Please, Maestro

by Penelope L'Amoreaux

  Please, Maestro

  By Penelope L’Amoreaux

  Oh say can you see by the dawn’s early light?

  A life devoted to music and the last song Avery ever heard was The Star Spangled Banner. The memory of the song made her bitter. She had dreamed of Chopin, Beethoven, Bach… and Francis Scott Key wrote her final tune. Great.

  Her hip buzzed. She dug her hand into the tight pocket quickly, startled at the sudden vibration that signaled someone was at the door.

  Eight months since her accident and no one had come to see her that wasn’t family. Her parents weren’t due for another week.

  The signal, which vibrated when someone pressed her doorbell, shook again, long and insistent in her sweaty palm. If it wasn’t her parents, who was it?

  Buzz. Buuuuzzzzzzzzz.

  Someone who was persistent, that was for sure. Avery swallowed her fear and pretended her heart wasn’t pounding. Normally these things would have made her smile at the memory of sound, the ding-dong of the doorbell or the whooshing she imagined the blood pumping through her veins made. But she hadn’t been deaf for long, and that meant she hadn’t had time to learn safety or comfort in the silence.

  Her instinct was to freeze, to stop moving, stop breathing until the unknown visitor gave up and left her in peace.

  Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

  Ok, that’s just annoying, she thought, curious if the stranger at her door was a ten year old. Maybe a girl scout selling cookies? Sighing with resignation, she decided to answer it. Communicating would be embarrassing, painful, but when had she ever been able to say no to boxes of thin mints? Now that she lived on her own, she wouldn’t have to share.

  The apartment had been a gift from her father, a band aid on a wound he caused and feared he could never heal. She’d never have her hearing back, or the future she’d worked so hard for, but she only had one father and had forgiven him immediately. Accidents happen.

  Her palms were wet, her fear soaking them, and it made opening the door jilted and robotic. Instead of girl scouts smiling up at her, it was an old familiar face that felt like a punch to the gut. It was him, the man she had crushed on for years. Her former conductor. David.

  “Um, hey.” Her voice felt strange. She hadn’t used it in a while. Her parents had picked up signing with her, an act of loving solidarity. For a moment her breath caught as she realized that, without being able to hear what she was saying, her voice could sound completely ludicrous. Like an adolescent boy’s, cracking and high when confronted with a sexually appealing counterpart.

  Her smile stretched too much, then, her thoughts already confused. Assuming the worst, she knew it was in danger of looking like a grimace.

  Instead of speaking to her, his hands lifted and flew into action. Immediately Avery found her eyes following those long, elegant fingers as they offered her a quick and graceful greeting.

  Hello, Avery. I hope it is ok I dropped by, but I wasn’t sure how to reach you.

  You sign? The surprise and elation she felt made her hands feel clumsy in comparison to his own.

  Yes. May I come in?

  She nodded and stepped aside, shutting her gaping mouth at the last second. David brushed past her, his tall body closer to hers than it had ever been, unless you count fantasies. In her fantasies, they had been hot, sweaty, so close that she could imagine not knowing where her body ended and his began.

  He moved through her apartment and Avery felt her palms grow slick as she began to see what he was surely seeing: a threadbare couch, a small TV, a mini kitchen with some of her dishes from breakfast still in the sink. It horrified her, she realized, to know this man was seeing her through her apartment, and there was so little to show. Still, nothing could have prepared her for when he stopped moving, his gaze focused on the one thing from her old life she hadn’t been able to part with yet. Her cello.

  The big black case was propped in a corner. Unopened in months, there was a fine layer of dust on it, a few finger trails betraying her. She would occasionally, in moments of pain and weakness, step over to the case, her fingers lovingly touching and making designs in the dust. She yearned for the resin-scent of her bow and the solid feel of aged and lacquered maple resting between her legs.

  But deaf people don’t play instruments, and now she was deaf and her cello sat, unused, a reminder of what she could have been.

