A Song for the Road

by Kathleen Basi

  Which meant she had to beat him.

  And finally, in the spring of her first year at Curtis, she did.

  That night in Boston, she wore a shimmery gown she’d found in a secondhand shop that was revealing, but not trashy. Gus played right before her, and as they traded spaces in the wings, he did a double take. She paused and gave him her Elizabeth Bennet smile—I am not like all those other shallow, simpering girls—and swayed out onto the stage, aware of his eyes on her body the entire way.

  The bench still radiated the warmth of his body. She took the energy of that sensation and channeled it all into her performance. And when she finished, with fire and desire blazing through her, she’d known—known—that this time, this one time, she’d bested him.

  “You were amazing!” he greeted her in the wings, putting both hands on her shoulders and kissing her cheek. “I’ve never heard Piazzolla played like that except by a professional. Come on—I’m taking you to dinner.”

  Cheeks burning, blood racing, Miriam said yes before she had time to consider playing harder to get. What else was she going to do tonight? Go back to her cheap motel and eat the Ramen noodles she’d packed to keep expenses down? Call Mom and Dad and have the sweet triumph of beating Gus—not just beating, but absolutely clobbering him—ruined by their lukewarm compliments?

  She finally had his attention, here in a city far from his sycophantic fan club. No way would she blow that opportunity. Time to embrace the moment.

  Dominoes.

  13

  MIRIAM SAT IN THE car by herself for nearly ten minutes, wet and shivering, before the rain eased off and Dicey came out. The whole time, her phone, upside down in the storage area between the seats, kept lighting up, causing the stack of CDs below it to glow.

  Dicey closed the door and maneuvered her backpack into the space at her feet. “I found a scrapbooking app,” she announced. “Already got started. Want to see?”

  Miriam oohed appropriately at the simple layouts Dicey had created while waiting inside.

  Dicey clicked her phone off, plugged it into the charger, and fixed her gaze on Miriam. “So what’s up?”

  “Nothing.”

  Dicey adopted a cocky demeanor. “Please. I mean, I know I’ve only known ya for, like, nine hours. But I gotta say …” She dropped the act. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Dicey stared at her for a long moment. Then she coughed into her shoulder. “Okay, then, if you’re not in a talking mood, we might as well get going.”

  Miriam started the car and backed out. She merged onto the highway, where the spray from big trucks turned the taillights ahead of her into long streaks of red. She twisted the dial on the windshield wipers to keep up.

  Dicey was annoyed with her. The silent treatment, the folded arms, the conspicuous lack of phone usage—it was classic passive-aggressive teenage crap. Talia had been a pro, but Miriam had eventually learned how to ignore it.

  Of course, look where that had gotten her with Talia. Teo had never ignored Talia’s moods. He’d always cajoled her, made her laugh, pulled her out of it. No wonder she’d been so fiercely loyal to him.

  Maybe this was a chance to redeem herself. To be more like Teo. To meet someone on their terms instead of hers. She cleared her throat. “Look, I wasn’t prepared for that phone call. That’s all.”

  Dicey regarded her coolly. “Bad news?”

  Gus von Rickenbach was bad news, categorically, but not the kind Dicey meant. “It was the coordinator of the competition my kids went out to California for last spring.”

  “Oh.” Dicey’s body language softened. “They both went?”

  Miriam nodded. “They both won their divisions in a regional music competition last year—”

  “Define division.”

  “Blaise won piano solo, Talia won strings.”

  “Okay.”

  “So they went to nationals together. It was kind of a big deal, having two kids from the same family there. And twins, no less.”

  A semi roared past, kicking up a curtain of water. Miriam grabbed the wheel as the draft tried to suck her in. “I found out a few months ago that Blaise e-mailed Gus—the coordinator—ahead of time. He was asking for feedback on this sonata he was writing.”

  “The one you’re supposed to be finishing.”

  Miriam cut her a glance. They hadn’t talked about that, had they?

