New Year's Resolutions

by Briggs, Laura

  Abby finished her ride with a feeling of gloom pervading her fall cheer.

  *****

  The party at Gustav’s consisted of cocktails and a crowd meant to admire his latest painting. Normally, Henry skipped social functions involving Harkin Publishing’s regular clients, but this one was an exception only because the invitation was personal. Gustav, apparently, had expressed a particular interest in having all the editors who handled his artwork attend, even if they were merely choosing an image for someone else’s cover.

  With a glass in hand, Henry gazed at the canvas with a feigned interest. It was a strange background of twisted stars and springs, as if pain symbols from a cartoon character’s clobbering. A spray of lime green paint over the surface added a touch of toxic glow.

  A few feet away, the artist himself chatted up one of Harkin’s senior editors, along with a crowd of shy, admiring art students who emulated his off-the-shoulder sweater and affected manner of standing whenever delivering a remark. Taking a sip from his cocktail, Henry grimaced at the taste of melting ice.

  “Having a good time?” said a voice a few feet away. The sound of it made his body freeze for a split second, as if the power of his movement was within its grasp. He forced a smile to his lips as he turned towards her.

  Lois was wearing a plain green sweater adorned with a brooch, her hair flowing down her back in a long mane. One hand cradling a glass, the other dangling casually at her side. On her finger, a large sapphire stone flanked by small diamonds. His gaze flickered away, towards her face again.

  “Hi,” he said. “Wow. It’s been quite a few months now–”

  “I know,” she said. “Joel kept me updated on how you were. He saw you at all your bike rides in the parks.”

  He rankled at her tone with these words. “I heard you’re engaged now,” he said, taking another sip from his cocktail. “You and Matt, correct?”

  She smiled. “Matt. We’ve been discussing marriage for a few weeks now, yes.” Her choice of words made it sound like a business arrangement, negotiating their future on paper as opposed to picking a cake and flower arrangements.

  “Is he here tonight?” asked Henry. “I’d love to say hello. I haven’t seen him since a basketball game last spring.” He held his breath, steeling himself for an awkward meeting. Better to do it now and get it over with, before he received any sympathetic smiles from their former mutual friends.

  “He didn’t come tonight,” said Lois. “A business thing.” A shrug of the shoulders with these words. “But it was good to see you, Henry. Really good.” Squeezing his arm, she moved past him towards a crowd admiring a framed canvas from Gustav’s spring line.

  Good to see you. The words burned in Henry’s mind for the rest of the evening as he made polite small talk with other guests. Burning still when he was at home again, sitting before an unfinished sketch of a bridge.

  On the table was an open envelope. A rejection for his entry in the museum’s local artist lineup due to “full volume” this quarter. He could try again, of course. Not that he felt the desire to do so.

  Rain slapped against his window box, producing the smell of wet earth through the open frame. The breeze ruffled the drawings pinned before him, the two figures lost in the maze. To think he had actually toyed with the idea of presenting it for the novel’s cover.

  Lines and crooked alterations, a piece of paper marked with music notes and lines of poetry taking flight with bird-like wings. All useless scribblings born out of wasted evenings. He would have been better off to stop with his resolution to read books.

  Henry pulled a handful of the rough sketches from a corner of the board, crumpling them and tossing them towards the wastebasket. The wads of paper missed, bouncing off the window sill and tumbling to the street below. One tumbled onto the radiator, producing a soft ping that startled Ron the cat from his snooze on the leather ottoman.

  Gloomily, Henry rubbed his neck, trying to ease the tension in his muscles. He felt ashamed of himself for the spell of anger, even for resenting Lois’s happiness. It wasn’t as if he had made great efforts to find someone to fill his own life since she vanished.

  He sank onto the sofa and stared at the rain pattering against the glass, its drops slipping inside to splash against the sill and radiator. A soft sound that almost lulled him to sleep as he closed his eyes and rested his head in his hands.

