by Ann McMan
“Yes, David.” Celine conceded. “That’s exactly right. Now, why don’t you and Henry fix us all something cold to drink?” She extended a hand to Dorothy, who hesitated before taking it. “I’m going to show Dorothy the piano.”
‘Sounds good to me.” David put the file folder and the battered pitch pipe down next to a bright blue bowl full of peaches that sat atop a table by the window. “Any requests?”
“Chocolate milk!” Henry cried.
“Seriously, dude?” David walked toward Celine’s fridge. “You need to aim your sights a little higher.”
◊ ◊ ◊
Dorothy had never seen anything like Dr. Heller’s piano.
It sat off to one side of the large room she called her studio, away from a row of windows that overlooked the river. The room had a high ceiling and two walls covered with white bookcases. The shelves were all filled with what had to be hundreds of books. There wasn’t much other furniture in the room—just two chairs, a footstool and a couple of small tables. The tables were covered with books. And music. There were big, loose pages of music everywhere.
There were paintings on the walls, too. A couple of them were very modern-looking—big squares of color on giant canvasses. But there was one that seemed different from the rest. It was a black chalk drawing of a young woman and a dark-haired child. She thought the woman in the picture looked an awful lot like Dr. Stevenson—but she was afraid to stare at it too long, and she was too shy to ask Dr. Heller about it.
But the piano was different. Even though she tried, she couldn’t do anything but stare at it. That was mostly because it was the biggest thing in the room. Although Dorothy figured it would be the biggest thing in any size room—even one five times this big.
It was black and shiny and it sat there without making a sound—but even its silence seemed loud. She stood beside it with her eyes closed and imagined she could feel the vibration from the last notes it had played. They surged up from the plank floor into her shoes, up her legs, and along her arms to reach her twitching fingertips. She thought about Mr. Jenkins and his swanee whistle. He said it could help a bad choir find the right key.
He was right.
In that one moment, she knew—the way she always knew when it mattered—that something finally had come along that could make right her own chorus of bad voices.
She raised her hand to touch it, but stopped herself in time.
It didn’t belong to her.
“Don’t be afraid of it, Dorothy.” Dr. Heller sat down on the padded bench in front of the keyboard and patted the space beside her. “Come and sit down with me. Come and see that there is nothing here to fear.”
How did Dr. Heller know what she was thinking?
“I don’t want to hurt it,” she said.
“You won’t hurt it.” Dr. Heller smiled at her. “I promise. It’s bigger and stronger than both of us.”
Dorothy sat down beside her. She could see their faces reflected in the shiny panel behind the keys. They looked the same, but different—just like those strange shapes that stared back at you when you stood in front of fun house mirrors.
“Do you want to try it?” Dr. Heller asked.
She watched the head that was hers, and not hers, nod.
“But I don’t know what to do,” she said.
“That’s okay.” Dr. Heller reached over to take hold of her right hand. “Lucky for you, I do.”
Dr. Heller positioned her thumb and two fingers over three keys.
“A chord is built by combining notes one, three, and five.” She touched each of Dorothy’s fingers as she counted. “One, three, and five. Notes C, E, and G. And keys one, three and five are played by fingers one, three and five. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Good.” Dr. Heller withdrew her hand. “Now press down on all three keys at once.”
Dorothy complied. The piano made a big, perfect sound.
“Congratulations, Dorothy.” Dr. Heller leaned into her. “You just played a perfect C major chord.”
“I did?”
“Yes, you did.”
Dorothy was still holding her fingers in place over the keys. “Can I try it again?”
“Of course.”
Dorothy repeated the chord. It sounded perfect. Just like the first time. It was incredible. She could have stayed there all day, just playing the same three notes over and over.
“Are there other chords?” she asked Dr. Heller.
“Oh, yes. Many other chords—both major and minor.”
“Can I learn them, too?”
“Do you want to learn them?”
Dorothy nodded.
“Henry told me that you’re going to be staying with him three days a week after school lets out. Is that correct?”
“Yes, ma’am. In Troutdale.”
Dr. Heller smiled at her.
“I think we can work something out.”
◊ ◊ ◊
Roma Jean was having a slow day. Normally, that drove her crazy, but today it gave her a chance to think through everything she and Miss Murphy had talked about last night on the drive back from Roanoke.
It rained cats and dogs most of the way home—especially through Blacksburg. It got so bad that Miss Murphy suggested they pull off the highway and find a place to wait out some of the bigger bands of storms that were rolling through. That was okay with Roma Jean. She wasn’t too nervous about driving the bookmobile these days, but super-bad weather like they’d had last night made it harder than usual to gauge things like safe stopping distances. Nobody believed her, but that was the real reason she ran into so much stuff. She always knew where she wanted the truck to stop, but sometimes it had its own idea about how much farther it wanted to go.
They got off the interstate at the exit for Claytor Lake and found a Dairy Queen that was still open. Miss Murphy only got a cup of coffee, but Roma Jean got a large Orange Julius and a Dilly Bar.
