Perfect Pitch

by Amy Lapwing

  “Thanks,” she said. “I like your jacket.” He had dressed up for this date, just to be sure, and wore a black blazer over a russet shirt. He remembered to open the door to his restored silver 280 Z sports car for her. Grace could not make herself stop smiling.

  They sat in the middle of the Shanham concert hall, the best seats Derek could get without a subscription. As she sat down, Grace noticed Mr. C and Professor Trimble making their way to their seats a few rows in front of them. Mr. C gently took his wife’s coat from her shoulders and laid it over the seat by him. Professor Trimble settled closer to him as he draped his arm over the back of her seat.

  Grace stood up and started to take off her coat. She felt Derek take it from her shoulders. She caught herself smiling again as she sat back down, and she settled closer to Derek, who kept his hands to himself.

  “I wonder if Helmet Head is coming tonight,” murmured Justina to Michael. She looked over her shoulder at the people coming down the aisle. “There’s Grace,” she said to Michael. “Hi!” she breathed, waving to her.

  Michael looked over his shoulder and smiled to Grace. He did a double-take and saw Derek with her and he nodded to him, too.

  “Who’s that with her?” asked Justina.

  “That’s Teresa’s son.”

  Justina resisted an impulse to look at him. It was just the son; why did she feel such dread? Maybe she wanted to make sure the mother was not there, too.

  “You met him, at the party for the I.S. students, remember?” said Michael.

  “He’s her son?”

  “Yes.” The lights came down. Michael’s hand was on the seat back, instead of its usual place on her shoulder; she missed her cue to snuggle closer to him.

  Derek’s car zoomed out of Dunster into the outskirts of Kennemac. Grace felt giddy, giving herself over to the magical feel of this night. The surprise of the concert and then the dancing at a Latino club Derek had found out about from the I.S. students had delighted her. And she felt herself transforming into a beautiful, gracious creature in the company of this laughing, charming, polite young man. She loved looking at him, how he smiled, how his eyes looked at her, as though he could not get enough of her. Her edge was rounded; she felt feminine and pleasing and worthy of adoration. She laid her head against the seat.

  “Oh! I love that music!” she sang.

  He glanced at her, her small breasts pushing up as she arched her back. “You’re a fantastic dancer.”

  “What did you mean about melody being overrated?” she said, remembering his comment about the concert.

  “It’s just overrated. The real challenge is to forget conventional musical patterning.”

  “You compose, right?”

  “Yeah,” he said. He reached behind his seat for something.

  “I’d love to hear your music,” she said, looking at him so he would see her sincerity.

  He smiled. “You would?”

  “Mm-hm.”

  Derek brought up what he was looking for. He unscrewed the top of the wine bottle, pressing his thighs against the steering wheel. “Let’s unwind,” he said, offering her the bottle.

  She was disappointed, for the first time that night. “I’ve had enough.”

  “It’s Costa Rican wine,” he lied. “Just a sip. To celebrate our first night out together.”

  Grace took a drink and showed him a savoring smile. He took a sip and handed it back to her for safe keeping. They were on Longmeadow Road, about a half-mile north of her house. He took a left into the orchard; the car bumped along the grassy road then stopped at the bottom of a hill.

  Derek turned off the ignition and turned to her. She handed him the bottle and he screwed the top back on and put it on the floor. “Take off your seat belt,” he said softly.

  Grace looked down at her lap in surprise. She released the catch and took the strap off her shoulder. She knew she would be kissing him in a second. But that was all, right? Right.

  He put his hands on her hands and slid them up to her shoulders and drew her close to him and kissed her. His eyes were soft, his kiss was unhurried. She wanted to kiss him forever, it was so good.

  He kissed her cheek and whispered, “Getting close in here, isn’t it?” and he took her coat off her shoulders. She whipped it off and kissed him again. She stopped long enough for him to take off his blazer. As they kissed, he put his hand on her breasts and let escape a low grunt. She flinched and pulled her chest in.

