Night Music

by Jenn Marie Thorne

  He was someone who heard music singing to him in the night, who stayed up, who answered its call.

  I was someone who fell asleep watching.

  * * *

  • • •

  When I got back from the next morning’s run and waved good-bye to Jules, Nora was waiting on my stoop playing with her cell phone, a giant Birkin bag dangling off one arm. She gasped when she saw me, like I’d vaporized from nowhere.

  “Hi.” I pulled my keys from my pouch, still winded, but managed an elbow wave.

  “You’re a runner!” She stood surveying me. “Hidden depths! Are you doing the marathon?”

  “No.” I laughed. “I’m new to this. And it’s just for fun.”

  “Fun! Ha! I do it because I pay someone a lot of money to scream at me until it’s finished. And because . . .” She motioned to herself. “This does not want to stay like this. But you’re a sylph, my God. Anyway, good for you.”

  I started to unlock the door, discomfort creeping back. “Dad’s up at campus already, I think.”

  “I know.” She stepped into the house behind me.

  “Oh.” I turned.

  “I was hoping to catch up with you.” Nora trotted in her heels to the kitchen, opened the cabinet, and popped a coffee pod into the Keurig.

  “Want one?” she asked. “Ooh, Arabica, I love that word . . .”

  I smiled at her rolled r. “I’m good.”

  Leaning against the wall, I frantically rehearsed a resignation letter. Thank you so much for all you’ve done for me, but after careful consideration, I’ve decided to take a semi-permanent hiatus from social engagements, no matter how important the cause . . .

  “So I had to tell you,” Nora started as the coffee poured. “I was at Oscar’s rehearsal the other day.”

  “I saw you,” I admitted, stiffening even more. Was she here to dig for dirt on Oscar’s stress management? If so, what could I tell her? Should I bring up the “wardrobe change” or was it not my place?

  Nothing. I would say nothing.

  She retrieved her cup and sat peering at me, chin resting on her fist. “Ruby, I was stunned by your singing.”

  I blinked, thrown. “Oh. I—whoa.”

  “I had no idea you were a singer. All this time, this talent you’ve got and you’ve hidden it away! Is it something you’re planning to pursue?”

  “Um . . .” I drew a dizzy breath. “I don’t know. I haven’t given it a lot of consideration.”

  “Well, you should.” She squeezed my hand, smiling with pride. Like I was her child. “You Chertoks never cease to amaze me.”

  Emotion swelled in me, so strong, I could hardly speak, cathedral chimes in my chest. You Chertoks.

  “I know that you’ve been trying to keep away from Amberley, to create a life that’s yours . . .” She leaned in conspiratorially. “And I know we haven’t made it easy for you, at any point. We put you on a poster, for Christ’s sake! ‘I Am Music’! No pressure at all, right?”

  I smiled. I couldn’t help it. She gets it, she does.

  “But a gift is a gift, Ruby. It would be a sin to ignore it. I’m sure you’ve started this process with your dad, but in case you haven’t . . .” She picked up her bag with a guilty smile. “I hope you will forgive your dear godmother for overstepping a little here?”

  Her tiny hand disappeared into the Birkin bag and emerged with a huge stack of brochures. She dropped them on the oak table with a thunk, stood, and started riffling through. Dizzy, I took in the names on the covers: Bucknell, Manhattan School of Music, Peabody Institute, San Francisco Conservatory . . .

  “Okay, so these are all excellent vocal programs,” she murmured, passing them to me for inspection. “This one is really coming up. Their showcase last year was astonishing . . .”

  I sat next to her, flipping through them, some part of me still not understanding.

  “Auditions are mainly in February, so you’ve got some time to prepare,” she said, flipping through the Peabody brochure. “Take lessons, get a repertoire together. And would you be interested in joining Oscar’s symphony as a member of the choir?”

  It took me a second to respond. “I’m . . . not an Amberley student.”

  “Well, it would just be for Oscar’s piece, but you’d still get to put it on your college applications, which I think would be helpful.”

