Night Music

by Jenn Marie Thorne

  “I do know. This is the dream, right? Sometimes I think it might be better if I were in my thirties. This all feels weird to me.” His voice sounded upbeat—but his arm was taut against my back. “Like, overblown. Do you know what I mean?”

  I thought about the New York Times interview. The splashy premiere for a symphony that hadn’t even been written yet.

  “I saw your YouTube video,” I said.

  “When? Before . . .”

  “No. Right after we met.” I turned to him. His thumb idly stroked my shoulder as he waited for me to go on. “You’re really good.”

  He leaned his head against the dark window. “Really good. See . . . I like ‘really good.’ Really good feels sturdy. Every time I hear the word genius, it feels like I’m in a prank video. I start looking for the hidden camera.”

  He mimed paranoia, shielding his face, and I laughed, debating what to say. Should I tell him how much that word got thrown around at this level of the classical music world, so often that you became completely immune to it? How, despite that, I used to fantasize about overhearing someone use it about me? “Ruby’s take on the Nancarrow is stunning, Anna. You’ve got another genius on your hands . . .”

  Oscar snuck a tickling kiss on the curve of my neck, returning me to the real world in one happy gasp.

  “Do you think those guys were monks?” he whispered into my shoulder.

  “Who?” I laughed. “The singers?

  “Do they live at the Cloisters?”

  I fell against him as I giggled. “It’s a museum! A replica.”

  “There could have been a place to sleep. We didn’t tour everything.”

  “They weren’t monks. They were wearing, like, shorts . . .” He started to argue, but I grinned, talking over him. “And one of them was a woman.”

  Another stop. A pregnant lady stepped in, holding on to the bar. Oscar jumped up to give her his seat.

  “Can’t women be monks?” He stood over me, our legs interspersed like a backgammon board. “This is the twenty-first century.”

  “No, they still can’t be monks.” I pinched the knee of his trousers, wishing I could drag him down. “They can be anchorites.”

  He nodded. “Good word.”

  “I used to be sort of obsessed with the idea of becoming an anchorite.”

  “Normal.”

  “I thought it was a good threat whenever I got in trouble. ‘I’m moving to the woods and becoming an anchorite and you’ll never find me!’ It sounded fun. Hole up someplace pretty, some, like, forest idyll that’s quiet and private. And you have an order or whatever that checks in from a distance and makes sure you’re not deathly ill and in the meantime, you can do whatever you want with your life. Dance or plant flowers or play your instrument or talk to the animals, with nobody around to witness it.”

  The train began to slow. He rocked against me, legs touching, left, right.

  “You don’t want to do that anymore, though, do you?” Oscar’s eyes were warm on mine. “Leave the world behind. All the people in it.”

  “No.” I peered up at him. “I don’t.”

  My pulse felt steadier, saying that out loud.

  Oscar glanced over his shoulder. “Is this—?”

  “Oh crap, this is us.”

  We zoomed out like toy cars as the doors were sliding shut.

  “Where to now?” I asked Oscar.

  “Home,” he said, a dangerous edge to his smile. “Let’s be anchorites.”

  21.

  we maintained a G-rated distance from each other even after we ducked into the basement apartment and shut the door. Oscar’s couch, walls, floor were carpeted with composition paper. But the bed was clear.

  He sat on the end of the mattress. “Come here.”

  I walked over slowly, then stood in front of him the way he’d hovered over me on the subway. He lifted my shirt, gently, like it might disintegrate under his fingertips, and kissed my stomach.

  I closed my eyes and my knees softened, the rest of me folding down, Oscar guiding my back to the side until I was lying on the bed and he was above me. Something told me this wasn’t something anchorites did much of.

  He kissed me, slow and deep, his chest grazing my own, hips falling onto mine. I pulled him closer, thirsty to my bones. The more familiar his kiss became, the more it seemed to affect me.

  His right hand cupped my shoulder and his left slid under my shirt, tracing the lace of my bra. His touch was so soft it felt respectful—reverent. He drew away to look at me, brown eyes wide, almost pained.

