugged me from behind. “No, don’t think about the police yet. That’s huge. First get your bearings.” She sighed. “You need a place to stay.”
“I don’t know where to start.” Busking wasn’t going to bring in first and last month’s rent plus a security deposit.
Harrison said, “Were you planning on sleeping at your job forever? Tonight, come here.”
“Or stay with me,” Shreya said. “I’m closer.”
As I breathed through my palms, their words sank in. “Really?”
“Yes, really!” Harrison exclaimed, but Shreya just kept her arms around me.
“Of course we’ll help. Don’t ever think we wouldn’t have your back.” She gave a squeeze. “Have you had a decent meal in the last two days?” As I raised my head, she turned to Harrison. “Make her something to eat and a pot of coffee. Then we’ll figure out what happens next.”
Two years ago, a bank manager explained everything I needed to know about business banking. Luckily we weren’t exactly Fortune 500 material, so “everything” got covered in twenty minutes. We’d spoken once more when the bank account needed an upgrade, and again when a transfer got lost in cyberspace.
Today, after trading in two rolls of quarters, six penny rolls, twenty bucks in dimes, and five more in nickels, I recognized her even if she didn’t recognize me. She glanced at my viola case and said, “Didn’t mobsters used to walk into banks with guns in their violin cases?”
I made myself appear worried. “This is worse, because I have a viola in there, and I know how to play it.”
Laughing, she escorted me to her desk. “What kind of help do you need?”
When I explained about Viv and the rent checks, her face hardened. “How about I freeze your accounts? Oh, you did that already,” followed by, “Let’s set you up with different account numbers while you fill out this Affidavit of Fraud,” and five minutes of silence later, broken only by the click of her typing, she said, “Now, give me the check numbers.”
With my laptop on one side of the desk and hers on the opposite, we tracked down four checks Viv had endorsed and deposited into her own account.
“Give me the January check number,” said the manager, and then she laughed out loud. It was the best sound in the world. “We’ve got her nailed. Your grandmother’s signature is loopy and pretty.” The manager sighed. “You’re such a sweetheart too. You wrote ‘rent’ in the memo lines.”
Where was that victory fanfare when I needed it? I resolved that with my dying breath, I’d scrawl “funeral expenses” across my last check.
Mom had started both our accounts, so Viv and I belonged to the same bank. For the first and last time, Mom had made my life easier.
The manager stamped the form. “You’ll get your money back in a week. I just need the police report, and we’re good to go.”
Hey, wait a minute— “Police report?”
“Yes.” Her gaze felt like the crosshairs of a rifle. “I’ve frozen her funds, but I need that report. What your sister did was a felony.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
I couldn’t stop smiling when Josh pulled into the church parking lot. He was ten minutes late, and he was wearing a tuxedo and his Yankees cap. Then Harrison muttered how stupid it looked. Way to mend fences.
With the tension cranked, we didn’t chat during setup. My chest ached. It could be the last time we four played together, appropriate enough that it was a funeral. When the pastor ran down what we’d play, Harrison handled it. He hadn’t so much as looked at Josh since that “remove the hat” glare.
Josh said nothing at all. Not to the pastor, and not to the family when they thanked us for playing on such short notice. As if you could schedule a death. He shook the hand of the bereaved husband, but wordlessly.
Shreya breathed into my ear, “Do you hate this? I do.”
We played Mozart’s D Minor Quartet for twenty minutes prior to the scheduled start, written in the same “key of death” he’d used for the Requiem. Afterward we turned Harrison loose with the third movement of “The Hunt” and its soulful adagio until the casket arrived.
A wedding, this professional will tell you, is boring. The happy couple may pore over every detail, but after the first fifty, weddings lost their charm.
But funerals? No matter how many I would attend, I doubted they’d lose power. A funeral is the end. People cry at weddings, but it’s not the same.
After two readings from the Bible and one from Shakespeare, we played again.
Midway through, I realized how smooth we sounded. I tried not to get self-conscious, but I could hear the transitions and the melody and the harmonies flowing together. We were mind reading like we used to do: here, when it counted, we’d done it again.
People gave statements about the woman: her community involvement, her skill as a mother, and her struggle to hang on long enough to become a grandmother. They say everyone is a saint at her own funeral, but she did sound classy, like the head of a family I’d have enjoyed a lot better than my own.
Her husband spoke last, and I steeled myself in case he started crying. He talked about thirty-five years together, the rough patches when one or the other of them wanted to walk out, but how they’d persevered.
“We knew we were worth more together than apart.” He did cry, and I struggled not to join him. “We started as two people and came together as one family, creating something more important than ourselves.”
I wondered how many people on the benches were ex-coworkers, maybe even the bean-counters who thought it cost-effective to deny a man time with his dying wife.
We played as the pallbearers carried the coffin to the hearse, and then the funeral director chased us out so we’d get to the cemetery ahead of the procession. We dashed to the parking lot.