Semi-Sweet

by Roisin Meaney

  “Er—”

  “It’s a treble clef. I told you it places G above middle C. It always does that, it never changes. And this? Remember?” Indicating a hash symbol, which Adam was pretty sure was called something different here and whose significance he couldn’t for the life of him recall.

  “This is a sharp sign,” she said, thankfully not seeming concerned by his ignorance. “It means any note in that position is a semitone above the true pitch. It can’t mean anything else, ever.”

  She was leaning toward him. Their shoulders were almost touching. Her nails were unpainted. He could smell her powdery scent that reminded him of babies. He could almost feel the warmth of her body.

  “And look at that dot,” she said. “See where it is? To the right of the note, never to the left. A dot always, always lengthens the note by one half its value. Never one quarter, or one eighth, always one half.”

  She wasn’t blushing. There was no hint of shyness or embarrassment in her voice. On the contrary, it was filled with a confidence he’d never seen in her before.

  “And look, here, the time signature, one number over another. The bottom number always represents the note value of the basic pulse of the music—so here the four represents the quarter note. The top number, in this case three, always indicates how many of these note values appear in each measure, or bar. This example announces that each measure is the equivalent length of three quarter notes. So this piece is in three-four time.”

  “Three-four time—that’s a waltz, isn’t it?”

  Without even trying, he’d stumbled on a way through to her. It was as if he’d cracked a code or found a key.

  “Yes,” Vivienne said. “This piece is a waltz. It’s Hungarian.”

  “I have two left feet,” Adam said. “Don’t ever take me dancing.”

  And instantly he realized his mistake as Vivienne drew back, the flush rising in her face. “Well,” she said, the sheet music still clutched in her hand, “so…we’ll begin.”

  He’d strayed into the personal, and she’d scurried away from him. But for the first time, she’d let her guard down. For a minute or so, her awkwardness had vanished and she’d been herself with him.

  He winked at the cat on the piano, who stared back.

  Alice toasted bread, that was all. No eggs, no sausages, no pudding. She put out the box of bran flakes, but she knew that it would be untouched. She took the orange squeezer from the cupboard and put it back again. Just tea and toast.

  Tom had gone to the doctor, as he’d promised. Alice had phoned to make an appointment, and the following afternoon Tom had taken a taxi to the surgery, about a mile away. She’d offered to drive him there, but he’d refused. When she got home around six—straight from work, no more lost afternoons, no more of that—he was back, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of instant coffee in front of him.

  What did he say? Alice had asked.

  He gave me a prescription, he’d told her, for sleeping pills.

  Alice hadn’t known he wasn’t sleeping.

  And he wants me to go for…treatment.

  Treatment? But of course she’d known what it meant.

  He’s going to try and get me into a place in Dublin for a few weeks. I told him I’m in court on Friday, so some time after that.

  His face was so terribly bleak, his eyes empty of expression. The skin around his mouth was puckered, and deep folds ran down his cheeks. Dark shadows under his eyes. Such a gap now between his shirt collar and his neck.

  Alice, I’m sorry, he’d said then, in that same hollow voice, but Alice hadn’t trusted herself to give a response. She’d turned away from him and begun to get the dinner ready.

  And now Friday was here, and Geraldine was doing the full day on her own in the shop. Stephen had offered to come with them to the court, but Alice had said no, they’d be fine.

  She put a slice of toast on Tom’s plate and filled his cup with tea. She picked at her own slice until it was time to go. Just over an hour it usually took her to drive to Galway, so they were allowing an hour and a half, because the courthouse was in the city center, and traffic might be bad, and Alice wasn’t good with the one-way streets.

  The day was fine, the sun shining out of an almost completely blue sky. Neither of them commented on the weather as Alice drove off, remembering the last time—was he remembering too?—they were both in a car together. The sky had been blue then, too, although it had been much colder. She remembered the whir of the heater drowning the radio. She remembered turning down the heater and hearing about a long tailback at the Red Cow Roundabout, just before—

  “Put on the radio, would you?” she asked Tom. “Find something nice. Lyric, maybe.”