  “Ruby,” he said. “Ruby Ruby Ruby . . .”

  “Oscar Oscar Oscar,” I teased—but my mind was whirring back to life.

  His voice had made my name sound apologetic. Like there was a caveat hanging over his head. Then I looked over his shoulder and saw it, pinned to the wall, strewn everywhere. Oscar’s “sick day” could only last so long. He hadn’t come to New York to make out with me, after all.

  And there was one thing I was good at—I’d been doing it my whole life.

  “Hey.” I cleared my throat and pulled myself sitting. “I’m distracting you.”

  Oscar propped himself up on one arm. “What?”

  “You’ve got serious work cut out for you here. And I’m—”

  “I’m not worried about the symphony.”

  “You are worried about something.” I pulled my shirt down and crossed my arms over it. “Do you want to talk about it? Or . . . ?”

  “I’m good. You don’t need to . . .” He grinned, letting out a breathy laugh. “I’m fine!”

  It was convincing. But his hand was clenching and unclenching next to him. I wondered if he even knew he was doing it.

  “Okay. Well.” I slid off the bed. “I’ve lived with a composer my entire life, so I seriously do know the drill. You need space to be inspired. If you don’t get enough of it, stress builds up and . . .”

  You get short-tempered. You throw things and trash your study and barely say two words to your entire family for weeks.

  I blinked, hard. “Get some work done, that’s all I’m saying. And then find me when you’re ready to take a break. You know where I live.”

  I nodded upstairs, like he needed the visual aid.

  “When does your dad get back?” Oscar blurted.

  My mind ping-ponged between the many different reasons he could have asked that question. “Friday morning.”

  “I’m supposed to have a second movement to show him by then.”

  “Ah.”

  “You’re right, I should probably make some headway.”

  He peered up at me, waiting for a counterargument to my own argument. I felt a tugging in my chest, like I’d been hooked and he was reeling me closer.

  “Or . . .” I said, my knees sinking onto the mattress.

  He grinned. “Or . . .”

  My phone beeped—a text, a nagging memory rising with it.

  I stood up again, grabbing my phone.

  Nora. Still on for lunch? :)

  “It’s Monday. Crap. I was supposed to—I am so late!” I turned around, pointlessly. “Ugh. I’m gonna cancel.”

  Oscar stood. “No, if you’ve got something to—”

  “It’s not . . .” I clicked my phone off. “In any way important.”

  “No no no, you’ve got your life,” he said, holding my arms, steadying me. “I get it! And, you’re right . . . I should . . . yeah . . .”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but his eyes had already drifted to the sheets hanging on the walls—lost in music in the space of a blink.

  * * *

  • • •

  Nora’s house was cool and dry. It smelled like lilies and wood polish. As a woman in a housekeeping uniform shut the huge mahogany door behind me, I took a step farther into the g
rand entryway, and the sound of it echoed up three curved flights of stairs, making me crane my head as if I could follow its flight.

  Nora poked her head over the banister. “Come up, sweetness! I’m just sending an email.”

  I walked up the stairs slowly, glancing back to make sure I wasn’t tracking anything onto her plush blue runners, passing another maid, arms laden with linens, a door ajar to a gold-lit room with wall-to-wall bookshelves, two white dogs running away from yet another housekeeper, and then the highest level, where Nora was coming out of what looked like a bedroom, slipping her phone into her purse with a decisive, “Done! Ah, you’re so pretty, I can’t stand it.”

  “I’m so sorry I’m late,” I sputtered. “I—”

  Nora shushed me, eyes twinkling as if she knew exactly what I’d been busy doing. She started down the stairs at a trot and I kept pace behind her, wondering how somebody as clumsy as she was managed not to trip.

  At the golden room, she slowed to call out, “Stephen! Just popping out for lunch with Ruby Chertok.”

