So many years later and I still recall, clearly, his incensed frustration at my dismissal from the Boston Conservatory: “Come collect your daughter, Professor Klein. Brilliant as she is, Olivia doesn’t possess the discipline of even a Salvation Army musician.” And that was the cornerstone of our relationship, my value hinging on the outcome of his gift, reproduced in another human being.
As my mother notes with regularity, my father did not live to see it come to fruition. As he lay dying of cancer, he asked me to play at his bedside. In her delirium, my mother insisted it was the least I could do. She sat perched on the other side of the bed. Rob sat quietly, almost invisibly, in a chair. As I emoted Korngold’s Violin Concerto over his withering body, he drew shallower and shallower breaths. I prayed as I played, For Christ’s sake, would you take a last one . . . Being as he was Jewish, I’d forgotten Christ was not involved in Asa Klein’s impending exit, which may have been another reason he found the strength to lift his head and say, “Olivia, you’re rushing it. I’m certain it’s marked moderato . . .”
Sitting on my sofa, I put aside the plea agreement and pick up the newspaper. Its pages crinkle in my hand. My life has been lived, not with precision, but through the mist of a rolling fog. Emerging from each opaque patch, I am amazed by where I’m standing. Sometimes I wonder where I’ll be standing at fifty—assuming I’m upright. I look between the community service options and newspaper. What after-the-fact, bright light will this moment produce, Liv? Perhaps it’s best to let a neutral, wiser Sasha choose my poison. I need a diversion—something weightier than my own fate. I open today’s edition of the Boston Ledger.
I’m not interested in the police blotter or seeing my name in print. God and my father know I couldn’t care less about the symphony advertisement. I peer toward Sasha, who’s deep in conversation with a real client—someone she’ll bill an exorbitant fee to for her time and professional services. It’s the September 11 edition of the Ledger; there are a couple of smaller stories that relate to the reverent and ominous date. They’ve dwindled in recent years—large exposés turning into tinier respectful mentions. Four pages in and I find what I’m looking for: Shep Stewart’s annual column dedicated to the children of 9-11 victims.
Shep chronicles the lives of six children who lost a parent that day, all with ties to the Boston area. Their stories are compelling; one in particular mesmerizes me. Overall, the column is a sobering distraction, and today I need it like air. I scan the first five updates, names that have become familiar over the years. I skim bits and pieces of the lives of children who are now, for the most part, adults.
I turn the page and read the last entry—Theo McAdams. It’s the one I’m looking for. Theo was ten when his father died in the North Tower. His mother, Claire—a publishing executive turned stay-at-home mother—has provided the narration to Theo’s life. Theo is also a musician—a fascinating fact that resonates. I run my fingers over this year’s picture. At twenty-six, Theo has lost all semblance of his boyhood self, a glimmer of which was visible last year. This image depicts a man with wavy brown hair and an oval face. The photos are black and white, so I’ve wondered about the color of his eyes.
I think Theo was read to a lot. This idea may have more to do with his mother’s publishing past, rather than something one can glean from a photo. But I like the premise, so I pretend it’s true. In addition to his musical prowess, Theo’s mother has talked about her son as if he’s been running for class president these past fifteen years. But photos of Theo are equally telling—a familiarity in his face that penetrates. I straighten my spine and catch a glimpse of myself in an adjacent mirror, guessing this is what a less benevolent, musically gifted child looks like. I raise an eyebrow at my reflection—a wide forehead, bangs to hide the fact. My mother’s tiny nose makes my mouth too big for my face; I also see cutting blue eyes that were my father’s. Fine lines are slowly overshadowing all of me, visible from the width of a room. On second thought, maybe I just look like I spent the weekend in jail.
Like every year, Claire touts Theo’s genuineness and giving nature. It comes off as slightly gooey, and some years I’ve wanted her to share the story where Theo got caught shoplifting at Newbury Comics or smoking pot with his friends. Maybe in 2008 he wanted to quit piano lessons. If those things happened, Claire never goes there. Sometimes I don’t think it’s triumph over tragedy that Theo’s mother wants to convey, but for the world to know that her son is a good and productive human being. I’d imagine lots of parents would like an annual report like that in their newspaper.
