New Year's Resolutions

by Briggs, Laura

  “Actually, that’s kind of over now,” said Seth, philosophically. “See, there’s this librarian from the vintage records shop on Sixth...”

  “Ah,” said Henry, arching his eyebrows. “Another mysterious convert to the cult of Seth.” Emptying the carton of lima beans into a cream-colored sauce flecked with peppers. “You think by now, they would have formed a club–maybe meet on Wednesdays and share stories about you...”

  “All right, all right, lay off, will you?” Seth hid a grin behind his bottle momentarily. “It’s just there are some qualities the ladies can’t pass up.”

  For this, Henry had no comment; the subject of personal qualities left him moody, as if conjuring the list of shortcomings he envisioned in Lois’s mind. There had been no explanation for the distance between them, no definite reason for her decision to break things off. Sometimes he imagined that was the point–to leave the door open to reconciliation someday.

  Seth reached over and dipped his finger in the sauce, yelping slightly before sticking it in his mouth. “Speaking of relationships,” he mumbled, withdrawing it and licking his lips.

  “No, not again,” Henry groaned. “When I already know what you’re going to say, is there any point in repeating it?” Slamming the pot lid over the sauce, he avoided glancing at Seth as he flipped the squash slices over, revealing a golden crust on the former pan side.

  “That’s the no-caffeine talking,” said Seth. “You want a relationship–just admit it. And if it’s with Lois, you gotta admit, it’s not looking too good.”

  “Subject change,” said Henry. “To something more mutually pleasant, please. Your next concert, your favorite bands–anything but this.” With a pointed look as he pulled two plates out of the cabinet.

  After Seth was off to meet his librarian, Henry pulled a sheaf of paper from his desk drawer and a pencil from the box on his desk. Running it over the surface in light, quick strokes that formed a woman’s face. The angles were sharp, almost chiseled; so familiar he recognized them after a moment.

  His pencil paused, then shifted. Softening the curves, sending a sheaf of hair in a soft curtain across the forehead, eyes upturned as if gazing with intense concentration. The woman from La Traviata.

  He tried it again, from other angles, capturing the shape of other audience members, the woman in the studded white jacket, a half-asleep man in a tuxedo. His fingers were slow with lack of practice except for doodles on the notepad he kept handy whenever he perused galleys for formatting errors. Henry’s eraser removed part of the stage from one sketch, the poorly-executed stage boards beneath the performers in hoop skirts and coattails.

  Within an hour, he had six sketches before him; far from perfect, but more artistic than anything he had tried in years. With a sense of a pride, he pinned them to the corkboard above his desk, removing a handful of coupons and outdated social invitations pinned there. A haphazard cluster of black and white, the girl’s curving face in the center of the group.

  Grinning with satisfaction, he tossed the pencil back in its box. Maybe next time he would try writing something, a few lines on a subject other than his former classmate’s beauty. For once, he wouldn’t let his resolution escape him without making an effort. Except maybe for finishing Jane Eyre.

  Chapter Nine

  “All right, shift to the downward dog.” The yoga instructor’s voice was breathy and slow, undoubtedly meant to sound soothing against the backdrop of a “Waves from the Ocean” cd. From her cramped position on her yoga mat, Abby heard the distinctive strains of a dictatorship buried beneath the New Age philosophy.

  Her leg was cramping, forcing her to kneel awkwardly. A small pool of sweat was forming at the base of her neck beneath her ponytail. Glancing to the right, she observed Maureen in perfect formation, her angular joins sticking out painfully beneath her leotard.

  “I cannot believe you thought this was a great present,” she whispered through gritted teeth. “Next year, just go with a gift card. For someplace non-health oriented.”

  “What’s wrong?” Maureen whispered back, her face registering perplexity. Already she was balancing on one foot, stretching her leg away from her body at a stork-like angle Abby couldn’t recall ever seeing on the morning show’s yoga workout segment.

  “Yoga sucks, that’s what’s wrong.” With a groan, Abby buckled downwards on her mat.