  An older gentleman appeared in the doorway in shirtsleeves, a copy of the Financial Times stuck under his arm. I knew this was Nora’s husband—I’d even met him a few times—but it still took me a second to connect this face with his name. He peered over his glasses at me, having the same trouble.

  “The littlest Chertok? Christ, look at you.”

  Nora laughed, pulling me with her as she shouted back up. “Dinner with the Hewetts, don’t forget!”

  He’d already disappeared back into the study.

  “I’m glad you came,” Nora said, her heels clicking cheerfully on the wood of the foyer. “I wasn’t sure if you were going to forgive me for last night.”

  She turned quickly to face me, so I couldn’t quite land the unruffled reaction I’d been aiming for.

  “The last thing in the world I’d ever want to do is embarrass you. Or make you feel small. I hope you know that.”

  “Of course.” I did know that. I remembered. But it didn’t connect with what happened last night. And was that even an apology or a weird kind of denial? “It was fine!”

  The first housekeeper I’d seen held the door for us. Nora smiled at her as we stepped out onto the porch, met with sour humidity and the blast of a car honk—buffeted by the real world in an instant.

  Nora started toward Gramercy Park and I followed, stomach rumbling in anticipation.

  “So.” Nora glanced back at me. “Can we talk about Oscar?”

  “I . . . sure?”

  “A tiny request from your loving godmother . . .” She linked arms with me and squeezed. “Watch out for him.”

  I blinked, reeling. Had Nora changed her mind about us?

  “He’s so special, and confident when it matters, but . . .” Nora sighed. “This is a lot for somebody so young. I don’t want the stress to wear on him.”

  I let out a silent, relieved laugh. “I get that. I’ve been basically telling him the same thing.”

  Nora turned to me. “Is he having trouble?”

  “N-no!” I sputtered, pinned. “Not at all. You know Oscar, he’s got, like, super-human confidence.”

  “As he should.” She pressed her lips together. “But keep an eye on him, Ruby. If he looks like he needs a lifeline—come to me first.”

  Um. Instead of Dad? Was that what she . . . ?

  Before I could answer, she patted my hand and kept us walking. I skipped to catch up—she had a fast stride for someone so short. We hit the fenced edge of the park and I glanced inside. The gate was usually locked, available only to those residents lucky enough to have keys, but it was flung wide today, a group of teenagers sitting on the pathway with sketchpads while a teacher motioned to the trees, tracing lines in the air with his fingers.

  “Oh.” Nora stopped walking. “They’re not supposed to be in there.” She turned to me, eyes huge. “Do you think I should call someone?”

  She looked like a child, asking permission.

  “No,” I blurted, surprised. “That’s not—”

  “You’re right, they’re harmless.” Nora glanced at her phone for the time, slid it back into her bag. “I’m so sorry, I can’t believe this, but I’m going to have to table our lunch.”

  Table, meaning eat at a table, or . . . ?

  “Something’s popped up. It’s urgent, obviously, or I wouldn’t dream of canceling on you . . .”

  Canceling. You have got to be kidding me.

  “But are we good? I really do feel terrible for putting you on the spot like that.”

  She peered up at me with big eyes and I finally understood Alice’s “bunnies in a meadow” comment.

  “Don’t feel terrible,” I said. “We’re good.”

  Nora stepped to the curb and waved for a taxi. As the cab rolled away, I wondered why she wasn’t taking her town car—and why she’d just told Stephen she’d be having lunch with me.

  It’s none of my business, I told myself.

  And Oscar is none of hers.

  * * *

  • • •

  He was Jules’s business, apparently.

  “You prissy little Puritan, I want some goddamned details!” she snapped, jogging beside me along the mossy edge of the Turtle Pond. “Give me a base.”

  “What grade are we in?” I laughed—and then marveled at the fact that I now had enough stamina to laugh two miles into the morning jog. “Third.”

  “You or him?”

  “Sort of both?”

  “Nice!”

  We veered right, through the trees toward Belvedere Castle.

  “So why are you in such a huff? Or is it a tizzy?” She narrowed her eyes. “I’m leaning toward huff.”

