by Ann McMan
Syd leaned into her. “Two great moms.”
“Let’s just pray that our self-styled parental three-way saves him from at least a few years of hurt and disappointment.”
They heard two sets of footsteps pounding toward them on the porch outside the kitchen.
Henry and Pete were back from the pasture, and they’d soon be clamoring for food.
“From your mouth to god’s ear, Sawbones.” Syd kissed her on the ear before getting up from the table where they’d set the laptop. “Come on. Let’s make some supper.”
Chapter Eight
Recorded Interview
Preliminary Inquest Investigation
Death of Mayor Gerald Watson
“That’s correct. I run the Riverside Inn with my partner, David Jenkins. I’ve lived in Jericho for nearly eight years. My last name is Robertson, with a t. I came here from Charleston, where I went to culinary school. But I’m originally from Aiken, South Carolina.”
God. I just know they’re going to ask me if I was with David after the fight with Watson . . .
“Yes. I was catering a lot of the food that day with Nadine Odell. We had just set up the dessert tables when the mayor showed up.”
How much do they know already? Do they know I couldn’t find him? Do they know I have no idea where he went?
“That’s right. Mr. Watson was angry and shouting at David for talking with his daughter. David wasn’t doing anything but teasing Dorothy about which desserts to try. But Watson was furious and out of control. He said some horrible things to David and made some offensive accusations. There were a lot of people standing there who witnessed it all.”
What would it mean if I refused to answer their questions? Do I have a legal right not to? Would it just make things look worse for David?
“David never did anything to provoke him. In fact, I was the one who told him to back off when he grabbed Dorothy and yanked her away from us. Nobody should ever treat a child like that—parent or not. It was obvious she was terrified.”
David was like I’d never seen him before . . . like he’d vacated. He was practically comatose. It was almost as if Watson had been trying to drag him away—instead of Dorothy.
“David never touched him. Not once. And he never threatened him, either. Watson shoved him hard and he fell backward into one of the food tables. You can ask anyone who was there. Nobody provoked that man. All the while, his daughter was begging him to stop and to leave us alone. She didn’t want him to hurt anyone.”
God. Don’t ask me. Please don’t ask me.
“He did wander off for a bit. I think just to compose himself. It had all been pretty embarrassing. We were all focused on picking up the desserts that had been knocked all over the ground. It was a big mess, and everyone was trying to help.”
How am I going to handle this? I should’ve had an answer prepared . . .
“David reappeared after just a bit. He helped to finish clearing away the food. We watched the fireworks. No. We didn’t find out about Watson until later, when all the police and EMTs arrived. We didn’t see Dorothy again that night, either.”
Maybe they’ll let it drop? Maybe they won’t ask me?
“Well . . . no. I don’t actually know where he went when he left to pull himself together. He told me he’d just gone for a walk. He was back in just a short amount of time, though. I’m not really sure how long it was. Maybe an hour? Not much longer than that, though, because Nadine and I were still cleaning up.”
Please, god. Let somebody else have seen him. Let somebody else have told them where he was.
“Yes. If I remember anything else, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
◊ ◊ ◊
Celine had been through the National Immigration Museum on Ellis Island many times. Her parents had taken her to tour the island facility at the mouth of the Hudson River for the first time on her tenth birthday, to teach her about their experience arriving in the United States in 1950, just four years before the immigration station closed its golden doors. It had been hard for her to comprehend that her parents had not always lived in their Manhattan neighborhood, but had first arrived in the city with little more than their musical instruments and their aspirations to pursue performance careers on some of the greatest stages in the world.
Those dreams had mostly been realized by the time Celine had been born. Wandering among the towering displays of photographs that depicted the gaunt faces of haggard-looking travelers, she found it hard to reconcile the life she lived in the luxury of their Upper East Side apartment with the battered suitcases and canvas bags these weary hopefuls clutched.
She remembered her father crouching beside her as she stared up at one image of row after row of immigrants, waiting to be processed. “Remember this, Bärchen. These are your humble beginnings. Always be grateful for the gifts you have been given.”
She had always remembered his words. But years later, her beloved Papi had turned his face away when she entered his studio and told him she no longer wished to study the piano at Juilliard.
“Du bist nicht meine Tochter,“ he’d said. You are not my daughter.
Her father’s quiet disappointment had been harder to bear than her mother’s strident rejection of her plans to pursue a career in medicine. Things were much simpler for her mother. Celine was a Weisz. And a Weisz pursued only one path: a lifetime of fierce dedication and devotion to music.
But today wasn’t about revisiting her past experiences: it was about giving Dorothy the chance to create her own. She’d been mostly silent on the boat ride over from the Battery. Celine could sense the girl’s unabashed astonishment as they approached the Statue of Liberty. It had been palpable. And Celine understood it. Even having grown up in the city, she’d never fully understood the power of what the monument represented until she approached it for the first time from the water. The ubiquitous clicking of cell phone cameras and the incessant chattering of tourists in a dozen different tongues could not detract from the enormity of what she knew Dorothy was feeling.