  She got to the last brochure in the pile and passed it to me, almost shyly. Amberley.

  “Couldn’t resist. I hope you’ll at least consider us?”

  She reached out for my hand.

  “I . . .” There were no words. All gone, poof.

  She squeezed and let go. “So I hope you don’t mind too much, but I’ve already spoken with Liz about the choir bit. You remember Liz Trombly?”

  I nodded.

  “She thinks it’s a fantastic idea.” Nora crouched to pull out an embossed memo pad and a mini ballpoint pen. She scribbled a room number and the words Wed/Fri 10–11:45 onto one page, turned it over, and slid it across the table like a job offer.

  “I’ve got to scoot, and I’m so sorry for bombarding you like this, but I couldn’t in good conscience let this pass.” She flopped to one side. “It’s kind of what I do. So why don’t you start by trying a rehearsal or two and . . . see if you like it?” She rose, tapping her fingers cheerfully on the table. “Could be the start of something.”

  I waved, mute, as she left the house, too stunned to do much more than stare at the pile of college brochures she’d collected for me.

  The start. Of something.

  29.

  i found the rehearsal room fifteen minutes early and walked the Amberley halls to kill time, listening to music spilling out of other classrooms, a trombone player doing scales, an oboist working a difficult passage over and over, a drummer and his teacher laughing at a mistake, trying to duplicate it as a joke.

  I laughed silently along, feeling carried away for a good five seconds, like maybe I knew their secret password after all.

  I walked into the choir room at ten o’clock sharp, but everyone was already seated in sections, music propped on stands in front of them, Liz in the front.

  “We try to start at ten, Ruby, so if you don’t mind coming earlier.”

  I flushed lobster red. “I’m so sorry. I was here . . .”

  She motioned to an empty chair at the edge of the soprano section. “No need to sit on the floor today.”

  Everybody laughed, but it was a friendly sound. A tenor waved hello and other singers smiled as I walked past. They were my age, of course—summer students. I wondered how much they’d trained to get here. Voice students tended to start studying later than other musicians, because their voices took time to mature. If I had a gift for this—an enormous “if”—I could start now and not miss a single beat.

  The girl next to me scooted her stand closer to me and flipped to the last photocopied page, this one written in Oscar’s careful hand.

  “The beginning of the third movement,” she whispered. Then she smiled shyly. “What am I saying, you probably have it memorized already.”

  “I haven’t heard this yet!” I squinted, trying to pick out the notes, while Liz stood.

  “Okay, from one eighty-seven.” She turned to my section. “Sopranos, since our ranks are bolstered, let’s keep the volume more moderato?”

  She gestured for us to begin. I drew a hasty breath and sang. The girl next to me had a voice like a mountain brook, crystalline ice water. Liz walked closer, her head cocked, listening. Then she waved and everyone stopped.

  “Ruby, could you sing the first few bars?”

  I shrank into my seat, knees clenching against the plastic edge. Here it was. The test. If I was going to even entertain the idea of becoming a singer, I would need to get over my nerves. I closed my eyes, quickly, calming myself, and san
g.

  She stooped to touch my stomach.

  I glanced down, confused.

  She nodded. “From the diaphragm.”

  I breathed more deeply and sang it again.

  She looked pleased. “You sing out, Ruby. That’s lovely. Don’t worry about volume. All right, once more?”

  We sang again, working through the piece, my confidence growing with every note. She’d asked me to sing out. That was more encouragement than I’d gotten in an entire lifetime of playing the piano.

  I felt a stab of guilt, like my piano teacher was listening to my thoughts. Lovely Mrs. Swenson had encouraged me twice weekly, for thirteen years. She’d been paid to do it, but still. She used to give me jelly beans from a jar she kept across the room when I got my scales right. She also snuck me jelly beans when I messed up, saying, “Chin up, Ruby. Try again.” I got far more jelly beans that way.

  Chin up, Ruby, I thought now, leaving rehearsal, my steps keeping time to an imagined waltz. Try again.

