Tallis' Third Tune

by Ellen L. Ekstrom

  When I woke, the record was skipping on the turntable and someone had thrown an afghan over us. I looked around and saw Quinn’s mother tidying the study, tiptoeing around in an impeccable Chanel suit and string of pearls.

  “I’m sorry – you two looked so sweet, I couldn’t resist tucking you in, and I didn’t want to wake you,” Mrs. Radcliffe said.

  “Here, let me help you,” I offered, sliding out of Quinn’s arms and kneeling before the record cabinet where she was slipping records back into their sleeves.

  “So you’re Alice,” Mrs. Radcliffe said, smiling. She was stunning in her beauty. The smile I knew was genuine – the eyes were Quinn’s. For once an adult didn’t take a disapproving measure of me, that dismissive flicker of eyes up and down, passing judgment, and she nodded at my dress. “The color suits you.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered, smoothing back my hair and my glance sliding nervously towards Quinn, who was snoring, of all things.

  “Quinn’s favorite color.”

  She winked and picked up the tray, raising perfectly arched brows and narrow chin in the direction of the stairs. I followed her downstairs to the kitchen. I expected to find a bistro at which famous personages were dining and drinking, perhaps Beethoven leading a night club band in a Rumba that was tried out on a dance floor by Queen Elizabeth the Second and Henry the Eighth while Julius Caesar and Bodicea shared a Camel cigarette, a Grey Goose martini. Or worse, be expelled from this house that was as dear to me as my own.

  No, it was the same bright kitchen with yellow walls and yellow gingham curtains, spotless white counter tops dotted with decorated Italian majolica tiles; the stainless steel kitchen table with a faux marble Formica top upon which sat ceramic salt and pepper shakers in shape of an apple and pear, the perfectly folded napkins in the wicker holder. It was a place that that invited one to sit and share a cup of coffee.

  Mrs. Radcliffe set about to wash dishes and I took a towel from the rack on the wall and stood next to her, waiting for the first dish.

  “Well this seems natural,” she commented, winking as she placed a dish in the drainer.

  “I always helped my mom,” I said, taking the warm plate and swiping the towel around it several times and placing it in a cupboard. Her brows arched when I opened a cupboard and set the plate on top of others just like it.

  Damn! I did that out of habit. I should not have done that!

  Of course I knew where the dishes went on the shelf; this had been my second home for almost four years and after my mother’s death a void was filled by this gentle, quiet woman, and especially by her son.

  “What was the cause of death?” Mrs. Radcliffe wanted to know. “The obituary didn’t say.”

  “Stroke – a cerebral hemorrhage is what they called it. It wasn’t enough that she had cancer.”

  “But she was so young!” Mrs. Radcliffe turned to look at me and I avoided her gaze, paying more attention than warranted to a green glass tumbler. “And your father?”

  “Left when I was five – that’s what I was told. He was an architectural engineer and worked in London after the war – reconstruction and all that. Didn’t come home one night.”

  “And your brother Dennis is now your guardian.”

  “Yes.”

  “Wasn’t he at school?”

  “Came home from Dartmouth. I didn’t want him – I didn’t expect that he would give up school.”

  I paused and carefully placed the tumbler down on the shelf beside its mate, turned away so she wouldn’t and couldn’t see the tears I was struggling to keep in. I didn’t cry. I wouldn’t cry.

  “Oh dear, I shouldn’t have – are you okay?” She turned me to face her and our eyes met. I usually looked away out of shyness, but I wanted to be held by those large, dark, eyes that reminded me so much of Quinn, and strangely enough, of my mother. I wanted her to comfort me as if I were her daughter.

  “Who’s not okay?”

  Quinn had entered the kitchen, yawning and rubbing his eyes. He grabbed a coffee mug from the shelf and in doing so, kissed the top of my head lightly. I blushed when I saw Mrs. Radcliffe watching, offering a wink. Spinning about to smile at Quinn, I was now face-to-face with Dennis in our Berkeley living room.

  “Dennis, I think I’m in love,” I blurted out.

