“That’s fine. Anyway, maybe we’ll discover who’s out with a rifle today.”
They donned their jackets hanging in the mudroom and headed out the door. She kicked the motorbike into action, and Pierre saddled behind her. With his phone as a tracking device, Pierre wrapped his arms around Mrs. Kimbrough’s waist and pointed her in the direction of the rifle shot and his memory.
THE MOOSE HAD been roaming on the lands of the small human with red fur and the female human with long white fur, where warm weather had provided enough plant growth to sustain her for quite some time. And the moose sensed safety around these two humans. On this particular day, she’d ventured close to the small human’s enclosure, seeking salt on the metal containers nearby. She heard noises coming from within. Somehow, the moose could see through an open patch that had been carved into the side of the enclosure. The moose observed the red-furred human lying in a ball. It seemed to be at rest, but then squirmed and quivered and made noises that sounded similar to the distress calls of small animals. After some time, the moose heard a familiar high, grinding noise. She smelled the violets, and then saw the female human with long white fur approach on her container. Soon, the red-furred human joined the white-furred human. Together, they headed for the woods on the small metal container. The moose followed.
AMBITION: LOST AND FOUND
SHE RELISHED PIERRE’S ARMS AROUND her as they sped along, and Sandra wondered if this was how motherhood felt. A child glued to her, dependent, yet never a question as to whether he was a burden. In this way, she assumed, a mother and child could never completely lose each other no matter what life brought. That gift of a forever connection was something all her students had given to Sandra. Also, she to them. She saw the evidence on their faces when they mastered a technical difficulty, the disbelief and then joy when realizing that they had done it. Or when hearing themselves render a melody with a beautiful sound and then understanding in a split second that that was music. Pivotal moments to be remembered forever. Now with the wind in her face, Pierre giggled in her ear and Sandra laughed out loud. He squeezed her waist harder as the motorbike flew a few inches off the ground. At that moment, everything seemed so simple, so clear—to continue teaching and give her students the gift of music. This was Sandra’s only ambition.
She’d been quite young when she first heard a parent of a fellow violin student use that word, ambition, and as a criticism against her. No doubt the parent, with typical rivalry, resented Sandra for outperforming their own child. Having no idea what the word meant, she searched the dictionary: “A strong desire to do or to achieve something.” That felt unfair and the sting lingered for a long time, because this was not Sandra’s nature at all, especially with regard to music. Ambition had nothing to do with how or why she progressed as she did on the violin.
In truth, Sandra was not in control of her gifts. A precocious child, she could mimic entire melodies before talking. A few years after she began to walk, her parents placed the smallest violin available into her hands. She took to it as if it were a superhuman limb, and the speed and depth with which she devoured any music placed on the music stand proved remarkable. Sandra overheard discussions about her unusual talent often, and also whispers that she had something called “great potential.” As any young girl might, Sandra wanted very much to please her parents, and especially the violin teachers who nurtured her along the way. But it didn’t feel like a hardship or even an obligation. Sandra’s progress came with no apparent struggle or stress. Indeed, almost effortlessly.
It was during her years in music conservatory in San Francisco that the word ambition was again aimed in her direction, this time with added nuance—cynicism. And clearly, judgment. As if the fact that she’d blossomed into one of the top violinists in a highly competitive field could not be accomplished without a strong dose of ambition. Once again, this saddened her. Sandra was only aware that, though technical facility did come easily to her, interpretation of music was the great leveler. The prospect that she would spend her life trying to understand the essence of music’s meaning, and that this pursuit was not some accomplishment to be checked off a list, had always rendered Sandra humble. Yet, she wasn’t naïve. Like most musicians, she knew this drive to do well, along with talent and hard work, completed a golden triangle. And to ultimately achieve stature in the music profession, ambition often proved the gangplank toward success.