  Their solicitor was waiting for them in the lobby of the courthouse. He shook hands with them, his grip so strong that Alice’s rings dug painfully into her fingers. “Soon be over,” he told them. “Won’t last long, just a formality.”

  They sat on a wooden bench outside the courtroom, waiting to be called. Alice leaned against the wall, feeling its coldness through her light gray jacket.

  Soon be over. Won’t last long.

  The bell above the door brought Hannah out from the back.

  “Hey,” Wally said. “Finally made it.”

  “Hello there.” She held up her mug. “I was just having a sneaky cuppa.”

  “Why be sneaky?” he asked. “It’s your shop, you’re the boss.” He looked around. “Nice little place.” He spotted the rocking chair on the wall. “I suppose the high chair is for your baby customers.”

  She laughed. “Actually it belonged to my grandfather, whose money helped me set up this place.”

  He wore a green T-shirt with a cartoon apple on the front and loose canvas jeans. He was broad like Patrick, but not as tall. Chunky was how she’d describe him.

  “I suppose you’re here to claim your free bun,” she said.

  He studied the rows of cupcakes. “Well, I must confess I am. I told you I have a sweet tooth.”

  “You did.” She indicated the display. “Take your pick.”

  She watched as he bent to inspect the trays under the glass counter, whistling through his teeth.

  “That one,” he said, pointing to a rum-raisin, “please. As long as I’m okay to drive after it.”

  She smiled. “I think you’ll be safe enough.” She took a small box from the stack. “A taxi driver who plays keyboards—you don’t come across one of those every day.”

  “Actually, I prefer to regard myself as a musician who drives a taxi—and I’ll have you know that I play guitar and flute, too.”

  She laughed again. “Is there no end to your talents?”

  He considered, then shook his head. “None.”

  “Can you bake?”

  “Well, no.”

  “Cook?”

  “Er, not exactly.”

  “Are you sporty? Artistic? Into DIY?”

  He put his hands up. “Okay, okay, I can play three instruments not too badly, and I’ve got a clean driving license—that’s about it. Now give me that cupcake and let me out of here before you humiliate me further.”

  Hannah added a chocolate chunk to the box and handed it to him. “Have a nice day.”

  “Hey,” he protested, “the deal was for one.”

  “You can find someone, I’m sure, to eat the second.”

  “Well, my little sister wouldn’t say no.” He tipped an imaginary hat at her. “Thanks very much—I think that officially makes us quits.”

  “And if you’re happy, you can come back and get more,” she said. “And you’re definitely paying next time. I’m not made of money either.”

  He grinned. “It’s a deal, thanks again. See you, now.” As he turned away, he jerked a thumb toward the rocking chair on the wall. “Careful Grandpa doesn’t take a tumble.”

  And then he was gone, the bell tinkling behind him.

  Hannah leaned against the counter and sipped her cooling tea. She lik
ed that dark blond hair color. She wondered when it had last seen a comb. She remembered his woolly hat and figured his appearance didn’t unduly concern him. Vivienne looked older than him, but he’d called her his little sister. Imagine if she’d told him that her best friend had a crush on his little sister.

  A few seconds later, the door opened again and a woman walked in.

  “Nice to see someone looking happy,” she said to Hannah.

  Dave and Claire were in the courtroom.

  Alice hadn’t expected that. The thought of their coming had never once crossed her mind. An older woman had an arm around Claire’s hunched shoulders. They sat on a wooden bench toward the front.

  Alice didn’t spot them right away. She walked along the central aisle behind the guard who’d ushered them in, her bag clasped tightly in both hands, her heart thudding. She’d never been in a courtroom in her life.

  The guard brought Tom over to the stand, and the solicitor took Alice’s arm to guide her into a bench—and as she was about to sit she saw them, two rows back. She turned abruptly and took a seat on the bench across the aisle, praying that they hadn’t noticed her, that Claire wouldn’t remember the woman who’d spoken to her at the bus stop.

