She had made peace with this idea in advance: that some of the students might have stage fright at the last moment. This event was not about professional music, but about the kids having the opportunity they always wanted.
Fern hesitated a moment longer, then moved her pen in a frail motion across the paper. “All right then,” she said, with a sigh. “There you go.” Her smile was watery as she capped the pen again.
Abigail’s desk in her apartment had transformed into a makeshift office over the summer, gradually cluttered with forms and requests for sponsorship, with ideas for the music program and song arrangements. Much of it had grown overwhelming: do the kids perform classic or contemporary? How short is too short to still be a concert? How do you find an affordable printer to design the programs?
The sight of it depressed her when she opened her apartment door. A few weeks until school started and she had yet to map out her music classes or organize the lesson plans for the special needs orchestra. She hadn’t even worked on her class bulletin board.
With a sigh, she set the music cases on the floor, a violin loaned to her student Lorrie and a clarinet for Ricky. She would cram them in the closet with her cello case later, its space overflowing with her collection of records and sheet music.
The neglected signs of her regular life where everywhere as well. Her new bicycle leaning against the wall and awaiting a ride in the park. Its tires had felt the bike path in the park only a handful of times, but she wasn’t ready to give up yet. The wind flying through her hair, the visions of Europe dancing in her head... it was too perfect to resist.
She pushed aside a stack of sheet music occupying the sofa to make room for herself. With her performance coming up at the coffee house, she was obliged to practice more often–something she had no time to do. Even now, stretching out across the pile of Tammy Wynette songs and Sarah Vaughn covers, she felt the urge to do nothing but sleep. Tiredness seeped into her bones, shuttered her eyes as she tried to block out fears about the future.
Be more assertive. Be more nothing–what was easy on paper was harder than simply finding her voice in the principal’s office or asking out strangers. It was changing the course of her life from one who followed the flow to one who tried to change the river’s path.
At least she didn’t have a relationship to worry about. Who would have time to date with this many projects on their plate? If Blake from the bookstore had worked out .... Groaning, she curled into a ball. Lately, the fantasies in the back of her mind included fewer lazy smiles and piercing blue eyes in exchange for more tall forms and dark figures like the one in the farmer’s market that afternoon. Similar phantoms had embodied her daydreams about a romantic figure watching from the coffee house audience.
Maybe it was the stress of all her projects causing her to fantasize about total strangers in this way.
Chapter Seventeen
“I’m sorry.” Seth’s words were somewhat mumbled as he met Henry’s eyes.
They were at Seth’s place, the usual piles of cds and music posters cluttering the environment. Unlike usual, however, his friend was not shuffling tracks on his iPod or racing to post an interview online with the band of the moment.
Hands tucked in his pockets, Henry shrugged. “It’s all right,” he answered. “I didn’t mean to sound sensitive about it.”
“Dude,” Seth said. “It’s your life. Not mine. I was just jumping the gun a little.”
“Forget it,” said Henry. “So,” he said, clearing his throat, “what about this concert on Thursday?” At the mention of the coffee house, the clouds lifted from Seth’s face.
Gwenique hadn’t been mentioned between them since the dinner party. Henry had tactfully avoided the subject, avoided taking the business card she hinted heavily for him to accept at the close of the evening. Since then, Seth had been busy with a string of new bands; concerts which he, for once, hadn’t pushed Henry to attend.
At least at the coffee house, he felt fairly certain Sheryl wouldn’t be tapped as his next love interest. Seth talked nonstop about her, although his compliments never included the kind of details that allowed Henry to assemble a picture in his mind. The image of Seth’s ex-girlfriend rocker remained in place.
“I could make up for it, you know,” said Seth. “Maybe I could find opera girl for you. You know, ask around to some people, see if maybe she’s part of a music society or something ...”
