by Steve Gannon
“Sorry, Mom. But face it. When it comes to talent, I’m wading in the shallow end of the family gene pool.”
“You couldn’t be more wrong. You have the ability to become a wonderful writer. How many young people your age have had their work published? I wish you would let me read some of your recent efforts. Are you still working on your novel?”
“No,” I lied.
“Well, you should start again. For someone with your—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Of course not. You never want to discuss anything with me. Don’t you trust me to understand?”
“That’s not it.”
“Then what is it?” she demanded. “Please don’t be like this, Ali. This wall of secrecy you’ve built around yourself is hurting you as much as everyone else.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Sure, you do,” Mom persisted, picking up the threads of what had become a deep-seated argument between us. “You’ve been shutting out everyone, including me, for a long time now. Do you know you never even say you love me anymore? It seems like ever since the night you were …” Her voice trailed off.
Raped, I thought angrily, silently finishing her sentence. Unwillingly, my mind travelled back to the attack I had suffered four years ago, the loathsome memories returning with abrupt and numbing virulence. My mother had been attending a concert at the Music Center that evening. My older brothers, Tom and Travis, had been out on a double date, and my dad had unexpectedly been summoned back to the West L.A. police station—leaving Nate and me at home alone for several hours. During that time two men had broken into our house, looking for money. In the course of the robbery I had been brutally beaten and sexually assaulted. After swearing Nate to secrecy, I had concealed my rape—not only from the authorities, but from my parents as well—fearing disgrace, becoming an object of pity, and most of all, the shame of admitting my own cowardice.
More than a year later, I had told my father the truth about what had happened that night. It was a revelation that had disturbed my parents deeply, particularly my mother, who couldn’t understand why I had chosen to suffer my shame and degradation alone. In time my father and I had reestablished a bond of trust, but not so my mother and I. With a surge of regret, I realized that the estrangement between us now was still rooted in that terrible night, and there seemed nothing I could do to change things.
“I’m simply saying that as a creative writer, you have to be willing to open yourself and share with others,” my mom finally continued, backing from the precipice that our exchange had led us. “Just as you’re supposed to do with those you love.”
“Let’s drop this,” I suggested, struggling to submerge the old memories. “And anyway, I’m going to be a journalist, not a novelist, remember?”
“You can still do that and also pursue a career in creative writing. I’m right about this, Ali.”
“You’re always right, Mom.”
“Ali …”
“Look, I’m not you,” I said bitterly.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that everyone can’t juggle two careers as perfectly as you—matchless mother and consummate artist at the same time.”
“That’s not fair,” Mom shot back, realizing from my corrosive tone that the old walls had slammed down once more. “You know that my family has always come before my career.”
“Right. And I’m the queen of the Nile.”
Though stung, my mother hesitated, unable to deny that her position with the Philharmonic had cut into our family life, no matter how much she had tried to make it otherwise. At last she continued. “Ali, along with your father, I love you and Nate and Travis more than anything in the world. I know there have been times when my job has imposed on our time together, but—”
“Mom, your nose is bleeding.”
“What?”
“Your nose is bleeding.”
Mom touched her upper lip. Withdrawing her hand, she stared at a bright red smear on her fingers. “That’s odd. I don’t recall doing anything …”
“Probably the altitude,” I said, rummaging through my purse for a Kleenex. “Or maybe the dry air. Darn, I don’t have anything. Keep pressure on it and tip your head back. I’ll get an attendant.” Reaching up, I pushed the call button.
Moments later a flight attendant who had been dispensing breakfast from a metal cart made his way down the aisle. “Yes?” he said, leaning in to reset the call button. Then, looking more closely at me, “Oh, I recognize you. You were on TV. You’re the girl who rescued that youngster at Newport Beach, aren’t you?”
I nodded self-consciously. “My mother needs a tissue.”
Suddenly noticing Mom’s bloody nose, the attendant’s eyes widened. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
“I’m fine, Mom answered, still pressing her upper lip. “I just need something to stop it.”
