New Year's Resolutions

by Briggs, Laura

  “What else do you have to eat?” Maureen crawled up from the sofa, shoving aside the weekend paper scattered across its arm. A colored pamphlet attracted her notice, a logo for a local coffee house.

  “What’s this?” she said, lifting it up. “Isn’t this that place with Saturday night double concerts? I thought you‘d already been there a few times.”

  “It is,” said Abby, trying to act unconcerned. “I just thought I would check out their performance criteria. That’s all.”

  “Then you’re going through with it?” Maureen plopped back down on the sofa. “You mean–”

  “I should keep one resolution this year, right?” Abby shrugged her shoulders. “If I can’t learn to cook or fall in love or work out, I can at least kick stage fright where it counts.”

  “I can’t believe you’re actually considering this,” Maureen squealed. “I mean, this is a breakthrough, Abby–really, I’m not kidding.”

  Abby lifted her guitar from the stand beside the sofa and strummed it. “I have to audition before there’s even a chance of making it,” she said. “And if there’s too many other acts–well, my performance would end up with the same odds as my plans for the kids’ concert next fall.”

  She leafed through a pile of battered sheet music, selecting one with a faded Bread album on the cover. Her fingers located the chords, shifting into the familiar strains of seventies folk music as she hummed the melody.

  “When’s the audition?” Maureen thumbed the brochure open as she made her way towards the kitchen cabinets. She pulled a box of cinnamon crackers from behind a row of mismatched juice glasses.

  Abby paused in mid-chorus. “Well, I sort of have to arrange one,” she answered, ignoring Maureen’s eye roll. “I want to have a repertoire, maybe a stage name ...”

  “This sounds like stalling, Abigail.” Maureen popped open the box of crackers. “Are you sure you’re going through with it, this time?”

  “Of course I am,” Abby answered. “It’s summer, between the kids’ practice lessons I have plenty of time for auditions. So I am doing this. Unlike somebody who’s already hooked on chocolate pudding despite multiple pledges–”

  “All right, all right,” Maureen answered, plopping down on the sofa. “Truce. You’ll have a concert before Christmas and I’ll go back to Nutella.” She propped her hand on one arm with an impish smile.

  “You don’t have to give up chocolate, Maureen.” Abby’s voice was soft. “Come on, you’re skin and bone. I think chocolate is the one indulgence you allow yourself.”

  “And let you cop out on your one chance for glory? Never.” Maureen straightened her tank top, its loose folds proof of the bonier structure she had assumed in the last year. “Just follow through on your end, all right?” She tapped the sheet music open to “Goodbye Girl.”

  When Maureen was gone, Abby sat alone with her guitar balanced on her knees. Flipping through sheets of music, she glanced over the acquisitions of her teenage years, gleaned from yard sales and secondhand shops. The peasant-bloused singers standing in fields, the jazz musicians with overblown hair and outdated suits.

  Somewhere in this stack was Louis Armstrong, Carole King, and Joni Mitchell. A handful of country songs from Patsy Cline and Alabama–a late eighties crush with the band in contrast to the Miles Davis posters in her college dorm room. A little of everything, as if her taste in music was merely pieces of various puzzles all piled in the same box.

  Her fingers moved over the frets, playing a tune by ear as she imagined a handsome figure in the coffee house audience. Listening to her play as he imagined the right way to ask her out, his fingers drumming the rhythm to “Dream a Little Dream of Me.”

  *****

  “Season of the Witch” vibrated from the cd store’s speakers, enveloping Saturday afternoon customer in a fog of seventies rock. Henry’s ears felt the urge to close themselves as he wandered too close to one of the speaker locations by a bin of outdated pop albums.

  Seth was busy churning through racks of Japanese bands, surveying the song titles through his pair of squared-off eyeglasses. Henry sneaked a peek at the cover and discovered a row of performers who resembled children in knee socks against a bubblegum pink background.