  “Quinn? Yesterday’s news. I like boys,” he responded.

  “I know,” I said.

  “You knew?”

  I followed him back into the dining room, dumping on one of the window seats the carton of art supplies and sewing patterns he had handed me.

  “Of course – you played with my dolls – all your friends were guys who were good dressers and who liked musicals. I don’t know any guy that likes musicals, not even Quinn, and his musical tastes are interesting and scary at the same time. Denny, what is all this stuff?”

  “Today’s news, Faery Princess: I’m not going back to school.”

  “Dennis!” I exclaimed. “I thought you said you were transferring to Berkeley so we could stay together!”

  “I’ll go back in two years – I can reapply, or something. In two years, you’ll be out of the house and off to school yourself. Right now, you need someone to keep an eye on you.”

  “I behave – unfortunately – and I’m not a juvenile delinquent. I can take care of myself. I take care of this house and try to cook, don’t I?”

  “Not what I meant, Alice. I don’t like the idea of you going to live with relatives we don’t know and don’t care about us enough to come to a funeral.”

  “What are we going to do for money?” I asked as we knelt to sort out sketchbooks. “Mom’s lawyer says we can’t touch the trust money until we’re twenty-five. The social security money I get isn’t enough to get by. At least we could get by on your student loan and my after school job.”

  He waved his hands. “Look around you.”

  The dining room table my mother had crafted in a carpentry class was cluttered with even more sketchbooks and fabric swatches. The cover on Mother’s sewing machine had been opened. Where the pieces to my dress had once been stacked on the pull-out shelf, there were silk ties. The colors were vibrant, the fabric unconventional for men’s ties – calicos and Liberty of London prints, bold geometrics devised by patching different fabric pieces together, the designs daring.

  “You’re going to design men’s clothes?”

  Dennis picked up a sketchbook. “And theatrical costumes for the local companies. You make it look so easy, Alice, and you can help with the history and authenticity!”

  I nodded approvingly of the drawing – a medieval prince – and from over the top of the book I saw the first floor of the high school, the hallway outside my locker. Quinn was coming out of a classroom down the hall from where I sat in a corner with my sketchbook and pencil. A boy from the jazz ensemble came dashing out of the classroom and spun Quinn around, blocking his path.

  “What now? Don’t you listen?” Quinn was saying and trying to get away.

  “Yeah, well, you’re going to have to do some explaining,” the other sniped, trying to grab his arm. Quinn shoved him off.

  “I’m done with the whole scene!” Quinn shouted.

  “Don’t think this is the end of it, Radcliffe!”

  “It’s not worth the aggravation – get yourself another fucking bass player!”

  The outburst was uncharacteristic and shocking. Students and teachers stared and a few glanced sympathetically in my direction. I started drawing again and pretended to ignore them, refused to acknowledge them or offer an explanation because I would have none. Life went back to usual when Quinn joined me in my corner.

  “I guess things aren’t working out as a math tutor,” I murmured.

  “Don’t have the interest, or the time. Did you have lunch?”

  “No – are you buying?” I held up the sketchbook and asked, “What do you think? A costume for Romeo for the spring play.”

  “That’s pretty good – hey! Is that m
e?” Quinn laughed.

  “What do you think?” I giggled.

  “I think you’re good. Come for a walk with me.”

  He helped me up and we headed towards the music room where Quinn muttered greetings at fellow orchestra and jazz ensemble members, tactfully ignoring the stares a few boys were burning into me as we went past them to a stairwell, not to mention the whistles and solicitations a few offered.

  “I’m not supposed to be in here,” I protested as we went into the “Boy’s Band Room” at the end of a twisting corridor.

  Without switching on the lights Quinn went over to his locker and spun the dial on the combination lock. He shoved the band uniform and musical instrument cases back into the locker when they started spilling out, and then pulled out a gift-wrapped package, which he held up with one hand, beckoning me out of the doorway with the other.

  “Collins is in the teacher’s lounge for another twenty minutes and he wouldn’t say anything if he caught us. C’mere,” he said.

  “Are you sure this is okay?”

