Upstaged

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  The light dawned. Of course! Long season beets. I put the beets down and crouched down beside him.

  “That’s right, Johnny. They’re long season beets. They grow really big, and they last a long time in the root cellar. ”

  He beamed at me and then wrapped his arms around my neck. I hugged him for a long time, drinking in the comfort of his embrace. Finally, I kissed both of his cheeks, ruffled his hair, and finished the job.

  We piled the beets into an old wooden box in the cart and then drove the tractor down to the potato patch. I’d planted three long rows of potatoes, one each of Red Pontiac, Yukon Gold, and Kennebec. I dragged a rolling plastic seat to the row of Red Pontiacs and sat on it, stretching my legs. Carefully, I dug into the mound with my hand tool. About eighteen inches long, it featured a spade on one side and a fork on the other.

  Johnny gestured toward the mound of dirt. “Opa dig da ‘tatoes.”

  “That’s right. I’m digging the potatoes. Do you see any yet?”

  He crouched down, rested on his haunches, and studied the ground carefully.

  I dug in from the side of the mound and carefully revealed a red-skinned orb of buried treasure.

  “Der’s one, Opa! Get dat one.”

  I laughed and carefully loosened the potato. “Here you go.”

  He took it from me and immediately placed it in the basket. He knew the routine.

  “Git more, Opa.”

  “Okay. Let’s see if we can find another one.”

  We repeated the process with the sun warming our backs. After a while, a fine coating of earth covered our hands and clothes. It wasn’t the cleanest of tasks. When the basket was filled, we headed back to the house to prepare dinner.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  B y five-thirty, dinner was well on its way. The top round roast—dusted with garlic powder, onion powder, and salt—cooked rapidly on the convection roast setting in the oven. The beets boiled on the stove. With Johnny's help, I'd washed the potatoes and dried them. I'd just finished slicing them in their red skins and layering them on a baking sheet with butter, thyme, and paprika when Mrs. Pierce bustled into the kitchen.

  “Smells mighty good in here, Professor.”

  She walked briskly to the oven, peeked inside, and lifted the lid on the pan of beets. Nodding in approval, she brushed her hands on her housedress. “How about a nice chocolate cream pie for dessert?”

  “Choclit pie? Yum!”

  I popped the baking sheet into the oven. “Just what I was going to say, Mrs. Pierce. Sounds delicious. I'll be out of your way in two shakes. I'm going to practice a bit for my show, make a few calls, and then I'll be back in a while to add the mint, sugar, and vinegar to the beets.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Really? Okay, Professor. I'll keep an eye on things for you.”

  I smoothed Johnny's hair when I passed him and grabbed my briefcase with the sheet music and CDs I'd borrowed from the school library. I’d decided to feature Armenian composer Aram Ilyich Khachaturian on this week’s radio show. Born in 1903 to an Armenian family in the town of Tbilisi, located on the Kura River, Khachaturian had died in Moscow in 1978. He'd been one of the most successful composers of the Soviet period, along with Prokofiev and Shostakovich.

  I looked at the illustrations I'd collected of him. He was shown with wavy silver hair, heavy black eyebrows, and brooding dark eyes. After being raised in a non-musical family, Khachaturian realized his passion and attended the Gnesin School of Music in Moscow with the help of his theatrical older brother. Finally, he entered the Moscow Conservatory as a cellist at the late age of twenty-three. Shortly thereafter, his skills as a composer were recognized as extraordinary.

  I played through some of the Children's Pieces for Piano and ruminated about the composer. The prolific Khachaturian had turned out some delightful pieces rarely performed in the last half century. His Armenian background had given him a taste for bold, exotic harmonies reminiscent of the folk music of Armenia, Georgia, and the surrounding regions. I turned to his Armenian Dances and began to play through the melodies. I renewed my appreciation for this fine composer and decided to prepare a series of three programs that would highlight his lesser-known works. “The Sabre Dance,” from his ballet, “Gayane” (1942), was his most popular work. It been performed in a multitude of cartoons and as background music for many a Soviet “plate-spinner” on the Ed Sullivan Show, back in the sixties. I would start with that, to whet the audience's appetite, and then delve into dozens of his rarely performed works.