  Over green tea and rice cakes afterwards in the center’s Harmony Room, Abby rubbed her aching shoulders. “I can’t believe I let you drag me to another workout regime.”

  “Yoga is the most relaxing form of physical workout available,” said Maureen, stretching her legs before crossing them beneath her. “You said you wanted to take up a physical routine–I thought this would be perfect, considering how much you loathe gyms.”

  “The pilates? The cardio crunch?” Abby scoffed. “Can you blame me? Half the instructors were sadistic, the rest were cattle drivers.”

  She poured a cup of green tea from the pot into one of the club’s matching clay cups. The rice cakes on the platter were flecked with some kind of green herb which made Abby wrinkle her nose upon tasting it. Being healthy was hardly worth this effort, she decided. Better to resolve to take more vitamins or avoid trans fats.

  Maureen pulled her cell phone from her bag and paged through her latest unanswered texts and email notices. “The book club’s meeting a day early,” she commented. “Ms. President’s having elective surgery, apparently.”

  “She says that in the email?” Abby raised her head from her cup of tea.

  “No,” Maureen snorted. “But isn’t it obvious? Her forehead has developed that polished Botox look for the past three months.” She continued scrolling through the list, pausing to laugh at one of the notices.

  “Listen to this,” she said, poking Abby’s arm. “I read this blog–some guy who covers a lot of art shows–but he’s started reading classic literature recently and his posts on it are slanderous. He’s reading Jane Eyre–-”

  “He hates Jane Eyre?” Abby lost interest in crumbling rice cakes on her plate. “How can anybody hate Jane Eyre? It’s one of the greatest books ever written.”

  “He says–and I quote–‘The constant internal dialogue on Jane’s part, the way she endures Mr. Rochester’s abuses, is this supposed to epitomize romance for me?’ He goes on to rant about the introduction of Blanche’s character...”

  “Imagine reading his thoughts aloud at one of the next book club meetings,” mused Abby. “Maybe we can talk about an outreach program–some way to convert the wayward souls to literature.”

  “Just be grateful you’re not the girlfriend dating a moron like this,” said Maureen, shoving her cell phone into her gym bag.

  “I am, believe me,” said Abby, although she wished that references to her single status would become few and far between. After all, she had told Maureen she was working on a plan to land a date–and she was–but discussing it would mean analyzing every painful detail in the process. Maureen was picky, a critic at heart who enjoyed dissecting others’ ideas with replacement helpful hints.

  “Love of books,” she said. “That’s a definite deal breaker.” Taking a nibble from one of the broken rice cakes as she tried hard to imagine what a campaign to end her singleness would look like on paper.

  *****

  “Is everybody ready?” Abigail asked, glancing at her class as her finger remained poised over the play button on the stereo.

  Today they were restless; Rodney was drumming his sneakers against the legs of his chair, with two younger boys scuffling near the back. Even Jacqi was sneaking candy from a Skittles packet in her jeans pocket.

  Tyrel raised his hand. “Miss Abby, can I have my instrument now?” he asked. “I wanna play, not just sit here.” Their desks were in a semi-circle today, so Abby could let them practice a little as she made the rounds from student to student.

  “You can after you hear what song we’re going to learn,” she answered. “Are you ready? I pro
mise this one will be really, really easy.” She pressed the play button, filling the room with the sound of a solo violin playing a melody.

  For a moment, her students exchanged glances, with a few making faces. Rodney raised his hand even though it was “music time” and supposed to be a period of silence.

  “Miss Abby, this is ‘Twinkle, Twinkle’,” he complained. “It’s a baby song. I thought we were gonna learn to play real music.”

  Abby grinned. “This is real music, Rodney,” she said. “Do you know who wrote this tune? Anyone?” She held up the cd cover, a children’s classical music album featuring sheep jumping over a rail fence.