While Theo went to Cornell on an athletic scholarship, he ended up with a degree in music—his choice, according to Claire. Last year’s article regaled his fresh-from-college job as the orchestra/band leader at Weston High School. It’s one of a few Massachusetts communities where the public education system could pass for private. Claire has often noted the inbred talent that made Theo a star athlete, but she takes extra pride in his decision to pursue music. “Wouldn’t Asa Klein be ever so envious . . .” I murmur.
As a distant observer, I’ve wondered if Theo’s choices would have differed had his father lived. I know from Shep’s stories that before becoming a financial analyst for one of the brokerages so hard hit on September 11, Theo’s father was a star running back in college—so surely sports mattered to him.
I continue to read but grow increasingly alarmed by the rest of Theo’s update. Last year’s story said Theo was engaged—a girl named India Church. This year there is no mention of a fiancée. The story goes on to say that Theo chose to leave his cushy Boston suburb teaching position.
“That’s not terribly smart,” I say. “I’d think overseeing the casual music education of rich kids would be a no-brainer job with summers off.” I sigh, kind of sorry I didn’t think of it. My head shakes at the mere notion of children and me. But for sweet-faced Theo, what could have been the most taxing issue? “Please excuse Buffy for missing her French horn lesson. The family ski trip to Italy just cluttered the calendar.”
I widen my eyes as Shep further enlightens his readers. Theo has accepted a position at Braemore. Braemore rolls off the tongue with the connotation of the private school Weston High isn’t. But I’ve seen headlines, heard local news reports. I know about this school. Braemore is a last stop for kids put out by standard Boston public schools. Behavioral issues run the gamut—delinquents with criminal records, drugs, others who are just DNA time bombs waiting to explode. (I’m allowed to say that. I am one.) Braemore isn’t like other schools from lower-income neighborhoods. It’s a holding cell for future unrest and violence. Boston Public Schools can’t figure out what to do with these kids; I’m not sure why Theo should.
“Oh, for God’s sake.” I grimace. “What are you thinking? This isn’t Mr. Holland’s Opus—no one’s going to yell ‘cut’ when someone pulls a gun!” I’m angry and frustrated. It’s not the uplifting story Shep Stewart promises each year. It’s not the distracting story I need on this topsy-turvy morning. I run my hand around the back of my neck. Little hairs are standing on end. I may not know Theo up close, but I know musicians—they are not wired for environments like Braemore. I get up and head for my desk. I need to put the story out of mind, which means getting it out of my sight.
A small pewter box shaped like what else—a violin case—sits on the desk and from it I retrieve a key. It unlocks the bottom right drawer of the antique desk. Inside are all Shep Stewart’s 9-11 stories. Under a mess of sheet music is a pair of scissors. With three large snips, I cut out this year’s article. I’m about to file away Theo McAdams and his story when Sasha turns back up.
“What are you doing?” I look up, staring at her like an out-of-place fermata mark, the newspaper clipping clutched in my hand. “After my client call, the ADA beeped in,” Sasha says. “We need to accept the plea or not by five o’clock today.”
“Or what?” I say. “It’s pistols at dawn on the Freedom Trail?”
She picks up t
he paper listing community service tasks. “Nothing so dramatic, but you are going to have to pick something, Liv. Soup kitchen, Mass Pike litter removal . . .” Sasha looks back at the list. “Wait. Here’s one. There’s a green area near a historic cemetery that’s being refurbished. It’s some cleanup work, painting—you wouldn’t have to deal with the public, just the project supervisor, other perps assigned the detail.”
“What kind of perps?”
“Don’t know. The location won’t limit offenders, not like a playground. Could be anything from robbery to assault to sex offenders.”
“Great,” I say, blowing out a breath.
Sasha’s expression shifts to concern. “Right. Not that one. Don’t worry. We’ll find something else.”
I shake my head. “It’s fine. I’ll do it. I mean, I did the crime, right?” I scratch a hand through my hair. “It’s probably about where I belong anyway.”
