by JF Freedman
“Well, I can,” Admiral Wells told me. His hand was on my shoulder, gripping me hard. “I knew you would do it, Roy. I knew it from the day I met you.”
“It’s true, he did,” Mrs. Wells confirmed. “He told me that first day he brought you over, after you’d left. He said ‘that boy reminds me of myself at that age.’”
“You didn’t believe me,” he said, turning to her.
Her face clouded for a moment.
“Yes,” she said softly, almost whispering. “I didn’t. I couldn’t see beyond your background, to who you truly were.”
“That’s okay,” I told her. I was numb; if I moved a muscle I’d shatter into a million pieces.
“No,” she corrected me, “it isn’t. I shortchanged you. And I shortchanged my husband.” She looked at me with those incredibly green eyes of hers, piercing me right through to my heart. “I apologize.”
She said it to me, but she really meant it for the admiral. It didn’t matter; either way, it still made me feel good.
“That’s nonsense,” the admiral said to her, jollying her up. “What counts is this letter,” he crowed, brandishing it. “You’re in! And in three or four more years, you’ll be going to Annapolis. That’s all that counts now.” He glanced at his watch. “We’ll celebrate properly tonight,” he said, “after Melanie’s recital. Speaking of which, we’d better get moving. The Prescotts are bears for punctuality.”
I helped Mrs. Wells on with her coat, a thick mink coat that hung all the way to the floor, which she was wearing even though spring had come and it was warm out. Whatever Mrs. Wells had was the best, whether it was her coat or her car or her house. It was who she was—it was why she had to have everything around her, including people, be perfect. I wasn’t perfect, not by a long shot, but I was closer to whatever perfect was for her than I used to be.
As we were walking out the door, the admiral stopped me, letting her get ahead of us.
“We’ll have to tell your parents,” he said, quietly, so she wouldn’t overhear.
“Yes, sir.” That was the one thing I was dreading. They didn’t know about any of this—not the admiral, Farrington, anything. I didn’t know precisely how my old man would react, but I had a good idea and I wasn’t looking forward to it.
“We’ll tell them together,” he informed me, not giving me an option. “Tomorrow.” He paused. “When I drive you home.”
That’s the way it had to be, I’d known it all along. It was okay now, he knew me, who I was. What I had been, where I came from, who my family was—none of that mattered anymore.
Since Melanie lived most of the time with her grandparents the recital was being held at their house, off Foxhall Road, a few miles away. We took Mrs. Wells’s Lincoln. Sitting in that car was cherry to the core, the leather was so soft it felt like a baby’s ass. I thought about how when I turned sixteen I could hit on Mrs. Wells to let me borrow it for dates, when I’m home on vacation from Farrington. If you can’t get laid driving wheels like these, you’re hopeless.
The Prescotts’ house was huge, much bigger than Admiral Wells’s house. The thing that impressed me the most was that the entire back of the first floor was an honest-to-God ballroom, at least sixty feet long. It had polished hardwood floors and floor-to-ceiling French doors and windows opening onto the back yard, which had to be a good acre of green, rolling lawn. Melanie was a rich girl, plain and simple.
There looked to be a hundred people there, maybe more. Almost all were grownups—the few kids besides me were all girls Melanie’s age, obviously from her school. Some were dogs, but a couple were pretty good-looking, wearing stylish dresses and makeup like the girls at my school wear. The difference was that their dresses were expensive, you could tell just looking at them, they had to cost more money than any dress my mother owned.
They all checked me over as I walked through the door. I was looking good in my nice sports coat and my new shoes and my new haircut, but a blind man could see what kind of boy I was: the kind girls like this wanted, and their parents didn’t. I knew one thing that was definitely going on in their little minds—how did a loser like Melanie Prescott ever meet a cool boy like me?
“You’re here. I was getting worried,” Melanie said in a low whisper, popping up at my elbow like she’d been lurking near the doorway, waiting for me. “Hi, Mrs. Wells, Admiral Wells,” she sang out. “Thanks for coming.”
