Nocturne

by Andrea Randall

  “Joseph, I don’t know if that’s a good idea ...”

  “No false modesty, Gregory. It doesn’t suit you. You’re doing the duet.”

  I was speechless. I looked ahead through the traffic but still couldn’t see her.

  She was gone.

  “Fine, Joseph,” I said. “Whatever you say.”

  What I wanted to say was fuck off, Joseph. But that wouldn’t have gone over very well.

  Instead, I hung up the phone and collapsed back into my seat.

  Savannah

  The shoulder strap of my bag caught on the door handle as I tore into the hotel room. I growled my frustration and yanked the strap free from around the handle and sailed the bag across the room.

  In the next second I was thankful that my roommate wasn’t there. She must have been at dinner. Lizzy played the French horn and was extremely nice, but I didn’t know her well enough to explain my outburst.

  “Shit,” I grumbled, collapsing onto my bed.

  What the hell did I want from him? It’s not like we made love and he told me by the way, I’m married. I knew. But he also knew, and he did it anyway.

  He made me feel like I was his.

  I wasn’t.

  Despite the sweltering, long walk I took from the cab to the hotel, I still wasn’t able to coax my thoughts back from the edge. I picked up my phone, thumbing through to the only number that made any sense at the moment.

  “Hey, babe, what’s up? That was a hell of a performance the other night.” Marcia’s playful voice brought tears to my eyes.

  “Hey.” I barely squeaked out the word before tears tightened my vocal chords.

  Marcia responded in a quick, urgent voice. “Savannah? Sweetie, what’s wrong?”

  “I … it …” I didn’t know where to start. How could I express that my heart was breaking over the man I loved, because I couldn’t say no to him. Neither of us stopped long enough to ask or think about what we were doing.

  There was no question that what happened last night was the single most powerful experience in my life. And the most devastating.

  Just as I was about to attempt an answer, my phone beeped. It was my mother.

  I’d been avoiding her calls since our aborted lunch in Boston several weeks ago. Even my dad softly scolded me about it via text fymessage. I couldn’t put her off any longer.

  “Shit, Marcia, it’s my fucking mother. I … shit, I have to go.”

  “You call me back tonight, okay?”

  I nodded in the empty room. “I will.”

  One long sigh later, I steadied my voice and pressed to accept her call.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  “Savannah.” If we were face to face she would have nodded as she spoke, raising a too-thin eyebrow. “Are you okay, darling?”

  “I’m fine. What’s up?” I sniffed as I made my way to the bathroom. When I flicked on the light, I still couldn’t bear the broken eyes that stared back at me, so I darkened the room again and sat on the edge of the tub. I was covered in dust and sweat from the walk to the hotel. It was all so appropriate.

  “You did a fine job on the show last night, Savannah. I’m proud of you.”

  Proud of you.

  Vita Carulli never doled out fluffy praise. In theory, this would have been the point that I would have hung up the phone, not wanting to hear whatever came next. To hear what she was priming me for with the verbal approval. This time, however, I was willing to let anything invade the space in my brain that was searching for escape from the emotions of last night.

  “Thank you. Apparently we’re going to do it at every show now.”

  Joseph’s insistence on the addition of our duet to the regular program was aggravating at best.

  “Don’t sound so put upon, dear. It’s a fabulous opportunity. You should think twice before squandering it.”

  Just like that she was back.

  I sighed my response.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “that’s not the reason I called.”

  “I suspected as much.” I made my way to the minibar in my room, cracking open a tiny bottle of vodka that would probably cost me twenty dollars.

  “You remember Malcolm Carroll,” my mother stated, her voice turning a notch over his name.

  “Mmm-hmm,” I mumbled through the tiny plastic bottle dispensing the mid-shelf vodka into my mouth.

  Malcolm was the conductor for the Boston Ballet Orchestra, and longtime friend of the family. My mother had tried to arrange an audition with them for me during my senior year of college. When I turned it down, she’d implied that my admission to the conservatory had less to do with my own skill at the audition and more to do with her influence, and it would be foolish of me to ignore the opportunity she was providing.

