Kimberly Stuart

by Act Two: A Novel in Perfect Pitch

  Well. My own assistant. Perhaps this was to be less provincial than I’d feared. I’d have to teach her how to make a decent cup of tea, but this was certainly a pleasant perk Avi had not mentioned.

  Ms. Ellsworth beckoned me over to a closed set of double doors. “They’re rehearsing—early rehearsal before classes resume—but I’m sure we can pop in.”

  Before I had a chance to say otherwise, she opened the door and a wash of a cappella choral music blanketed us. Ms. Ellsworth made a great show of tiptoeing over to a group of chairs sitting at the sidewall. I followed her, though at five-foot-ten, I’ve found it best not to tiptoe unless medically necessary.

  The conductor’s eyes were closed and he was lost in one particularly majestic passage of a Schumann piece. In a slow wave, the students allowed their eyes to flicker over to us, then nudged those next to them to continue the pattern. The conductor, a small, frightfully pale man with thinning white hair, eventually caught on to the distraction and gave a cutoff. He turned toward us with lively blue eyes and clasped his hands. Bounding off the podium in quick, energetic steps, he was at my side in seconds, offering his hand and bowing.

  “Ms. Maddox,” he said in a German accent, “it is my great honor.” He kissed my hand and when he came back up, his eyes were glistening. “I am Gunther Reinhart, conductor of the Moravia College Concert Choir and your most loyal servant.”

  This was shaping up to be a lovely morning. “Thank you, Gunther. You know how to give an old opera singer a heroine’s welcome.”

  “Old!” he yelped. He slapped one knee of his worn brown corduroys. “Ms. Maddox, I assure you, until you have reached my age of seventy-one, you may not speak the word.” His eyes crinkled with mirth. “And even then, I forbid it.”

  Ms. Ellsworth cleared her throat. “Dr. Reinhart has built our choral department into an internationally recognized ensemble.” She patted his hand. That woman and patting. “He’s a treasure for us.”

  Dr. Reinhart smiled at Ms. Ellsworth. “Thank you, my dear. Did you know,” he said, turning again to me, “that Miranda here was a second soprano in one of my first ensembles at Moravia?” He led me by the elbow to the center of the room.

  “Singers,” he said to the students, “this woman, as you know, needs no introduction from a wily foreigner like myself.”

  The students smiled. They seemed very familiar with the humor and speech of this endearing man who would certainly receive signed copies of my CDs within the week.

  “But in case you have been sleeping and have not heard the news, it is my pleasure to introduce to you Moravia’s newest faculty member, the exquisitely talented and equally beautiful Sadie Maddox.”

  Seriously, Avi was fired. I was taking the German back to New York.

  The students clapped loudly, hooting and hollering and grinning like fools. I ate it up. So nice to be around a group of aspiring musicians, still fresh with passion and oblivious to the insurmountable odds most face in the business of making music. I smiled at them and put one hand on my heart, thanking them.

  “Thank you,” I said as the applause died down. “You are kind to give me such a warm welcome. I’m thrilled to be here and am greatly looking forward to working with many of you this semester.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a pretty brunette alto in the first row shift on her feet and roll her eyes. When she saw me looking, her expression shifted to an ingratiating smile. I cleared my throat. “I’ll leave you to your rehearsal. I know that an ensemble doesn’t produce a sound like what I heard a few moments ago without a significant amount of practice.”

  Dr. Reinhart grabbed me by the shoulders and kissed me loudly on both cheeks. I stumbled back a step from the sheer force of his affection. He bowed again and said, “Thank you, Ms. Maddox. It is an honor to make music with you and for you.”

  The students twittered. I glanced at the shifty alto. She was whispering something into the ear of another girl.

  Ms. Ellsworth came up behind me and led me by the elbow out of the room. I could hear the Schumann resume as the doors closed behind us.

  “He’s quite the character,” I said, taking a tissue from Ellsworth to wipe my cheeks.

  She sighed. “We adore Dr. Reinhart. But I’m afraid he’s become increasingly dramatic with the years. And much more physically affectionate.” She turned to me, eyebrows raised. “He’ll likely go for the lips next time.”

