Perfect Pitch

by Amy Lapwing

  “I can’t work with you.” He got up and pressed a button on the tape recorder.

  This ugly brush-off. She was dirty, to him. While she stood here, his ignoring her said she was repulsive. She had to get away. She walked quickly out of the choral classroom to the sound of his weak tenor debasing the touching aria, like a nickelodeon jangling Beethoven.

  There was no reason to try to be home by six, he would not be coming home for dinner. But there was no reason to avoid going home. She left her office at her usual time.

  Why this feeling of dread as she went up the walk to the front door? His car was not there. She thought of a storm, she did not know why. The aftermath, when all is clean and renewed, if a bit damaged? Or just before, when all is jittery and quiet. She put her bag down on a kitchen chair and checked the downstairs rooms. He was not there.

  She warmed up a tub of left-over spaghetti and read the rest of the paper while she ate. The Arts section, she always let him have that in the morning while she read the real news in the first section. Of course, she could have read it this morning. He had stayed in bed while she showered; he had pretended to sleep while she dressed, she could tell, his breathing was so shallow. She had rushed through her breakfast, to avoid encountering him. She had left before even hearing him in the shower.

  She felt like working in bed. She went up at nine, after flicking through the channels for a half hour. She hung up her skirt in the closet and marveled at how easy it was to push the clothes apart and make room for the hanger. After reading the second essay, it bugged her too much. She went to look again at the closet. There were his shirts and his slacks. But he had a ton of shirts, there were only three left. It was Wednesday, there should only be, like, four missing that he wore since the weekend. He’s got a lot more than seven shirts. Pants, these are his summer pants.

  His chest of drawers was similarly raided. Only athletic socks left, a couple pair of old shorts. Why doesn’t he throw these away? Why do I have to decide? He wants me to repair them, I’ll bet.

  She sat on the bed. I’ll bet he took the new suitcase, too.

  She went up to the attic and looked over the valise collection. The big, new Pullman was still there. The garment bag was gone. Whew, what a relief, he thinks he’ll only be gone a short time then. She snorted.

  Back in bed she arranged the covers over her, straightening the sheet and blanket, pushing the bedspread down to her feet. She picked up the next essay. Great big square lettering; she imagined a friend from high school, a big girl with huge calves and round, pretty eyes, just a sweet girl. She wrote like this. She started to read the essay, imagining the girl reading it in front of the class, her legs concave from her locked knees, her eyes pausing on each word, her hands moving the paper ever so slightly from left to right.

  She put down the paper. She had made no marks on it, no circles around errors, no short comments on the ideas. He’s left me? Isn’t there supposed to be a scene first? Isn’t he supposed to sneak around for weeks and then either I find out and we have it out, or he musters enough “courage” to tell me about it and we have it out? The fac today, was that the scene? But that wasn’t even me, that was Pascale and him. Maybe he left me a note. She neatly folded the covers back and got out of bed.

  She looked on the two chests of drawers and on the nightstand. She went downstairs and looked all over the kitchen counters and on the fridge and on the table. She thought of the office and went up there. No note. She logged onto her computer. Bunch of messages, all from students. She read them all, just in case he sent it from a student account. Crazy. Why would he do that? She looked for the answer in the black window, her gaze preferred to rest on the warm pine shelves. His pride and joy, those shelves. They were probably nothing to him, now. He’s probably gushing right now over shelves the kid put together with pressboard and cinderblocks. To hold his heavy metal CDs. ‘Metallica, eh? Sure, I’d love to hear it!’

  He’s left me. He doesn’t think I need to know why. It’s just over. ‘It’s over, Justina. I don’t have to explain myself to you. You wouldn’t understand. It’s a man thing. You couldn’t possibly to understand.’

  She got back into bed. I can’t do these essays right now. I’m distraught. She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror. Her features were exploded into different plains: closest to her were her chin and mouth, in a middle plain were her nose and cheeks, and almost all the way to the mirror were her eyes. She thought she could see through her own irises, they were so glass-like. She felt a queasiness and went back to bed.