  “He’s leaving the Boston Ballet.”

  She seemed to choose her words carefully, but that didn’t stop the vodka from burning my sinuses as it shot through my nose. “What?”

  One doesn’t simply leave a position like that unless they’re headed to something better. I instantly searched my mental list of all the conductors of the major orchestras I knew, and couldn’t come up with a single name of anyone leaving their current posts.

  “He’s accepted the conductor position for the Boston Lyric Opera.”

  “Okay, I’m not really sure what that has to do with m—”

  “Where I’ve just earned lead role in A Midsummer’s Night Dream.”

  I sat up. “You’re performing again?” I can’t say that I was surprised. After she left my dad and moved to Boston, I assumed it was only a matter of time.

  Ten months on the nose, it turns out.

  “Well, at least just for the run of this show. I’ll see how things go afterward.”

  “That’s great that you and Malcolm will get to work together again. What are the odds?”

  My mother cleared her throat. “Yes, it was quite fortuitous, but it complicates matters.”

  Once again I found myself shaking my head in my still empty hotel room, a nonverbal indication that the vodka in my hand was much stronger than the bottle promised, or maybe that my mother was speaking another language.

  Maybe it was both.

  “Mother, what’s complicated?”

  “I wanted to make sure I spoke with you tonight, before the Opera News story runs tomorrow.” By the tone of her voice, which was quickly fading, I knew the news wasn’t going to be about my mother’s return to the stage.

  I cleared my throat. “What is it, Mom?”

  “The story tomorrow is going to say that Malcolm was growing restless with the Ballet and was looking to move on, dying to work in the opera.” She spoke as if she were reading from a novel. The dramatic rise and fall of her voice had me picturing her on stage somewhere. “They’re saying that once I landed the role of Hermia, I used my pull to get him the job currently filled by alternating conductors since Don Kimmel left the position last year.”

  “From what I recall, you’re no stranger to tossing your name around as it suits those around you. What’s the big deal now? You say everyone does it.”

  Talking about her attempt to sway the admissions committee in my favor at the conservatory got easier over the past few years.

  Despite the fact I knew I got in on my own skill, doubt lingered. It always does.

  “For one thing, young lady, that’s not what I did.” Her tone was clipped and defensive.

  Growing tired of the conversation, I sighed heavily. “What’s the point here, Mom?”

  “The point is that the photo they’re running with the story is one of Malcolm and I kissing in Venice.”

  I’d assumed she’d move on from my father at some point. But under a year seemed a bit hasty.

  Trying to sound like an unwounded child, I pressed for more. “When did you and Malcolm go to Venice?”

  Her long silence suddenly made it very clear it wasn’t a recent excursion.

  “Mom …” My heart raced, embarrassingly unprep
ared for what was coming.

  “Coccolona …” she sighed, trailing off as her voice caught.

  Cuddly one.

  My mother hadn’t called me that in years. Years. We hardly spoke Italian on a regular basis anymore. She only slipped into Italian terms of endearment under times of great stress, like when my grandmother passed away.

  She cleared her throat. “Seven years ago.”

  “Seven years ago?” I ran a hand through my hair just as there was a knock on the door.

  Now? Really?

  “Savannah, let me explain …” My mother’s voice was uncharacteristically frazzled.

  Opening the door, I found Nathan. He looked happy to see me, until he studied my face for a second. He quickly ushered himself into the room, shutting the door behind him. I mouthed to him that I was on the phone with my mother. He knew all the gritty details of my parents’ falling out. He patiently waited, crossing his arms in front of his chest and leaning against the wall.

  “I wish you would, because I’m dying to hear about how a seven-year affair is blowing up in your face as we speak.”

  Nathan’s eyes widened.

  The irony of the conversation brought me to my knees and I rested my back against the side of the bed. Nathan sat next to me, resting his arms on his knees.