  “I think I interviewed this band,” Seth said. “They were a real hit in the nineties...you know, with the cd that had the Wizard of Oz cover.”

  “Not a clue,” Henry answered. “You know my knowledge of nineties bands is a little rusty.” He shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his fleece jacket and waited for Seth to move aside. Ahead was a section of half-price opera cds, a Denise Graves cover prominent in the mix. A heavyset man was glancing over them, communicating something to a woman on the other side in the rock section. Surveying the sparse crowd, Henry glimpsed a woman with dark blond hair brushing her shoulders as she bent close to a rack of “buy one, get one free” records near the front. Her blue sweater, the curve of her shoulders–he found himself staring at her across the length of the store.

  He nudged Seth. “Look,” he said, “the girl over there–in the record section. Does she look familiar to you?”

  Seth craned his neck, peering over the display rack. “Maybe,” he said. “Why? Do you know her?”

  “Isn’t she the girl from the opera?” asked Henry. “You know, the one in the audience that night.”

  “The one you tried to chase down?” Seth sounded more interested in the subject, the Japanese band cds momentarily forgotten. He tried to move closer, edging his way towards the end of the aisle. “Let’s go find out.”

  “You mean, meet her?” asked Henry. “She’s a total stranger; and besides, I think there’s some sort of force field between us.”

  “What better place to meet than in a downtown shop?” asked Seth. “You like music, she likes music–presto, you have something in common, Dude.” He nudged Henry along, who had developed a sudden case of reluctance.

  “I think if we were meant to meet, it would’ve happened at the opera,” said Henry. “It’s like a sign, probably.”

  “You find her pretty, don’t you?” Seth poked him along.

  “What’s not to find pretty?” Henry slid between two elderly customers, keeping his eye trained on the girl in the aisle ahead. Her profile turned towards him, the sight of it sending a strange tingle through his skin.

  A group of teenagers blocked off the route to the front desk, engaged in a noisy debate over a bargain bin of cds. As he maneuvered his way through them, Henry lost sight of her again. Craning his neck to see over the spiked hair of one of the sullen teenagers, he glimpsed a honey-colored head drifting towards the cassette display near the front. He persisted forward, Seth now held up by a tight squeeze between the bargain displays.

  The girl ahead became visible again, admiring a poster for a Broadway show revival. Henry felt a smile forming on his lips, a soft tugging at the sight of the music notes embroidered on her shoulder bag, the worn paperback peeking through the open top.

  Suddenly, a shrill ring filled the air, drowning out the sound of Gordon Lightfoot playing over the speakers. A fine spray issued from the ceiling’s sprinklers as customers charged towards the front, past employees frantic to cover the rows of vintage LPs. A guilty-looking teenager doused a cigarette as he pushed his way ahead of Henry and Seth in the exiting crowd.

  Outside, the customers mixed with the strolling pedestrians; Henry searched the scene for a head of light hair, a blue sweater–nothing. Old faces, high schoolers, middle-aged tourists in sandals and cutoffs.

  “See?” Henry called over his shoulder to Seth, his body jostled along by a group of panicking tweens and a heavyset woman as he scanned the crowd. “She’s already gone.”

  Seth shook the moisture from his jacket, glancing towards the store employees arguing in the doorway. “She could still be around here, Dude,” he said. “Don’t be superstitious about this kind of thing.” He zipped up the damp lining, his gaze wandering with curiosity towards a new customer try
ing to enter the store.

  The crowd dwindled into the street in a matter of minutes, but there was no sign of the girl disappearing among them.

  *****

  Abby balanced an Artie Shaw cd in one hand, a ‘Sounds of the Forest’ medley in the other. Both were on sale, but she wasn’t in the mood for multiple purchases. So would it be classic jazz or New Age relaxation?

  In the end, she stuck them both back in their slots and moved on. A ‘buy one, get one free’ section was just around the corner, to her chagrin. Finding two in those sections was always impossible for her–if only Shaw and the forest sounds had been shelved there instead of a pile of unrecognizable pop albums and polka tunes. She flipped through them, searching the children’s albums for something class-appropriate. Many of her teaching cds had come from bargain bins, plunky piano versions of Mozart and bedtime lullabies by Brahms, for instance.