Their stroll through the museum at Ellis Island appeared to be having the same effect.
“Your parents came to New York through here?” Dorothy asked in amazement. Other questions followed in quick succession. What did they do? Where did they go? Did they know anyone else in the city? What kind of jobs did they get? Celine answered them all with as much detail as she could supply. The truth was, she knew very little about how her parents managed once they passed through here. Her mother preferred to gloss over any of the hardships they had endured—choosing, instead, to impress her daughter with how far hard work, industry and endless practice had brought them.
“You must study, Töchterchen. That is how to make your way in this world. Nothing is given to you. You must earn it through hard work.”
Dorothy asked if they could see the apartment building where Celine had lived. And the music school, too—the place she called “Juilliard.” Was their apartment near the school? Could Celine walk there from home? Could they go there today, too?
Celine said yes to everything. Her attempt to finagle an abbreviated tour of the Steinway factory in Queens had failed. The facility was closed to the public for repairs right now. Not even the regular Monday tours were happening. But the kind manager she spoke with took an interest in her plight, and made what turned out to be a very helpful suggestion: why not take Dorothy to tour the new Steinway Hall on 6th Avenue? He explained that all of their latest concert grand and salon models were on display there, and pointed out that the opulent 19,000-square-foot facility featured a seventy-four-seat recital hall. With luck, they might get a peek at a potential buyer, test-driving a few models before purchase.
Since Steinway Hall was only a fifteen-minute walk from their hotel in Midtown, Celine thought it should be the highlight of their day, and the last thing they did before grabbing an early supper and attending the concert. The walk to Carnegie Hall from the Warwick Hotel would take less than two minute
s, so they had plenty of time for Dorothy to tarry and indulge her passion for the pianos.
The first thing that caught Dorothy’s eye when they stepped inside the exquisite showroom was a breathtaking installation made of glass by artist Spencer Finch. Called Newton’s Theory of Color and Music, Finch’s brilliantly colored creation recreated the visual spectrum created by Isaac Newton, which assigned colors to each note on the chromatic scale. Finch used that scale to replicate the exact chromatic sequence found in a seminal work by J.S. Bach, represented by a series of alternating colors on long glass tubes, each internally illuminated by fluorescent light. The work was a stunning display of color and carefully controlled order.
Celine drew Dorothy’s attention to the particular piece of music the installation represented: Bach’s Goldberg Variations.
Dorothy was nearly overcome with excitement—a reaction Celine had never seen the girl express. She was captivated by how the expression of such raw emotion overspread her young face.
“This is the music Buddy loves so much—from that recording you played for him. He counted the number of bars. Over and over, he talked about how Bach put God inside the music.”
“I remember,” Celine told her. “Clearly, Buddy and this artist have something in common. You’ll have to tell Buddy about this sculpture when we get home.”
Dorothy was gazing up at the soaring tubes of color. “I can’t believe it. This must be what Buddy sees when he listens to music—all these colors and patterns. It all makes sense now.”
Celine had to agree. Buddy’s synesthesia did give him the uncanny ability to “see” the colors in the music—unlike the rest of them, who could only listen to it. “Maybe we can find a photo or poster of this to take to Buddy. Do you think he would like that?”
“I know he would.”
They spent the better part of two hours looking at all the various pianos on display. Dorothy was especially intrigued by Steinway’s Spirio line of digital player pianos. The high-resolution instruments recreated live performances with perfect tonality and fidelity. Selections in the Spirio library comprised an extensive roster of performances by the world’s leading artists—both contemporary and historic. And it was all controlled by a special app available for iPad. The pianos could also capture live performances and immediately play them back.
“Why would you ever need to learn how to play the music if you can buy one of these?”
Celine had to admit that Dorothy’s question had some merit. “I suppose,” she suggested, “that without the artists who can play the music, the Spirio library would be pretty limited.”
“That’s true.” Dorothy agreed. “And you’d miss out on all the best parts, too.”
“What are those?”
“Feeling the way the keys move under your fingers and how the notes flow out from inside you just exactly the way you play them—whether you get them right or wrong. How you feel the sounds, and how the music keeps echoing inside the room—even after you’re finished. Like it’s been set free and can do what it wants once it’s been released.” She looked up at Celine. “Does that sound weird?”
“No.” Celine had been so overcome by Dorothy’s simple explanation, she was finding it hard to articulate any coherent response. “It sounds exactly right to me.”
During the walk back to their hotel, Celine took a slight detour along 57th Street so they could duck into the Brooklyn Diner to get a bite to eat before the concert. She thought the place had enough authentic New York ambience to be engaging to Dorothy, and it also featured an expansive menu that included many more accessible options. Dorothy seemed genuinely impressed by the number of selections. It became clear to Celine in short order that she longed to try one of nearly everything.
In the end, Dorothy opted for a bowl of the homemade chicken noodle soup that was served with a biscuit top, and Celine chose the pan-seared teriyaki salmon.
They agreed to split an Oreo milkshake.
