A Thousand Perfect Notes

by C. G. Drews

‘Shane, can’t we lend him a jacket?’

  ‘I shall get one directly.’ Shane sets down the knife and flips off his apron. He throws it at her. ‘Finish the salad, love?’

  Her mother takes the apron disdainfully. ‘It suits you so much better.’

  Shane looks unconcerned. ‘It’s a salad. What can go wrong? Oh, and we’ve been expressly forbidden to question August’s guest.’

  ‘Not a single question?’

  ‘None.’

  ‘Not even to see if he likes lasagne?’

  Shane’s eyebrows ask the question – but to August, not Beck, like she’s a tunnel one must meet before getting to him.

  August considers. Beck is so ashamed and the lump in his throat has bloomed into a small mountain. What kind of family is this?

  ‘I’ll reword,’ she decides. ‘No personal questions. You’re free to inquire about food. And also his favourite colour.’

  ‘Lasagne is great,’ Beck says, though he’s only ever tasted the packet version. ‘But – but I can’t stay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—’

  August’s mother picks up the knife and shakes it at Beck. ‘We always make far too much lasagne, young man, so I’d be honoured if you’d stay and – oh, August, darling, what have you told him about me? He looks petrified.’

  ‘It’s probably the knife you’re waving at him,’ August says.

  Surprised, her mother looks at it and sets it down. ‘Oh.’

  Shane returns with a lined plaid shirt. He’s immensely tall, probably taller than the Maestro’s six feet, so Beck nearly disappears into the jacket. But it’s warm. It’s glorious to be warm. His tongue makes a mangle of the simple thank you, but all August’s dad says is, ‘Call me Shane, and this is Tammy.’

  ‘Careful around my mother,’ August whispers, ‘or she’ll kidnap you and adopt you.’

  ‘She does have those tendencies,’ Shane says. ‘Remember those feral kittens?’

  ‘Do I ever.’

  Tammy finishes the salad by dumping in half a jar of olives. ‘You must stay, Beck. I insist.’

  August pokes Beck’s arm and he follows her as she bounces back up the hall. ‘Call us,’ she says. ‘I’m introducing Beck to the house.’ She opens a door, also covered in photo frames, and walks in with her arms spread wide. ‘My humble abode.’ A cat skids between her ankles. ‘Careful. The dog bites.’

  ‘More dogs?’ Beck says weakly.

  A Great Dane sprawls on a battered beanbag in the corner. It growls softly, but judging by the white scales on its eyes, it won’t be lunging for him. There’s a blue budgie chirping on its head but the Dane doesn’t seem to care.

  ‘I think you have more than nine dogs,’ Beck says.

  ‘Oh, I have nine dogs,’ August says. ‘My parents also have dogs. Then there’s the turtle and an aviary for the birds outside.’ She glances at the budgie. ‘Most of the birds,’ she amends. ‘There are a few cats and a goat, but we’re only babysitting the llama.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  August flops on to her bed. It’s covered in handmade quilts and sketchbooks and Sharpies. There are atlas posters on the wall, and her bedside lamp is a repurposed globe. She’s not a neat freak, though. There are clothes on the floor and the bin overflows with scraps of half-finished doodles. And the Dane kind of takes up the rest of the space. For all the warmth and cluttered cosiness of the Frey household, it’s obvious they’re still not well off.

  But compared to Beck’s sterile room, August’s is like a nest of dreams.

  August hugs her knees. ‘I honestly thought I’d never get you to visit. I’m glad you did. Just so you know.’

  She looks at him long and hard, so hard that Beck turns away and self-consciously touches his bruised cheek.

  ‘We could talk,’ August says.

  He can’t. Please, don’t make him.

  But how can he show up and act like a dejected punching bag and not explain?

  ‘It’s nothing serious,’ he says quietly.

  Her eyes say she doesn’t believe him. ‘I could get ice?’

  ‘The wind kind of iced it on the run over.’

  ‘You ran? Whoa, I didn’t think those spindly legs moved that fast.’

  He wants to smile, but his cheek hurts.

  The joke slips from her voice. ‘Is it your mum? You could stay here tonight, if you wanted …’

  ‘She’s in the hospital.’

  August’s ever-bouncing body freezes, and Beck realises how it sounds.