Opera girl. Henry repressed a smile at the thought of the stranger from the auditorium, being described in whatever words Seth could supply to his meager contacts in the classical performance world. As if someone like Dolores wouldn’t be a more appropriate choice for combing that society for avid patrons.
“No, thanks,” he answered, gently. “I think I’ll wait it out. Let my romantic life take its natural course.” He unwrapped a sandwich from his bag, taking a bite from the broiled chicken on wheat. He unscrewed the top from his thermos of green tea, making a wry face of acceptance at its taste.
“Hey, I got that cd you wanted,” said Seth, now seated at his computer station. Shoving aside a pile of plastic toys and gadgets, he pulled a plastic sack from beneath the pile. “Picked it up when I snagged the latest release from Flo and the Salamanders. Hot stuff, by the way.”
This was in reference to Flo and her band, Henry knew; still, he grinned as he peeled open the package and pulled out a Billie Holiday album. A slight crack running along one side of the jewel case told him Seth found it in one of his many secondhand haunts.
“Thanks, pal,” said Henry. “I owe you one.” He tucked the cd in his briefcase.
“Nah,” said Seth. “You got me the tickets for Pluckit Muckit next Saturday–what more can I ask?” As he cranked up the volume on his computer stereo, the sound of unintelligible shouting reverberating over blaring horns.
“What do you think?” he asked, practically shouting himself over the noise. “Pretty sweet, huh?”
When Henry slipped the cd into his stereo at work, he heard the sound of soft static, the scratches of an unmastered track taken directly from the record. Somehow this seemed more endearing than the perfection of repairs, a gentle accompaniment to the husky, sultry voice emerging from his speakers.
He closed his eyes at the sound, the first strains of “Miss Brown”. Fingers thumping against his desk as if the stack of galleys was a bass drum and cymbals all in one. He could hear Dolores humming along from her desk on the other side of the doorway.
In his briefcase was a secret document he didn’t want her to see going out with the mail: his submission to a fall art contest sponsored by the museum. Called “Sights of the City”, it was a sketch display meant to feature budding local artists. A drawing instructor he met at a dinner party recommended he enter after noticing one of Henry’s drawings protruding from his briefcase.
He wanted to surprise Dolores, if he was successful; if not, then he would leave it buried in his desk out of sight and forget the whole thing.
As he highlighted mistakes in the formatting of a manuscript, he toyed with the idea of a future as an artist. Would he find himself capable of it–sliding from a perfectly sane career in publishing to the carefree world of an artist? He tried to imagine himself with the temperament of artists he knew; always waiting for their next check, constantly searching for a new assignment, casual and careless with regards to their financial security.
Those were the reasons his poetry ended up in a notebook buried out of sight. The fear that he wasn’t cut out for a life of insecurities, of emotion and indecision instead of sensible plans and ideas. Was it possible to have both?
Odds were, he would never find out. The entry would probably prompt a rejection slip or a modest finishing place that would remind him why he left the creative arts. He reminded himself of this as he slipped it at the bottom of a stack of outgoing envelopes.
*****
“So listen to this,” said Maureen, studying her cell phone screen. “Remember that guy’s blog I re
ad–the one with the whole Jane Eyre beef?”
“Jane Eyre,” said Abby, “I think so. Why?”
Her mind was far from literature at his moment. Smoothing her hair and skirts in the reflective surface of the elevator doors, she rehearsed the lines she intended to say only an hour from now.
They’ve worked so hard for this. I’ve put a lot of time and effort into this project to make sure it becomes a reality. All I’m asking is a chance ...
“He wrote this post about some changes in the publishing world, you know, book cover trends–and his weekend at some state park trail...but then he ends with this comment about George Eliot.” She scrolled forward in her message screen. “ He writes, ‘George Eliot is like coffee; simple and straightforward on the surface, rich in the hidden depths beneath.’ Now, isn’t that incredible?”
“It’s true,” said Abby. “About Eliot, I mean. I like the way he put it.” In the midst of her nervousness, she pictured the words etched in a coffee mug, one of those literature quote merchandise pieces that English majors adored.
