New Year's Resolutions

by Briggs, Laura

  A few obeyed; the others followed after a moment’s hesitation. “Twinkle, Twinkle” soared louder, the tuba rumbling to life again as Audrey puffed on.

  At the close of the song, the audience applause rose from the seats below. Abby’s students shrank in their chairs at the sound, as if crouching behind their instruments.

  From the corner of her eye, she could see Principal Gyvers moving to deliver their introduction and motioned for him to stay seated. Turning towards her students, she motioned for them to turn the pages of their music.

  “Play the next song,” she said, keeping her voice light. “Come on, now; everybody ready.” She raised her hands to signal them. The scratchy sound of paper turning as they followed her instructions, a few students already at the ready with their instruments. She counted softly, then raised her hands and signaled the opening for “Jingle Bells.”

  Two more songs, she thought. Then they might be ready to hear the applause all the way through.

  *****

  “Tonight, you heard the efforts of some very talented musicians,” said Principal Gyvers. “Some students of whom we are very proud, because they try perhaps the hardest of any students in this school. They do not see certain limitations in their lives as a barrier, but as an opportunity to prove themselves–which is what they did tonight before all of you.”

  The sound department had positioned a microphone near the front of the stage for his remarks after the performance, since Abby had pre-empted the original plan for him to introduce her class. Behind him, the orchestra was fidgeting in their seats, more lively now that they were no longer nervous. Rows of shiny faces above their somber black outfits, battered and tarnished instruments cradled against them as they listened to their principal praise their efforts.

  “Now, I would like to ask the members of this orchestra to come forward and take a bow for their audience–along with their music teacher and conductor, who worked so tirelessly to make this event possible. Miss Abigail Nesbit.”

  The students moved from their seats, some eager to rush forward while the shy members of the orchestra hung back. Abby took the hands of Jacqi and Tyrel in her own, drawing them forward as she joined her students at the front of the stage. The house lights were raised, revealing rows of friends and strangers below. Parents and teachers, guardians and foster parents, familiar students from the halls and neighborhood kids. Over a third of the auditorium’s seats were occupied.

  “Take a bow,” the principal coaxed the line of students. George and Travis were the first ones to duck forwards, arms folded exaggeratedly in front of their bodies. Abby followed their example, persuading Jacqi and Tyrel into the same motion. She saw their faces light up as they recognized people below–Fern in the third row in a checkered dress, a high school student from the track team whom Tyrel worshipped from a distance.

  “Look, Miss Abby,” Jacqi whispered. “Everybody came.”

  Abby repressed a sudden laugh at these words, the humor of the statement mingled with the pain of knowing how small the audience really was–in the estimate of everyone except a child whose world revolved around their tiny social sphere. Her gaze traveled from the audience to the line of students waving at the people below. Rodney’s freckles and tousled hair in their midst, acting like his old self once again as he jumped up and down. He caught her eye and grinned widely, now waving at her instead of at Mrs. Riley and a handful of children she assumed must be his new classmates.

  “If everyone could group together now,” the professional photographer cued them from his position on one side of the stage. Principal Gyvers and another teacher motioned the students together in a group as Abby slipped behind them.

  “Smile for me, please.” As he pressed the shutter, capturing the smiling faces of the students and their teacher.

  *****

  Abby slid her copy of the photo in a cardboard portfolio, along with a clipping from the newspaper about the concert. She would find a frame next year and hang it above her desk; in the meantime, she kept it in a desk drawer, away from the pile of music assignments she was in the process of grading before Christmas break.

  She gazed at the smiling faces, the handful of serious ones scattered through the image. Travis showing off one of his muscles by rolling up his jacket sleeve; Audrey looking half-frightened, her straight hair in one long braid past her shoulders. Rodney’s smiling face near the back.

  When the concert was over, he had thrown his arms around her in a fierce hug. “Thank you,” he said, his voice muffled by her coat. “I had a good time, teacher.”