  I made a face. “Thanks for the warning.”

  She nodded. “Musical genius, but kind of like the crazy uncle in the departmental family. Just remember to turn your cheek.”

  Like Jesus, I thought, though I doubted He’d had crazy uncles in mind.

  We passed a string of classrooms. I peered at the placards and the occupants readying themselves for the semester: a canary yellow music theory classroom haunted by a tall, impossibly thin man with big glasses; music history with a woman wearing a starched white blouse and orthopedic-looking shoes; percussion ensemble being taught by a woman in a purple muumuu and matching head scarf. Just past the classrooms, a tall Nordic-looking man approached us.

  “Hello, Ms. Ellsworth,” he said without looking in her direction. “Ms. Maddox, welcome. I am Kent Johannsen.”

  I took his hand. “A pleasure, Mr. Johannsen.” For being a man of such stature, his handshake was weak and clammy. I let go.

  “Kent teaches voice here as well,” Ms. Ellsworth said. “And the occasional course of musical appreciation for the college at large.”

  Kent’s penetrating stare was starting to give me the willies. I’d take Dr. Reinhart’s questionable kissing any day.

  “Well,” he said, “I just wanted to introduce myself. I don’t intend to keep you.” A gush of inappropriate, breathy laughter. “Ms. Maddox, we will be giving a faculty recital at the end of the month. You’ll be getting an e-mail but I do hope you’ll participate.”

  “I’d be happy to,” I said. “Thank you for thinking of me.”

  Kent snorted. “You’ve got this place in an uproar.” He forced a smile and lightened his tone. “It would be a crime if you weren’t able to perform for us. I’ll send you the details by the end of the week.” He nodded and continued down the hallway.

  Ms. Ellsworth cleared her throat. “Well. Kent is new on the faculty this year. He spent some time out in your stomping grounds, actually. I’m sure you’ll have plenty in common.”

  I wouldn’t count on it, I thought. I had Clammy Man’s number. He probably had a beef with musicians able to make a living in New York. I’d met scores of people just like him over the years. Kent was the embodiment of why I counted so few people as trusted friends. Jealousy became tiresome to me sometime in the mid-eighties and I stopped making an effort to get past it in my personal relationships. Richard, for example, nursed his own slew of character flaws but jealousy was not one of them. So even with a divorce under our belts, he’d made the friendship cut when so many had not.

  Ms. Ellsworth scurried a few paces ahead of me. “Your office is the next door on the left.” She unlocked a door with one small rectangular window and gestured for me to enter first.

  The room was quite humble but I liked it instantly. I could smell fresh paint, the walls crisp white and unmarred by scuffs or dirt left by the previous occupant. A black baby grand sat at an angle, and a file cabinet, small desk, and chair filled the rest of the space. I walked to the piano and played the first few bars of a Bach minuet. Not the best touch, but it was in tune and had a pleasing, mellow sound. The wall opposite the door boasted a huge window of leaded glass. I walked to it and gathered in my view. The window faced a large lawn broken only by statuesque trees, their branches bare and trembling in the wind. Students crisscrossed the lawn in geometric patterns made by wide sidewalks that stretched like pulled taffy from all corners of the quad. The Kjellman building was one of eight or so that faced this open space, each of them constructed of pale limestone with slate shingles.

  Ms. Ellsworth joined me at the window. “Pity you wer
en’t here in fall,” she said with a sigh. “Our ivy turns the most glorious red.” She pointed to some bare veins of ivy crawling along the top of my window. “Looks like it would have framed your view.”

  I smiled at her. “As a college should look.”

  Her eyes brightened. “Why, yes. That’s what we like to say.”

  I’d read it in the brochure and suspected it to be misguided self-congratulation at best. But my view from the second floor, even in the bleak midwinter, suggested Moravia’s marketing team might have had it right.

  A sharp knock sounded on the open door. We turned.

  “Mallory!” Ms. Ellsworth hurried over to the girl standing in the threshold.

  The girl smiled and I recognized her as the eye-rolling alto. She walked to me and extended her hand. Her smile was syrupy sweet. “Hello, Ms. Maddox. I’m Mallory Knight. I’ll be your student assistant.”