  ‘Wait, I didn’t – I didn’t do anything to her.’ He says it too fast, too guilty. ‘And Joey’s with her but she’s … she’s fine.’

  August relaxes back into her cushions. ‘OK. That’s good, I guess. Are the police involved?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Should they be?’

  ‘No,’ he says dully. ‘It’s OK. All families have – bumps.’ Or moments when you seriously fear for your life. ‘It’s not that bad, really. I’m stupid for coming.’

  ‘Stop saying you’re stupid.’

  A cat curls around Beck’s legs, purring. He’s not sure whether to pat it or move away, but the soft, cuddly warmth makes him understand why people like animals.

  ‘This isn’t OK, you know.’ Her voice is suddenly fierce. ‘And it makes me, argh, so angry to think of you getting—’

  ‘It’s fine.’ It’s really not. ‘Honest, August. I’d do something if it … got too bad.’ He wouldn’t.

  ‘Dinner!’ Tammy hollers from the kitchen.

  August sighs. ‘Don’t freak out now.’ She’s on her feet, brushing close as she passes. ‘I won’t let them eat you. We’ll just devour lasagne and then I have to show you something spectacular outside before you dash off.’

  For once there is no rush. No Maestro at home. No one cares where he is. No one would come looking. But it doesn’t feel free. It feels forgotten.

  Beck isn’t sure how dinner at the Freys’ will unfold. Do they pray to a tree? Do they even sit at a table? Is the lasagne actual real lasagne? He’s never seen August eat meat, so is the lasagne pinned together with dreams of animal freedom and air?

  It smells divine, though, and his stomach knots with anticipation. When was the last time he ate food that wasn’t cereal?

  Turns out the Freys do have a table and they cluster around it like any average family. It’s squished in a corner, so wedging another chair in for Beck is an art form. When seated, everyone’s elbows nearly touch, and the dishes of food take up so much space, Beck’s plate is nearly in his lap. Tiny hand-painted daisies decorate the plates and the cutlery is mismatched. It’s cramped but, somehow, cosy.

  ‘We have a larger table,’ Shane says. ‘Around here somewhere.’ He turns to Tammy, who’s slicing an orange into the salad. ‘Did we lose the big table?’

  ‘How do you lose a table, Dad?’ says August.

  ‘Well,’ Shane says defensively, ‘your mother lost a horse before.’

  ‘It had legs.’ Tammy shuffles the huge dish of lasagne, the basket of garlic bread, the salt and pepper shakers, to try and squeeze the salad on to the table.

  ‘Tables have legs,’ Shane says.

  August helps herself to bread and pesto. ‘But they don’t run away. That horse ran.’

  ‘She should know,’ Tammy agrees. ‘She was riding it.’

  ‘Which kind of bothers me –’ August reaches for the salad and digs around for oranges and olives ‘– because you still refer to that escapade as “the time you lost the horse”. Not “the time you lost your nine-year-old daughter”.’

  ‘But you’re like a pigeon, darling. You’d find your way home eventually.’ Tammy procures a massive knife from nowhere and cuts the lasagne. It explodes with melting pasta sheets, vegetables and rosemary tomato sauce. Beck keeps his mouth shut in case he drools on his plate.

  ‘Or we could just adopt another child and buy another horse.’ Shane passes Tammy his plate. ‘Maybe we would’ve gotten a discount?’

  Tammy paus
es, red-smeared knife raised disturbingly high. ‘Oh, Shane. That’s so true. Why didn’t we think of that instead of chasing them across the state?’

  ‘I think you liked my face,’ August says.

  She notices Beck isn’t moving, so she plucks his plate and passes it to her mother. He can’t function properly with the smell of food drugging his addled brain. Plus the Freys are terrifying him with banter. They don’t seem real.

  Tammy cuts a massive slice and slaps it on to his plate with a plop. ‘Presentation isn’t my forte,’ she says, ‘but I didn’t make it so it’ll definitely taste delicious.’

  ‘That is such a comforting fact.’ Shane leans to kiss her cheek.

  ‘Dad,’ August says, warningly, ‘she’s still got a knife.’

  ‘Too true.’ He retracts. ‘Careful with that, honey. Remember the echidna.’

  ‘Oh, I remember Goliath.’

  ‘I try not to,’ August mutters.