  I popped by Dad’s office on the way out, but he wasn’t in. There was a doctor’s business card resting on top of the messy pile of paperwork on his desk, so he must have popped out for a checkup. He never answered his cell phone and I didn’t want to wait for him to get back, so I skipped out to the street and called Win.

  He picked up right away. “Ruby Rooster! To what do I owe the—?”

  Some guy giggled in the background and his voice went muffled. He wasn’t alone.

  I started to blush. “Um, quick question. Do you remember Dad talking about that opera singer friend of his who teaches now?”

  “Friend . . . who . . .”

  “She’s super famous, why can’t I remember her name . . . ?” Maybe because my heart was thudding louder than the jack-hammer across the street. “She’s a mezzo, she was in The House Guest, gah . . .”

  “Odile—?”

  “Odile Michaud! Thank you so much, talk again soon!”

  I hung up before Win could dig for why I was asking. I would tell him—I’d tell everybody—but only if it turned out to be real.

  I googled Odile’s webpage, remembering the year-long wait list Dad had said she accumulated the second she announced she was teaching. Somehow, I knew she’d find a way to squeeze in Martin Chertok’s daughter. As I picked up my phone, a burst of hot adrenaline shot through me—almost enough to wash away the gray in my stomach, that same murky shame that sloshed in whenever I thought about Amberley.

  But this was different. This was real.

  I gritted my teeth and dialed.

  * * *

  • • •

  I got my own folding chair at the full-orchestra rehearsal and a friendly wave from the other choir members. We sang the same section as Monday and it gelled now—Oscar barely paid us any attention except to search for me every twenty bars or so, lock eyes like he was recharging a battery, carry on.

  When we finished just after nine, Oscar led a round of applause for ourselves, the usual routine, then we broke into collegial chatter. I tried to relax into it—the trumpeter teasing the French horn about how long it took her to put away her instrument, three oboists chatting cross-legged on the edge of the stage comparing reeds, a clutch of brass players debating a tricky rhythm so passionately, they drew a small crowd. This reminded me so much of Wildwood, school orchestra, all these things I’d missed—but inside, even my new soprano friend’s “See you Friday!” gave me a physical thrill as I left with Oscar. I was one of them, in a completely unexpected way.

  I figured we’d grab post-rehearsal dinner and then get back to his apartment for another composition session, so I’d thrown on a comfy black dress, but when he met me on the sidewalk to head out again, he was dressed to the nines.

  “I have a surprise for tonight,” he sang.

  “Another section?” I grabbed his shoulders and jumped up and down. “Please please please?”

  “No.” His dimple flashed. “Yes, but it can wait till tomorrow.”

  “Such a tease!”

  “No, no, it’s rough. And we need a night off.” His eyes lit with mischief. “A night out.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The taxi pulled up outside a low-lit building with no sign marking it. The line to get in stretched all the way down the block.

  “Um.” I eyed the burly doorman, then looked at Oscar. “Is there a VIP entrance?”

  “Yep.” He smiled wickedly. “This way.”

  Taking my hand, he led us directly to the front of the line. My dress suddenly felt a million times clingier.

  “Hey.” Oscar gave the bouncer an up-nod. “Yeah, I’m Oscar Bell.”

  The huge dude up-nodded back, waved the line a step away, and opened the door for us to go in. I glanced behind us, totally bewildered, just as a flash went off—this one aimed at us.

  “Whoa,” I whispered as we hurried past the vacant coat check. “Are you a celebrity?”

  “I think I might be!” He shot me a double thumbs-up, the Mr. Cool act from seconds ago thankfully discarded. “You’ll have to give me pointers.”

  There was too much there for me to unpack, so I just asked, “Where are we?”

  Before he could answer, I heard music from the next room. Not awful Top 40. Jazz. “Is this Speakeasy?”

  “You got it.” He wrapped his shirt-sleeved arm around my shoulders. “A bunch of the philharmonic guys have been moonlighting here. They said I could jam with them, so I’ve come a couple times, sitting in on the piano. Once on the clarinet.”