  She stroked his hair, then bent down and returned his hug. “I’m glad you came,” she said. “Take care of yourself. Have fun with your new music classes, okay?” Doing her best to prevent tears from welling up in her eyes.

  He nodded. “Okay.” A few minutes later, he and the rest of her students were claimed by various relatives, struggling into coats, collecting their things and disappearing through the door into rides waiting in the darkness or bus routes leading home. Abby was one of the last to leave, taking one last look at the auditorium and the row of empty chairs onstage.

  The digital recordings of her student recital was usually the last part of her Christmas organization before break. Watching them patiently find their way through individual songs as she recorded them–on tape, it seemed like hours of footage to absorb for some reason. At the moment, the recording was jumbled up with a pile of student reports on their favorite composers and a series of printed lessons on the Baroque music period.

  She fished for it beneath them, pulling out a handful of music store receipts. A sales ad for a secondhand saxophone fell out, along with a crumpled sheet of notepaper. Mistaking it for the paper boat poem, she reached down to retrieve it and recognized her own handwriting.

  Her New Year’s resolutions from last January. Unfolding the edges, she glimpsed the words scribbled on the page. Be more assertive. Start exercise regiment.

  How many of these had she lived out? True, she could boil noodles now without burning them and only ordered takeout a couple of times a week. She had asserted herself for the sake of her class–and for her love life on one occasion, which a more disastrous idea. The bicycle in her living room wasn’t just for show or taking up unnecessary space.

  But she was still alone. Wasn’t that the most important one when she compiled this list? She recalled Maureen’s teasing remarks about finding a boyfriend for the New Year. Something she had never found time to do while fulfilling the rest of the list.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Henry fastened his cufflinks as he glanced at the clock. Eight-thirty p.m.–the invitation had said nine, meaning Celia was expecting everyone to arrive at least fifteen minutes after the start.

  He had promised himself he would find another way to spend New Year’s than Celia Detmark’s soire, but since it was the first invitation to arrive, he ended up with no choice. With a sense of resignation he mailed his R.S.V.P., half-wishing that Clarence Timothy had been a little more prompt with the invitations to his New Year’s Mongolian barbecue.

  Whistling along with the symphony issuing from his stereo’s speakers, he adjusted his tie before the mirror. Not half-bad, he thought; for once, without an instant remembrance of Lois’s playful compliments of the past.

  “You could come with me, Dude,” Seth had pressed him over the phone. “I mean, I know it’s rock, but we’ll hit one of the jazz bars afterwards, grab a bite.” A note of pleading, almost begging in his voice.

  “I can’t, Seth,” he answered. “I already said yes. And since she’s a client of my publishing firm...”

  “Are you sure she’d mind?” Seth asked. “I mean, you could always drop by for a couple minutes, then scram.”

  The departure of Sheryl had forced Seth to reverse course in his life–including going stag to events, something unbearable for him. Henry had anticipated another girlfriend materializing instantly to fill the void, but not this time. Which seemed to brin
g out a certain sense of desperation in Seth’s character.

  Seth would be on the other side of town at a New Year’s Eve rock concert that was supposed to draw most of the music crowd in the city; while Henry would be making small talk with the usual crowd of publishing folk and socialites. In some respects, it was the same as last New Year’s, he reflected. Recalling the R.S.V.P. blank checked for one.

  He shoved aside the brochures for the spring poetry workshop and retrieved his apartment key. Tucking a few sketches for a new thriller book cover out of sight, he cleared a space on his desk for the bottle of wine he chose for his hostess gift, awaiting the decorative box he was forced to assemble by a miniature sheet of instruction enclosed.

  Ron the cat watched from his hiding place behind the drapes, where he had taken to sulking now that the ottoman had been moved to the opposite side of the room. A few green needles from the now-removed Christmas tree still clung to the drapes in places, a sign that Henry was too busy these days to finish removing traces of the holidays.