  *****

  Buhh, buhh, buhh-duhh. Travis’s horn sounded foggy as it trudged along through the bars of the “Imperial March”, tugging the rest of the horn selection along behind it.

  A modified selection from “Star Wars” was one of Abby’s choices for the concert. Her hands moved in direction, signaling the students as they fumbled their way through the far-from-perfect version. Travis had switched instruments this season, but that wasn’t the problem. The tempo was off somewhere–the percussion late in its timing.

  But the faces of her students were proof of concentration and dedication. Eyes locked on their music, glancing up to meet her directions. Fingers obediently searching for each note as they marched along towards the end.

  Abby’s hands fell to her sides as the last horn ebbed away. “Good,” she said. “Really good. But we need to make sure we’re the best we can be before the concert.”

  Tyrel raised his hand. “Miss Abby, I won’t be able to come to practice next Tuesday,” he said. “There’s a basketball game and I get to go. With my big brother.” His hand dropped from sight again.

  “That’s fine,” said Abby. “We still have plenty of time to learn these songs, guys.” Her class stirred in their folded metal chairs, a few still glancing at the stage lights overhead with curiosity. The newness of the auditorium stage hadn’t worn off after two practice sessions, apparently. She watched them with a barely-concealed pride, her smile only wavering at the realization which faces were missing from the picture in her mind six months ago.

  Changes in the class always hurt Abby; the students who didn’t come back or couldn’t be part of the orchestra again. Wonderful, funny Rodney with his enthusiastic dance had transferred to another school. Tina was gone, her parents concerned the orchestra was placing too much pressure on her.

  The class flipped their music obediently to the next song on the program, “Greensleeves”–chosen to give a little hint of Christmas to the program, along with “Jingle Bells”. Audrey the tuba player attempted to shift her instrument into a more comfortable position, her heavy Mary Janes clunking against the stage. She had inquired shyly of Abby if those would be acceptable to wear for the concert, since they were the only black shoes she owned, something Abby reassured her was perfectly fine.

  One of the Teacher’s Aids crept into the room with a stack of poster board, whispering something to Abby as they placed them onstage. She nodded, then motioned to the students.

  “Hey, guys, do you want to see something exciting?” she asked, as the Aid slipped from the auditorium again. Several of the students set their instruments down and wandered closer. Abby held up a piece of yellow poster board, its surface pasted with clip art music notes and bold letters.

  “Come to the Special Orchestra’s Saturday concert in Dec- dec–” Travis sounded out the words slowly; but realization dawned on the others as they listened.

  “It’s us!” shouted George. “It’s our concert!” His face beamed.

  “Exactly,” said Abby. “Each of you needs to take one of these and put them up in your neighborhood, okay? So your friends and neighbors will know when and where to come.” It had been a last-minute decision by the school to let her advertise for the community to come–a brave decision, given the unpredictable nature of her students. But several of the families had asked permission to invite friends and supporters to the concert over the last few weeks.

  “We have a real concert,” said Jacqi, as if in awe of the thought. “Will the other students be there, too? Did any say they were coming?” Several of these students were in awe of the classes above th
em, the shining stars in their own grades–almost anyone whose life seemed so different from their own.

  “Any who wants to will be there,” Abby shrugged. “Who knows who will come?” A part of her hoped the city council and mayor would magically turn up in the audience; another part hoped for a small gathering, in case her students lost their nerve at the last moment.

  When the students left practice, each had a poster tucked underneath his or her arm, flapping in the night breeze behind them as they bounded down the steps, getting slightly crumpled as they crammed them into the back seats of compact cars or battered station wagons. Abby waved goodbye as she watched them go, shifting her backpack more firmly on her shoulders as she struck off towards her apartment.

  She walked home by the safest route available, cutting through neighborhoods nicer than her own. Unfamiliar architecture around her, unknown shops with the windows shuttered and closed for the night in more than one instance. The cool breeze around her had become damp, not with the night but a threat of rain.