  A movement a few aisles away caught her eye. Two men in conversation, one slightly hidden by a display rack. The other dark-haired and tall, his face turned away as he examined one of the albums. Something about him–his appearance, his pose–seemed eerily familiar to Abby. Her brain scanned for the memory connected to the feeling, something in a public place she was certain.

  With a blush, she realized she had been staring at him this whole time. Averting her face, she concentrated on the cds in front of her. A religious album, a light opera medley, a host of Broadway show tunes performed by pop artists. Her fingers flicked through them as her mind attempted to divert itself.

  A slight scuffle erupted from the direction of the two strangers behind her. She refrained from the urge to glance towards them as she moved on, although her peripheral vision caught sight of a customer pileup near the bargain bins. She pictured the stranger immersed in them, arguing or apologizing. Arms gesturing, the fabric of his dark navy jacket moving–had she seen him in a suit once? A businessman, perhaps someone from Richard’s office.

  No, it was unlikely; she had seen Richard’s office on one, possibly two occasions when meeting Maureen for lunch and no one else was ever present. A lecturer at the school–now that was possible.

  Her sleeve brushed a poster tacked to one of the building’s supports, the paper edges peeling away. Something about Broadway in big letters, her glance taking it in as she drifted towards a display of cassettes. Sometimes classical music bargains were available in older technology formats.

  She ignored the feeling of being watched that crept over her, the blush stealing from beneath her scarf. Something about this scenario gave her a sense of deja vu, as if it was familiar–the stranger and the sense of observation, although she couldn’t remember why.

  Brrriiiiiinnnggg! A fire bell rang from behind the counter, followed by a rattling from above. A resounding splat! splat! of droplets on the cassette cases in front of her before the ceiling sprinklers showered a fine mist over the room.

  *****

  Dear Father,

  It’s been a long time, I know. But I thought I would write you, in case you wanted to know how I am. How I’ve been since Mama died. I wanted to know how you are, too.

  Abby’s pen paused here. The words seemed forced, yet plaintive–but not in a way that would make him read her letter. Although the chances that he would open the envelope at all were slim.

  The last thing she mailed to him was a birthday card. A picture of a bear with balloons, a funny message inside. She imagined it ending up in the bottom of the wastebasket, beneath a pile of coffee grounds. Then again, she had read an article once about a person estranged from his family who kept their letters tucked unopened in a drawer. Unable to read them, but unable to part with them at the same time.

  Her hair was still damp from the sudden malfunction of the sprinklers in the cd store. Even a shower hadn’t erased the smell of stale pipes afterwards. Her sweater was draped over a chair, drying in the breeze from the open window.

  There have been a lot of differences between us over the years, but I wish we could set them aside. I don’t want to be angry at you anymore. I don’t want us to go on like this forever, as if we’re not even family...

  She trailed off, the lines wandering into space. In her mind, a moment when she was twelve, the sound of shouting in the kitchen as she huddled near the door. Her mother’s voice growing thin and hopeless, the sound of the kitchen screen door slamming. Her father’s tires squealing from the driveway after a moment of silence outside

  When she heard it pull into the street, she ran out the kitchen door. Running down the driveway, although there was no possible way to catch the car now signaling the turn for the end of their street. Waving her hand even though she knew he would never stop, even if he looked back. He didn’t believe in meeting halfway, in compromise of any kind.

  She tucked the letter in her desk drawer, beneath a pile of open bills. In the end, there was no point in finishing it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The red bicycle gleamed in the sunshine through the window glass, vintage curves and a banana seat in brown leather. A silver bell positioned near the right handle, worn along one side from countless thumbs chiming it to warn pedestrians on the sidewalk.