Admiral and Mrs. Wells said hello back to her and then immediately walked halfway across the room to talk to her grandparents, leaving me by myself with Melanie. Part of the plan, no doubt. This time, though, I didn’t mind.
“Sure I’m here,” I said. “I told you I’d be.”
She was looking at me with a funny expression on her face, and it took me a moment to realize that I was staring at her with my mouth open. That’s because while I may have been somewhat different-looking from the me I’d been before, Melanie was completely changed from the semi-pathetic girl I’d met that night at the admiral’s house. She was still a porker, ’cause that’s the way she’s built, she can’t do anything about that, but it was as if she had come out of a cocoon. She was wearing a tight midnight-blue dress that wrapped around her ass like an Ace bandage, bright red lipstick delicately painted on her mouth kewpie-doll style, a touch of eyeshadow, the works. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, she was wearing sheer stockings, and shoes with heels a good three inches high.
“Do you like my dress?” she asked, clearly nervous about my reaction.
“Does a bear shit in the woods? I like it a lot, it makes you look …” I was thinking sexy, but I didn’t say it.
“What?” She wanted me to.
“Good. Pretty. You know.”
She smiled, like she knew what I really wanted to say. “My mom didn’t want me to, she said it makes me look like a … I’m not going to say, but you know what I mean … the makeup, too, she’s not crazy about that, either.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I know what you mean.” I winked at her, like we were sharing a dirty secret. She looked sexy as hell, this shy girl who’d come on before like something out of Little Women.
“I’m glad you like it,” she said. She wet her lips nervously. “That’s why I bought it.”
“Well, I do.”
“You have to meet my mother.” She took my arm. “I can hardly walk in these heels, I feel like I’m going to fall on my face. I’ll have to play in my stockings, I don’t know how women walk around in shoes like these.”
She led me towards the center of the room, where a bunch of grownups were standing around talking. One of the women in the group looked over at us, saw me, and smiled. Melanie’s mother—a blind man could’ve seen how much they looked alike, at least in the face. From the neck down she was different, thinner than Melanie, she actually had a very good figure, especially her legs. She was a few years older than my mom, I could tell that, but from where I was standing she looked younger, even though she had a ton of makeup on. Maybe because she had so much makeup on. The real reason, I knew as I looked, was that she didn’t have a look on her face like a dog about to be kicked, the way my mom mostly does. Melanie’s mom was dressed up like the Queen of Sheba, wearing a silk dress that had to cost a shit-load of money, and flat-out dripping in jewelry; a necklace that looked like it had rubies and emeralds in it, bracelets with diamonds, long diamond earrings. The woman was a walking jewelry store—if I hocked what she was wearing on her body I’d be set for life.
“Mother, this is Roy Poole,” Melanie said, introducing me. “The boy I’ve told you about.” She was shifting her weight from one foot to the other, nervous as hell.
“So.” Melanie’s mom looked me over like I was a prize heifer at a 4-H fair. “This is the boy.”
Melanie turned red as a beet.
Her mom kept looking me over. Melanie still had her hand on my arm. She was squeezing so tight I thought she’d tear the material. The way her mom was looking at me, it was like she wanted to make Melani
e uncomfortable.
“It’s nice to meet you, Miz Prescott,” I said. I held out my hand. She looked at it for a moment, like she was expecting dirt under my fingernails. Then she shook it, and held on longer than she needed to. Quite a bit longer.
“It’s nice to meet you, too, Roy.” She looked me over again, then turned to her daughter. “You weren’t exaggerating,” she said, flashing me this flirting kind of look.
Melanie blushed even worse at that. I felt my face getting a little red, too. What the hell had she been saying about me, and what was the deal with her mother?
“Are you a classical music aficionado, Roy?” Mrs. Prescott asked me. She smiled when she said it. She had a mouthful of big white teeth.
“Roy likes all kinds of music, mother,” Melanie answered for me, saving my bacon, ’cause she had to know I didn’t know jack-shit about classical music, seeing’s how I’m from Ravensburg.
“I like anything Melanie plays,” I added. I’d especially like it if she played skin flute, I thought.
