Dancing With Chairs in the Music House

by Caro Soles

  “Stay away from that boy,” Mother says.

  “But I have to explain—”

  “I’ll talk to his mother.”

  “Oh no! I mean, I don’t think he wants her to know…. I mean…”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t.” Mother stands up and puts the note away in her pocket. She has that fierce closed-in look that means that no amount of talking will change her mind. I’ll never get to see what the note says now. Mother sends me back to bed.

  In spite of worrying about Brian, I fall asleep again, and this time I sleep till I hear Daddy and Jonathan coming back from church. Something about Mother’s voice as she greets them at the door sets the worms of anxiety crawling in my stomach. She’s telling them about the note. I glance at the alarm clock on the table and realize Brian and his mother may be back from church too. Unless they went out to lunch. He told me they do that often. Going out to lunch is something we rarely do, except for when Mother and I go to the Honey Dew on Bloor Street as a special treat. I love that orangey drink and the cone-like waxy bottle it comes in if you want to take some home. Somehow I don’t think Mrs. Pierce would like the Honey Dew much.

  I get up and wash my face and pull on my faded dress with the pockets. I am just putting on my shoes when I hear the living room door open.

  “…And we passed Brian going out when we came in,” Jonathan is saying.

  “You should stay out of it, dear.” That’s Daddy. “It’s not our business.”

  “She’s his mother. She should know,” Mother says firmly. “If it was me, I would want to know.”

  “If it was you, you would know,” Daddy says.

  “That note’s ambiguous anyway,” Jonathan says, but Mother has apparently decided to ignore them. I hear her heels on the thin carpet as she marches down the hall to the doorway where the stairs lead to the third floor.

  “It’s none of our business,” Jonathan calls after her. He slams the door.

  But it is as if Brian is stealing Helen out from under Jonathan’s nose!

  I wait a few moments, then slip into the hall in time to see Baggy Bones withdrawing her head into her own room. What will she tell Marie about this? I go out to the porch and climb up the iron ladder to the third floor. The roof is in shadow now, the sun just beginning to inch across the open space as I slip quickly into the embrasure beside the bow window. I can’t see anything from here, but the window is open and I can already hear Mother’s voice at the door with Mrs. Pierce, exchanging strained pleasantries.

  “Do come in,” Mrs. Pierce says. Her voice doesn’t sound very inviting.

  “This is a lovely room,” Mother says. “And what a beautiful instrument.” She is right by the window now. She must be looking at the harpsichord. I hear a faint tinkle and picture her fingers caressing the black keys.

  “It gets out of tune very easily,” Mrs. Pierce says, and I hear a quiet thunk as the lid closes over the keys.

  I shift in my seat, inching further out from the wall on my bottom. From here I can just see them, both still standing, looking warily at each other.

  “Is there something I can do for you?” Mrs. Pierce asks.

  “I’m sorry to disturb your Sunday,” Mother says. “I see you’re busy with correspondence. But I’m concerned about your son.”

  “Brian?” Her voice slides up in surprise, and her body stiffens.

  “There’s no delicate way to put this. I’ll just give you this note and you can see for yourself.” I hold my breath as she hands over Brian’s note. “I found this in my daughter’s pocket and I thought you should know.”

  “I should know what?” Mrs. Pierce glances at the letter, then at Mother.

  “If my son were writing that kind of a letter, I would want to know,” Mother says, her voice slow, emphatic, as if she’s weighing every word.

  “Why, whatever are you implying?”

  Mother clears her throat. “It’s unhealthy, for one thing. And illegal!” she added. “Of course, I’m sure it’s only a phase he’s going through, but in any case I don’t want him involving my daughter in this subterfuge.”

  Mrs. Pierce laughs.

  “Read the letter,” Mother says, “and you’ll see.”

  I watch Brian’s mother scan the note, her red lips pursed. She lifts a long white hand to her perfect hair, tangling her fingers in her curls. Her eyes flash fire as she looks at Mother and laughs in her face. “You fool,” she says. “You think you know Brian? Me? What’s best for us? You are a meddling fool! He has me! He doesn’t need anyone else! Now get out of my house!”