  He snapped off the lamp over his desk, dimmed the living room lights to a cozy glow. Then slipped out the door to hail a cab in the street below.

  *****

  Abigail adjusted the straps on the silver dress and surveyed herself in the mirror. The sequins sewn along the neckline resembled tiny mirrors, reflecting light at every angle. Above, a necklace of heavy rhinestones hugged her neck.

  In her haste, she broke her pledge and consumed half a box of fortune cookies for dinner, in between hunting for a missing high heel beneath her bed. Brushing the dust from her hands, she inspected the stiletto for signs of loose heels or broken straps. Nothing–she slipped it on and hunted her special occasions makeup kit from the bottom of a drawer.

  Another New Year’s Eve, another invitation courtesy Maureen and Richard. Before her friend’s marriage, the two of them would celebrate with road trips or a girl’s night out. Even then Maureen’s penchant for unusual celebrations emerged, the spur-of-the-moment traditions never again to be used or the spontaneous shifts in plans. Some of which slowly vanished now that her personality was merged with another person’s, softening the bluntness of her opinions and taming spontaneous impulses with practicality.

  Part of the inevitable, Abby knew; also a reason why she wished another invitation had come along this year.

  “It’ll be fun,” Maureen had coaxed her. “It’s a work thing for Richard, but the two of us can have a good time. Stroll around, meet new people, enjoy the music–”

  “I’m not really in a music mood,” Abby answered, playfully. Stalling for time as she tried to think of a reason not to go. A student function, a school play, a case of the measles. Nothing came to mind.

  “You blew us off at Thanksgiving,” Maureen reminded her. “Don’t try to escape this time, Abby. I don’t want you going off to crush yourself emotionally again.”

  “Scout’s honor, I won’t,” said Abby, aware that her pain had hurt others besides herself. Days of not answering the phone, weeks of moping, hours of unhappy explanation later.

  “Then you’re coming with us,” said Maureen. “It’s settled. See you at nine.” She hung up before Abby could protest.

  Now it was almost nine and she had no choice but to tag along. A quick dinner at a lounge where Richard had reservations, then an evening spent with people Richard and Maureen knew but she didn’t. Enough to make her run away, if running were possible in these heels.

  Instead, she steeled her nerves for a mature evening as a grown-up capable of making polite conversation. Grabbing her blue satin wrap and handbag, she moved to answer the buzzer for the front door, signaling Maureen’s arrival.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “I haven’t kept a resolution in twenty years,” said Jerry. “After I turned thirty, I thought, ‘what’s the point?’ I mean, life won’t get any better now, will it?”

  This comment received polite laughter from his crowd of guests, including Henry. His host polished off his glass, then motioned for a passing waiter to move his way.

  The Detmark’s apartment was crowded with more guests than usual, the band louder than last year’s–some jazz ensemble called the Blue Orchid, Celia had informed Henry upon inquiry. Their songs were sad and melancholy selections for the jazz world, the strains of “Indigo Mood” drifting from their horns in a tide that Henry thought would dampen the holiday spirits. Most guests seemed cheerful however, blithely discussing their summer vacation plans and holiday mishaps.

  “You know what my last resolution was?” Carl asked, gloomily. “To get a better lawyer, that’s what it was.” Carl’s divorce would be final in February, as Henry recalled from office gossip.

  “I’m sorry,” he answered. “Maybe this year is the year for a new start. I mean, you landed that promotion to–”

  “Promotion,” Carl repeated, with a snort. “More like a boatload of work. Deitrich’s not pulling his weight anymore, have you noticed? Rumor has it, he’s being lured to Collingshouse by more money.”

  He followed this statement by draining his glass–a tall Long Island tea. “Now if you leave, we’ll have to promote Willeys, who’s no good anyway.”

  Henry laughed. “I’m not quitting, Carl,” he said. “It’s just a couple of book covers and a few illustrations here and there. Not a career.”