  The waving of David’s hand brought her to the present. She felt the burn creep through her cheeks, her embarrassment flaming.

  May I? He indicated toward the case.

  Her instinct was to say “no.” Her instrument was like an extension of her. Or, at least, it had been. Personal and perfect for her hands, her body. But this was David and really, who was it going to hurt?

  Sure, be my guest.

  His quick smile made her heart flutter and Avery discovered some of her anxiety stemmed not from the thought of someone touching her cello, but that it was David doing the touching, handsome and austere. He was in her apartment and about to touch her cello. It felt, well, incredibly intimate.

  He laid the case down flat, quickly flipped the latches, and opened the case. The first thing to hit her was the smell. It was true, she had found, that upon losing one sense her others had grown more acute. The smell of resin, of the wood, floated around her. It smelled like memories of performance and hours of practice. It smelled like love.

  Quickly her hand dashed away an escaped tear and she was thankful David was so focused on settling in with the stringed instrument, tightening the bow and tuning it, to notice. As she saw the bow placed against the tight wire strings, Avery felt something in her body. As he pulled the bow across, though she couldn’t hear the rich, melodic sound, her mind seemed to vibrate with memory.

  David was a visual feast. He had positioned himself in a cheap chair near the window. The sunlight poured through, illuminating him. It took her breath away. She had only seen him as a conductor, the slave driver to her music. Here, though, he was not just a musician; he was music incarnate. Ethereal, the light turned his long, eccentric dark curls golden. His hair was long, pulled into a low ponytail, but unruly strands broke free, framing his face. In a t-shirt and torn jeans, he still managed to seem so self-possessed, so in control of his long, gangly limbs. She realized as she watched his tempo increase, his wrist shaking to create a vibrato, that while lanky, he was all muscle, ropey and sinuous.

  Her mouth felt dry. While she couldn’t hear his tune, she felt everything while watching him. Her body remembered the vibration of the cello, and now her skin sang with that electricity, heightening her nerve’s reactions. Her breathing was quick and shallow, guided by the frantic pace of his fingers on the bridge of the cello, by the pace of her heart.

  She had allowed herself many pity parties since her accident, but this was the first time where her body craved, truly craved, these things of the past. And maybe a thing of the man in her living room, lost in a song on her cello. She knew instinctively those long, elegant fingers would play her body with the same perfection he was giving to her cello.

  As he finished his piece, he gently set the cello down. His eyes, wild and dark, met hers. They danced in a way that spoke to her, the way so many musicians felt when they came down from a passionate solo. It was primitive and beautiful. It felt like satiation, like an orgasm.

  They stared at each other a little too long, and Avery’s skin began to break into goose bumps under his scrutinous gaze. He wanted something from her, and god, the way she felt after watching him… she might promise him anything.

  Finally, he signed to her. I want you to come play again. You know our spring concert piece?

  She did. Avery hadn’t been able to help herself and did some stalking of her past o
rchestra. She knew all of their concerts and pieces.

  Slowly, she signed to him. Shostakovich. Cello Concerto, op107.

  It was a wild piece, the cello solo brutal and beautiful. She knew it well, because being a soloist had been her dream. But she was older than the prodigies in her group, and only second chair when she still played.

  Her fingers flew into motion, apprehension causing them to stumble and falter. Is this a joke?

  David sat back, his eyebrows pulled together, and she knew her hurt was showing on her face. But why shouldn’t it? Wasn’t it enough that she was here, standing and looking at the instrument she would never play again and the gorgeous man she couldn’t have had even before she was disabled? Did he have to keep pulling her wounds further open with impossibilities?

  No, I’m not joking. We’ve lost our soloist and I want you to take his place.

  She laughed then, hoping it sounded as wounded and cynical as it did in her mind. Things must be tough if you need a deaf girl to replace your soloist. She turned away from him, the equivalent, she supposed, of hanging up the phone in the middle of a fight. If she couldn’t see him, she didn’t have to ‘hear’ anymore of his hurtful words.