  The first few drops splattered her shoulders and hat as Abby fumbled for an umbrella. She popped it open as its gears resisted, shielding herself with its half-unfolded form as she moved along, then gave up entirely and snapped it closed. A little water wouldn’t hurt her, even a cool shower on an October evening.

  Through open windows, the sound of cello music playing a classical piece that tugged her heart with longing towards her own instrument. A pink light flashed from a child’s spinning globe in a window, a dark silhouette visible as a hand tugged a curtain in place. A city alive with movement and possibility on the threshold of night.

  She waited for traffic to change as she neared the corner, slowing in the downpour. Puddles at her feet shivered with rings, a crumpled paper boat afloat in one. Abby lifted it with the tips of her fingers, an unfurling wad like a lotus blossom opening. Inside, a series of elaborate music notes in flight, seraphic wings and elegant detail. A curving script that wavered in between: What eyes are to the mind, let music be to the soul. It is beauty and torment, the age and the moment.

  Rain streamed down Abby’s face as she read this, cascading down her hair and diverging in miniature rivers on her hands. Glancing above her, she spotted several windows blank with darkness, a window box of faded geraniums pelted by the showers. Her gaze expectant, as if the composer would be gazing down at her as she perused these lines.

  She folded it, instead of crumpling it again, trying to protect the pencil lines from the dampness. Sliding it carefully into her pocket as she walked along in the rain.

  Chapter Twenty

  “I don’t want to come,” Abby answered. “I already have plans, I promise. I’m not trying to dodge you.” She uncurled her legs from the ice pack which was soothing the back of her knees–a strange place to injure in a tumble from a bicycle, she decided. But that was the price paid for a hobby.

  “Where are you going?” Maureen persisted, her voice slightly squawky over the phone. “I mean, if it’s something for your students, of course we wouldn’t talk you out of it, but I don’t want you eating a frozen turkey dinner while you cry over It’s a Wonderful Life all alone.”

  Abby shifted the receiver to her other ear as she sat up on the sofa. “Scout’s honor, Maureen. No crying, no solo turkey dinners.”

  There was a sigh on the other end. “All right,” said Maureen. “But if you change your mind–”

  “Talk to you later,” Abby interrupted, then clicked off the line to avoid further argument.

  In her refrigerator, a pre-baked pumpkin pie. On her table, a stack of photograph albums Abby had leafed through for the last few days. Pictures of herself with skinned knees and sundresses, with a chocolate-frosted cake dotted with candles. Her mother in a sundress, her father in Bermuda shorts, both posed solemnly on the beach in the Gulf Shore.

  In their faces, she tried to trace herself. There was a link somewhere within those curves, the shuttered eyes averted from the lens. Even in her childhood self, the cord was hidden; as if the present had cut it free to escape the memories that tethered them both.

  Her mother’s final letter was tucked between the pages; but there was nothing in her father’s handwriting. It occurred to her that in the twenty-something years of her life, he had never signed any card or letter she received. Her mother’s signature always represented his own, her mother’s thoughts and sentiments always inserted into the blank where his were meant to appear. The same frail, dry sentiments that trembled with the small force of her mother’s personality.

  Abby chose to distract herself from these thoughts, immersing herself in marking out her route on the roadmap and looking up listings for delis that offered all-in-one Thanksgiving dinners to go. She needed to pick one up on her way out town.

  *****

  Henry’s fingers crimped the crust around the edge of the pie plate, a perfect row of points surrounding a pie weight tucked inside to hold its shape. Whistling softly under his breath, he adjusted the oven’s temperature and slid the pie plate inside.

  Carl and his wife had volunteered to bring a traditional cherry pie; Mrs. Karimov from down the hall could only bring cheese and crackers now that arthritis prevented her from cooking complicated dishes. As for Seth and Sheryl–she had taken command and announced they would bring the wine and a vegetable casserole her vegan sister recommended.