The attendant reached into his serving apron, withdrew a packet of tissues, and handed them to Mom. “Here. I always carry them for emergencies.”
“Thanks,” Mom said gratefully.
“You’re welcome. Let me know if you need anything else. And you, miss,” the attendant continued, again addressing me. “That was such a brave thing you did at the beach. Your mother must be very proud.”
I smiled. “You can’t imagine.”
For the next ten minutes Mom held a wad of tissues pressed firmly to her nose. When the bleeding finally stopped, she used a moist towelette to clean her face, then turned her attention to the lukewarm coffee that had been served during the interim.
We both sat in silence, the roar of the engines and the white-noise rush of air outside more conducive to introspection than conversation. As I sipped my coffee, I mulled over our earlier exchange, regretting that our discussion had, as usual, degenerated into argument. Despite wanting to progress to more pleasant topics—Trav’s concert or the Smithsonian tour we had planned for Sunday—I knew there were things that still needed to be said.
“Mom?”
My mother turned. “Yes, Ali?”
I carefully set my coffee on the tray. “We didn’t finish our conversation. About your career, I didn’t mean to—”
“No, let me go first,” my mother interrupted, placing a hand on my arm. “Ali, I know you feel that I’ve been away from home more than I should be, especially over the past few years, and I admit there are times when my career has taken precedence over my family. For that, I apologize. It’s often difficult balancing time between family and work. It’s something you’ll undoubtedly discover for yourself when you’re a successful writer with children of your own.”
“I don’t think I’ll be heading down the old marriage highway, Mom.”
“Oh? No family of your own?”
“No. And I didn’t mean to be critical about your music. Actually, I don’t blame you one bit. I’d give anything to have a career like yours, and I intend to. And I won’t let changing diapers, cooking dinners, and cleaning up after a pack of screaming brats get in the way.”
“I changed lots of diapers and cooked plenty of dinners over the years, and I still kept up with my music,” Mom said. “I even did a little cleaning. And believe it or not, you four weren’t screaming brats all the time,” she added with a smile. Then, more seriously, “Ali, my career is important to me, but you children and Dan are my life’s real blessings. You know that, don’t you?”
“I know,” I said, certain I detected another element of advice lurking in my mother’s words. “Unfortunately, things aren’t that simple for me.”
“They can be,” my mother reproved gently. “Life can be exactly that simple. And someday you’ll realize it.”
Later that afternoon, after landing at National Airport and checking into a Georgetown hotel, Mom and I showered, changed clothes, and caught a cab to the Kennedy Center. As Mom paid the fare, I stood on the entrance plaza, gazing up at the imposing structure before me. “Jeez,
this place is huge,” I whispered when my mother finally joined me.
“It certainly is,” said Mom, looking resplendent in an aquamarine evening gown, matching jacket, and a small emerald pendant that accented her eyes. She glanced at her watch. “Let’s go in. If we want to meet Trav and have time for a bite to eat before the performance, we’ll have to hurry.”
I had planned to dress casually, but at my mother’s insistence I had instead chosen a black silk dress, heels, and a single strand of pearls. Glad now that I’d taken my mother’s advice, I followed her through an entrance leading into the Hall of States, one of three ground-floor public chambers accessing the Center’s Eisenhower Theater, Opera House, and Concert Hall—the latter the performance venue in which Travis would be playing. Once inside the building, I stood gaping at the collection of flags hanging from the ceiling sixty feet above. “Incredible,” I murmured.
“There are flags up there from all fifty states,” said Mom, who had been to the Kennedy Center on numerous occasions.
“I know.” I craned my neck to take in the multicolored canopy. “Plus the five territories and the District of Columbia, hung according to the order in which each joined the Union.”
“Right. And the Hall of Nations displays—”
“—flags from all the nations with which we have diplomatic relations,” I finished. “C’mon, Mom. Let’s go check out the Grand Foyer.”