  I worked through the sheet music I'd collected, examining various options, and started to speculate about writing a Khachaturian biography. It would be a fascinating research project, and perhaps would lead to a trip to Moscow and its outlying regions. I sighed, wishing I had more time to devote to writing. Finally, I tabled the idea, realizing I'd have to wait until I'd completed my current effort, which was a complete analysis of the works of Frederick Chopin, if I ever finished it. I’d been working on it for over a year and needed to get focused if it were ever to see the light of day.

  The roar of a mechanical beast shook me from my reverie. I pushed back from the piano and walked to the back window of the great room. Pulling aside the voile curtains, I peered outside.

  Outside, a four-wheeler careened into the yard. The intruder wore a black nylon jacket and a black helmet with a tinted visor over his face. He turned in circles on the soft lawn beneath the clothesline, splashing mud on the fluttering sheets. I tapped on the window in a ridiculous effort to get his attention and tell him to move along. Realizing he couldn’t hear me, I stormed through the kitchen and out the back porch.

  Mrs. Pierce stared out of the kitchen window. Her mouth dropped open in shock.

  I ran down the porch steps and the interloper revved his engine maniacally, taking off in the direction of the barn. He skidded to a stop beside my new Subaru and threw something at the car. The paper bag catapulted toward the windshield and splattered suspicious looking brown matter across the glass.

  “What are you doing?” I raced toward him.

  He wheeled the machine in a few tight circles, as if taunting me, and then took off through the garden and escaped along the horse fence into the woods.

  I passed the Outback and ran toward the garden, worried about what he’d crushed when he plowed through my carefully tended plot. I reached the garden and had bent down in a futile attempt to straighten the damaged eggplants, when Siegfried and Freddie pulled into the driveway.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “D ad, what in the world happened?” Freddie got out of her Toyota van and stared at my car.

  Siegfried bolted toward me with a worried expression. “Kuch mal! ” He whistled loudly, surveying the damage

  Four eggplant bushes, six yellow banana pepper plants, and several Brussels sprout plants had been flattened. I stared at the demolished vegetables and then back at the woods where he’d disappeared.

  Could it have been Armand?

  I shook my head. It could have been any young hooligan. Much as I disliked Armand, there were plenty of possible culprits.

  Then again, I did just humiliate him in front of his girlfriend and half the town .

  My mind whirled. Freddie made her way slowly toward me.

  I thought about calling Camille before rehearsal to fill her in on the afternoon's events. Perhaps she could find out if Armand had a four-wheeler.

  My daughter raised one hand to her face and placed the other on her abdomen, as if in a subconscious effort to shield her unborn child from what had just happened. Siegfried shook his head and walked back to the clothesline. He began to stomp on the huge divots torn out of the lawn.

  Freddie touched my sleeve. “Who did this, Dad?”

  I shrugged. “I'm not sure. It could have been a student of Camille's. I reprimanded one today in front of other students. Or, maybe it was just some delinquent. I honestly don't know.”

  Freddie slumped against me, her eyes f
luttering into her head. I grabbed her and held her up. Siegfried bounded toward us.

  “Just tired,” she mumbled .

  She’d been working long hours at her practice, in spite of her advanced pregnancy. My private theory was that she buried herself in her work in an attempt to forget about the murderous ex-husband who'd fathered her child.

  Earlier in the year, Harold Delano was prosecuted for the murder of his law partner and had been implicated in the death of my wife, Elsbeth, and the embezzlement of her retirement funds. The family had been shocked to realize the true nature of the young lawyer who had swept Freddie off her feet when they were students at Cornell.

  Although their marriage had been in trouble for a long time due to Harold’s infidelities, his conviction for murder in the first degree finally ended it for good. The divorce became final two months ago. Harold would be incarcerated for the next twenty to twenty-five years. In addition, various unsolved murders were brought to light from Harold's days at college. The information he bragged about to one of his lovers backfired, and the cases were being re-opened.