  I took Mallory’s hand and shook firmly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mallory. I saw you in rehearsal.” I raised one eyebrow. “Alto, am I correct?”

  She blinked once, kept smiling. “Yes, that’s right. You have a good memory.”

  “Yes, I do,” I said, nodding slowly and returning her high wattage grin.

  “Mallory is one of our top students,” Ms. Ellsworth said. She draped one arm behind the girl and squeezed her petite shoulders. “She sings in the concert choir, plays viola in the orchestra, and still finds time to maintain a 4.0 grade point average. We knew she’d be perfect for this special assignment.” Ms. Ellsworth drew out the pronunciation of the word, saying “spay-shell” with another squeeze to Mallory’s shoulders.

  Mallory stood straighter. “Just let me know how I can help.” She laid an index card with neat handwriting on the desk. “This is my phone number and e-mail address. I’ve also left my class schedule so you know when I’m available. I’ll come by Monday morning after orchestra to see how your first day is going.” She grinned. “We hope you find our humble Moravia to be full of surprises.”

  “I’m sure I will,” I said. I put an arm around Mallory and Ms. Ellsworth and moved toward the door. “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I’ll just take a moment to get settled.”

  They walked through the door single file and turned to face me from the hallway. I stood with a hand on the door handle, waving with the other. “Thanks for all your help. See you soon.” Ms. Ellsworth looked a bit befuddled at the abrupt good-bye, but I shut the door and walked to the piano bench. I leaned both arms on the music stand and let my head rest on the black wood. I turned my face toward the window and listened to brittle tree branches pester the glass.

  So this was it, I thought. Home away from home. Inappropriately affectionate conductor, intimidated baritone, and snippy assistant. All in all, I had to admit, not much different from a morning in New York.

  9

  First Impressions

  I stayed on campus all day. First priority was to collect office essentials. While I would have preferred a bit of monetary help from the department (a fabric chair would have warmed things up, as would a cappuccino maker), Ms. Ellsworth assured me I was on my own for any redecorating, so I made do. I considered calling Mallory back and putting that argyle vest to work, but having to find everything on my own did allow me to see campus. I checked out a CD player from a mullet-sporting audiovisual man named Dax. Dax didn’t make eye contact with me once during our exchange, but these people held the keys to the universe in a place like Moravia, so I shut my mouth. Besides, I’d hardly be pleasant either were I to dwell in a shabby office deep within the bowels of the science building.

  The beginnings of an in-office CD collection came from the music library on the first floor of Kjellman. Many of the students from concert choir were huddled in and around four rows of listening carrels, large black headphones covering their ears as they practiced their conducting, took notes on Wagner and Bernstein, and hummed along to Mozart. A group of gregarious vocal performance types waved heartily at me and I smiled. A fascinating world, this petri dish of musical education, overrun with neglected hairstyles and bad shoes. I remembered being poor but certainly I hadn’t looked that fashion-anemic.

  A trip to the campus bookstore landed me with two posters for the bare walls: an early Chagall and a cityscape by O’Keeffe that made me nostalgic for buildings that could block the sky. I added to my purchases a bag of dark chocolate (domestic but still palatable), a Moravia College coffee mug, and a small plant that the checkout girl assured me could survive many weeks of neglect before needing resuscitation.

  By the end of the afternoon, I’d also happened upon a cavernous and greasy cafeteria that I vowed to avoid at all costs, a small café to provide nourishment for those of us not interested in heart disease, and the campus mail drop. My overall impression of the students was favorable. Most were very friendly, so much so that in New York, they would make people nervous. But here, friendly seemed to be the norm. An abundance of smiles and affable greetings occurred on the sidewalks, even in the face of bitter winter cold. I’m afraid I simply couldn’t reciprocate the chipper attitude; it took me awhile to even realize people kept saying hello to me. Perhaps when the weather warmed I’d be better disposed to banter out in the elements.

  “How was your first day?” Ms. Ellsworth locked the office door behind her and walked with me to the front doors.