  “Are you all right?” the solicitor whispered, sliding in beside her, and Alice nodded.

  The older woman had to be Claire’s mother. They’d have seen her come in with Tom, so even if Claire didn’t remember her, they’d know she was his wife—who else could she be? Alice’s skin prickled, and she dug her nails into her palms and closed her eyes, and waited for it to be over.

  And when, barely five minutes later, Tom was charged with dangerous driving causing death, Alice should have been prepared. She had been prepared—the solicitor had told them that this charge would be the most likely outcome—but as the judge spoke the words out loud, as he told Tom that a trial date would be set and he would be summoned again, this time to the circuit court, Alice stumbled to her feet and hurried back down the aisle and out of the room, a hand pressed to her trembling mouth, oblivious now to who might be looking at her.

  In the corridor she pulled a tissue from her bag and wiped her eyes and blew her nose. She sat on the same bench as before, taking ragged breaths, trying to gather her wits before Tom appeared, knowing she had to be positive for him. When the courtroom door opened again, she looked up, forced a smile, pushed the tissue back into her bag—and there they were, the three of them, staring accusingly at her.

  Her heart pounded as she looked away, as she kept her gaze fixed farther down on the opposite wall. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Claire stepping forward. She braced herself for a blow.

  “That’s her. That’s his wife.”

  Alice didn’t respond. Her hands clenched her bag, her whole body tense. Her face felt ice cold.

  “You stay away from us.” She could feel Claire’s breath on her face as the young woman leaned toward her. “You stop hanging around our house.” Her voice rose in pitch, and again Alice flinched. “You stay away from Jason, you don’t go near him. You hear me, you creep?”

  Alice turned slowly to face her, her whole body beginning to tremble. Claire’s face was twisted with pain. Tears glittered in her eyes, dark red patches bloomed in her cheeks. Her mother and Dave stood by silently, their eyes fixed on Alice, Dave holding Claire’s hand.

  “You hear me?” she shouted at Alice again.

  “I hear you,” Alice whispered. “I’m very sorry.” Her voice shook, like the rest of her. She could feel a pulse beating in her head, the sting of incipient tears.

  “Sorry?” The expression changed in Claire’s face. “You’re sorry ? Your husband destroyed us, he destroyed our lives, and you’re fucking sorry !” Her voice was shrill, her rage and her anguish terrible, the spittle flying from her mouth to land on Alice’s cheeks, the tears spilling from her eyes. “I hope he’s locked up for good—he’s a fucking monster !”

  “I’m sorry,” Alice repeated, tears spilling onto her cheeks, her hands raised to ward off the blows she was sure were coming. “I’m so sorry.”

  Claire spun abruptly and stalked away, pulling her hand from Dave’s, and the other two followed. They turned a corner and were gone. Alice rummaged blindly in her bag and found the balled-up tissue and pressed it again to her eyes, trying to breathe.

  After what seemed like forever, the courtroom door was pushed open once more.

  “Come on,” she heard Tom say quietly. “Alice, come on, time to go.”

  But she couldn’t lift her head.

  Hannah read and reread the entry until she could recite it from memory.

  A son. They’d had a son.

  “At least you have your own room,” Alice said. “That’s good.” Not expecting, or receiving, a reply.

  Tom laid his case on the bed and walked to the window, and stood with his back to her.

  “It’s nice and quiet here,” Alice said. “Quieter than at home. You’ll be able to sleep at night. You mightn’t need your tablets.”

  There was a tree about twenty feet from his window. It looked like some kind of a maple to Alice. They could hear the tiny rustling the leaves made in the light breeze.

  “You brought books,” she said, “did you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And crosswords? Did you bring the crossword book?”

  His shoulders lifted. “I didn’t think of it.”

  “I’ll post it to you,” she said. “I’ll get a few more.”

  He wore the suit he’d worn to the courthouse. He’d gotten his hair cut for the court visit. The back of his neck was heartbreaking to her.

  “Well,” she said briskly, before she made a fool of herself, “I suppose I’d better be off.”