  She took the sham off her pillow and threw it with Michael’s pillow toward the chair. They fell together to the floor, both missing their mark. Her bed probably has a dark paisley bedspread, with matching curtains, and a zillion pillows. Probably takes a half hour just to get the pillows off. And they have be piled up just so, by size, the big ones on the bottom. To minimize contact with the floor. He’s probably taking a lesson right now in pillow piling. She’s making him do it right. And his prick is getting hard with the waiting. And when she finally turns down the bedspread covered with little paramecia, he rams it in and comes in two seconds and she’s so disappointed. She makes him do it again. And again. Till he gets it right.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Give Blood

  “Good, it’s good,” said Michael. He stood to the side of the piano bench. Derek sat there, handwritten sheet music on the stand before him.

  Derek let his hands fall into the vee between his legs. “You don’t like it.”

  “Doesn’t matter if I like it, I’m just one person.”

  “So you have no suggestions?” He turned to look at his father.

  “Well, as a composition, it’s, eh, a bit rebellious, I guess you could say.”

  “You mean, it breaks the rules,” said Derek with a smirk.

  “They’re just rules.

  Derek squinted at his music. “So you think it’s fine?”

  Michael tilted his head to one side, raising his eyebrows.

  “Ready to enter in the contest?” Derek asked.

  “I think it could be better. Even better, I should say.”

  “Okay. Like, for instance?”

  Michael put on his glasses and bent his head to the music. “This phrase, where you end with this inversion?”

  “Yeah,” said Derek, frowning at the place where he pointed.

  “The Law of the Half Step requires stepwise—”

  “Resolution,” Derek completed. “I don’t care.” Michael straightened, not really surprised at the boy’s view. “I don’t care about resolution,” Derek repeated.

  “No, but the ear thinks you do. The listener expects a resolution there.”

  “I don’t care about the listener,” Derek said, shaking his head.

  “That’s who’s going to judge the piece.”

  “I don’t want to do traditional tonal music. I don’t want people humming my music like it was some tune.”

  Michael stood back and chewed his lower lip. “You want them to think.”

  “Right, Papá.”

  “It’s up to you to make them want to listen.”

  Derek squinted at his music, looking for a flaw. “What, like a spoonful of ear candy to fool them, then hit them with what I’m really all about?”

  “It’s something to feel as well as think about.”

  “You saying my music doesn’t make you feel anything?”

  Derek’s look said the answer could not possibly be yes.

  “No, it’s very evocative.” Derek smiled. Michael went on, “Pain and confusion, it says to me. It just never goes anywhere from there.”

  “Why am I here?” Derek stood and gathered his music. “You have nothing I want.”

  “Derek, you have talent. Let me work with you.”

  “No, you want to change me. Everybody wants to change me.

  “Don’t be your own worst enemy.”

  “No! I’m not going to take this crap! I tell it like it
is! I write exactly what I think and what I feel. I have integrity!”

  Oh, yes, Michael knew that feeling. To be right, no matter what it did to you. True to himself. “All right,” he said.

  “I didn’t rape that girl, I never tried to rape her. She’s a girl who likes to fuck, I thought she wanted to fuck me. I’m not a criminal!”

  Michael grabbed him by his shirt. “You talk like trash.”

  “I’m not a gentleman,” Derek said, calmly submitting, “like you.”

  Michael let the boy go. Derek shook his shoulders trying to erase the shirt’s memory of the pitiful grab.

  “I know my mother wants you to take me on as your little project. I’ll go along with it for her sake. But you keep out of my life,” he jabbed the air between them, “and I’ll keep out of yours, Don Juan.”

  Michael stood still, trying to reconcile the insult with its deliverer, his own son.

  “Hey,” said Derek, “it’s cool with me. Gets her motor running.” He went to the door.