  I stared at him, my mouth open. “When did you—?”

  “Middle of the night!” He shrugged. “I popped in last Tuesday after you went up to bed. I told you I don’t sleep much.”

  “You play the clarinet.” Of course he played the clarinet.

  “Eh, it didn’t go that well. They didn’t make fun of me too much, though.”

  Oscar waved to the trumpet player on the stage, finishing a solo. He raised his instrument in greeting.

  I couldn’t stop staring. “Who are you?”

  “Your boyfriend! Come on, we’re audience members tonight.”

  He found us a tiny table toward the back and drew a chair for me to sit. As I settled in, I scanned the snappy crowd, wonderstruck.

  Then I stood again so fast, I nearly knocked the table over.

  Oscar was staring too. “Is that . . . Alice?”

  “It can’t be. She never goes out. She never does anything!”

  “I’m surprised the line didn’t make her turn around and give up.” His eyes were laughing. So he had clocked her ridiculousness when he met her.

  I nearly laughed too, but couldn’t get over the fact that my sister was right there, dolled up in a silver 1920s-style dress, her lips cherry-red, laughing at a joke some guy sitting millimeters from her was telling. He was around her age, dark-haired, good-looking, wearing a well-tailored, inexpensive suit.

  “It’s the teacher.” I grabbed Oscar’s shoulder. “It has to be. We need to crash their date, this is too good, I might never get another chance again.”

  Alice looked just as stunned by the sight of me. She rose to kiss my cheek, hissing, “You are seventeen,” through her smile.

  “Don’t tell Dad!” I whispered back.

  “Ruby, this is my friend Daniel Ruiz,” she said, perfectly gracious as she turned to the table. “Danny, this is my sister, Ruby. And Oscar—”

  “Oscar’s my boyfriend,” I interrupted, grinning giddily.

  She hit the table. “I knew it! I am taking full credit for this.”

  “Great to meet you both,” Daniel said, recovering from our sudden entrance. “Ruby, I’ve heard so much about you, I feel like I’ve known you for years.”

  “You’ve been talking about me behind my back,” I deadpanned to Alice.

/>   She ruffled my hair. “I’m obsessed with you.”

  Daniel pulled chairs over so we could join them. I didn’t dare drink with Alice around—her discretion had its limits—but this was too uncanny an event to miss witnessing, a solar eclipse, Halley’s comet, a volcanic eruption.

  Alice! Personal life! On display!

  “Oscar is a budding composer,” she said to Daniel. “He’s studying with my dad.”

  “Is that right?” Danny nodded to him like he was conferring a knighthood. “That’s incredible.”

  “Thanks! Yeah, it’s . . .” Oscar glanced up at the stage, half listening to the drummer riffing. “I’m composing a lot less this summer than I do back home, at school, but . . . I think I’m growing a lot, so. It’s been good.”

  Daniel laughed. “Jeez, I’m trying to think what I was doing when I was in high school. My baseball team went to regionals, that’s about all I can brag about.”

  “You have a lot to brag about,” Alice said, eyes glowing, and they held hands across the table and oh my God, they’d totally had sex already, hadn’t they?

  “I played baseball for a hot two minutes.” Oscar grinned. “We did not go to regionals.”

  I stared at him. “You played baseball?”

  “Outfield.” He glanced back and forth from the stage. “My dad really wanted me to be on a team, any team, so I picked baseball because it looked like it gave you a lot of downtime.”

  “Especially in outfield.” Daniel pointed at him.

  Oscar leaned over the table. “I got hit in the head a couple times. Still didn’t catch the ball.”

  “I am . . . agog,” I said, picturing him wearing a baseball mitt.

  “You ever done a sport?” Oscar nudged me. “Apart from running?”

  Alice let out a snort on my behalf. “Running? What?”

  Right on cue, the music on the stage amped up several notches, making conversation nearly impossible.

  Oscar lit up, his feet keeping time under the table.

  “You like jazz?” I yell-whispered.