Amazed by my unexpected knowledge and seeming a bit disappointed not to be the one giving the tour, Mom followed me down the enormous, marble-lined hall. Upon reaching the west end, we passed through a monstrous doorway into a room that dwarfed even the one behind us. There we paused once more. To our right, marching the length of the colossal chamber, soaring windows offered views of an expansive terrace graced with fountains and elevated planters of weeping willows. To the left, flanked by mirrored panels ascending to the ceiling, carpeted steps fanned up to the doors of the Opera House, while straight ahead, on a thick pedestal, sat a spectacular bronze bust of President Kennedy, the centerpiece of the awe-inspiring room.
“Aren’t the chandeliers magnificent?” Mom asked, referring to a procession of gigantic crystal light fixtures traveling the vast space from end to end.
I nodded. “They were a gift from Sweden. Each weighs over a ton. And that,” I added, pointing to the seven-foot-high sculpture of JFK, “tips the scales at over three thousand pounds. The artist was Robert Berks. He sure captured Kennedy, didn’t he?”
“That he did. You’re quite the encyclopedia about this place. How do you happen to know so much?”
“I did a little internet research before we left.”
“And you remember it all?”
“Sure. For instance, did you know they used 3,700 tons of Carrara marble during construction? The stone was a donation from Italy—”
Mom raised her hand. “Enough! I keep forgetting that you inherited your dad’s memory. And you say you’re not like him,” she laughed. “C’mon. Let’s go find your brother.”
After passing the Opera House and turning left into the Hall of Nations, we rode an elevator up to the South Roof Gallery. Upon exiting, we found ourselves in a charming space with inviting restaurants at either end. On one side was the Roof Terrace Restaurant, which catered to those in the mood for formal dining; on the other lay the Encore Cafe, a more relaxed setting where theatergoers could have a casual meal before a performance.
“Where are we meeting Trav?” I asked.
“When I telephoned from the hotel, he said he would see us at the Encore Cafe,” Mom answered, starting across the room.
Glancing out floor-to-ceiling windows at the city below, I trailed my mother down the hall. Reaching the far end, I stopped to admire a vista to the east, picking out several landmarks, including the Washington Monument and the dome of the Jefferson Memorial. To the right, a low-flying plane on final approach to National Airport traced the sluggish course of the Potomac.
“C’mon, Ali. You can take in the sights later,” Mom called impatiently from the restaurant door.
Hurrying to catch up, I joined my mother as she entered the cafe, a cheery space punctuated with potted ficus trees, mirror-clad columns, and cafeteria-style seating. Scanning the room, I spotted Travis sitting on the far side, nervously sliding a coffee mug from hand to hand across the table. Tall, with our father’s reddish hair but the more refined features of Mom, Travis seemed to me to have grown even more handsome over the past years. Working summer construction jobs had hardened his body, and his slightly angular face had matured with the coming of manhood. As if sensing our presence, Travis glanced up, his eyes drifting toward the doorway.
I waved. A moment later Travis saw us. With a look of relief, he stood. “Mom, Ali!” he called.
Hearing his voice, Mom turned. “Hi, Trav!” she called back. Together we began threading our way through the busy room. “Sorry we’re late,” Mom said when we arrived, giving Travis a hug. “We got stuck in traffic.”
“It’s okay, Mom,” said Travis, who was wearing a sport coat, slacks, and a white shirt open at the collar. “I’m just glad you made it. Hi, Ali.”
“Good to see you, genius boy.”
Travis smiled. “You too. I caught your beach rescue on TV. They even ran it again this morning. I’m proud of you, sis.”
“Thanks,” I said, feeling a flush rise to my cheeks.
“I tried to call, but the line was always busy.”
“After that newscast, I think everybody in the world tried to call us,” Mom noted dryly.
“I’m not surprised,” said Travis, missing Mom’s tone. “I want to hear all about it.”