Jim and Sandra married the summer after they graduated from conservatory and began to build a decent living as freelancers in San Francisco and the surrounding smaller cities. A few years in, the San Francisco Symphony posted openings for two violins and three cellos, an unusually large turnover. Jim was hopeful, his optimism based on nothing tangible other than his sunny nature, a trait Sandra found particularly attractive and one of the reasons she found him to be a desirable partner. No matter the challenge or the outcome, Jim reasoned his way in and then out, and always with a smile. Sandra, who’d never been a cockeyed optimist, relied on Jim as a ballast point to her own tendencies toward periodic gloom.
With this particular audition though, Jim saw their chances as exceptional because of what he claimed were meaningful connections. They knew the conductor from a summer music festival they’d attended while students, a vague association at best. (Sandra doubted the man would remember them, as she and Jim had sat virtually hidden at the back of their respective sections.) Two friends had landed jobs at SFS the previous year. (She easily discovered that neither would be serving on the audition committee and even if they were, she knew they’d surely remain objective in their assessments.) Finally, they already lived in San Francisco, which for Jim was the proverbial nail (proximity being a patently absurd indicator of hometown advantage). But what made all this reasoning thoroughly inconsequential was that major orchestra auditions were held blind, behind a screen. (No one would even see them, she thought to herself.) Jim’s laundry list of legs up had no bearing whatsoever on their chances. Still, faced with a serious hit-or-miss venture and no better odds than a hundred to one, they both prepared like never before. Practicing hours every day, drilling each other in mock auditions, inviting friends to critique them, taking lessons from elite colleagues. And over weeks of preparation, Jim reminded Sandra often that with multiple seats open, chances were they’d both land jobs.
The week of auditions arrived. Jim was eliminated in the first-round preliminaries. And it was awkward. He made a reasonable stab at hiding his disappointment and keeping clear, because Sandra was understandably preoccupied with maintaining her game as she continued to advance through multiple rounds. But she heard the tremble in his voice when, the night before her final audition, he insisted that he had in fact totally aced his preliminary and was shocked that he’d not passed through. Sandra loved this part of Jim, too—the guileless look on his face when he trotted out unrealistic views about his abilities. Jim was not a top-notch cellist, nor did he breathe music as if it were the oxygen that kept him alive—pretty much a prerequisite for winning a job in a top-tier orchestra. That, and nerves of titanium, which eluded him as well. Sandra had often witnessed him struggle to keep his bow from skittering out of control during high-pressure chamber music performances. Mostly, Jim was blind to the difference between them. While Sandra had the goods in spades, Jim didn’t have goods of any suit. The fact was, Jim had bombed and Sandra held both their futures, literally, clamped between her chin and shoulder.
Sandra knew the precise moment she blew her final audition; she flubbed two difficult measures of her concerto—the fingered octaves were badly out of tune. Without even bothering to finish the phrase, Sandra strode off the stage, packed up her violin, and wordlessly walked past the other candidates waiting to play. They peppered questions at her back, because no one walked out like this unless they were crazy. As she pushed out the stage-entrance door, she saw Jim standing across the street. She smiled before he could, then shook her head. He stared at her in disbelief. Then, gathering her in his
arms, Jim pulled her close and stroked her hair. He murmured words of comfort into her ear and encouraged her to cry it out, right then and there. With dry eyes, Sandra rubbed her face into his neck and felt her heart beating faster than his while she mentally relived the audition. Maybe she was just a little bit crazy.
During the thirty-minute final round, Sandra had experienced an almost epic mastery over her violin. As if it were that fifth limb she’d manipulated with a child’s unselfconscious ease. How rare it was that she, or anyone for that matter, could achieve this alchemy of maturity and technical fireworks. At the same time, as she performed for the unseen jury, Sandra sensed an ache in her chest. Not pain or discomfort, but more a kind of nostalgia, like this moment was already in her past. Sadness broke through, as well. But she was playing a particularly melancholy section so in the moment of performing, all these sensations made sense. Then toward the end of her concerto she saw those octaves loom and strangely, her hearing began to diminish. The actual volume of her violin, though very near her left ear, became a whisper.