Throughout their meal, Dorothy was uncharacteristically talkative. She seemed to be thriving on the sights, sounds and infectious energy of her first New York experience. More than once, she asked Celine if it had been hard for her to leave the city to move to California. Celine explained that she’d actually left New York to live in Virginia, when she’d married Maddie’s father—but agreed that, yes, there had been parts of her life in New York she’d missed very much.
“What parts?” the now unabashed Dorothy wanted to know.
“Well,” the depth of Dorothy’s curiosity amused Celine, “ready access to so many first-rate musical performances, for one thing. And I missed the bookstores and some of the restaurants.”
“I know you missed this place. It’s terrific.”
“I bet that biscuit isn’t as good as yours, though.”
“It’s different.” She could tell Dorothy didn’t want to blow her own horn. “But it’s still really good. And the noodles are amazing.”
“I think that’s because they’re homemade. Homemade is nearly always better.”
“I’d love to learn how to make noodles.” Dorothy spooned one up. “I wonder if it’s hard?”
“Tell you what . . . when we get home we’ll give it a try.”
“Can we?” Dorothy’s eyes were alive with excitement.
“I don’t see why not. I’m sure Byron would love them.”
“I know he would. As long as we didn’t put them in chicken soup.”
“Don’t worry about that. There are a lot of vegetarian dishes that use noodles. I have several cookbooks we can go through. I’m sure we’ll find something.”
Thinking about going home must’ve reminded Dorothy about their Steinway Hall visit.
“Thank you for buying that poster for Buddy. I know he’ll love it.”
“I’m just glad they had one for sale. I want Buddy to see the sculpture as much as you do. It will be a special reminder of all the conversations we had about Bach and The Goldberg Variations.”
“And that man who grunted while he played them on the piano.”
“You mean Glenn Gould. Yes. He had a very unique style.”
“I wonder if Mitsuko Uchida will make noises when she plays tonight?”
Celine smiled. “I somehow don’t think so. And we won’t be close enough to the stage to hear her, if she does. Are you excited about the concert tonight?”
Dorothy nodded. “I’ve never been to a real one before.”
“I think your trip to hear the Richmond Symphony counts as a real concert.”
“Maybe. But that was all Christmas music. It wasn’t like the music you and Buddy and I love.”
Celine was touched by Dorothy’s simple admission. “I’m glad you love it, too.”
“I didn’t know anything about it. Not until that day David brought me to your house and you showed me your piano. It was . . . weird.”
“What about it was weird?”
“I don’t know.” Dorothy made a subtle shrug. “I guess it was like that thing that happens sometimes when you meet a new person—but they don’t seem new. They seem like someone you’ve always known.” She looked down at her lap. “That’s probably a stupid thing to say about something that’s not even alive.”
“No. It isn’t. I understand perfectly what you’re describing. Buddy would, too.”
Dorothy met her eyes. “I felt at home right then—like I was in a place I belonged.”
Celine’s heart melted. “I hope you still feel that way, Dorothy.”
She gave Celine a shy nod.
Celine didn’t suppress her smile.
“Do you want some more of this milkshake?” Dorothy pushed the icy, tall glass toward Celine. “I feel like I’m drinking the whole thing.”
Celine knew Dorothy needed to move their conversation to less emotional ground.
“Sure.” She took up her spoon. “I’ll never turn down a frozen Oreo.”
◊ ◊ ◊
It had been Maddie’s turn to work with Henry
on his math problems. Syd was busy on a conference call with several of her bridesmaids.
Dear god . . . bridesmaids. One or two, Maddie could get her head around. But twelve?
The concept of twelve was becoming a problem as difficult for Maddie to solve as was finding an effective way to get Henry to understand how prime numbers worked.
And why were kids expected to grasp abstract concepts like prime numbers in the damn third grade?
In her view, they still should’ve been reading about Dick, Jane and Sally . . .
But she realized this enriched learning curriculum was part of Henry’s “gifted and talented” classes at the local elementary school. More than once, she and Syd had discussed the merits of sending Henry to attend one of the private academies located in neighboring counties. But each time, they’d backed away from that prospect, believing that a solid public school education, combined with significant home involvement on their part, would serve him better in the long run. Socialization was important for Henry. So was having the opportunity to form close, lasting relationships with the children who were his neighbors. He’d have plenty of time later, once his interests evolved and narrowed, to decide what direction he wanted to take for focused or advanced study.
Frankly, she hoped he’d go to medical school—and one day take over her practice. But Syd said that was a pipe dream, and he’d be likelier to become an engineer—or a zookeeper.
According to her, it could go either way.
In the end, it didn’t much matter what he chose to do, as long as he found happiness and came home for holidays.
She really wanted that holiday part to happen . . .
She’d helped Henry create a graph that listed all numbers from one to one hundred, in ten rows of ten. Now she was helping him identify which of the numbers were prime numbers: meaning they were numbers that were only divisible by one or themselves.
He seemed to get that concept, but it took him a while to do the math on each number as he progressed through the rows. Eventually, Henry realized that even numbers were not prime numbers, and odd numbers were.