“What’s that you’re holding?” She cocks her chin at the news clipping.
“I, um . . . nothing.” I shuffle right and sway my hip into the desk drawer, shutting it.
“What are you hiding, Liv? Let me see.” Her gaze drifts to the sofa, spying the hole in the newspaper. “Starting a scrapbook of your criminal offenses?” I shake my head. “Or did you want the symphony advertisement as a keepsake?” I’d cop to that, but Sasha is too savvy. Rob might buy it—not Sasha. She crosses her arms, her sleek suit looking courtroom ready. “Come on, Liv. What did you take from the paper?”
“A half-off coupon for Lord & Taylor. I thought I might spruce up this year’s black.” Black, of course, is our staple performance wardrobe. “I may need the discount.”
“Mmm . . . you’d wear last year’s black before you’d ever bother to clip a coupon.”
I cling tighter to the Shep Stewart article. I prefer my interest remains private. I don’t parade mawkish emotion—no self-respecting Klein does. But being as I’ve been caught, emotion steers my next thought. An idea occurs to me; it’s totally out of character, though it fits smartly into the context of this conversation. I hold out Shep’s story. “I saw this in the paper. This boy . . . man,” I say. “A teacher, Theo McAdams. He took a job at Braemore. Do you know the place?”
Sasha’s looks befuddled, taking the clipping from me. “I’ve defended a few students from Braemore—required pro bono work. Braemore is badass, filled with worse-ass kids.” She looks at me. “But what does it have to do with you?” She scans the article and her crafted eyebrows rise as she reads Theo’s story. “Huh. Sad. The 9-11 connection and all . . . But, wow. I give him credit. I usually ask for a cop to be within ten feet while making a case for a Braemore perp. Accepting a gig as the music teacher takes balls.” She looks from the article to me. “But I still don’t get it. What does it have to do with you?”
“I was thinking . . .” I say slowly, because now I am. “Do you suppose the judge would let me volunteer at Braemore—assist this McAdams teacher to fulfill my community service? It would be a better use of skills than green space beautification.”
Sasha cranes her neck forward, eyes narrowing. “Liv, am I unaware of a blow to your head from the other night?” I shrink back at the remark—which honestly makes more sense than the suggestion I’ve made. “You’re joking, right? I can’t fathom you doing cleanup work in a green space with pedestrian perps, never mind going inside Boston’s most violent school.”
“It could be that Judge Nicholson is right. My attitude needs adjusting. Maybe it’s time I acted more like Phillip and my grandfather—they’re big givers.”
“Yes, but you’re hardly—”
“Think about it, Sash. I might not have Phillip’s résumé when it comes to charitable causes, or my grandfather’s penchant for philanthropic ventures, but I do have his gift for music. If I skip over my father, it’s not such a bad lens. I could do more with music than dress up in black and parade in front of audiences that my mother would consider her peers.”
“Let’s not go overboard here. I agree that the judge set down a harsher-than-necessary sentence for mouthing off. But that doesn’t mean you have to plunge into some dangerous, life-changing experience.”
“I’m not doing that.”
“Then how else do you explain a suggestion that’s the modern-day equivalent to volunteering with the militia and facing Redcoats?”
“I’m not . . . And it isn’t. I just thought this McAdams kid could use some help. Musically, we have something in common. And I do have a sharable talent, Sasha.”
“Right. A talent that you barely tolerate to earn a living. Why would you suddenly—”
“I’m just asking if you think it’s feasible. That’s all.”
Sasha looks skeptically at the article. “Feasible . . . yes. But crazy might be a saner description.”
CHAPTER FOUR
FIVE MONTHS EARLIER
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
Theo
Rain pummels the windows of a Ruth’s Chris Steak House. It is pouring like the heavens are crying—a phrase Theo’s mother often used after his father died. On a wall of glass, water spreads into vague scattered tributaries. Foreboding presses into Theo’s gut. India arrived, soaked to the skin, and he’s waiting for her to return from the ladies’ room. He stares into the gloomy night and heavenly tears. He will never look at rain and not be reminded of loss. It can make weather difficult, and sometimes Theo considers moving to the desert.