Melanie moved closer to me, giving my arm a little squeeze. I was figuring out what was putting me off about Mrs. Prescott—it was as if she was in a contest with Melanie, and didn’t want to lose. She was an old woman trying to look young, trying to beat out her own daughter.
“That’s very gallant,” she said to me. “I can see why my daughter is so taken with you.”
“Mother!” Melanie squealed.
“I’m teasing you,” Mrs. Prescott told her. “Now I think you need to get ready.” She took my hand again. “I’ll make sure Roy is properly attended to.”
Melanie reluctantly let go of my arm. “Sit in the first row,” she asked me, her eyes pleading.
“He’ll be sitting right next to me,” her mother assured me. “Now go on. Your girlfriends are dying to help you with the last-minute details.”
“See you later,” Melanie told me. She walked away from us, tottering on her high heels. A couple of her girlfriends gathered around and followed her out, their heads together, jabbering away. I knew what they were talking about.
“A big day, Chloe. You must be proud.” Admiral Wells had joined us. He put a hand on my shoulder. It made me feel a lot more comfortable.
“Yes,” Mrs. Prescott answered. “Melanie’s worked very hard.”
“You’ve met Roy, I see,” the admiral said.
“Oh, yes. Melanie has talked of nothing else all week. One would have thought this entire affair had been arranged solely for his benefit.”
Man, did my ears burn at that. She smiled at me, about the phoniest smile I’ve ever seen in my life.
“I don’t see Horace,” Admiral Wells said to her.
The smile vanished from Mrs. Prescott’s lips. “He wasn’t invited. He doesn’t even know his daughter plays the goddamn piano.”
“He’s Melanie’s father, Chloe. You can’t arbitrarily cut him out of her life.”
“Sorry,” she said, “but he’s a lousy father. I’m not going to gild the lily on his behalf. He cut himself out.”
Boy, you could see how bitter she was.
“I’m going to borrow Roy for a minute,” the admiral said. He wanted to get away from her as much as I did, I knew him well enough by now to know that.
“As long as you promise to return him,” Mrs. Prescott said, turning her smile back on. It was like a skeleton smiling. She gave me the chills, this lady. I was going to have to be careful around her.
“Surviving?” Admiral Wells asked as we walked away.
I shrugged. I can survive most anything, including Melanie’s mother.
“God didn’t intend for every woman to be a mother, and Chloe Prescott is living proof. Thank heavens Melanie has her grandparents. They’ve raised her almost from infancy. Salt of the earth, those two.”
He really liked old Admiral Prescott and Mrs. Prescott, I could tell, not just because Admiral Prescott had helped him out early in his career, but because of who they were as people, the way they were with their granddaughter.
We walked around the room, Admiral Wells introducing me to some of the other guests—he knew just about everyone there. It was an important group of people, and not because some ninth-grade girl was going to show off her stuff on the piano. For one thing, Melanie’s piano teacher was famous. She was a tiny old lady with a thick German accent, dressed all in black with two bright red rouge spots on her sunken cheeks. She had one of those faces that looks like she’s sucked lemons all her life.
But the main reason for all these important people being here was that Melanie’s grandfather was a big deal in Washington, even though he was an old retired guy now. A rich big deal. One thing I do understand—even though I don’t know much about the life people like this live—once you’re a wheel it stays with you for life, and if you’re rich to boot everyone wants to kiss your ass.
“What was the Prescotts’ gift to the symphony this year?” I overheard one old biddy ask another as the admiral worked the crowd, with me in tow.
“Ten thousand,” was the reply.
Shit! Melanie’s grandparents had donated ten grand to an orchestra! No wonder it was a star-studded recital. Even the conductor of the National Symphony Orchestra, a slick-looking gray-haired man named Howard Mitchell, who rambled on to me for about three minutes about my own upcoming piano recital, which he unfortunately wouldn’t be able to attend because he would be in New York at a recording session—he’d obviously mistaken me for another student of the old piano teacher’s, and Admiral Wells didn’t correct him, either because he thought it was funny or he didn’t want to insult the guy, or both—was here to pay his respects, like he didn’t have anything better to do on a Sunday afternoon.