  “Get ahold of yourself, Savannah. Malcolm and I haven’t been having an affair for seven years.”

  “You’re lying. Are you two together now?” I stood, fuming with rage over what she’d done to my father.

  “My private life, Savannah, is not any of your business. What you need to know is that Malcolm and I never had a relationship while your father and I were together. That’s all I wanted you to know. Besides,” she continued, rather distantly, “you know what it’s like.”

  “I’m sorry, I know what what’s like?” I couldn’t even address her assertion that I should be happy about anything that was going on.

  “Not being able to stop yourself from loving someone.”

  “I …” I trailed off, knowing full well what she was talking about, but unable to defend myself now that I had an audience. What I didn’t know, however, was how she knew.

  “I saw the performance, Savannah. Tread carefully. Whenever it happens it will be a mess, and I don’t want it jeopardizing your career.”

  Hastily, I ended the call and turned off my phone. In a few short minutes my mom admitted to being in love with someone other than my father, all the while skirting the discussion of a possible seven-year affair and not appearing to give a shit about my feelings. Only my career.

  Seven years.

  Intermittently on the flight from LA to Lincoln, I considered what it would look like to try to be with Gregory, despite his marriage. Now knowing how that looked from the outside, I brought my hand to my mouth, stifling a sob. Nathan grabbed me into a hug in an instant.

  “What’s wrong?” he whispered, stepping back and holding me at arms’ length.

  Wiping tears from my eyes, I shrugged in defeat.

  I had to tell him. I had to tell someone, and I was in no condition to call Marcia back.

  “Nathan … I made a horrible mistake.”

  Gregory

  I finished strapping in the cello, then lay down on the lower bunk and glanced at my watch. It was just past midnight, and the Amtrak California Zephyr would roll into Denver at 7 a.m. I sighed, staring up at the bunk above me. I didn’t care for sleeper cars unless they were solo, and this one I cared for even less, because I would be sharing the car with Nathan Connors, who I really didn’t want to see at the moment. I needed to have a talk with the production assistant who made the travel arrangements, because this was not acceptable. God knew Savannah had probably spoken with him, so I would be getting an earful of self-righteous yammering from a boy barely out of his teens.

  Savannah and I had performed the duet together at the Pershing Center in Lincoln.

  Despite our argument, despite her charging off by herself, she’d shown up for the performance on time, got up on the stage, and brought magic into that auditorium. Music that took my breath away. Not once during the four and a half minutes of our duet did her eyes leave mine. Until the end, when she turned away from me dismissively and bowed to the wildly applauding audience. Then she swept off the stage like a queen, leaving me to clumsily lumber behind her with my cello.

  With a small lurch, the train moved forward, the car rocking back and forth, the thumping slowly accelerating as we pulled out of the city. My phone rang. Probably Karin again. I shook my head and took out the phone and wrinkled my eyebrows in surprise. It wasn’t Karin: the call was coming from Madeline.

  “Hello?”

  “Gregory, I’m not waking you am I?”

  “No ... actually, we just boarded the train in Lincoln.”

  “Good.” She went silent.

  I sat, waiting for her to speak, but she didn’t, which was hardly normal, not to mention extremely uncomfortable.

  Finally I said, “I trust your honeymoon went well? Is everything all right?”

  She let out a small chuckle. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry ... everything’s fine. Actually ... I was calling for two reasons. We didn’t get a chance to talk before you left Boston, and I wanted to thank you for watching the flat. James and I really appreciated it.”

  “Of course, Madeline, after all, what are friends for?”

  She let out a low chuckle, and said, “Well, that’s what I’m calling about, now, isn’t it?”

  I stretched a little in the bunk. “Are you drinking? What time is it there?”

  “I am, Gregory.”

  My reply was a little impatient. “What’s going on, Madeline?”

  She sighed. “I just got home from a particularly maudlin evening out. With your wife.”