  Dicey spread her hands. “I Googled you.”

  So Dicey had seen Ella Evil’s write-up. “What wasn’t in that story is that I was supposed to join them afterward. We were going to celebrate my birthday with a camping trip. But …”

  But then Gus happened.

  “I got sick,” she said. The lie wormed its way around her belly. If she couldn’t tell the truth now, when would she? But Teo had come up with that particular fiction when they realized going to California would mean confronting Gus. It all would have come out then.

  “This isn’t how they should find out,” he’d said, and even now she agreed. But she would forever regret not having the chance to do it right.

  Was it possible Blaise suspected? Surely not.

  She couldn’t decide whether to be proud of him for having the guts to reach out to someone with as high a profile as Gus von Rickenbach, or pained that he’d done so without telling her. Which, it hurt to admit, seemed to be a pattern.

  This is exceptional work, Gus’s e-mail read. You have a lot of potential. I’d love to sit down with you and talk after the competition, but let me point out a few things to be thinking about in the meantime … He’d proceeded to do a detailed analysis of the sonata’s every weakness. Miriam wanted to scratch his eyes out for criticizing her child, but she couldn’t. Point for point, he was on target. Every time she worked on it herself, she heard his voice saying “derivative … fresher harmony will take you to unexpected places …”

  Dicey sat in the passenger seat, waiting patiently. “Anyway,” Miriam said, “that weekend in San Francisco, Blaise apparently hit it off with Gus.”

  The phone lit up again. Dicey eyed it. “That’s probably him.”

  “Of course it is.”

  Dicey frowned. “I don’t understand why you’re so freaked out about talking to him.”

  Miriam shifted her weight. “He’s kind of a big deal these days. He’s written … some music.” Well, it was true, wasn’t it? “He teaches at the San Francisco Conservatory along with his wife. She’s an opera singer. I just don’t like feeling overshadowed, okay?”

  “But why would you feel over—oh. You know him, don’t you?”

  Miriam’s shoulders tightened. “I knew him. A long time ago.”

  “Ooh.” Dicey regarded her with a speculative gleam in her eye. “Were you a thing?”

  Miriam scowled.

  Dicey clapped her hands. “Oh, now I get it! Were you in school together?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he better than you?”

  Miriam’s fingers hurt. She relaxed her grip on the steering wheel. “Not always. Not at the end.”

  “Hmm. And he doesn’t remember you?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Ouch.”

  Understatement of the year. How could Gus not know who she was? He’d managed to find out she was trying to finish the sonata, so he must have done some research. But if he’d connected Miriam Tedesco with the Mira Lewis he’d slept with at Curtis, surely he would have led with it!

  She hated this slimy feeling. Hated how it had glommed onto her now, when she’d been truly focused on Teo. For one moment, back there in line at Walgreen’s, she’d been on the verge of something profound.

  And Gus just barged in. How typical.

  Dicey twirled the string of beads on her backpack. “So he’s a big deal, and you were as good as he was. So that means you were, like, a real musician.”

  Dicey had a way of sparking her sense of humor at the most unexpected times. Miriam felt the corner of her mouth twitch. “As
opposed to a church musician, you mean?”

  “Woman, don’t you go putting words in my mouth. I’m trying to say, if you’re freaked out because your ex-boyfriend doesn’t realize who you are, then tell him already. He’ll be so embarrassed, you’ll have the upper hand.”

  Miriam chuckled mirthlessly. Tell him already, Dicey said, as if she hadn’t been wrestling with exactly that question for seventeen years.

  “I’m just saying, if that’s what’s bothering you—”

  “That’s not what’s bothering me.” Not exactly. For twenty years, she’d known everything about him that could be gleaned from a web search. When he canceled a performance or won an award, she knew. When his parents got sick, she knew. What if she’d been so insignificant on his playboy radar that he didn’t remember her at all?

  Dicey tapped her phone on her palm. “Y’know,” she said, “I don’t want to be pushy, but you’re being dumb.”