  A hand on her shoulder, fingers biting in with surprising strength, whipped her around.

  Avery, please consider my offer. You were set to move into first chair and soloist at the beginning of last year. You have the skills, you just need the training.

  Training? I need the ability to hear to be able to play, much more solo! Even if I tried to play now, I’d never know if it was correct! I’d have to relearn the instrument and still risk being terrible! No amount of training will give that back to me. Avery was barely holding herself together, infuriated that her signing wasn’t as cathartic as shouting. This is the most hurtful thing anyone has ever done to me.

  His body froze and she watched as a vein became pronounced on his forehead. He looked every inch the crazy conductor, rage and heat fueling him. It scared her. It turned her on.

  In less than a second he gripped her hand and dragged her to the couch. He sank into the cushions and jerked her down with him, laying her across his knees like a little child. Too stunned to resist, Avery found her eyes locked onto the wood of her flooring, her ass in the air as she was splayed over his lap. She was in a skirt that David now yanked up, exposing her lace-panty clad cheeks.

  It was still interesting to her how much sound her mind filled in from memory, in the absence of actual experience. When David’s hand descended onto her ass, hard, the shock and sting of it flared through her. But the most surprising part was the slap! she heard echoing in her mind. Outraged and stunned, she began to wriggle for control, but she was off balance and he had one hand pressed heavily onto her shoulder blades.

  Over and over he spanked her, the pain blooming across her bottom. The more she struggled, the harder he slapped until the jolts of pain became throbs that she could feel all over her body. It was then, as the sensation throbbed and spread, that she recognized his spanks weren’t random; they were the quick staccato beat he loved to use in practice. He was beating the rhythm into her, and her body immediately responded.

  Sobs she couldn’t hear but knew she was making turned into moans. Her throat felt raw from all of the use, but the vibration of her moans and the press of his jeans into her nipples were tied directly to her core, which began to heat and tighten.

  He must have seen the change in her countenance, because just as she found herself enjoying the punishment, he stopped. Easing her off of his lap, Avery slumped to the floor at his feet, her ass burning and raw. Her clit was swollen and she felt the wet stick of her panties. Gaze watery with tears and confusion, she looked to him with shock and questions in her eyes.

  David’s face was pulled tight, guilt and pride warring across his strong features. She realized, belatedly, how defined his cheekbones were and how beautiful he looked when incensed.

  I can only hope that was the most hurtful thing anyone has done to you. My offer was and is serious. How long have you known American sign language?

  She winced, the ebbing sensations of her spanking still garnering most of her focus. Eight months. It has been eight months since the accident.

  His features relaxed and leaning forward, he gently pulled her up and next to him. Avery, despite having just been abused by this man, found herself curling up near him, facing closely so she could take in every word he had to say. If he had wanted her attention, her raw bottom was proof he had it.

  So it’s true then? The firecrackers? His eyes softened and he brushed more stray strands out of his face. She realized he was a little older than she had thought, the tiny telltale lines around his eyes relaxing as he gazed at her.

  Avery nodded. The fourth of July. My father always tried to make a big show for us. But he wasn’t feeling well, and I offered to help. We had a dud and I didn’t know it. It exploded on the ground. No one was burned, but I was close enough it ruined my hearing. The doctor said that years of listening to music too loud had already damaged it. This was the straw that broke the camel’s back.

  She waited, expecting the rush of sympathy that usually came from people she told her story to. It didn’t bother her. Hell, she loved it. More than she liked to admit, she felt guilty pleasure from that sympathy. After all, she had suffered. She had lost everything, her music, her dreams--gone. Their pity affirmed her pain.

  David didn’t change. Not his posture, not his face. No gushing and no sympathy.

  Avery was at a loss. Laying her head against a pillow, she cocked an eyebrow. Finally, David’s hands moved.

  So in eight months you learned how to sign?