“Actually, there’s not that much to tell,” I said, glancing at Mom.
“So make something up. You’re the writer.”
“Sure, Trav. After the concert,” I promised, trying to get off the subject. “Do we still have time to eat? I’m starving.”
“Big shocker,” said Travis. “You’re always hungry. God knows how you stay so skinny.”
“Same way you do, bro. Nervous energy. Speaking of nervous, are you ready for your big concert?”
Travis’s smile evaporated. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose.”
“Your performance tonight will be flawless,” Mom said firmly. “Now, let’s get something to eat.”
“I’m not hungry,” said Travis. “You and Ali go ahead. I’ll hold down the table.”
“Butterflies, huh?” I teased. I glanced toward the restaurant’s grill and sandwich counter, squinting at a menu displayed on a large white board. “Sure you don’t want something? A big greasy bowl of chili and a couple of beers might help settle your stomach.”
“Allison, hush,” my mother admonished.
“I’ll pass, sis,” laughed Travis. “But thanks for the thought.”
In addition to the chili I had suggested, the grill offered a surprisingly eclectic choice of fare. I decided on crab cakes, which came with a side of fries and a small salad; Mom opted for chicken piccata and a bowl of black-bean soup. Both of us grabbed soft drinks from a metal ice tub. After paying for our meals at the register, we rejoined Travis in the main room.
Mom took a seat next to Travis. “Has Alex arrived yet?” she asked, referring to her friend and colleague, Alexander Petrinski. Mr. Petrinski was the professor at USC who, convinced early-on that Travis had the makings of a prodigy, had guided Trav’s musical instruction from the time he had turned six.
“He got here last night,” answered Travis. “He said he would meet you in the Concert Hall.”
“Good. Have rehearsals gone well?”
“Very well … although at first I had my doubts,” Travis answered. “The music director wanted to begin by reviewing the concerto’s dramatic architecture. There were things I thought I’d already ironed out, but he had some good ideas and it turned out to be time well spent. He found several opportunities I’d missed, and we ended up making a number of changes. All for the better.�
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“I’m not surprised. A debut concert like this is often a collaboration between composer and conductor,” Mom pointed out.
Travis nodded. “Anyway, once we had agreed on the changes, rehearsals went smoothly. It’s great having a chance to play with an orchestra once again,” he added.
Pensively picking at my crab cakes, I listened to Travis and Mom’s discussion without paying much attention. As usual whenever they discussed music, I felt as if I were on the outside looking in, with no hope of understanding, much less of being included. Nonetheless, I realized that Travis’s last remark referred to his performing with the Los Angeles Philharmonic after winning a high-level piano competition at the age of seventeen—an experience he later confessed to finding both exhilarating and terrifying. Since then his only opportunity to play with a full orchestra had been during the finals of the Van Cliburn International Piano Competition. Despite Travis’s lack of experience with larger assemblies, I also knew that my brother, unlike most young musicians who by necessity practice in isolation, had enjoyed the benefit of playing with Mom and her Wednesday night chamber group over the course of his entire music career. During that time he had developed habits of eye contact and of listening to other musicians, traits that facilitated reading the subtle signals of communication among performers—a nod, a bow lift, a hesitation, the dip of a scroll—wordless exchanges that knit together all musical assemblies, including an orchestra.
As Mom and Travis’s conversation drifted into more arcane and inaccessible areas of music, I finished my crab and the remainder of my fries. Several times I started to speak but stopped, envious of the admiration I saw in Mom’s eyes for my brother.
“What’s wrong, Ali?” asked Travis, at last noticing my silence.
“Nothing. Just thinking.”
“Well, don’t overdo it. You might short something out.”
“Clever, Trav.”
“Sorry. Couldn’t resist,” Travis said with a smile. Then, checking his watch, he sighed. “Well, it’s time for me to head down to the dressing room and get ready. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck, honey,” Mom said. “Not that you’ll need it.”