  “Don’t pull your punches now. Tell me what you really think.”

  “I’m serious. What if he can help you get your son’s music out there? You don’t want to squander the opportunity.”

  Having said her piece, Dicey disappeared into her phone. Rain hissed beneath the tires. All at once, weariness descended like a veil, burying Miriam’s ability to think. In the past twelve hours, she’d picked up a hitchhiker, found out her son was gay—maybe—and was bullied—definitely—and fielded a phone call from the person she’d been simultaneously stalking and trying to avoid for twenty years.

  No wonder she was exhausted.

  Maybe Dicey was right. Maybe she should talk to him. Just get it over with, so she could finally move on.

  But she couldn’t be sure right now. And she’d already wasted so much emotional bandwidth on Gus von Rickenbach. All of it at the expense of a man who’d loved her with a devotion she’d never returned.

  “No,” she said now. “I’m not getting distracted this time. I’m not out here to obsess about Gus. This time is for my family.”

  Dicey looked up, raised her eyebrows, and shrugged. “Okay.”

  Miriam focused her attention ahead, relieved for the reprieve. Gus wasn’t going anywhere. In a day or two, she could try to sort out that rat’s nest. Tonight and tomorrow, she had one purpose: to honor her family.

  14

  THEY’D MISSED THE LAST Greyhound of the day, so the women decided to split a hotel room in Cincinnati. As soon as they got inside, Dicey lugged her suitcase and backpack into the bathroom. The shower turned on, soon followed by loud music. Very loud. What in the world? Did she think Miriam was likely to abscond with all her earthly possessions?

  It was not the first time Miriam had found herself befuddled by the younger generation.

  She threw her keys and wallet on the nightstand and, drawn by a need stronger than reason, pulled out Talia’s laptop.

  She’d never posted photos from Green Bank. The visit to the giant radio telescope already seemed like the distant past, but she’d spent the money, so she might as well upload them. Then she turned her attention to tomorrow’s itinerary. Miriam went down half a dozen rabbit holes while investigating the possibilities. Teo had often done this at the dinner table, clicking one interesting and semi-related link after another while she scolded him to put the phone away. She never won because the truth was they all enjoyed it.

  Miriam clicked a new post.

  Fun facts about Cincinnati: The Reds always open the season at home, because they were the first pro baseball team. The suspension bridge that crosses the river here was the model for the Brooklyn Bridge. (Take that, New York!) And—are you ready for this? There is a house here shaped like a mushroom.

  She attached a link to prove it, smiling as she posted. But the words looked frivolous on the blue-and-white screen. The real reason the computer had called her was farther down the page.

  Reluctantly, she opened the photo of Blaise and the unknown boy.

  She could see why people interpreted it as romantic. They were wholly focused on each other, oblivious to whoever had snapped the picture. But the expression on the other boy’s face could have been despair as easily as romantic longing. What if the photographer simply interrupted Blaise trying to comfort a friend in distress?

  There was no way to know the real story, short of the other boy surfacing—and why would he?

  Had Blaise really been gay, or had he and the other boy been victims of some teenage tribal power play?

  The photo had racked up dozens of replies, with moving dots at the bottom promising more to come. A small part of her took comfort in seeing the number of exclamation points; it meant plenty of other people were surprised. Maybe that meant it was bullshit. Surely if Blaise were gay, someone would have suspected?

  The foulness of the caption set the hot, hard spot inside her boiling. The bigotry. The cruelty of publicly assaulting the human dignity of someone who was dead. The fact that her child had been bullied, and she hadn’t even known it. Most of all, the bitter acknowledgment that she’d never, ever know the answer to the question raised by that post.

  Rabbit holes were a nice distraction, but right now what she needed was authenticity.