  “One of the world’s most famous composers, Wolfgang Mozart, wrote this song,” she said. “This is his arrangement we’re listening to. Trust me, this is real classical music and you guys will play it beautifully.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Jacqi. Abby tried to resist the urge to laugh over the little girl’s solemn expression.

  “Scout’s honor,” she answered, lowering the song’s volume. “Now, this is a big part for the violinists, but today I’m going to play the melody for you on my cello, so you can see how string fingers find the melody notes.” This was the signal for everyone to produce their instruments, leading to a noisy round of cases snapping open and backpacks unzipping. Several of the students didn’t own theirs, but borrowed them from the secondhand supply Abby kept in the classroom.

  She lifted the cello from its case and balanced it between her knees, her fingers cradling the bow as she watched her students. Rodney’s face was so serious as he fumbled with the latches on his instrument case. Across from him, a noisy little girl diagnosed with ADD hugged a trumpet against her chest, excited to see it again.

  Abby hesitated, then cleared her throat. “What would you guys think about having a real concert?” she asked.

  Her class was momentarily distracted from their instruments by this idea. Jacqi’s mouth fell open in a round ’o’; beside her, Tyrel let out a loud whoop.

  “Because if you guys are interested,” said Abby, “then I think we could make this happen. We’ll have the school auditorium, a complete program printed up with all the songs–”

  Travis’s hand shot up. “Can our parents come?” he asked. “Or anybody we want?”

  Abby grinned. “Everybody can come, Travis,” she answered. “Now, we’ll have to practice really hard to make this work. And we’ll have to try really hard when we’re onstage–”

  “Oh, we would, Miss Abby,” said Jacqi. “We would, I promise.”

  In his excitement, Rodney had abandoned his instrument case and began dancing in the middle of the aisle instead, head flailing to a nonexistent musical beat. He was joined by one, then several of his classmates whose energy couldn’t be contained any longer.

  The class had become chaos, but it didn’t matter–Mozart could wait, along with finger exercises and harmony notes. Laughing, Abby let her bow dangle beside her leg as she enjoyed the scene. In every one of their minds was a picture of their triumphant moment onstage, their name in a program just like the other students they knew.

  Now all she had to do was persuade the principle to say yes. That would be the hardest part of this idea.

  Chapter Ten

  The Exhibit in Yellow opened on March third, but Henry didn’t tour the gallery until almost a week later. He had long ago made the cover selection for the novel on his desk, but there would always be other novels. Besides, Henry had ulterior motives in purchasing a second ticket for the afternoon.

  Her name was Annette; she was the newest illustrator hired by his publisher for the trade paperback editions. They had met at a company retirement party for a senior editor, where Henry caught himself glancing at her across the room. Her dark hair was braided, a pair of narrow-lens glasses perched low on the bridge of her nose. She smiled when he caught her eye, inviting him to approach and make conversation, which had led to the casual suggestion of visiting the gallery together.

  The yellow butterflies on her sweater–that’s what inspired him to ask her. In retrospect, it seemed like shrewd insight, given her enthusiasm over the canvases as they walked the main floor. Large stripes and swirls in shades of canary, the images of drooping petals and skyscrapers, Chinese characters and abstract shapes.

  “Isn’t it gorgeous?” Annette asked. “I mean, all these shades and styles. The artist’s whole medium is interpreting a single color in all its shades. I can’t get over it.”

  Henry gazed at a large ribbon circling a canvas–either a flag waving or a rose, he couldn’t decide. “Maybe it’s just me, but I would have added a second color. Red or orange, for instance.” He offered her a grin with these words.

  Annette rolled her eyes. “Henry, you’re an art connoisseur. You have to love at least part of this. Look at that canvas to the right, the field of yellow daisies. The way those petals practically curve away from the backdrop.”

  “Those are daisies?” he asked. “I thought they were shooting stars. Aren’t those puffs of yellow smoke off to the side clouds?”

  He meant it to be funny, but Annette didn’t laugh this time. Her smile tightened, a wide, blank expression in which he detected traces of annoyance.