The elevator doors opened, two businessmen joining them. Apparently, they were not coworkers from Richard’s floor of this building, since they showed no signs of recognizing Maureen. Whose ultra-thin figure attracted more than one admiring glance at office parties, Abby had noticed in the past.
“This, from a guy who what–six months ago–hated Charlotte Bronte. Now he’s gaga for George Eliot. A little further down, he writes, ‘Meandering paragraphs are meant to ask questions about the human psyche, not just an opportunity for tedious internal dialogue that tends to compound in literature.’ End quote.” Maureen’s phone beeped as she switched websites to view her Twitter comments.
“Maybe he’s not a fan of gothic literature,” said Abby. “Maybe Eliot’s more sensible romances swept him off his feet. Not The Mill on the Floss, of course–”
“No, never,” said Maureen. “But Middlemarch and Daniel Deronda, for instance.”
“I love Daniel Deronda,” said Abby, whose absent tone of voice escaped Maureen’s notice. “It’s my favorite, I think. Although Middlemarch is hard to resist.” The two businessmen in the elevator began quietly conversing about stock portfolios.
“Enough,” teased Maureen. “In another second, you’ll sound like this blogger waxing eloquent on Eliot’s wit. Maybe you should date him after all.”
Abby smiled, faintly. “Maybe so.” As the elevator doors opened, Maureen stepped out first, leading the way towards Richard’s office at the end of the carpeted hall. Abby lagged behind, her steps weighed down by the constant dialogue playing and replaying in her mind.
This is something the community would love to support, given the chance. You won’t regret it ...
*****
“...I can promise you that, sir. And the students won’t regret this opportunity if you give it to them.” With that, Abby folded her hands on her lap, keeping her shoulders upright as she waited for the principal’s reply.
Her proposal was spread before Mr. Gyvers, including the budget figures for printing programs and having a photographer photograph the orchestra before the concert. The sponsorship pledges from local businesses in the music community were arranged by monetary amount on top.
He glanced over the request slip for the auditorium. “It’s in order,” he said. “You’ve clearly covered all the necessary bases this time, Miss Nesbit.”
“Thank you,” she answered. Her heart pounded beneath her sweater, palms sweating as she watched his face. An inscrutable expression as he studied the short list of songs for the concert.
“One thing is missing here,” he said.
Her tongue froze momentarily before she found the right words. “What’s that?” she asked.
“Your program design,” he said. “I see budgetary figures on it, but no template. Are you planning to let the art department handle it?”
She relaxed as she heard his words. “I’m not certain what the final design will look like,” she answered. “Just something simple and inexpensive with the students’ names and the chosen pieces of music.”
He restacked the forms and set them aside. Hands folded, he leaned forward to meet her gaze. A part of her half-anticipated another rejection, her body tensing in response. How could he say no? Then again, how could he say yes, given the history of her students? A body of ADD and emotionally-challenged kids, all appearing together onstage in one of the most nerve-wracking experiences of their lives.
“Miss Nesbit,” he said, “after the conversation we had last spring, I didn’t expect to see you here again. I thought the nature of your proposal was a little too idealistic. A little too impossible. As you yourself so much as admitted.”
“I did, sir,” she answered, a lump rising in her throat. “But the kids–”
“The kids,” he interrupted, “deserve their chance, as you said before. That’s why my answer this time is yes.”
She stared at him. “Yes?” she repeated. Her mouth felt like a puppet’s, operated by a hidden string beneath her jaw.
He held out his hand. “Congratulations, Abby,” he said. “Your students will be the proud participants in a winter concert.”
She gripped his fingers, shaking his hand with more enthusiasm than she intended. “Thank you, sir,” she gasped. “You won’t regret it, I promise. They’ll be so excited–”
“I’m looking forward to being there,” he answered. “Now, if you’ll excuse me–” He motioned towards a stack of reports on his desk.