  If it were up to me, I'd throw away the key.

  My giant brother-in-law reached down to scoop Freddie effortlessly into his arms. Her head rested on his shoulder and her pale gold hair fluttered in the breeze. He shifted her to a comfortable position and began to walk into the house.

  She muttered, “The spaniel needs sutures. Can't leave it 'til tomorrow…”

  I walked beside Siegfried, holding Freddie's hand. Mrs. Pierce met us at the door and instructed Siegfried to bring Freddie into her first floor bedroom. Like a good soldier, Siegfried followed orders and laid my daughter on Mrs. Pierce's flowered bedspread. I grabbed a clean dishtowel from the kitchen shelf and ran it under cool water.

  When I returned to the bedroom, I found Siegfried stroking Freddie's forehead and speaking softly to her in German. Mrs. Pierce sat at her side and held Freddie's limp hand. I handed the cloth to Siegfried. He dabbed at Freddie’s ashen face and her eyes fluttered open .

  She tried to sit up, but I hurried to her side and eased her back down onto the pillows. “Whoa there, baby cakes. You almost passed out. You've got to take it easy.”

  She sighed and leaned back on the pillows. “I'm okay, guys. Really.”

  My paternal instincts kicked into overdrive. “You have to slow down, Freddie. There's no question about it. You need help at the clinic.”

  She dismissed me with a weak hand wave. “Not yet, Dad. It's too soon.”

  The baby was due in the end of November, less than two months away. Siegfried drew a yellow afghan from a chair and draped it over Freddie's legs.

  I pushed the issue harder. “You're going to have to find someone to help with the practice, anyway, when you have the baby. Might as well get them started now. Promise me you'll get some help, sweetheart. Promise?”

  A half smile crossed her face. She knew I was right. “Okay, Dad. I’ll look into it tomorrow.”

  Mrs. Pierce brought Freddie her dinner on a tray and the rest of the family ate quietly at the kitchen table. After dinner, she spent an hour in forced recuperation.

  Johnny lay beside her with his toys and books. Siegfried slipped outside and cleaned off my windshield before I could protest that it wasn’t his responsibility. His boundless generosity staggered me, particularly when I thought back over the events of the day.

  I seriously considered asking Camille to cancel rehearsal, but my family wouldn’t hear of it. Finally, after reassurances from them all that Freddie was in good hands, I gave in and headed for the school.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  B efore rehearsal, I pulled Camille aside and told her what had happened. After I assured her Freddie was okay, she said she’d find out if Armand owned a four-wheeler. In addition, she hoped to instill some sense into Molly and pledged to try to get to the bottom of her insecurity.

  It killed me that such a bright and talented young girl would give in to an aggressive moron like Armand. Why would any girl do that?

  I knew Camille could probably read me study after study about societal pressures on the female teen population, and how their self-esteem was intimately tied with having a boyfriend. Logically, I knew this, having seen Freddie go through it for years. But it was just so wrong, and so bad for the girls. Why couldn’t they feel successful and self-satisfied just to be themselves and have great friends? To pursue their dreams? To excel in school and sports? Elsbeth and I had tried hard to teach Freddie that she didn’t need a man to define her. Now, many years later, she finally seemed to get it.

  Then I remembered the desperate look on Molly’s face and my heart broke a little more for her.

  I thought about the four-wheeler, and after considering Armand's dirt-poor family, I wondered if he could possibly own such an expensive toy. I'd seen plenty of neighborhood boys ride over local fields and roar along the roadsides. Of course, Armand might have borrowed such a vehicle from one of his friends.

  I sighed, frustrated beyond belief.

  I’m driving myself nuts .

  I decided to forget about it and focus on rehearsal. I settled at the piano.

  Molly arrived a few minutes late. Her expression was guarded when she passed me. She plopped into the front row next to Candy, whose red curls shook with excitement when she grabbed Molly’s arm and started whispering to her. “Did you hear about—”

  Molly shushed her, looked around the room, and huddled beside her. They whispered back and forth with their heads bowed in a tittering tee pee.