  She clicked the white box on the browser. Stared at the flashing cursor. Listened to the water running in the bathroom, the hip-hop rattling the fixtures. The whole room seemed to be vibrating—more than the volume really justified. She cocked her head toward the door, listening. It sounded like there was a machine running in the bathroom. Well, Dicey had taken her whole suitcase in there. But what could make that racket? She couldn’t think of any beauty apparatus that made a noise like that.

  “Procrastination,” she whispered, and turned her attention back to the computer.

  Everyone thinks I was so devoted to my family, but the truth is I resented them as much as I loved them. This wasn’t the life I planned. I was supposed to be stamping my passport every week, playing recitals and concertos all over the world. Not hauling kids to music lessons and club meetings, tied to a husband, having to consider his needs instead of touring Europe.

  And now they’re gone, and I’m not even sure I knew them, let alone loved them. Can you imagine what it’s like to live with that? To know that, no matter what you do, you can never—

  Her phone dinged. She looked down to see Gus’s name.

  Sorry we got cut off earlier. If you’re interested, I’d love to talk with you about your son’s music. I don’t know if you know this, but he showed it to me last spring. Call anytime.

  Huh. That was surprisingly not pushy.

  How many times had he tried to contact her today? She opened her texts and found … nothing from him. Plenty from Becky, from Jo, from Mom. But from Gus, only this one.

  It was not what she’d expected. Come to think of it, there had been something different in his voice earlier. He’d sounded less … cocky. Slightly vulnerable. Maybe even a little needy.

  What could have changed someone like Gus so much? If he really had changed, having a real conversation might help her discern what, if anything, she owed him.

  In the bathroom, the shower went off, and Dicey turned down the music to a socially acceptable level. If that didn’t constitute a sign, Miriam didn’t know what did.

  She dialed before she lost her nerve.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, this is Miriam Tedesco.”

  “Hello! Oh, I’m so glad you called me back! My name is August von Rickenbach. I’m sorry, I know this must feel like it’s coming out of nowhere, but I was the coordinator for your son’s—”

  “Yes, I know. You and Blaise e-mailed each other. About his sonata. Without telling me.”

  “Oh.” He sounded startled. Score one for her. “I … he reached out to me. I want to be totally clear on that.”

  “Easy, Mira,” Teo would have said. She wanted to know what kind of person Gus von Rickenbach had become. She couldn’t accomplish that if she put him on the defensive. She took a deep breath to settle her nerv
es. “I know,” she said. “He had your reply in his manuscript notebook. I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to accuse.”

  “Oh. Well, it’s okay.” He hesitated, regrouping. “I just want to start by saying your son was extraordinary, Mrs. Tedesco. I mean, I’m sure you knew that.”

  “Yes,” she said softly.

  “I can’t tell you the last time I was so excited about a young player. He was the real thing, a star in the making. So understated until you put him at the piano, and then—that intensity!”

  This was the irrepressible, irresistible Gus she remembered. Miriam leaned back against the bank of soft pillows and stared at the blank TV screen, listening.

  “We were spellbound,” he said. “The judges and everyone else in the room. He walked off the stage, and we looked at each other and said, ‘What just happened?’”

  The funny thing about grief was that sometimes it resembled joy. Miriam ran her finger over her lips, smiling as her vision blurred. “I wasn’t … able to be there,” she said. “I had … a professional commitment.” Just a solo performance with the local symphony. And unpaid, at that. But at the time, it had seemed like an opportunity she couldn’t pass up.

  No. She needed to be honest. She hadn’t wanted to pass it up. How many events had she driven them to? How many hours had she sat around waiting for them, bored, handing them opportunities she’d had to pursue with a tenacity beyond common sense? It was her turn.

  It had never occurred to her she might miss their final performance.

  “… beautiful sensitivity,” Gus was saying. “Extraordinary passion and extraordinary magnetism. I just felt this connection with him, you know? Of course not. It makes no sense. But I did. And for his sister to win the string division!” Gus laughed. “They brought the house down at the showcase concert at the end of the festival, you know. They put on a full-fledged comedy routine. I’ve never seen anything like it.”