  “That’s what you say now,” said Carl. “But after a little success, who knows?” With this final gloomy prediction, he moved in the direction of a waiter bearing a tray of caviar and crackers.

  “Don’t listen to Carl,” said Janis, a proofreader for Harkin Publishing. “He’s just a little down tonight. Bad news on the settlement front.” She offered him a polite smile. “As for myself, I tend to think New Year’s resolutions are fun. Every year I resolve to climb Everest. How about you?”

  “I resolve to come up with less daunting resolutions,” he answered.

  *****

  The glare of headlights obscured the view in Maureen’s compact mirror. Abby caught only a glimpse of her lipstick before it snapped shut again and disappeared into Maureen’s bag.

  “Do you have any rouge?” asked Maureen. “I look pale. Very pale. It must have been something in the chicken.”

  “Probably the wine,” said Richard. “But you look great. Right, Abby?”

  “You look fine,” said Abby. She refrained from chewing her lip as she stared at the view in the cabbie’s mirror. Herself surrounded by darkness, the haze of lights behind her, the blue of her wrap against her shoulders. Was the style of her hair unflattering, the side sweep with the knot in the back?

  “We’re going to be late,” said Maureen. “The service is too slow at that lounge. Look at the time, it’s already past eleven-thirty. We’ll be lucky if we make it before the ball drops in Times Square.”

  “The post-party is the best part,” Abby answered, teasingly. “It’s the one a.m. adrenaline rush.”

  “How do you know these people?” Maureen asked Richard, as she brushed a stray piece of lint from her skirt. “You said they were clients–”

  “The band is a client,” he said, “Jones’s protégés–you know, the music mogul the firm represents. He had a blanket invitation issued for representatives to hear them live. New album comes out in the spring.”

  “How much are these people paying for the performance?” asked Maureen. “I mean, Jones is usually exclusive in his tastes.”

  “Quite a bit,” said Richard. “It was a charity auction bid, however, so the thousands spent aren’t for profit. Think of it as an exclusive sneak peak. A very expensive live one.” His cell phone rang, the opening bars of “Auld Lang Syne” filling the air.

  The cab pulled alongside the curb before a building unfamiliar to Abby. As Richard opened the door, Abby felt the nip of the winter’s chill against her bare skin. Hugging the wrap around her shoulders more tightly, she followed Richard and Maureen through the foyer and into a polished elevator. As the floors slipped by in glowing numbers, she co
ntemplated the subjects for this evening’s mingling. Her students, of course; taking up cycling, perhaps. Maybe she would meet a Thai recipe aficionado.

  The man who greeted them a few moments after their arrival was the host, she presumed, judging by the friendly manner with which he greeted everyone who entered. Richard was detained extra-long due to his music ties, since the band was the subject of interest for the evening.

  “Enjoy,” he said. “Remember to grab a glass of champagne before midnight!” Waggling his eyebrows as he raised his own cocktail glass.

  “Let’s see if Harvey and Jean are here yet,” said Maureen, tugging on her arm. She slipped past Abby and made her way towards the crowd of satin and tuxedos, where waiters circulated with trays of caviar and shrimp cocktails.

  Maureen was already engrossed in conversation, so Abby merely offered a polite smile to the couple before them. The discussion was something about traffic on St. Patrick’s Day, a strange topic for the moment, she thought, tying it to the woman’s choice of emerald green for her clothing ensemble.

  She glanced around the room, at the various guests engaged in conversational clusters. Then her gaze fell on a man standing a few feet away, cradling a cocktail glass.

  The moment she saw him, she knew she had seen him before. The customer from the cd store, the shopper she followed in the farmer’s market. The same lean face and dark hair, the same features framed by a pair of light-rimmed glasses.

  His gaze turned towards her, viewing her with an equal expression of surprise. As if on cue, she heard the first strains of the music, the band striking up a slow melody.

  Until this moment, she had never believed in love at first sight. So there was no explanation for why she was slipping across the room, towards a perfect stranger on the other side.