  “Mrs. Pierce, I’m sorry to be the bringer of bad news—”

  “This? This is nothing. It means less than nothing! It does not even exist!” She throws the letter up in the air and laughs again, her voice high and shaky.

  “Perhaps I’d better go,” Mother says, edging towards the door.

  “What a bloody good idea!” Mrs. Pierce shouts. She slams the door behind Mother, then turns and leans against it for a moment without moving. Her face is whiter than ever, a high spot of colour on each cheek.

  When at last she moves, she swoops down on the letter where it has fallen on the carpet near the bed. She drops it in the large overflowing ashtray and lights a match. She stands for a long moment as the match burns ever closer to her fingers, then touches the flame to the paper. She watches the note burn, the corners curling inward, dropping into ash.

  “He has me,” she growls. “He doesn’t need anyone else.”

  I scoot backwards along the roof and slide onto the iron ladder. My heart is beating hard in my throat, and it’s difficult to swallow. I feel as if something dark and scary is inching under my skin. As I climb down to the porch, I hear Mother calling my name. I lean over the closest window box, wipe a tear away, and study the flowers.

  “Out here,” I call. My voice sounds small and timid. I’m glad when Mother comes out and sits down in our Muskoka chair and draws me onto her lap. I know I’m too old for this, but right now I want it. I want to feel close and warm and safe. I want the dark itching to go away.

  23. THE RECITAL

  FOR THE NEXT FEW DAYS, Mother doesn’t let me out of her sight. I am desperate to talk to Brian, to tell him it wasn’t my fault, that I was sick, that I didn’t betray him. But I did betray him, in spite of everything I tell myself. Whatever he was trying to keep secret, now my mother knows. His mother knows. Only I don’t know. I feel stupid and slow.

  The next few days pass in a whirl of unusual activity. There are my new glasses to get and appointments with St. Mildred’s. Mother takes me with her everywhere, even to visit the twins to make the final arrangements for her to take care of them next month. By Wednesday night, I am filled to the top with so many conflicting feelings that the excitement is almost making me sick. Jonathan hasn’t mentioned university again, and Mother seems to have forgotten about it. I know she hasn’t, though. I suspect she thinks he will change his mind, but I have heard him make a few telephone calls that prove he intends to go through with it. He will have a new life next year. I keep quiet and think about my own new life.

  We get to Eaton Auditorium early and go backstage. I see Brian for the first time since being sick. He looks tense, but that’s not surprising. His mother is here, of course, talking animatedly to some man in formal wear. I see Angelica too, and she waves. She’s wearing her good luck bracelet. She’s the only girl on the program. The fourth person is Frederick Ascher. Jonathan said he’s the oldest, but he doesn’t look it. He’s slouching on a straight chair and chewing his fingernails, and he doesn’t even glance up when someone speaks to him. Rona Layne walks in wearing an emerald-green velvet gown with black trim. She has a jewel in her hair. On her tiny feet are matching beaded slippers like the ones I found in the trunk in the basement of the Music House. I look away.

  By the time we sit down, the Sulliva
ns are here, and Janet and I whisper together. I tell her about being sick and the fiasco with the note.

  “What did it say?” Janet asks.

  “I don’t know, but Mother was really cross. She went upstairs to talk to Mrs. Pierce, and it was terrible. Mrs. Pierce slammed the door on her.”

  “In her face?”

  “No, on her way out.”

  “But what did they say? What was in the note?”

  “Something illegal,” I whisper.

  Even Janet has no comeback to this. “Maybe he’s a smuggler,” she says at last, and I think of the artwork at Ryan’s Art Gallery next door to us and wonder how easy it would be to slice a canvas out of its frame and slip it into his music case.

  “Well, he can’t be very good at it,” I say, “or they’d have more money, wouldn’t they?”