  That caused me to sit up. And hit my head on the upper bunk. I cursed and dropped the phone, which I heard bouncing against the carpet to who knew where while I fumbled around in the darkness.

  A sudden flash and horn racing by, then receding into the distance, marked a train going in the opposite direction. For a few moments our train was buffeted by wind and turbulence from the other one, and then it was gone.

  I got on my knees and searched around until I found my phone. It was underneath the bed. Groaning, I put it to my ear and leaned back against the bunk, still sitting on the floor. “Madeline, you there?”

  “I’m still here, Gregory. Did you fall, or jump out the window or something?”

  “Hit my head on the upper bunk. What did Karin have to say?”

  Madeline responded in an aggravated tone. “She’s your wife.”

  “I’m painfully aware of that.”

  She sighed quite audibly. Then she said, “After your performance last night, she believes you’re sleeping with Savannah.”

  I was silent. I couldn’t tell anyone. I was married. But I couldn’t lie either. Not to Madeline, who had been my friend for fifteen years, who had been Savannah’s mentor. I couldn’t lie. So I didn’t say anything. Which, unfortunately, told Madeline all she needed to know.

  “You love her, don’t you?”

  I closed my eyes and pressed my head against my knees.

  “Gregory ... how did you do this to yourself? You, of all people.”

  I just groaned. Then rode for a few more seconds, the silence punctuated by the sound of the rails clattering below. Then I said, “What did you say to Karin?”

  “Well ... it was a long night. And ... she’s not having an easy time of it, Gregory. You know ... I knew from the beginning you didn’t love her. It really wasn’t fair that you married her. And now ... when she just found out she’s infertile? You’re my friend, and I love you, Gregory. I want the best for you. I want you to be happy. I want her to be happy. But your timing sucks. You’re breaking her heart.”

  I leaned forward again, my mind focusing in on one single word in her monologue.

  “She just found out what?”

  Madeline didn
’t answer.

  “Madeline. What the fuck did you just say? She just found out what?”

  Her answer was so quiet I barely heard. “Gregory, she can’t have children.”

  My thoughts exploded into a hundred different directions at once. If she couldn’t have children, then why the hell was she hounding me about having children? What the hell? For that matter, what prompted this revelation? It’s not as if we were trying to have children.

  Were we?

  “I don’t understand,” I said, my voice dry. “When … did she have a doctor appointment?”

  “Gregory ... are you saying … you didn’t know?”

  “Of course I didn’t know,” I hissed. “I’ve never wanted children. And she knew that.” It didn’t make any sense. Why would she go get testing without telling me? For that matter, why does anyone get fertility testing unless they’d been trying to have a baby? Had she? She was on the pill ... that much I knew. It was one of the first questions I asked when we were dating. But now I was asking myself if she’d decided to stop taking them. If she’d decided to have a baby without discussing it with me. Had she only brought it up because it wasn’t working?

  What the hell is wrong with her? A wash of rage and guilt and confusion ran through me in a muddled mess, and I didn’t have the first clue what to think or feel.

  Madeline was silent at the other end of the call. So I sat, watching the occasional light flash by, listening to the tracks rumble underneath the car, and then the door to the sleeper opened up, hitting me in the side.

  “God damn it!”

  In the bright light from the train hallway stood Nathan. Who gave me a murderous look as he stared at me, sitting on the floor in the car.

  “Madeline, I’ve got to go,” I said, scrambling to my feet.

  “Wait!” she called out.

  “Seriously ...”

  “No,” she replied, her voice firm. “You listen to me for a moment.”

  “Now is awkward,” I replied.

  Nathan was swaying in the doorway. He didn’t look drunk. But he did look furious.

  “Gregory,” she said. “I’m not going to judge you. I’ve known you and Savannah for a long time. And ... when she was a student I did my best to keep you apart. Because it was my responsibility. But … it’s been obvious for a long time. But my support ends …” She paused, and I heard her sniff. “My support ends if you hurt that girl. Do you understand me?”