  Lisa Bigelow flounced down the aisle and sat directly behind them. “Secrets, secrets.”

  Candy and Molly turned and stared at her, resentment written on their faces.

  “C’mon, who are we talking about?” Lisa asked.

  Candy turned around, made a face at Lisa, and dragged Molly down the row, ten seats away from Lisa. They returned to their surreptitious conversation.

  Lisa tossed her head. “Idiots.”

  I busied myself with my music, wondering if they’d been talking about her.

  Lisa stood, stretched seductively, and motioned to Maurice with a crooked finger.

  The plump sophomore blushed and hesitated.

  She beckoned again, smiling. “Come here, ‘Porter!’ Or are you too shy?” she teased.

  As rehearsals had moved forward, the actors began to call each other by their character names. Maurice’s character, Porter Shaw, was the decorated Marine who was painfully shy around women and had not yet divulged his love to Celeste. Porter struggled throughout the show to help Celeste uncover the truth about her past as his love grew for the ethereal flower child.

  Maurice stood up and shuffled toward Lisa. She prattled on about the show, and he hung on her every word. Leaning toward him, she placed her lips near his ear as if to whisper her own secrets, but raised her voice instead of lowering it. “I’m going to New York City this summer, Porter. An acting program at NYU. Doesn’t that sound dreamy?” Her eyes swiveled over to Molly .

  Molly paled and stared at Lisa. The coveted program in the university was something she’d been talking about for the past week. She rolled her eyes and slumped into her seat.

  Randy Sherman burst out from the stage curtain, raced across the stage, and jumped to the auditorium floor. He perched on Molly’s armrest and leaned an arm over the back of her seat. The joke he cracked must’ve been a winner, because it sent Molly and Candy into peals of laughter.

  Armand was still suspended, and would likely not return to the show. Randy had taken full advantage of this turn of events. He flirted outrageously with both girls, but his eyes were glued on Molly.

  Nelson walked gracefully across the stage toward Camille with a frown on his face, his right hand poised in the air. Baggy black jeans and a short tight black tee shirt exposed part of his midriff when he walked.

  Two football players, Gene and Nathan, who’d been assigned small roles in the chorus, lounged in their seats on the auditorium
. They pointed at Nelson and snickered.

  Takeema snorted and marched over to the boys, leaning into their faces. She kept her voice low so Nelson wouldn’t hear, but I could make out every word.

  “You homophobic Neanderthals! When are you going to join us in the twenty-first century?”

  The jocks slouched in their seats, cowering. “Sorry,” they mumbled.

  She smacked them on the back of their shaved heads like an irritable, elderly grandmother who’d come to straighten out her misbehaving children. The dull boys each rubbed their heads in a strange mirror-image parody of each other, bowing beneath her rage. She railed at them some more, finally straightened, smoothed her royal blue and yellow sarong, and strolled back to her seat with her head held high, making me think of an African princess.

  On stage, Nelson stormed closer to Camille. “Miss Coté.” He seemed close to tears. “This has got to stop!” He held up a tangle of useless strands. The black button-down shirt he’d been going to wear during the first scene hung in shreds. “Yesterday, my sandals were tied together and thrown up onto the catwalk, and today—this!” His voice shook. “I can't take it anymore!”

  Camille took the shirt and examined it. She raised a hand to his shoulder and squeezed it gently, whispering something in his ear.

  My beloved turned to the teens who lounged in the audience with something close to furor in her expression. I waited to see how she’d handle it, and wasn’t disappointed.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  C amille yelled toward the teens lounging in the audience. “Everybody, up on stage!”

  It was clear she meant business. I’d never heard her scream that way, and I didn’t think the kids had either, by the way they dropped everything and scrambled onto the stage.

  The hall thrummed with their speculative conversations.

  Camille jumped down to the floor and paced from left to right. “Sit down and be quiet!”

  The hubbub stopped immediately. The kids shrugged and exchanged confused glances with each other.