Abby practically ran down the hallway, breaking the rule posted above every drinking fountain and between lockers. The steps beneath her feet seemed like trampolines as she hurried down them, beating the shrill ring of the bell by mere seconds. The eager students, still wired in their second week of school from the end of summer vacation, outstripped her as they poured forth in quest of their car rides and buses.
Fumbling with her cell phone, she dialed a number. “Maureen?” she shrieked. “It’s me–Abby. I got it! He said yes!”
Her voice must have been garbled, given the confusion on the other end. “Abby?” said Maureen. “What did you just say? Who said yes? I can’t–”
“He said yes!” said Abby. “Gyvers–I’ll tell you all about it later. After my bike ride.” She hung up before Maureen responded, stuffing the phone in her bag as she hurried on. She had meant to ride her bicycle to work today, but forgot–not that she needed it at the moment. The thrill of victory was enough fuel to run home on her own.
Chapter Eighteen
Henry polished off Bleak House within a week. With a sense of regret, he closed the cover and slid it on the shelf next to Vanity Fair and The Grapes of Wrath. For this reading, he made a list of all the characters and their plotlines to keep from getting confused whenever he dipped into its pages again. Dickens had grown less tedious with practice, while curiosity over Jarndyce and Jarndyce grew more quickly than Miss Flite’s bird collection.
He slipped readings of it between manuscripts whose pages he skimmed with his usual speed-reading manner. A modern genre piece about a man losing his coat in the rain and finding a portal through time as a result, then a love story about two people lost in a government-created maze. Its author had begged via her agent for an original cover design instead of existing artwork.
The leather ottoman had moved to the window side of the apartment to make room for Henry’s easel and stool. Struggling to recall the drawing techniques from his art school days, he sketched cornices and crumbling bricks from the building beside his own; he drew Ron asleep in a pile of Sunday newspaper. He drew his coffee mug stained with herbal tea and cinnamon, centered on a saucer with scattered pastry crumbs.
And waited for the reply from the art contest. Not that he expected to be chosen.
Once he tried a sketch from his imagination, two abstract figures crouched together in a maze of soft blue lines, a winding labyrinth shaped a little like the human heart. It was the kind of image he thought wo
uld appeal to the author whose galleys he was compiling; he envisioned submitting it as a candidate for review in contrast to tapping one of the customary sources in the publishing house.
What would it be like? To draw a check from Harkin Publishing from the outside instead of the inside? With a rose-colored pencil tucked beneath his teeth, he squinted through his glasses at the miniscule hands reaching out in his sketch. Downward faces without features, strands of flyaway hair from the woman’s head like ocean waves curving in a child’s drawing.
His pencil moved in a swift motion, creating the shadows on the paths in darker shades of blue and grey. He rubbed the marks, blending and blurring them into a soft background.
He thought about incorporating some old lines from one of his poems into the design around the perimeter of the drawing. Tossing the pencil into the box on the table, he rose and made his way to the bureau where his old college things were tucked beneath more useful objects. He pulled open the middle drawer and rummaged around, past a photograph album and a worn sweatshirt he wore when cycling in muddy weather. His hand touched something familiar; not his college notebook, but a small fabric bag. A makeup kit Lois left at his apartment for touch-ups before dates and evenings at the theater.
Henry pulled it from beneath, turning over the green damask fabric in his hand. The zipper catch was slightly rusted, as if one of the items inside had leaked fluid. He placed it on top of the bureau and reached deeper beneath the clothing. Touching an old appointment book, a leatherbound volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets, a scarf woven from metallic threads–all Lois’s things. Things scattered through his apartment from countless visits, all collected here gradually after her absence.
He pulled them out one by one and added them to the pile on top of the bureau. Feeling into the crevices for forgotten earrings or monogrammed fountain pens, searching underneath the piles of clothes for any missed items.
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