Charlie always made fun of what she called Roma Jean’s “preteen palate.” But ever since she’d been a little girl, Roma Jean had loved Dilly Bars. Probably that was because the only time she ever got one was when her family went on vacation to Virginia Beach. They always stopped off in Danville to eat because it was close to halfway, and her daddy would treat them all to an ice cream after dinner.
Roma Jean always associated Dilly Bars with happy times, and being on the front end of something good. But last night, the experience of eating one quickly turned into something different. That was because they ended up having what she now thought of as “The Talk.”
They hadn’t been sitting down very long when Miss Murphy cleared her throat and said there was something she’d been putting off discussing with her. It only took about two seconds for Roma Jean to blush up to the roots of her hair. She could feel the heat spreading up from her neck.
She didn’t have to wonder what Miss Murphy wanted to talk about. They’d been together all day long and she hadn’t brought up anything until now. Well, at least she hadn’t brought up anything out of the ordinary. They did have their usual conversations about books and whether they were doing enough stops out in the western part of the county. But the way Miss Murphy introduced this topic left no doubt what it concerned.
“I’m really sorry.” She said it before Miss Murphy could get her first sentence out. “I know I shouldn’t have done it, but I had to. Once I knew about it, I couldn’t stop myself.”
Miss Murphy was tapping her index finger on the side of her coffee cup. She looked concerned but not angry. At least that was a good thing.
“Roma Jean,” she said. “If you were that upset about it, why didn’t you come and talk with me? Before you acted?”
“I’m sorry. I really screwed up, didn’t I?”
“I wouldn’t say that. It is your life and you get to make your own decisions about what you do and with whom. So, deciding to act on something that matters to you is not a bad thing.” She smiled. “Not unless it involves something l
ike robbing a gas station or getting 400 body piercings.”
Roma Jean blinked. People got 400 body piercings? She couldn’t even think of that many places on her body to hang things. Not unless you counted . . . gross.
She knew she was blushing again.
Miss Murphy was being all nice about it, but Roma Jean felt like a deer in the headlights.
“I tried really hard to be careful and not attract attention,” she explained. “But it happened during a lunch break and I know a bunch of people up there saw us. I promise it didn’t take very long and I got out of there as soon as we finished.” She lowered her eyes to the table where the vanilla center of her Dilly Bar was beginning to seep out onto a pile of napkins. “Charlie said I’d probably regret it, too. But I figured that was just because she had more experience and was used to how you felt after you did something like this.”
“How do you feel?”
Roma Jean raised her eyes to Miss Murphy’s face. She didn’t look mad. But then, Miss Murphy almost never got mad—at least not with her.
“I feel . . . okay.”
“Are you really sorry about what happened? Or is that the way you think you’re supposed to feel?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a little of both.”
“Roma Jean? Do you truly think what happened was a mistake? Because you need to know that no one has the right to pressure you into doing anything that you aren’t ready for—and just because you were tempted to try something, it doesn’t mean that anything about who you are has changed.”
“Nobody pressured me. I wanted to do it.”
Miss Murphy looked . . . relieved.
“I’m very glad Charlie didn’t pressure you or push you into doing something you weren’t ready for.”
“No, ma’am.” Roma Jean wanted to make sure Miss Murphy knew she acted on her own. “Charlie tried hard to talk me out of it.”
“She did?”
Roma Jean nodded. “She tried to make me promise not to do it, but I knew I was going to the next time I went up there.”
“Up there?” Miss Murphy looked perplexed. “Up where?”
“Whitetop.”
“Whitetop?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s where I met him.”
“Him?” Miss Murphy’s green eyes grew as big as salad plates. “Roma Jean? Exactly who did you—engage with—up there?”
“Mr. Sanchez.”
“Mister . . . Carlos Sanchez?”
Roma Jean nodded. “I thought you knew that?”
Miss Murphy flopped back against the booth. “I have no idea what to say . . .”
“Does this mean you’re mad at me?”
“I don’t know what I am, Roma Jean.” She slowly shook her head. “Carlos has a wife and three children.”
“I know. That’s why I did it.”
“That’s . . .” Miss Murphy stared at her, then squinted her eyes. “Roma Jean? Exactly what did you do with Mr. Sanchez?”
“I warned him. About the mayor.”
“Warned him? Warned him about what?”
“Charlie told me the mayor was going to start rounding up people who didn’t have the right paperwork and send them back to Mexico. I couldn’t let that happen to Mr. and Mrs. Sanchez. They’re so nice. And Henry is best friends with Héctor and Gabriel.”
“So, you went to tell Mr. Sanchez about what was going to happen?”
Roma Jean nodded. “Isn’t that what you wanted to talk with me about? I figured one of the other people who saw us talking called the mayor to complain.”
“No. No that wasn’t what I . . .” Miss Murphy shook her head. “What did Carlos say when you talked with him?”
Roma Jean sighed. “Well, you know his English isn’t really good, but I think he understood what I was trying to tell him. He pulled out his wallet and showed me his immigration card.”
“Thank god for that.”
Roma Jean picked up her Dilly Bar and did her best to prevent any more ice cream from leaking out, but it was hopeless. The frozen inside had mostly melted, and it was oozing out through every crack in the hard chocolate coating.