  No, this is not happening. He cannot speak to me that way. “Derek!” Michael hurried after him. He nearly bowled over a boy come for his lesson. Joshua bumped his head into Michael’s stomach then stood back, looking up at him through the fringe of his bangs. Derek strutted down the hall, his shoulders high and square, don’t-mess-with-me.

  After Joshua’s lesson, it was time to go home. Teresa was expecting him for dinner. She said they would eat at eight again, she did not get home from Boston till seven. It was only six now, if he went to her house, he might find Derek there. He did not want to be alone with him. But he’s my son. I need to talk to him, get to know him better.

  The driveway was empty when he got to Teresa’s house. He did not have a key, they had only decided that afternoon that he would stay with them. After that little soap opera in the fac. Jesus! She tells the world what goes on in our house! She has no sense of decency.

  He killed time by going to the grocery store and picking up some things he thought they might like and some breakfast things for himself and drove back to her house. Both their cars were in the driveway now. Bring the suitcase? No, later. He went to the door.

  Derek opened and said, “Hi,” and “Come in.” Michael brought his groceries into the kitchen and Teresa gave him a hug and a lingering kiss. Derek watched, too long, before averting his surprised eyes. So, something did go on two nights ago, when the guy sent me out for food at the roast chicken place all the way up in Dunster. Last night, on Halloween, Derek had been out partying to celebrate his acquittal, and when he got home, he wasn’t there. But I bet he was here. He’s not wasting any time. Yo, Papá, that ring mean anything to you?

  Michael had bought them little slices of cake, each sitting with a white plastic fork on its own styrofoam plate covered with plastic wrap, sadly evoking the father cakes that the eaters would not have the opportunity to exclaim over. Teresa served them on her own plates, chocolate chip cheesecake for Derek, Boston cream pie for Michael, carrot for herself. As they ate the worn-looking pieces of cake, Teresa made her little announcement. “We are a family now! Isn’t it wonderful?”

  Derek chewed. “You’re getting a divorce?” he asked Michael.

  “I think—” A divorce? How does that work, exactly? Do I ask Justina for a divorce? Can she say no? Does she sue me? Does she hate me? “I think it is something to think about.”

  “A divorce takes time, Derek,” said Teresa. “But in the meantime, we can be together. We want to be together.” She grappled for Michael’s hand and brought it up onto the table, grasping it, as proof of their sentiment. “Especially, Miguel wants to spend time with you.”

  Oh, yeah, right, I’m sure, Mom. I don’t think I got the right anatomy for what he wants from this ‘family.’ Look at him, the dog, can’t wait for me to leave so he can do it. Or no, he lives here now, so he can do it whenever he wants. Right now, after dinner, say he’s really, so tired, and take Mom upstairs and just do it, all night long. While his wife sits home wondering why he’s still not home. This is like a bad seventies movie.

  “Derek!” said Teresa, rolling her eyes to Michael, “we’re a family, together!” To Michael, she said, “He is overcome, it’s so new to him.”

  Derek took another bite of cake and said through the crumbs, “Welcome to the family, Papá.”

  I have no wisdom. My husband cheated on me, I left him. Not because he cheated on me, though. Because there was nothing there to come home to anymore. I got clean and I got a job and when I got off work, I wanted to come home to a home, you know? Hi, honey, I’m home, kissy-kissy. But I had, like, hi, honey, are you awake? Honey, are you alive? Honey, who’s this chick? This one, right here, the one with no clothes on? Well, tell her to get the fuck out, will you, honey? Hello? Hey! Earth to bitch, out of my house!

  So, my advice? Don’t marry a junkie. Oh, he’s not a junkie? Then I can’t tell you what to do. Addicts, that’s all I know. You, you got a professional musician and college professor. I don’t know shit about them. Wouldn’t mind having one. Not yours, though. No, really, I know what I’m talking about. Not because he’s cheating on you. I just don’t go for him. No particular reason. Maybe it’s the self-confidence. He’s got a lot of self-confidence. Makes me think he couldn’t understand a person with just your normal amount of self-confidence, you know, your regular, former loser trying to make something of themselves. Something tells me he was never a loser. I mean, he always had prospects, always, even when he was finding out he couldn’t perform in public. That’s what Charlie says he did in New York. You know he was there for nine years? Like he had to keep checking, do I really stink that bad? I guess after nine years he decided, yup, I stink. But he had a master’s degree from that famous music school, Julian or Joliet or something, and all that experience, he got this teaching job easy. So he was never a loser.