  “Sorry,” he said and he kept his hands on her waist. “You’re just so incredibly beautiful,” he said between kisses. She was smiling, shy at showing so much pleasure. “That’s better,” he said. He kissed her, caressing her sides and her back and her thighs, getting away with all of it, wanting to get away with more. “Oh, Grace!” he breathed. “I was so scared of you.”

  “Why?”

  “How would I measure up?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know so much about love,” he said, kissing her neck. “I’m just a redneck from Georgia.” He traced a line across the top of her breasts with his finger. “But I know a jewel when I see one.” He squeezed her hips and kissed her, pushing her skirt up along her thighs.

  She gasped and tried to scoot back in the seat.

  “All right!” he said. “It’ okay.” He took his hands off her hips and kissed her throat. “We’ll take it slow.” He took his hands off her altogether and said, “Lift that handle, there.”

  Grace looked to her right and pulled the handle to recline her seat. He did the same with his seat and he laid back on it. She copied him.

  “What a beautiful night,” he said, looking through the windshield. “A beautiful night and a beautiful girl.” He got up on his elbow and looked over her body, ending on her face.

  She pulled his head to her and kissed him. He maneuvered his legs around the gear shift and straddled her lap, and ran his hands down her torso to her hips as he kissed her. She let him mouth her breasts through their thin covering and she stretched with pleasure. She opened her eyes and spied a Tau Nu blue beer can sleeve on the back seat. She sat up a little, just enough to see it more clearly as he slipped his hands under her shirt and kissed her neck. “T N” was imprinted on the sleeve; the letters “ASS” had been scrawled in with white out fluid. She heard the clink of his belt unbuckling.

  “You’re going to be fantastic, I know it,” he murmured.

  Confusion kept her frozen in place as she watched him reach under her skirt to her crotch. His fingers on her vulva drove her body against the car door.

  “Oh,” he smiled, moving with her, his hand still on her sticky sex, the other hand fumbling with his zipper, “you want it. Let me hear you say it.” He spread the flaps of his pants and pressed his clothed penis against her crotch and kissed her, hard.

  Grace struggled with the door handle, trying to get a grip on the door lock. She looked at him, hoping he had transformed back into the charming young man with the laughing eyes.

  He took his hands off her and said, “My bad. You tell me. Tell me what you want.”

  Grace got the door open and fell out onto the grass. She found her balance and stood up just as Derek grabbed her hips from behind.

  “Okay,” he said, his voice gruff, “this is better.” He twisted her around and kissed her, hurting her lips, raising her top over her head and pulling down the straps of her bra, squeezing her bare breasts.

  Grace yelled, “Ow!”

  He pushed her to the ground and got on top of her, pushing her legs apart with his knee.

  “What’re you—” she croaked before he put his mouth on hers. He stopped and looked at her, as though to see what change he had wrought in her.

  She slapped his face.

  In the confusion, she slid out from under him. She was almost on her feet when he grabbed her hips again.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said, “you read my mind.” He flipped her over onto her back and slapped her. She froze, surprised. He slapped her again an
d laid one arm across her chest while he pushed up her skirt and pulled down her panties. He let his penis out through the slit in his shorts.

  She twisted from side to side, with all her strength, trying to loosen his grip.

  He laughed, “Hold still, damn it!” and pinned both her wrists and flattened his chest on her, kissing her.

  She bit him.

  “Ow!” yelled Derek. “You little bitch!” He was smiling. His grip slipped just enough for her to push him off and she zipped to her feet and ran. As she passed the car, he caught up with her and threw her onto the hood.

  “All right, that’s enough,” he said.

  “Leave me alone!” she shouted.

  “I will,” he said calmly, “in a minute.” He held her down again with one arm and steered his penis toward her vulva.

  She screamed, “No!”

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  She managed to lift her knees and push him away. “No!” She punched his chest.