  Once upon a time, Abby had imagined herself on such a bicycle, cycling Europe on a post-college tour. A photography trip, with a basket on the front for carrying sketchbooks and pencils, any poetry books she discovered in little Parisian secondhand shops or antique stalls.

  The dream had faded, of course, the moment Abby found a job. But now, maybe there was an opportunity for a little part of it to return. After all, she had resolved to take up a physical hobby this year–who said it couldn’t be cycling? She pictured herself riding through the park, a sheaf of music tucked in the basket on her way to a student’s lessons. Exercise and scenic enjoyment all in one purchase.

  Instead of following the sidewalk around the corner to the secondhand bookstore, she pushed open the door to the cycling shop. A hidden bell rang somewhere behind the counter, currently vacant of any human form. On the walls, a row of vintage tricycles displayed on racks, a series of bicycle chains and hand pumps, a handful of restored Schwinns and modern Pacific Balboas scattered throughout the room. None as splendid as the one in the window display.

  The curtains separating the back of the store from the show room parted as a clerk emerged.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Abby. “I’d like to see the bike in the window up close, please.”

  *****

  “Would you be impressed if I told you I was taking up cycling?” Abby lay on the floor beside the sofa, cradling the phone against her ear as she rested her back against a hard surface. A long practice session with the cello following days of acoustic guitar was something her body had resisted. The cello bow lay across her stomach, her breath shifting it gradually into the pile of guitar sheet music beside her.

  On the other end of the phone, she heard a sarcastic snort from Maureen. “I would say the cycle is destined for the storage locker in your apartment building’s basement in–let’s say–five weeks. Six, tops.”

  “Six weeks?” Abby repeated. “That’s all the credit you give me?” She sat up, propping a throw pillow behind her shoulders.

  “Six weeks...maybe seven. Didn’t you manage to visit the gym’s pool for seven whole weeks before quitting?”

  “Well, this is different,” Abby answered. “This time it’s for real.” The cello bow slid from her body altogether, disappearing between the pages of an Al Jolsen song.

  She had lugged the bike up three flights of stairs, feeling a sense of physical exertion before she even set foot on the pedals. She cleaned the gears and inspected the chain, running her hands over the smooth metal of the frame. Little nicks of paint were missing; the faint grooves of other fingers appeared in the grips on the handlebars. Its history, unknown to her, was somehow endearing now that it belonged to her. Abby imagined a girl in braids and a polka-dot dress, a figure escaped from a vintage adve
rtisement.

  Abby was still inspecting it an hour later when the intercom buzzed with Maureen and Richard’s arrival. Glancing at her watch, she remembered the movie–a foreign flick she promised to see with them tonight.

  “Coming,” she called, to nobody in particular as she scrambled to her feet. Buzzing them in, she stepped back from the bicycle, wiping her greasy hands on an old rag from beneath the kitchen sink.

  They were suitably impressed with the bike, paying compliments to its chic appearance and the shop’s restoration work, spinning the upended tires as the metallic shadow traveled across the wall.

  “I had one like this when I was a kid,” said Maureen. “Remember the photos? My mother’s–somebody made it over for me. I was in braces and a sundress, posed on this like a cavalry officer saluting his troops.”

  Abby laughed. “I remember,” she said. “You can borrow this and relive the memories sometime. Maybe go for a ride in the park.” She felt a sense of pride as she watched the well-oiled gears shift seamlessly as Richard turned one of the pedals.

  “Maybe I will,” said Maureen, her voice softening with the memory before she recovered her brisk tone. “Anyway, you had better clean off the monkey grease and grab your jacket if we want to arrive before the movie starts.” She tapped her watch impatiently.

  With almost a sense of reluctance, Abby obeyed. Giving one last glance at the bicycle before pulling the apartment door closed and following her friends downstairs.

  *****

  Henry caught sight of her through the cab window on his way to work on Monday. A girl with honey-colored hair flowing above a lavender sundress, a pair of brown leather boots below. A guitar case dangling at her site as she maneuvered the crowded sidewalk downtown.