  “Yes – now, c’mon, Alice! I’ve got a present for you and you won’t be able to see if you don’t come a little closer.”

  “What is it?”

  “Open it and find out.”

  While I opened the package Quinn stood close, a hand on my shoulder. “I wanted to give you a ring or a pin, something more traditional, but I thought this would do.”

  “Vaughan Williams!” I exclaimed at the sight of two record albums; “The Fantasia – the music soundtrack from Romeo and Juliet!!”

  “In honor of our first date, Alice,” he said softly. “That’s when I knew.”

  “Tell me,” I implored, moving closer and placing a hand on his broad chest that happily he took.

  “That I wanted you for a girlfriend. I’m asking if you’ll go steady. When I get some money, I’ll buy you a ring or something.”

  “I was hoping you’d ask so I could tell you yes,” I whispered.

  When Quinn moved in for a kiss, I felt my heart pounding and felt more alive than I thought was possible. The disappointment was palpable when after feeling his lips on mine I opened my eyes and saw The Proprietress and not Quinn.

  “It’s time!”

  “Time for what?” I demanded.

  “I think you have it in abundance.”

  The man’s voice startled me. Turning about, I faced him. He was familiar: slate gray eyes, tall and thin (boney would be a better word), dressed in late fifteenth century garb and fidgeting with rings on his fingers. He was handsome with fine features. The portraits didn’t do him justice. King Richard the Third of England smiled back as I gaped at him.

  “Stop looking, Alice,” he quipped with a wink.

  “Looking for what?”

  “The hump.”

  “I wasn’t!”

  “That was an invention – and a cruel one.”

  “Indeed so,” sighed a nun in twelfth-century garb. She had skin as porcelain and pure as her habit and wimple, the veil covering her hair falling in precise folds around her beautiful face. I knew this woman, too. Hildegard von Bingen patted my cheek as she passed by to the flower boxes.

  Richard the Third pulled out a chair at the table beside mine, reaching behind him for a mug of coffee. He unfolded a copy of The New York Times and sighed, turning to the crossword puzzle. I heard him mutter, “A five letter word for equine . . . a horse, a horse…” Hildegard von Bingen was putting fresh freesias into the cut glass vases and as I followed The Proprietress to the counter, she handed me a bouquet and said, “He’s been working on that puzzle for centuries.”

  I was breathing in the fragrance of the flowers when the lapis book was placed on the glass counter top. The Proprietress looked at me, and then at the book, again, at me.

  “Well?” she hissed. From around her neck she took a key.

  “So that’s where it’s been,” I murmured.

  “All you needed to do was ask, Alice!”

  My hands trembled as I fumbled for the lock, and as the key turned smoothly, I felt ethereal, joyous.

  As I opened the volume, I saw my left hand take up a pen and noticed the heavy wedding ring on the third finger, weighed down by emeralds and an engagement ring just as large. I glanced up, hopefully, and saw my husband. A moment of uncertainty and nervousness passed just as quickly as it arrived and I signed my name next to his on the certificate, and then in a register. The priest quickly signed his name beside ours and handed back my bridal bouquet – a sheath of yellow and white roses with calla lilies.

  “Congratulations!” Dennis called as we left the chapel and closed our eyes as rice showered down upon us. I stopped when I heard him and allowed my precious wedding dress to be crushed in his embrace. “I hope you’ll be as happy as Harry and me.”

  A limousine waited for us in the street. We were in New York, and my husband’s family gathered about as my husband helped me into the car. I caught a reflection of myself and saw the heavy lace dress cut in the line of a fourteenth century gown with train, tight-fitting sleeves with bell-shaped cuffs, and a simple veil with coronet on my hair. I had designed this dress when I was nineteen, anticipating a wedding in my future, but here I was twenty-six and I had indeed been married.

  Once my dress and train had been gathered up in the back seat of the limousine, the doors slammed shut and I suddenly felt trapped. People were taking photos and waving, shouting wishes of good fortune.

  I noticed him as we pulled away and started into traffic.