  He stepped back from her and put his pants back together. “I don’t fucking need this!”

  She stood against the car, feeling a threat in this sudden lull. He took her by the arms and threw her away from the car and got in. He gunned the motor and bumped crazily up and down on the uneven road as he tried to speed out of there.

  Justina lay against Michael’s arm, nuzzling his chest. “Mm,” she hummed, and she kissed his shoulder.

  Michael brought his other arm around her and squeezed, hissing, “¡Sssst!” and kissing her forehead.

  “Sssst, yourself,” she murmured. She knew she was ovulating, she was so wet, she could feel the tingling pleasure out to her toes, all she had to do was think about him. Even so, she had not put the condom on him till he had almost come. She had stopped the pill after a couple of years, worried about long term effects. Now they practiced the rhythm method, but instead of abstaining during her fertile period, they used a barrier. Condom, diaphragm, cervical cap, they did not like any of them, but the condom was quickest and least tricky, so they used that. “September thirtieth, sixteenth, June, June twenty-third.”

  “What are you mumbling?” he asked.

  “June twenty-third. If we screwed up, you’ll be a Daddy on next June twenty-third.”

  His shoulder tensed as he slipped his arm out from under her neck. “Don’t do that,” he said.

  “What?”

  He sat up and swung his feet to the floor and stared at his toes, a hand on his knee, the elbow sticking out.

  Justina sat up. “What?”

  He went into the bathroom. When he came back in she had put on her nightgown and was sitting on her knees, looking at him with big wet eyes. He closed his eyes a moment and got back into bed.

  “You’re very touchy on this baby stuff,” she said, defending herself.

  “I know, I’m sorry,” he said and he laid back and stuck out his arm, the hand waving her to him.

  She stayed on her knees, wondering if it was worth going into more deeply.

  “Come on,” he said softly.

  She laid next to him and he hugged her to him. “Tenure!” she cursed.

  “Tenure.”

  She looked at the light from the moon coming in the window, cutting out dancing leaf shadows upon the walls and floor and bed. “Grace looked happy, tonight. Did you tell her?”

  “Tell her what?” he said.

  “You know, that’s she beautiful.”

  “I was supposed to tell her that?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I gave her a solo to audition for.”

  “I knew you’d think of something.”

  A car’s tires scraped against the asphalt not far from their house.

  “Jesus!” said Justina. The car’s engine roared, as though just beneath their window.

  “Fuck you, you asshole!” they heard a woman yell. The voice continued ranting, rising in pitch and volume and then sinking, then rising again, a sine wave carrying human venom.

  “¡Ay! ¡Qué pesado!” growled Michael.

  “Wait!” said Justina, shushing him. “Listen!” They listened. “She’s crying.”

  The yelling had stopped. There were glottal sounds and whimpering. Justina went to the window and looked out. She saw a figure across the street coming out from among the orchard trees. She dashed into the closet and got her robe and hurried out.

  “Don’t go out there!” Michael pulled on his clothes and hurried after her.

  Justina was down at the road when Michael got to the door. “Justina!” she heard him call. “Wait!” She crossed the street and went to the figure huddled on the ground against the roadside stand.

  “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” she said, approaching tentatively. She could see it was a young woman, maybe a teenager. She went closer and put a hand on the girl’s shoulder. The girl darted a quick glance at her, then looked away in shame.

  “Grace!” said Justina. “Is that you?”

  Grace started crying again.

  Justina got down on her knees. “Oh, honey,” she said, her ovulating heart filled with pity, “what happened?” Grace let her put her arms around her shoulders.

  Michael came up to them. “Who is it?” he asked.

  Justina looked at him: don’t talk. To Grace she said, “Come inside. Will you come inside, Grace?” The girl would not move. “You want us to take you home?” Grace briskly shook her head. “All right, okay, it’s okay. Come inside with me, I’ll make us some tea.”