  “A farthing for your thoughts.” Charles glanced at Helena. She sat next to him in his doddering brown Volvo, a casserole on a dishtowel on her lap.

  “I can just see all of us hitting her with all this advice. You know, like, just wait and see, Justina, don’t be too hasty.”

  “I know.”

  “I don’t want to stand by and watch this happen, though.”

  “I don’t either.”

  “I have some idea what she’s going through.” She was looking straight ahead.

  “Most people do,” he said. She looked at him, waiting. “Don’t they?” he added.

  “Do you?”

  “No.”

  “Why’d she leave you, Charlie?” she asked softly.

  His eyes smiled at her gentle way of asking; she had probably been curious for some time now. “Cancelled due to lack of interest,” he said, and gave her a small smile.

  “She must’ve never really loved you, then.” She put a hand on his thigh and looked out her window. They were on Longmeadow Road. The apple trees were only now starting to turn. Their late fruit-bearing had kept them young; their annual menopause would age them quickly. They would be yellow for a few days then the leaves would turn brown virtually overnight and in a few more days they would be stripped to their bare flaking bark, an army of many-armed Shivas with no worshippers for a six-month.

  Everyone crowded into the kitchen to get the meal ready. Denis helped by holding Nicolas. It was the baby’s witching hour: he would cry inconsolably for the next hour, maybe two. He had been doing this for the past two weeks. The doctor said it would probably blow over after another two weeks. Maybe four. Denis jostled him up and down, then tried putting him on his shoulder. The room rang with his squalling.

  “Mets-le dans le machin, cher,” shouted Pascale.

  “Quoi?” cried Denis, not understanding.

  “Le machin, là! Le stroller.”

  Denis laid Nicolas down in a quasi-sitting position in the stroller. His head lolled helplessly to one side.

  “Mets-le au plat, mon ange.”

  Denis adjusted the bed of the stroller flat an
d arranged Nicolas on his stomach. He pushed the stroller back and forth. The baby screamed.

  “Allez, roule-le dans le den,” said Pascale, pushing a strand of hair out of her eyes and pointing with her chin into the den. Denis rolled the stroller into the distant room and started back.

  “Ferme la porte!” called Pascale while Justina shouted “Close the door!” The din abruptly diminished and Denis came back to join them. Pascale breathed a deep sigh. “You think I’m a bad mother?”

  “‘Cause your kid’s screaming?” asked Justina.

  “Would he stop screaming if you let him out of there?” asked Helena.

  “No,” said Denis and Pascale together.

  “I’d say you’re a smart mother, then,” said Helena.

  Pascale turned back to her salad chopping. Denis went to stand behind her, putting a hand on her shoulder and watching her work, his cheek by her ear. Helena was setting serving spoons into hers and Pascale’s casseroles, while Charles was in the dining room setting the table. Justina took the pan with the chickens out of the oven and felt like the teenage daughter, old enough to do the work of a full female member of society, but left out of the loop when it came to discussions of conjugal life. She knew they wanted to hear how “things” were going. She wanted to talk about her feelings, but she did not want their advice. They all had the goal of getting them back together. They were obsessing over it, she could tell, she and he were their project. It was unimaginable. He didn’t want her. And if he did, to take him back, knowing what he had done, with her? She brought up the image of the last time she had seen him, when he came over to sit next to her in the fac. He was wearing stone-gray chinos and a white shirt, looking just like Juan Valdés without the hat or blanket, or donkey. He walked kind of bouncy, there was not the same grace.