NO. The word—and she heard it as a warning—rankled her for half a second, but she continued to play with control and beauty. Then the word quickly ricocheted back: NO, NO, NO, NO. NO. And Sandra understood what she was meant to do. She played the octaves wrong, off by a mile. Intentionally. Small inaccuracies were acceptable during a concert performance, but in the context of an audition where the committee looked for any reason at all to eliminate, the mistake couldn’t be forgiven. She knew this very well. Which led to a rare moment of brutal realization. So swift, so stark. Sandra had never, ever wanted an orchestra job. This had always been Jim’s ambition for them both. So, having made her mistake, she abruptly stopped playing mid-phrase and immediately felt relief, almost joy. And when she walked past the aghast proctor, another prescient thought came: if she won a position, the weight of their disparate accomplishments—and talents—would become too much for Jim, and this would ultimately doom their marriage.
“What the hell happened in there?” Jim asked after she disengaged from his embrace.
“I completely collapsed,” she lied.
“That’s hard to believe. You’re like a rock.”
“To be honest, I never played so shitty.”
It was exactly what he needed. Sandra watched him recalculate and then smile broadly, which allowed her to wedge whatever guilt she felt to the back of her mind.
Fleet Week was on in San Francisco. They decided to distance themselves from Sandra’s morning flop and wander down to Fisherman’s Wharf to watch the spectacle of sailboats dotting the bay. Sitting at the end of the dock, they dangled their legs over the edge. The harbor smelled of diesel fuel mingled with fish. Sandra flinched from the odor and shivered from the strong wind off the water. She scooted closer to Jim and tucked herself next to his warmth. He took her hand and twisted the simple wedding band around her ring finger.
“So, what’s plan B?” he asked, clasping her fingers firmly into his.
That Jim could turn the page so easily gave her further encouragement. Sandra was sure they’d get on the other side of this in no time. She rubbed his thigh, her hand settling close to his crotch.
“Continue freelancing,” Sandra declared with an upbeat tone. “And keep working on the kid, for sure,” she added, turning to give him an impish smile.
Half a dozen rowdy sailors had circled them, crowding their intimate moment, and Jim didn’t respond immediately. Once the commotion died down, he stood, pulling Sandra to her feet.
“We can’t do that,” Jim said.
“What? Not freelance? We’re making the rent. And we just got health insurance,” she reasoned. “It’s going well, right?”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Well, what then?”
“I mean the kid.”
Sandra cocked her head in a question.
“It’s not possible,” he repeated.
“Jesus, Jim. I’m off the pill for months now. We agreed.”
She reached for him, but he backed away.
“I had a vasectomy. Before we met.”
Sandra almost laughed, and searched his face for the joke. But she didn’t recognize Jim’s expression: his mouth pursed and eyes flat. His Adam’s apple pumped once, the swallow his only signal of vulnerability. He blinked and looked away.
Sandra’s memory went into overdrive, mostly about the continuous sex they’d had, in service to, so she thought, getting pregnant. At least three nights a week. Many mornings, before either was fully awake. Sex to music because Jim preferred it. Sex to silence, when Sandra insisted on hearing their particular noise of passion. Rug burns when he took her on the floor. Aching muscles from positions she’d endured without so much as a peep. Regular cystitis her gynecologist warned was becoming a concern. Sex talk she couldn’t imagine coming from her own mouth (let alone her subconscious). The times she’d sensed that Jim was going through the motions. And now, no wonder.