  We stop talking as the lights go down. Around us I see some of the men have taken out small pads to make notes in. They must be the critics and important people Mother has been talking about. These are the men she is counting on to change Jonathan’s mind by raving about his performance. They have a lot of influence in the music world, she says. Surely that’s why he is going through with it. Maybe it’s like my Fate Game, where I decide the future by telling myself that if I see a robin in the next two minutes or if I hear Taffy Layne bark, something I want really badly will happen. Maybe Jonathan is doing this with the reviews; if they are good, his new life will be in the music world after all, just as Mother wants it to be.

  Jonathan is first on the program. I don’t know if this is bad or good for him, but I’m sure I would be glad to get it over with. He is not wearing his glasses, and it makes him look different. I wonder if this was Mother’s idea or Miss Layne’s. While he plays, I glance at Mother. She looks supremely happy. Daddy is holding her hand.

  The nail-biter is next. He has bad acne and has tried to hide it with some skin-coloured pasty stuff that doesn’t quite match the rest of his face. His hair is plastered to his skull, parted in the middle like some man in a Victorian portrait. He sits for a moment, staring ahead, then shrugs his shoulders a few times and flexes his fingers. He is skinny, but when he finally touches the keys, there is real power. It’s surprising. I look at the man in front, and he is scribbling frantically in his notebook. I hope he had something good to say about Jonathan.

  Mother is relaxed now that Jonathan has finished, and she reaches over and squeezes my hand. Janet is fidgeting. I stare at the folds in the curtain closest to us. I wonder if it makes a noise when it closes, how you get the dust out for spring cleaning. The longer I stare, the more a faint pattern emerges, like ripples in the deep velvet. Like the tide coming in.

  When Angelica comes on stage, Janet nudges me. I know she’s looking at the bracelet too. Angelica looks smaller up there, standing next to the shiny black hulk of the concert grand. She’s wearing a red taffeta dress that goes right to the floor, and she obviously isn’t binding her boobies. Janet looks at me and grins, reading my thoughts. Angelica sits down, tosses back her long glorious hair, and puts her palms together as if in prayer before touching the keys. She has decided to go for the playful approach in the music she chose. Or perhaps Miss Layne chose it. With Jonathan, it seemed to be a discussion between the two of them. Angelica is playing something modern that I don’t recognize, but it holds my attention. Mother shakes her head as if she doesn’t like it.

  By the time we get to Brian, the evening seems long. I am looking forward to the reception. Jonathan said closing the evening is a strong position, but I’m not so sure. Brian walks on quickly, bows, and sits down, pausing briefly to adjust the bench. In contrast to Frederick, the nail-biter, his colour is high. His cheeks are flushed, and his green eyes sparkle. The stage lights dance in the gold in his hair. He attacks the piano with gusto, waking up the woman behind me who makes a harrumphing noise. Mother grins. Janet sticks her elbow in my ribs. I cover my mouth so as not to snort. Brian crashes on, triumphant. It is Mrs. Pierce’s turn to be filled with joy.

  Afterwards, all four of them come out on stage along with Rona Layne, and a young man in a red cummerbund presents everyone with flowers. It seems odd to give flowers to boys, but they seem happy so I guess it’s all right.

  The applause goes on for a while, but it is writ large in the program that there will be no encores. I’m glad of this because I’m hungry. I’ve never been to such a big recital before and am hoping for grand things at the reception.

  Although I was a bit sleepy earlier, I am wide awake now as we make our way through the crowd to the room where the reception is. It feels special to be going to an invitation-only event, but it looks as if no one is actually checking invitations. Still, one does have to know about it, I guess, so that’s special enough.

  As soon as we get through the wide door, I see Brian and slip over to talk to him while Mother is busy looking for Jonathan.

  “You were wonderful,” I say, and I mean it. “I’m sorry I was sick and couldn’t deliver your message.” I whisper this last part, and he leans closer to hear.

  “Never mind. It doesn’t matter anymore.” He looks over my shoulder, scanning the room as if looking for someone more interesting to talk to.