  “Fine,” I said. Trying to be nice to so many foreign people in one day had worn me out, and I was dreading the long ride out to the farm. I didn’t know how long I could listen to stories of wallpaper before my tongue rebelled. I patted my iPod, nestled deep within the pocket of my coat and longed for a technological escape route. “Thank you for offering to drive me home this evening, but what will we do until I get a room at the hotel? I’d assumed I could walk from the rental house, but since that fell through—” I stopped talking as we were assaulted by a gust of painfully cold air. I could feel the small bit of moisture on my eyelashes freeze as we toddled out into the dark. Neither of us spoke again until we were both settled, panting and red-nosed, in Ellsworth’s blue Camry.

  Ms. Ellsworth started the engine and set about scraping her windows. I shivered in the front seat, watching her and longing for a cab, or even the subway. Anonymous travel had so many merits, a significant one being I never had to sit freezing while a vehicle warmed its frozen self to functioning.

  Ellsworth jumped back into the car. “Good gracious,” she said, rubbing her hands together. “It’s a cold one!”

  “So about my transportation to and from campus,” I said.

  “Yes, right. We have located a lovely little Honda Civic for you. A professor emeritus, Dr. Wheatley, spends her winters in Australia studying aboriginal music. She plays a mean didgeridoo herself. Are you fond of the didgeridoo?” She hunched over her fleece-covered steering wheel as we crawled past student housing and into town.

  “Not exactly.” I fingered my iPod and wished for this conversation to be over. “And I don’t remember how to drive.”

  She laughed. “Oh, you’re a hoot. It’s only been a few days! But it is a five-speed, so that might take some getting used to.”

  “Ms. Ellsworth, most New Yorkers don’t drive. Many don’t ever get a license. It’s simply not feasible for everyone to have their own gas-guzzling pickup or SUV on the crowded streets of Manhattan.”

  Ms. Ellsworth sniffed. Surely she wasn’t offended by SUV bashing. She was driving a Camry, for the love.

  I continued. “I do, in fact, know how to drive because I grew up in Connecticut and got my license during high school. But then I went to college, moved to New York, and never had the need to renew it. So,” I said, sighing, “I’m trying to tell you that I appreciate the didgeridoo player’s Honda, but I won’t be able to use it.”

  “I see,” Ms. Ellsworth said, nodding slowly. She turned at the feed store and we picked up speed on the dark highway. A semitruck passed us. The Camry trembled in its wake.

  We were silent for a few mo
ments before I heard the muffled ring of my cell phone. I fished it out of my bag and answered.

  “Hello.” It sounded more like a statement than a question.

  “Sadie, it’s Avi.”

  “Hi,” I said, rubbing my temples. I hoped my headache wouldn’t blossom into a full-blown migraine before I could get to my Excedrin caplets up in the Hartleys’ attic.

  “You sound exhausted, love. Long day?”

  “Just tell me if you’ve found a place,” I snapped.

  “Touchy, touchy,” he said. His voice became muffled. “Sorry about that,” he said. “Had to pay my cabbie.”

  “Must be nice,” I mumbled, slumped into my seat. Total blackness barred any view outside my window, but I had a good inkling what I would have seen anyway.

  Avi went into professional mode. “I’ll be brief. There are no hotel rooms available in Maplewood until after spring break. In fact, there are no hotel rooms within a sixty mile radius that are either (a) habitable by humans or (b) equipped with modern amenities such as an ice machine or cable TV, and certainly not that newfangled Internet Al Gore invented.”

  I groaned. Ms. Ellsworth looked nervous.

  “So, my dear,” Avi said, “let’s talk about how bad this really is. Is the attic family dreadful?”

  “No,” I said reluctantly.

  “I talked with that secretary at the music department. She’s an interesting bird.”

  “Correct,” I said, glancing at Ellsworth. She sat with inappropriately erect posture, readying herself for the big event: the one left-hand turn on the highway before reaching the Hartley place.

  “Are you with her?” Avi asked in a loud whisper.

  “Yes.”

  “I see. Should I call back?”

  I sighed. “No. I give up for now. I’ll call you if the need arises.”