After the turmoil of the past few days, Theo wishes he and India had moved to the desert a year ago. If they lived in the desert, India would not work for Take Me to Church Catering or have been at a caterers’ convention in New York. If Arizona or the Sahara were home, his fiancée might have gotten sunburn on Monday or found some variety of arachnids in their bathroom tub. But she wouldn’t have run into an old boyfriend and agreed to a friendly drink. She wouldn’t have kissed him, which is what India confessed to Theo that same night. If they lived in the desert, a half-dozen phone conversations would not have followed, the ones in which India’s words went from being mortified by her actions to uncertainty about the two of them.
A waiter delivers drinks. India follows, her damp red hair glistening under what is supposed to be ambient lighting. Theo is surprised she insisted on meeting here, a carnivore’s paradise. India is a vegetarian, and a Ruth’s Chris Steak House is not their style. But it’s midway between their apartment and the train station, and Theo guesses India is anxious to talk face-to-face.
She sits and smiles, then doesn’t, her fair face paler than usual. It’s an odd look for India, whose smile is the thing Theo notices more than her wavy red hair. “I ordered you a glass of wine.” Theo points to the Cabernet as if she cannot see it. He’s more nervous than he was on their first date. It sticks out because Theo is not a nervous person. This and countless other things are the effect of India—her airy upbeat laugh that sounds like music and her ability to keep track of the everyday things he cannot, like his phone, which he has misplaced again. All of it sets India apart from any girl he’s ever known.
“Thanks.” She reaches for the wine. The Cabernet sloshes about the glass like a rough sea. India puts the glass down. “I don’t think I can drink this.” Her hazel gaze is trained on her finger. She spins her engagement ring in antsy edgy whirl. Theo wanted to take the ring back to the jeweler for resizing. India insisted it was fine. “Theo,” she says abruptly. “A lot’s happened in the past few days.”
“Really, just one thing,” he states. But the gravity of the circumstance weighs down on him, more so than during their phone conversations. It feels as if the roof of the Ruth’s Chris Steak House may give way. But the sensation is not linked to what India has done—though this hardly thrills him—it’s trepidation about what she’s going to say. Yet Theo stands his ground; he is the injured party. “If you want me to tell you it’s okay that you kissed another man, I can’t do that. It stings . . . like hell.”
Her dewy eyes shine brighter than her ha
ir. “I’m sorry, Theo—so sorry. I never expected to run into Tom. I certainly never intended to have two martinis, kiss him in public, or run headlong into . . .”
India’s words peter out. Theo closes his eyes, willing the heinous vision away. “Who, uh . . . I’d like to know, who kissed who? It might help me understand.”
“Tom—he kissed me.” Theo is relieved, but the feeling is short-lived. “But I . . .”
“You didn’t pull away or slap his face?”
“No,” she says, wiping a trembling, freckled hand across her nose. “I didn’t. I mean, I didn’t think it was a wonderful thing. For a tipsy second it only felt I’d fallen into a memory, like the whole thing was a bizarre dream.”
“Did he want you to go home with him?” This is the easiest way Theo can think to ask if the old boyfriend suggested he and India have sex. She was having sex with Tom when she and Theo met, so it’s not as if India’s never been attracted to another man. Theo just liked it far better when the other man was him. He shakes his head and tries to clear his mind. India broke up with Tom before she and Theo had a second date, almost the second she realized “having coffee with Theo” was a first date. She is an honorable person. “Never mind,” he says before she can answer. “Of course that’s what he wanted.” Theo imagines lots of men would like to have sex with India—she’s confident and pretty in that uncommon redheaded way. “But you didn’t consider it.” She shakes her head slightly. Theo feels he’s on his way to fixing this. “You made a mistake, India. And you did tell me right away. You didn’t lie or keep it from me. It’s not the end of the world. We can recover from it.” Theo draws a Coors Light bottle to his lips and downs a long mouthful.
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