  “I’m really sorry Mother found the note,” I go on. “She shouldn’t have read it. And no one wanted her to show your mother, honestly, but—”

  “What?” His full attention snaps back to me. “What?” he repeats.

  I step back. “I couldn’t help it. I was sick!”

  “Oh, God,” he says. “Well, that explains a few things.” He lets out a bark of laughter, takes a silver flask from his inside pocket, and drinks from it. “That’s life.” He turns away suddenly, pushing through the crowd.

  Stunned, I just stand there, looking after him.

  “You should have introduced me,” Janet hisses, at my side. “That was rude.”

  “The time was not propitious.” I take her hand, and we weave our way to the food table.

  “He really is dreamy, isn’t he?” She’s gazing after him as if he’s the Messiah.

  I poke her in the ribs. “Don’t stare.”

  “How come he’s mad at you?” she says. “You were sick. You couldn’t help it.”

  “He’s not,” I say, but I’m not sure.

  “Maybe the Mystery Woman is here anyway.” Janet looks around, although how she would possibly recognize the Mystery Woman is beyond me.

  I shrug. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I pile my plate high with different kinds of pinwheel sandwiches as well as two finger-sized slices of pound cake. We are guests here so I can eat all I like. Eating will make me feel better.

  A man in some sort of uniform fills a glass cup with sparkling punch from a huge bowl and then makes a shooing motion with his hand. That’s just rude. He wouldn’t do that if Mother was beside me. I want to tell him that I’m an invited guest, that my brother was one of the performers, but instead I turn my back on him and move away from the table, head held high.

  “Who does he think he is?” Janet mutters. “A high mucky muck?”

  “Too big for his boots.” I cram a whole sandwich into my mouth and make appreciative noises.

  Janet does the same.

  We look at each other and grin.

  Soon after that, her mother comes to collect her, and I watch them disappear in the direction of the big double doors. Around me the room shimmers with the noise of conversations. Light sparkles on the chandeliers. Perfumes mingle in the warm air, adding another layer to the pungent odours of food, sweat, and aftershave. Faces are getting red and shiny in the heat. Everyone looks happy, even Frederick who is shaking hands with some man with a bowtie. I wonder where his parents are.

  I find Mother and Daddy talking to Rona Layne.

  “This has been such a wonderful night,” Mother is saying as she shakes Miss Layne’s hand. />
  “It’s the first major step in what I am sure will be a great career for Jonathan,” Miss Layne says, covering Mother’s hand with her own.

  I look at Mother, waiting for her to break the news that Jonathan is not going on with his music, but she is beaming with pride and only nods in agreement. Rona Layne smiles and smiles before moving on to Angelica’s father.

  I pull at Mother’s sleeve. “Why didn’t you tell her what Jonathan said?” I whisper.

  “That was just nerves talking,” Mother says. “You’ll see. He’ll change his mind, now that everything went so well.”

  I look around, trying to spot the men with the notebooks, but they have gone. I guess they have to write their reviews. Jonathan says sometimes they write them in a taxi on the way to the newspaper office.

  Jonathan is in a group by the podium, talking to Helen. Brian is with them. I see him pull the silver flask from his pocket and take another drink. He begins talking animatedly to a man who looks vaguely familiar. As I stare across the room, I realize it’s the man who sings in our church choir, the dark-haired one who looks like a Velázquez painting. As I watch, Brian takes yet another drink. I guess he’s still angry with me. It’s not my fault about the note, I want to shout, but of course I don’t.

  Mrs. Pierce seems giddy with joy. She smiles at Mother and laughs, that tinkling false laugh of hers that grates on my ears.

  “Brian is so talented,” she says. “Sometimes I can’t even believe he’s mine. Closing the program too. Such a good choice.”

  Brian is close enough to hear this and scowls at his mother. “I am not yours,” he says loudly.

  Mrs. Pierce laughs again. “You know what I mean, dear,” she says.

  “I certainly do,” says Brian, and turns his back on her.

  Mother takes my hand and turns away. “There’s no excuse for bad manners,” she mutters to Daddy, who shrugs and suggests we go home.