  Grace kept her head down to keep him from seeing her. Justina pointed her chin toward the house and mouthed, “Go!” to Michael and he turned around and preceded them back across the street and back inside.

  He turned on the lights downstairs and put some water on the stove while Justina took her girl-bundle into the living room. He stayed in the kitchen and fixed them two mugs of tea. He heard Justina’s murmured questioning and Grace’s replies, her voice taut with misery, breaking down in sobs that abruptly stopped as she got out what she wanted to say. Something about a boy in a car in the orchard. It could not be Derek, must be another boy she picked up later, after the concert. Stupid girl, she really asked for trouble, going with strangers.

  He wanted Justina to just call Grace’s parents and have them come get her so they could get back to bed. He was not wanted in the living room, he knew; but he felt like going in there and wrapping this thing up, now. He went to the doorway with the two mugs of tea and peered in at them.

  Grace and Justina sat together on the sofa. Grace’s eyes were dry now, but still had that anguished look of a recent cry. He let go of his irritation and was taken with pity for her.

  Grace noticed him standing there and turned away from him. Justina did not have the heart to shoo him away, again. “Michael, he tried to rape Grace,” she said.

  Michael brought in the tea and put it on the table by them, then went to sit across the room in his plaid chair. “You going to call the police?” he asked.

  Justina looked at Grace. “You need to, Grace. You need to report it.” Grace was shaking her head. “He’ll just go do it to someone else,” continued Justina, “only worse, probably.”

  Grace looked about to cry again. “I still can’t believe it,” she said, “he was so nice. Not fake nice, you know? Really, sincere. Like, he really liked me, like he liked me.”

  “Doesn’t matter, Grace, he tried to rape you. We need to report it now, right now, while the memory of it is still fresh. Okay?”

  Grace nodded, her mug cradled in her lap.

  “Okay, now you can report it yourself, you don’t need your parents, but do you want me to call them?”

  “I don’t know!” moaned Grace.

  Justina looked at Michael. He thought she wanted him to get lost, but she got up and nodded toward the kitchen. He thought they should call Grace’s parents and have them meet them at the station. “I stay here, if you like,” he said.

  “No!” she countered. “We’re wi
tnesses, both of us. We have to make a statement or something, answer questions, anyway.”

  He did not think to ask who the man was, he assumed it was someone he did not know, and that Grace only barely knew. At the police station Grace sat on a metal chair with a mauve vinyl padded seat under bright fluorescent lights in front of a video camera that recorded her statement. She pronounced, “Derek Bartel,” and Michael missed the next minute or two of her statement. The detective asked Justina what she saw or heard, and she reported details he had not been aware of, such as what direction on Longmeadow Road the car sped off in, and how long between the car sounds and the first sounds from Grace, and where in relation to the hut she had first seen Grace. Michael gave terse responses, he had heard a car driving away, and then a woman cursing, and his wife had gone to see who it was and he had followed and seen it was Grace Hardy. By the time Sunday dinner rolled around next day and the gathered friends were discussing the incident, Michael had decided it was all a big misunderstanding. A misunderstanding that Grace should have cleared up long before it got ugly. He kept quiet and let the others, mostly Justina, rant about the epidemic of date rape.

  Chapter Eight

  A Wrong Note

  “What’s up at home?” asked Justina. Michael had just come downstairs. She had heard his modem bleating earlier. She looked up from her week-old l’Express. “What’s wrong?”

  He sat in his plaid chair and looked like he had just come in from mowing the lawn— fine, just need to catch my breath.

  “Somebody sick?” pursued Justina.

  “She wants me to come see her again. Something she wants to discuss with me.”

  “Discuss?”

  “Something about Derek.”

  Justina scanned the baseboards, the forced hot water heating system was one of the house’s newer features. “She wants you to take their side, doesn’t she?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know, Justina.” He was all black eyes, pinning her there till she gave her permission. “Is it all right if I go? See her?”