  “So, shall we visit the student’s exhibits?” Clearing his throat, he switched the subject as he offered her his arm. Grateful that she accepted it without hesitation, as if accepting an apology for his previous joke.

  Artist Song Li’s most gifted proteges had interpreted the existence of yellow in a handful of mixed media projects hosted in an adjoining hall. Several patrons were strolling leisurely along the roped-off displays of chunky yellow clay or rough paper mache. Annette was immediately attracted to something that resembled a lopsided yellow kite in Henry’s estimation, its strings coated with mustard and anchored to a pile of used milk cartons.

  He flipped through the exhibit’s guide, finding the name Ilya across from a sculpture entitled, “The Wet Leaves of Despair.” Repressing a snort of disbelief, he studied the rest of the entries, with the list of impressive credits for the budding sculptors and painters.

  Henry intended to ask Annette out for coffee after this experience, although he sensed it would be with a small crowd, given the intense conversation she was now having with a handful of art devotees. She was a natural talker, the kind of person who engaged others quickly and deeply.

  He sighed. Was there a connection between them at the cocktail party, or did Annette think of him the same way as she did the two people gathered around the yellow clay sculpture? Maybe the desperation to fulfill his resolution spurred him into thinking this would be a quick descent into romance–as opposed to a long season of being coffee buddies and opera seatmates.

  “Henry,” called Annette, “Greg and Emily here are hosting an evening social for the art students tonight. Are you interested?” Her expression and body language were ample evidence that she was desperate to attend.

  “Not tonight for me,” he answered, forcing a casual smile to his face. “Don’t forget to fill me in on the details on Monday.”

  Annette offered him a smile of sympathy as she touched his shoulder, trying to include him in her sudden circle of friends. Already she was fast falling into conversation again over the student’s use of recycled sweater yarn.

  Clearly, a courtship with Annette would be more like a contest. A verbal jousting with his many opponents in the field of art, who had more admiration for glued-together video tapes and virulent shades of yellow than himself.

  *****

  Abigail wore her best blue business skirt and sweater to the meeting with the principal. Something about his intimidating figure behind the desk made her legs tremble from the knee to ankle. The heels of her clunky loafers seemed to vibrate against the tile floor in response.

  “So, Miss Nesbit,” he said, leaning back as he set aside an open report, “You requested a meeting regarding your class’s schedule–”

  “Yes, actually, regardin
g a change in schedule,” she said. “Mr. Gyvers, I would like to request funding–or apply for a grant–so the Special Ed Orchestra can have a concert this spring.”

  Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a handful of request forms, an outline of her proposal–the ammunition she hoped would persuade him. Sliding them across the desk, she waited as he glanced over them. She found herself biting her lip, something she quickly stopped upon realization.

  Principal Gyvers flipped to the last page, then shuffled the papers into their original order. He raised his eyes and studied her with a fathomless expression, fingertips touching in a philosophical pose which made her heart sink before his lips even parted. “Miss Nesbit,” he began, “don’t you think it’s a little late in the year to request funding? It’s March– you’re talking about an opening in the school auditorium in late May.”

  “I know it’s a little last-minute,” she said, “But I think I can pull it together. And it would mean so much to the students–”

  “Don’t your students have a recital program in April?” he asked.

  “That’s such a small event, sir,” she answered. “They need a chance to perform for their school–for the community, not just a few parents or guardians.”

  A lump rose in her throat, her tingling hands wrapping themselves around the arms of the chair. Be more assertive, be more assertive, her resolution chanted in the back of her mind. She tried to smile confidently, although her lips twitched with the effort.

  For a moment, the principal was silent. If it was a trick to make her more nervous, it worked; watching and waiting crumbled Abby’s resolve to stand firm.

  “You know the answer,” he said. “There’s no way we can grant this request. The kind of event you’re talking about exceeds funding for the orchestra by more than half its budget–given the tight circumstances of the school’s overall budget, the lateness of your request...”