  Obviously. Instead of snarking off to him, though, she nodded.

  That’s impressive, Avery. If you can learn a whole new way of communicating and thinking in eight months, I can teach you to play without your hearing in a month and a half. Agree, and you’ll be soloing at the spring concert.

  Her eyes shut tight, trying to keep the rush of tears in. The soft brush of his fingers on her cheek kept her from shutting him out, though.

  Opening, she looked at his collar bone, peeking out from his v-neck t-shirt. It was crisp, sharp, like a bar on a sheet of music. She wanted to touch him, but her emotions were so ragged and jumbled. She still wasn’t sure what was happening between his appearance, the spanking, and this new offer.

  How… how would you teach me?

  His stance changed, tightened.

  Like I just did. Physically.

  You’ll hurt me?

  Don’t think of it as hurting you. Think of it as showing you. You can’t hear. I want to teach you how to feel the music. How to connect to it through sensation. Through me. You’ll feel what you’re playing and you’ll respond to my direction.

  Respond to him? Hell, that much was already obvious. Her body was now strung tight as her bow, wanting release.

  More importantly, what he said was resonating with her. He had resonated with her. Watching him she had felt something like she used to. A connection. Identification. The spanking had also sparked something in her. The need for rhythm, for a pulse.

  She had to make a decision. There wasn’t much time. What he was proposing was almost insurmountable. She wasn’t sure she could trust him. She wasn’t sure she wanted the pain, humiliated by how her body was reacting to it. But she also didn’t want to be without him, because he was bringing something dangerous to her and presenting it on a platter. Something she hadn’t had in a long time. Hope.

  Ok.

  * * * * *

  She should have turned up the heat in the apartment before he came over.

  Avery shivered, naked, her cello nestled between her bare legs. The instrument was soothing, comfortable. It felt at home next to her.

  That was the only good thing about her current situation. David was storming, his pace fast and furious in front of her. Most likely thinking of a new and awful punishment for her disobedience. It had been
like this for a week. He would come over. He stripped her naked, taking away anything she could hide behind. Just her, her cello, and him.

  Then he would set the stand of music in front of her. She would try to follow his drastic, sharp motions as he directed her in the beat he wished for. Her eyes, frantic, would dart between him and the music in front of her. Inevitably she focused too much on the music and lost connection with his movement. Or vice versa. This used to be second nature for her. But eight months of no practice and no ear to lend her comfort made her fingers slow, clumsy.

  It frustrated her as much as it did him. He had been right that she wouldn’t lose the instinct of how to play. As soon as she had wrapped her knees around the familiar sharp edges of the instrument, it had been “like riding a bicycle.” However, she hadn’t realized how much she had relied on hearing for playing. The movements had been instinctual with sound to guide them, to pull her along. Without sound, she had to be meticulous about finger placement, about shifting up and down the bridge. She found herself clinging desperately to the notes of music on paper and David’s over-the-top conducting.

  Self doubt and insecurity made her forgetful and clumsy. If she became frustrated, David became irate, his fingers flying as he scolded her.

  No. Avery, what the fuck are you doing? You need to focus on me.

  So she wasn’t paying enough attention to him as he tried to show her the beat. Irritated, she flashed him a sign he would know quickly: Her middle finger.

  Immediately she regretted it. It was one thing to be spanked by him. By this point he had toasted her bottom so many times she had become immune to the ache of deep bruises when she sat. More poignant was the deep seated feeling of letting him down, of seeing the disappointment mixed with anger when she failed him. Or spoke back.

  He quit pacing immediately, becoming like stone. His fists clenched and unclenched, his jaw squeezing so tight she worried for his teeth. She had crossed a line and now she would pay for it.

  Quickly she set down the cello, scurrying to kneel before him, arms forward and head down, an act of sublimation. Please, she thought, please don’t let him be too angry. Her body ached and shook with the need for his forgiveness, even if it came in the form of punishment.