She looked out the big plate glass window that overlooked the parking lot. The rain had mostly slacked off. Water was standing all over the place in big puddles. Roma Jean noticed they all had that oily, rainbow thing forming around their edges.
She knew that Miss Murphy would want to get back on the road soon. But something about their conversation didn’t make sense to her.
“Miss Murphy?”
Miss Murphy was collecting their napkins and empty cups. She paused and looked up at Roma Jean.
“I was just wondering,” Roma Jean began. “If you didn’t know anything about my visit with Mr. Sanchez, what was it you did want to talk with me about?”
Miss Murphy took a slow, deep breath. Then she smiled.
“Let’s go and get you another Dilly Bar . . .”
The rest of their conversation had been really embarrassing. Although Miss Murphy tried hard to be sensitive and not ask about any details that were too personal.
But one thing she did make clear was that Roma Jean couldn’t have any more meetings with Charlie on bookmobile stops—even though nothing really inappropriate had happened—yet.
It was the “yet” part that Miss Murphy took the most time to warn her about. And her warning was less about protecting the library than it was about protecting Roma Jean’s right to take her time figuring out what she wanted.
“This isn’t something you need to rush into, Roma Jean,” she said. “And there isn’t any right or wrong way to be. Take the time you need to figure out what your heart wants, and what your mind will allow the rest of you to embrace.”
“Is that what you did with Dr. Stevenson?”
It was a pretty bold thing for her to say. Roma Jean had never made a direct reference to Miss Murphy’s relationship with Dr. Stevenson before. As soon as she asked the question, she wished she could take it back.
But Miss Murphy didn’t seem bothered by it at all. Her serious expression just melted into a big, goofy smile.
It was a whole lot like watching what happened to her first Dilly Bar.
“You know what, Roma Jean? I think it’s high time you started calling me Syd.”
◊ ◊ ◊
Peggy Hawkes tapped on Maddie’s office door at four-thirty and told her that an emergency case had just walked in.
Maddie quickly got up from her chair and reached for her jacket. “What is it?”
Peggy stepped inside and lowered her voice. “It’s Curtis Freemantle. He cut his hand on a slicer, but it doesn’t look that deep. I told him I could take care of it but he insisted that he wanted to see you—alone.” She took a quick look over her shoulder. “I don’t think he’s here because of his hand, if you catch my drift.” She gave Maddie an exaggerated wink.
“Okaaayyy.” Maddie picked up her stethoscope and looped it over her neck. “Show him into room two.”
Peggy nodded and left her office.
Maddie stood rooted in place and listened to the sound of Peggy’s crepe-soled shoes creaking along the corridor toward the waiting room. It gave her a minute to stare at the ceiling and curse her bad luck.
There could be only one reason why Curtis Freemantle wanted to talk with her—privately—and it probably had everything to do with his daughter and a certain Sheriff’s deputy.
Sensitive chats. My favorite.
She waited until she heard Peggy ushering Curtis into the examination room. Before she left her office to see him, she picked up the framed photo of Syd that sat on her desk.
I wonder if you’d come roaring over here if I sent you a 9-1-1 text?
Fat chance.
Syd would see right through her. Maddie knew exactly how she’d reply: “Put on your big girl panties and deal with it.”
She replaced the photo and went to meet Curtis—avoiding the temptation to hike up her drawers on her way out of the office.
She found him sitting on the edge of the examination table when she entered the room. Peggy had wrapped his hand in a couple of clean towels and had it resting on a rolling tray. Maddie could see a few spots of blood on the front of his shirt.
“Hey, Curtis,” she said. “What have you managed to do to yourself?” She walked over to the sink and washed her hands.
“Hey, Doc,” he replied. “I was slicing up some of that boiled ham for Natalie Chriscoe, and just got careless.”
Maddie dried her hands before sitting down on a stool in front of him.
“Let me take a look at it.”
He nodded.
She carefully unwrapped his hand. Peggy was right. The cut was clean and not very deep. She was confident that it wouldn’t require stitches.
“Well the good news is that I think we can avoid needles,” she said. “But I do want to soak it in some antiseptic solution before we close it up with some Steristrips.”
“Okay,” he said. “I felt kind of silly comin’ over here, but Edna said I should get you to look at it. And then Natalie chimed in and told as how her cousin once cut himself on some of that hard salami and didn’t do nothin’ about it. She said it went all septic on him and he ended up losing two of his fingers.” He shook his head. “Ain’t no deli meat worth that.”
Maddie filled a small basin with a Betadine solution and pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves.
“I don’t think you need to worry about that, Curtis. I’d say you won this battle with marauding cold cuts.” She smiled at him. “Let’s soak your hand in this for a few minutes, just to be sure there isn’t any kind of debris in the cut.”
She helped Curtis submerge his hand in the pan of liquid.
“Does that sting at all?”
He shook his head.
“Good. I’m going to give you some antibiotic cream to take home, too. I want you to keep this dry and dab the cut with a bit of the cream every time you change the bandages. Okay?”
He nodded.
“You let me know right away if it feels worse or begins to look red and puffy.”