  Beck decides to let the confusion wash over him and give full attention to the feast on his plate. A quick poke with his fork reveals the lasagne is meatless. But the pasta sheets are gooey with sauce and the vegetables have bathed in a heaven of olive oil and herbs. He can’t shovel it in fast enough.

  It’s easier to think of food than the fact the Freys love each other.

  ‘So,’ Shane says, pleasantly. ‘No personal questions, I understand. But your favourite colour is an allowable topic, right, Beck?’

  ‘Don’t ask about his full name either.’ August grins wickedly around the salad dressing at Beck.

  Beck would like to stab her right now.

  ‘Um, blue, I guess?’ He feels like an idiot. Favourite colour? Are they mocking him or genuinely trying to please August? She’s so much like her parents. All the jokes, the unreasonable big words, the quick retorts – she’s a carbon copy of her folks.

  It scares Beck –

  how much he might accidentally resemble

  the Maestro.

  ‘Is your full name Beckham?’ Tammy says. ‘Like the soccer player?’

  Beck is saved from answering by a mouthful of pumpkin and lasagne.

  ‘Maybe it’s Becktrove,’ she says absently, twirling lettuce on her fork.

  August groans. ‘Mum. Firstly, no one’s name is Becktrove. Where on earth did that even come from? Secondly, I just said it’s not a good topic.’

  ‘Well what is a good topic?’ Tammy says.

  What about nothing? What about silence, so they can pay the proper homage to the delicious lasagne? He’s nearly finished his piece before he realises everyone else has barely gotten through a corner.

  ‘Beck is a musician,’ August says.

  Beck chokes. This serves him right for never being honest. If she knew about the piano, knew everything, then she wouldn’t touch the subject. But he can’t be honest.

  ‘He’s also in love with Twice Burgundy,’ August says, ‘although, strictly, he’s a classical man.’

  ‘I am a classical woman,’ Tammy says, holding her fork over her heart. ‘Do you like Bach? Chopin? Beethoven?’

  August gives him a conspiratorial kick under the table and he whacks her right back. She yelps and then smothers her laughter with a huge forkful of lasagne. This girl is maddening.

  Beck’s mouth is dry. ‘I like Grieg.’

  ‘Grieg!’ Tammy pokes her husband – with her fork, no less – and grins at him. ‘Most teenagers don’t even know who Bach is, let alone Grieg! He knows things, Shane, this one knows things.’

  ‘That was pointed,’ Shane says.

  ‘Yes, dear, it’s a fork.’

  ‘No, I mean the comment.’ He frowns at her over his half-full wine glass. ‘I was nineteen when we met and, fine, I didn’t know who Bach was. I thought you liked dogs. That’s why I kept hanging out with you. I liked dogs. You liked Bach, or whatever. We got married and I realised my mistake.’

  ‘You were both studying to be vets, Dad,’ August says. ‘The mistake was pretty acceptable.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Shane cuts his lasagne majestically. ‘See? That is why we traipsed across the state to find you, instead of adopting another child. We like how positive and encouraging you are.’

  Tammy pops out of her chair. ‘Let me dish you up some more, Beck.’

  He tries to say no thanks, to be polite, because he’s pretty sure he could polish off the dish, but his plate is already piled high.

  ‘Yes, feed him up,’ August says. ‘He gets super cranky when he’s hungry – I survived an attack once.’

  ‘You’re seriously mean to me,’ Beck says.

  ‘That’s why you like me.’

  No, he likes her because there’s sunshine in her eyes and she knows the secrets to smiling.

  Beck sets to work on his second piece and doesn’t answer.

  ‘Now, Beck,’ Shane says seriously. ‘I would just like to extend the invitation of dinner here, whenever you need it. I would also like to, well, if we could have a little talk before you go about your, ah, face and—’

  ‘I’m fine,’ Beck says. ‘This was just a stupid misunderstanding with some … guys.’ Could he be a more unconvincing liar? ‘I am really sorry for disrupting—’

  Something in Shane’s eyes say he doesn’t buy it, but he merely holds up a hand and says, ‘Do not be. I refuse to hear apologies for gracing our fine home with your waif-like presence.’

  ‘Dad,’ August says, ‘that’s not very nice.’

  ‘Well, he reminds me a little of Oliver Twist,’ Shane protests. ‘Plus it’s nice to see some of August’s friends once in a while. She never brings them around.’