They fought on and off over the next several days as she tried to convince Jim to reverse the procedure. But his only defense was, unequivocally, that he didn’t believe she actually wanted kids, either. And Sandra had to look at that, because Jim was one of the most perceptive people she’d ever known; he could dissect someone else’s interior life almost on the spot. Plus, there were so many things about their relationship that did suit Sandra. He left her alone. Didn’t hover. He cooked close to gourmet and was reasonably tidy around the house. He could fix stuff. They both read widely and continuously, a shared passion that was important to Sandra. And then there was the sex, which had always been pretty great. In the end, Jim provided so much juice to Sandra’s life it took her only a week to forgive him. Ironically, through this pivotal event in their young marriage, Sandra discovered the truth about her own ambition: it was immense and knew no bounds. Six months after she lied to Jim about her audition, she guilt-tripped him off the back of his vasectomy into buying the land, sight unseen, in Maine.
Sandra zipped through Oslo woods, maneuvering her motorbike this way and that, dodging trees, bushes, and most of the pits in the ground. Every half minute or so, Pierre checked his phone to track their location and scream fresh directions into Sandra’s ear: “Turn right here. Go up that hill. Slow down!” Though she had a general idea where the clearing was, Sandra was keen to follow Pierre’s instructions exactly. Giving a child decision-making power was a useful tactic she’d learned through teaching, and most of her students progressed more quickly when asked to set their own goals. Not surprisingly, as soon as Pierre saw that he was in control of his own improvement, he tore through his lessons and asked for more demanding tasks each week. With that power shift in place, he’d opened up to Sandra, broaching topics other than music, at times quite esoteric. Pierre was in the process of reading the entire Encyclopedia Britannica, and Sandra learned something from him at every lesson. That’s when she’d realized how truly curious Pierre was, which from her perspective was a sure predictor of fine musicianship.
Pierre tapped her head, a signal to stop. Sandra switched off the ignition and they dismounted. She got out a thermos of water from the saddlebag, which she always kept handy, and took a swig. Pierre wandered around for a while, turning in circles, looking at the sky, examining horizons.
“Anything?” she asked.
“Nope.” Pierre sighed with resignation.
“We just got here. Take your time,” she encouraged him.
“Does anybody even know we’re up here?” he asked, turning to face her.
“No.” She paused for a few seconds. “Does that bother you?”
“Not really. Kinda cool, actually.” Then a worried look crossed his face. “It’s just that I can’t remember if I told my mom.”
“She was asleep, so we didn’t. But I’m sure she’s okay.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“But you remember why we’re here, right?” Sandra asked.
“The shots … and look! I recog
nize the border posts!” he yelled, jumping up and down while pointing to the bright-red land markers.
Sandra had to laugh because within the first week of moving to Oslo, Claude had clarified the division of their properties by staking these red wooden posts every hundred yards. Jim saw the move as hostile, and she had to agree it was a pretty weird thing to do. And red? They looked like warning beacons in a sea of green: back the hell off. But she’d pleaded with Jim not to raise a fuss, as they were new to the area and unsure of town customs. More importantly, back then the Roys proved to be chilly neighbors, almost distrustful, and she didn’t want to test the waters about something that didn’t really impact their daily lives. Except Jim’s dignity. Then, the ice cracked during a particularly tough winter when Claude’s furnace broke down in below-zero temperatures. Because Celine was very pregnant with Pierre, Sandra invited them to stay over until repairs could be made. To her relief, a provisional détente began.
“Nobody does borders like your dad,” she said, chuckling.
“Is that a joke, Mrs. Kimbrough?”
“Yes, Pierre, that’s a joke. But they are a lovely color. Now, keep looking. I won’t bother you anymore.”
Sandra perched on the motorbike, and Pierre continued to explore. First, he examined the posts as if they were totems with his family history embedded under the red paint. He then scuffed about through low ground cover, searching for clues she couldn’t imagine. He consulted the image on his phone again and again, rechecking the horizons in every direction. And just as Sandra was about to suggest they return home, Pierre raced down the hill toward the clearing on Sandra’s land. She walked to the edge of the slope and easily located the stacked firewood, which she was relieved to see was sufficient for another winter. Before long, Pierre honed in on one area and began to kick dirt out of the way. Then he knelt to pick something up.
“Come here!” he called to her, waving his clamped hand.
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