  Tom didn’t move. He gave no indication that he’d even heard her.

  “I know it was an accident,” Alice said suddenly, the words rushing out of her. “I understand that. And I shouldn’t have made you go to work that morning.”

  She turned and walked quickly from the small, bare room, narrowly avoiding a collision with the doorframe. All down the corridor that smelled of cabbage, she waited to hear him calling after her.

  She drove the four hours back to Clongarvin without taking a break, the journey as silent as the earlier one had been. As she walked into the house, the phone was ringing.

  Alice picked it up and said, “Hello,” knowing that it would be Tom. Who else would be ringing?

  “Ma, how could you not tell me?” Ellen asked.

  “I’ve packed it in,” Nora said. “Couldn’t hack it, too boring.”

  “Can’t say I’m surprised,” Adam answered. “I could never see you as someone’s PA. Making coffee and booking hotels, not your style at all.”

  He didn’t bring up the previous week’s incident, didn’t ask again how his sister had come to be standing on the side of the road on the outskirts of Clongarvin in the middle of the day. That an illicit relationship of some kind was involved, he didn’t doubt—but as long as Nora was keeping the details to herself, he wasn’t going to waste energy trying to pry them from her.

  “So what now?” he asked. “Are you staying put in Clongarvin?”

  “Wouldn’t think so,” she answered. “Nothing for me here, really. Don’t know what I was thinking about, coming back.”

  He wondered suddenly if she had any girlfriends. In her e-mails to him, nobody in particular had been mentioned, no name had appeared with any regularity. And here, as far as he knew, Leah was the only one of her old friends she’d looked up, and that hadn’t seemed to go anywhere.

  Pity, or sympathy, stirred in him. “You know you can stay as long as you like,” he said. “In the flat, I mean.”

  Nora smiled. “Thanks, bro,” she said. “I appreciate that, but I don’t think I’ll be bothering you for much longer. I might go back to the States, maybe check out the West Coast.” She set her glass on the counter and slid off her barstool. “Need the john—I mean the loo.”
r />   When she’d gone, Adam directed his attention to the musicians. As usual, Vivienne didn’t acknowledge the people around her. She probably had no idea that her only adult pupil had been sitting across the room from her for the past forty minutes.

  Tell me about Beethoven, he’d said two nights ago, at his sixth lesson. Did he really go deaf ?

  Why is this note sharp? he’d asked. What’s the significance of that squiggle there? How do I know what key a piece is in?

  And Vivienne had answered his questions easily, and explained about sharps and flats, and had shown him how to identify the key. And then he’d said, in the same casual tone, I like how your hair smells, and Vivienne had retreated immediately, as she always did.

  So Adam was right back to square one. Unless they spent the rest of their lives talking about music, it didn’t look as if there were a hope of his having a future with her.

  Hannah had told him about Wally’s visiting the shop. She said he’d given the impression that Vivienne had a sweet tooth. Adam had filed the information away without a clue how to use it.

  He could imagine Vivienne’s reaction if he presented her with a box of cupcakes. My friend makes them, he could say, just to take the drama out of it, but still she’d probably faint of mortification, and her mother, followed closely by the giant cat, would in all likelihood be shooing him out the front door with a broom.

  He drained his pint gloomily and nodded at the barman for another round. He wasn’t even learning how to play the clarinet. Despite his practicing—and he had to admit he’d lost some of his initial enthusiasm—he’d never make a musician, and they both knew it. Surely it was only a matter of time before Vivienne sent him packing. Maybe he should just admit defeat on all fronts and tell her he’d decided to give up the lessons.

  “Hi.”

  He turned to see Hannah dropping her little overnight bag on the floor. She’d taken to going home with John on Saturday night and reappearing on Sunday afternoon.

  “Hi yourself. Red or white?”

  He was glad she’d found someone to flush Patrick out of her system. Adam had gotten on well enough with Hannah’s ex, like he got on with most people, but the two men had never sought out each other’s company. His and Patrick’s lives had run along different tracks, leaving them content enough to interact when they came together but equally happy apart.