  I gasped, and my husband laughed softly. “Did I bite you?” he murmured into my neck. “You do look good enough to eat!”

  How could I tell my husband of less than an hour that I had seen Quinn Radcliffe on the edge of the crowd?

  Chapter 4

  “Back to the Shop, I suppose?”

  The Proprietress was looking in the rear-view mirror at me.

  The limousine was driving slowly through a landscape that changed from a quaint and picturesque New England village to a cemetery in California, the scenery melting as if the sun was scorching it, colors blending and bleeding together, swirling in all directions, like a psychedelic light-show from the ‘60s.

  “No,” I murmured, and wiped condensation from the limousine window to get a better look at a funeral party.

  “Not yet? Very well!” The Proprietress snapped and sped up. She suddenly slammed on the brakes and I knew at that moment that this was how I had died, if I died at all, or this would be the moment of my death: I was killed in an auto accident, propelled from the back seat of a limousine and through a windshield.

  The horrible pain and shattering of glass didn’t come. But there was a blinding light that was painful and instinctively I threw my hands up to my face.

  Familiar sounds and scents came to me now: the smell of floor wax and woolen fabric, the sound of classes changing and the slam of a door, the echoes of feet on the raked wooden floor of the school auditorium stage. I opened my eyes to see the dark stage upon which a single spotlight shone, and sitting in the middle of that white circle was Quinn, in rehearsal with the high school chamber orchestra and the music director, Mr. Collins. He was playing Bach’s Wachet Auf, Ruft uns die Stemme – in English, Sleepers Awake. Sitting in the front row of the balcony, I wasn’t close enough to see the gently furrowed brow as Quinn concentrated and paid close attention to instructions and encouragement. I’d seen him rehearse more than a dozen times, and knew how it would be. The light threw dark and frightening shadows on his face, and his curling hair danced and fell across his forehead as the bow was drawn back and forth in precise strokes and flourishes, making exquisite music. When the last note drifted into silence Quinn leaned back in his chair, all his energy sapped, emotionally and physically drained. I wanted to stand up and applaud, but from stage right there came slow, deliberate clapping. I couldn’t see who it was, but Quinn shot up and looked backstage, as did everyone else, waiting.

  “Now, let’s hear it done righ
t!”

  Andrew Radcliffe, M.A., Ph.D., came on stage and stood over his son.

  “On the contrary, that’s the best I’ve heard a student play in years,” Mr. Collins spoke up. He leaned forward and patted Quinn’s shoulder, saying, “Good job, Radcliffe.”

  “Quinn isn’t just a student – he’s got a future in the performing arts,” the professor said. “Half-assed isn’t a ticket to first chair or concert master – or conductor.”

  “Dad, please,” Quinn sighed. “I hit every note, didn’t miss a beat.”

  “Did you now? Let’s hear it again.”

  I didn’t want to be there, and when I rose to leave, I stumbled and my school bag thudded to the floor. Quinn noticed me and was about to get up when his father shoved him back into the chair.

  “Again!” the professor shouted.

  “Look, I’m not going to…” Mr. Collins protested.

  “You don’t have to. I’ll accompany him.”

  Mr. Collins hesitated and then said, “Excellent rehearsal, ladies and gentlemen. We’ll leave Professor Radcliffe and Quinn. Quinn, see you tomorrow?”

  “Right – thanks,” Quinn muttered, ignoring the stares as students and teacher filed out quietly. “Dad, what happened to our agreement?” Quinn started when they thought they were alone, his voice on edge. “You said you weren’t going to come to rehearsals – you promised Mom.”

  “The Royal Philharmonic wants to see you again,” the Professor said. “Are we going to pass that up because you don’t want a dressing down in front of your friends and inferiors?”

  “It isn’t that – I’ll see you at home.” Quinn pushed himself out of his chair.

  “SIT DOWN!” the professor bellowed, his voice reverberating through the auditorium.

  From up in the light box above the balcony, I could hear the sniggering and remarks from the stage crew, two boys who were lower on the social scale and high school food chain than Quinn, but found amusement in teasing him none-too-softly.