  “Because . . .” I sighed. It did, in fact, sound like a huff. “That was Sunday night. We hung out Monday too, and got, um, interrupted, and I’d at least expected him to text me later. I’d laid it out there for him. But it’s Wednesday—”

  “Thursday.”

  “Really? Ugh. This is what happens when your life has no schedule. Anyway, I haven’t heard from him since then. Or seen him. Nothing.”

  “Have you texted him?”

  “Yeah, twice. Once asking him if he wanted to grab dinner, another one that was, like, a confused-face emoji.”

  “Wow. How do you manage to ghost somebody who lives upstairs from you? I’d be impressed if I weren’t so indignant.”

  My pace flagged. Jules jogged a few steps ahead, then turned. I powered on.

  “So what is your deal, anyway?” Jules looked at me. “Are you two exclusive? Is he dating other people? Do musicians even manage to hook up or are they too busy rehearsing all the time—?”

  “No, they hook up.” My mouth felt dry. “Especially in summer programs, it’s like this weird teenaged bacchanal. With less booze. Not that I’ve ever . . . yeah.”

  “Is that where you used to go every summer? Music programs?”

  “Yeah. Wildwood. Adirondacks.”

  “Not Amberley?”

  “I’m not good enough for Amberley.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I auditioned.”

  Jules slowed, hunching, and motioned us to a bench—and for one split second, my angst was replaced with a surge of pride that I’d managed to outlast her for the first time. Then the angst surged back, full force. Maybe Oscar decided there were too many points against us being together. Maybe he was caught up in his composition and forgot I existed. Maybe—

  “You should show up,” Jules said, hands pressed to her thighs.

  I squinted.

  “At his, like, Rachmaninoff Baroque quartet rehearsal or whatever.”

  A snort burst out of me. “Sorry . . . you called Rachmaninoff Baroque.”

  “Whatever,” she groaned. “Go to Linco
ln Center, sneak in, observe unseen. Take a look at what’s going on when you’re not around.”

  “You don’t mean confront him, you mean stalk him.” For some reason, that came as a relief.

  “Potato, potahto.” She nodded to the path and we started to jog again, more slowly this time.

  I thought about her suggestion. The idea started to swirl and gather, a perfect storm of compulsions.

  “Hey, so,” Jules said, her tone approaching awkward. “Kudzu Giants are coming to Amsterdam Ballroom in August and we got you a ticket.”

  “We?”

  “You know, the ‘gang.’” She rolled her eyes. “Well, I’m the one who bought the ticket, but everybody’s hoping you’ll come.”

  “That sounds awesome. Wow.” I smiled, touched. “I mean, I don’t listen to a ton of hip-hop, so I probably won’t know the songs . . .”

  Jules turned with a snort to match my own. “You called Kudzu Giants hip-hop.”

  “Are they not?”

  She slung an arm over my shoulder. “We have so much to teach each other.”

  We passed a block lined with white trailers for a film shoot. Jules grumbled at having to detour, but I still caught her glancing back to see what they were shooting.

  I grinned at her. She ignored me.

  When we reached the house, I stooped to peek into the basement window. It was dark inside, Oscar already gone.

  “Listen,” Jules said. “I think you should definitely go spy on genius boy, but . . .” She scuffed the sidewalk with her sneaker. “Maybe use it as an opportunity to clear your head? To see that he has this whole Amberley whatever life . . .”

  She drew a circle in the air.

  “And you have your whole amazing awesome life and . . .”

  She swatted at her nose. I was guessing that wasn’t part of the illustration.

  “You’re a perfectly complete person with or without him. And—if you want to be ‘beckoned,’ like you said, if that’s what you’re into, then great. Just . . .”

  I waited, watching her flail for the right words.

  Then she looked me right in the eye, as serious as I’d ever seen her. “You do what you want to do, Ruby. Take what you want out of . . . this.” She gestured upward into the air. “It’s our chance to stop living for other people. This summer. Right now.”