  A handful of neighbors were always invited last-minute, new tenants and old souls who lacked local family and felt the absence keenly during the holidays. Henry always exempted them from the list of to-bring items. Turkey and potatoes, bread stuffing and cranberry chutney–these were things better prepared in the apartment than surviving a subway or cab ride from another location.

  The coffee pot steamed persistently in its corner, the red power light blazing beneath the pot of black liquid. Next to it, Henry’s mug waited amidst the cream and sugar packets.

  Having given up on chamomile and green tea, he was enjoying his backwards campaign with a vengeance. Despite the fact he had kept his coffee supply hidden most of the year, the longing was just as strong the moment the scent of roasted beans rolled forth. He inhaled deeply, then filled the paper filter with a generous portion for brewing.

  The first sip rolled over his tongue like a taste of heaven. The second, divine inspiration.

  He was rolling the scraps of pie dough out and cutting leaf-shaped decorations for the pie’s top when the door buzzer sounded. Henry unlatched it, anticipating Dolores returning his punch bowl from a recent party.

  She appeared in the hallway, hoisting a sagging cardboard box in her arms. He hurried to help her, lifting it before she could protest.

  “I’m afraid the box got a little damp in the rain,” she apologized. “The party was perfect, you should have come. There’s a recipe for chili corn cakes in my purse that Gloria’s mother gave me, something from her grandmother’s Southwest repertoire, apparently...” She followed him inside, closing the door behind him.

  “Help yourself to some coffee,” he offered, setting the box down near the kitchen.

  “No, thanks. I just had a latte.” Dolores had wandered towards his easel, glancing over the sketches pinned there.

  “Just ignore those,” he called. “Mostly lunatic wanderings on paper.” Her fingers unpinned the drawing of the figures in the maze.

  “I like this one,” she said. “I’ve never seen one like it before in your sketches at work.”

  “I was inspired by the Elaine Tamis novel,” he answered. “You know the one. That just ... popped into my head one day. So I put it on paper.” He popped open the box and lifted the punch bowl onto the kitchen counter. Below, a series of crystal cups wrapped in paper.

  “Have you thought about sending it to Elaine’s agent?” asked Dolores. “Or maybe her editor at Harkin. It’s Tom Newls, isn’t it?”

  “I thought about it, but I changed my mind,” he answered, unpacking the cups. “An in-house artist would be better at that sort of thing
than me.”

  “Well, I had better go,” said Dolores, straightening up after a close examination of one of his fall leaf sketches. “I have to drop off a package and find a pumpkin for Gloria’s fall centerpiece.” She buttoned her coat as she made her way towards the door.

  Henry started on his third cup of coffee for the day. Forgoing the urge to add a little more ochre red to his leaf sketches as he began mixing the spices for the pumpkin pie.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Skies will be overcast in much of the area until evening...” The weatherman’s voice droned on through the radio speakers as Abby signaled a left turn on the highway.

  The directions from the online map said to turn left once more, then take the first right. A gas station flew by the window view, advertising homemade pies; a row of trimmed trees fleetingly appeared, their limbs uneven from the power line crew’s blade.

  Abby turned on her blinker, viewing a sleepy street lined with Japanese maples, small houses that seemed vacant on Thanksgiving Day. A large yellow dog bounded towards a picket fence gate as she passed, mouth wide open like a cheerful grin.

  She pulled into the driveway of a white house with a series of fake plastic butterflies affixed on the outside. For a moment, she sat in the car with the ignition switched off. Her eyes fixed on the battered screen door as she took a deep breath.

  Two days of driving brought her here. A strange house in a strange neighborhood, far from any of the sights of her childhood scattered across the country.

  Hoisting the basket with the pie and sliced turkey beneath her arm, she climbed the steps. The screen door handle lifted easily, revealing a wood door with three green rectangular windows staggered one slightly below the other.