A bunch of colored servants came out and set up folding chairs in rows. The shiny black piano was in front of the French windows, facing the room and catching the rays off the afternoon sun. It was the biggest piano I’ve ever seen, even bigger than the one Liberace plays on television.
I sat in the front row. Melanie’s mother was on one side of me and the Wellses were on the other. Then Melanie walked out, and everybody got quiet as she sat down to play.
She was good. I don’t know fuck-all about this kind of music, but a deaf man could tell she was playing the shit out of that piano.
You could have heard a pin drop. Nobody even coughed. She sat straight as an arrow at that piano. Her shoes were kicked off like she’d told me she was going to, her stockinged feet pumping the pedals in rhythm to the notes and chords she was playing.
I glanced over at her mother, sitting next to me. Mrs. Prescott was sitting rigid in her chair, not moving a muscle. She was actually holding her breath, she was so tensed up. I could feel her tension in my own body.
I turned my attention back to Melanie. Her eyes were half closed now as she swayed to the rhythms she was creating. An older woman was sitting next to her, flipping the pages of music as Melanie played, but it was as if Melanie wasn’t even looking at the music, she was playing it from some place inside of her, like it was a part of her that was coming out the ends of her fingers. I closed my eyes, too, just listening to the music. It was like her body was coming into my body through the music, from her heart to her fingers to my ears to my heart. It was what her note on the invitation had said: she was playing this music for me alone.
It was a great feeling, knowing that. I opened my eyes and watched her.
A thin line of sweat had formed on her upper lip, making the red lipstick glow. It was a turn-on. Everything about this was turning me on. Melanie was playing this beautiful music just for me and using it to tell me she wanted to fuck me. And it was working, because I wanted to fuck her back.
I closed my eyes again and it was like I was alone, just her and me in this big room together, her playing and me listening. I could feel my heart beating in time to the music, and I knew her heart was beating at the same time, the same way.
She played three pieces. The last one was real long, a good fifteen m
inutes. After she finished, there was a moment of silence, then the whole place started applauding, people yelling “bravo, bravo,” standing up, everything. I was, too, not yelling “bravo,” but standing and clapping.
Melanie looked around the room. Her face was flushed and wet, and she was panting to beat the band. It’s tough work, playing that stuff, I could tell. I was smiling like an idiot I was so proud of her.
Then our eyes met, and it was like it had been while she was playing—just her and me, alone in this big room by ourselves. She smiled hard at me, as if she was saying “what do you think of me now, I’ll bet I look pretty damn good to you now.” She did, too. She’d already been looking good, but now she was pure beauty. I smiled back at her. I knew she felt better and prouder than anyone else in the room, but I had to feel second-most proud.
We were making out like bandits, like there was no tomorrow. Melanie and me, alone.
Everybody had milled around after she finished—congratulating her, congratulating her teacher, her mother, her grandparents, the works. The colored helpers moved through the crowd, carrying silver trays of caviar on crackers and other kinds of stuff like that, a whole mess of strange things I’ve never eaten in my life, and serving punch out of a big cut-glass bowl that probably cost as much as my old man’s car. It was a real party atmosphere, with Melanie the center of all the attention, it was probably the most attention she’d ever gotten in her entire life. I hung around on the sidelines, taking it all in, feeling happy for her.
Some of her girlfriends, the cuter ones, came over and talked to me a little. What my name was, what their names were, what schools we went to, the usual shit. When I said “Ravensburg” they gave me the once-over, like I’d said “Mars.” A couple, the ones that’d had some experience, came on to me like girls will, as if they couldn’t believe I was there for Melanie. I let them know right off that I was, though, and made sure that if Melanie was looking in my direction I had my attention on her, not one of her friends, especially not one of the pretty ones.
“They all want to know …” She squirmed around a little, giving out a low moan. We were in her bedroom. Everybody had cleared out except for her grandparents and the Wellses and a few others, who were downstairs.