  August starts clearing plates. ‘Because they’re all terrified of you. And your food. And our dogs.’

  Beck stumbles to help her, although stacking other people’s plates comes with a mountain of pressure. He doesn’t want to be all thanks-for-the-meal-and-here-let-me-accidentally-drop-and-smash-all-your-crockery. So he goes for the plastic salad bowl and gingerly takes it to the kitchen. August laughs silently.

  ‘Why are they terrified of me?’ Shane looks alarmed. ‘If you’re referring to the time of Andrea and the python—’

  August shudders. ‘Don’t rehash that story. Andrea doesn’t even talk to me any more, by the way. You scarred her for life.’

  ‘What about Sumi and Ajeet?’

  Her nose wrinkles. ‘They’re busy, OK? At least I have friends. Beck over here is a moody hermit.’

  ‘Please, no,’ Beck whispers.

  ‘He has exactly one friend,’ August goes on.

  ‘Who?’ her father says.

  She glares.

  ‘Oh. Oh yes. You.’

  ‘I’m glad you came to that conclusion so fast.’ She clears his plate while he’s still taking a last bite of garlic bread.

  He huffs and feeds the crust to one of the many dogs sniffing under the table. A cat has climbed on to Beck’s vacated chair and mews piteously.

  ‘I have cashew ice cream for dessert,’ Tammy says. ‘And fresh cherries.’

  ‘Cherries aren’t in season, darling,’ Shane says.

  ‘Then un-fresh cherries.’ Tammy looks like she’s considering standing, but not sure if the effort is worth it.

  Beck understands. He’s absolutely stuffed. And he hasn’t felt that way in – ever? Cashew ice cream sounds dubious at any rate, so as he gives August a pleading look and she understands.

  ‘Actually, I’m liable to pop,’ August says. ‘Can we skip? I need to show Beck outside before he goes.’

  ‘But it’s dark,’ her mother says.

  ‘That is quite perfect for what I want to show him.’

  Shane shares a mock aghast look with his wife and then slams a hand on the table. Three dogs skid out from under it. ‘Now, young lady, there will be no—’

  August covers her face. ‘Please don’t say anything embarrassing to me, Dad. I beg you. I’m showing him the stars. The stars in the sky that God has made. If you embarrass my friend to death I swear I wi
ll run away from home and live in Paraguay.’

  Tammy sighs. ‘Paraguay is such a long way off, Shane, darling. Leave the poor children be. Beck looks a little shell-shocked by us as it is.’ She waves them off. ‘Off you go. Stargaze. Freeze your appendages off.’

  August beams like a child with chocolate, and then tugs Beck out the back door.

  ‘No hanky panky!’ her dad calls.

  ‘Darling,’ Tammy says, ‘no one says that any more.’

  The back door claps shut and the Frey parents are silenced. The night wraps cool, sweet arms around Beck’s throbbing head.

  He follows August down a pebble path. ‘Your family is …’

  ‘Intense. I know. But they only mean to squish you with love and weirdness and puppies. Some people are suited to non-judgemental animal company, don’t you think?’

  ‘Actually, I was going to say they’re nice.’

  She quiets. Beck feels guilty, like he’s playing the woe is me card since the reason he’s here is because his mother is nothing like hers. Gingerly, she slips her hand into his. His heart leaps.

  ‘Come with me,’ she whispers.

  Beck is endlessly glad for the borrowed jacket, although the blush creeping up his neck warms him too. She’s holding his hand again. What’s he supposed to do with this feeling?

  Solar lights mark the way down the pebble path, circuiting several old, swooping trees. They pass two kennels and a dog starts howling.

  ‘That’s Caligula.’ August moves fast to bypass the hysterical animal. ‘He’d probably kill you. He’d probably kill me. Manners aren’t his strong point.’

  ‘So you save all these animals just … just because?’ All Beck can think of is the Maestro telling him how he’s just a project to August. He’s a number out of a hundred on the list of things she’s ‘saved’. How is he supposed to ignore that, to think he’s more than a pitiful reject in her eyes?

  August shrugs. ‘Yes? Sort of? We try to get them adopted out too. We run newspaper ads and give out flyers and convince everyone we meet how much they need a psychotic, not-house-trained, abused, partially blind labradoodle in their lives.’

  ‘How often does it work?’

  ‘Relatively well. I’m very convincing.’

  That’s true.