by Amy Lapwing
“Sed eligo quod video
Collum iugo prebeo
Ad iugum tamen—”
She closed her eyes as the chill zipped through her, running barefoot on cool, fine grass.
“Suave, suave transeo!”
Her eyes opened as she remembered the sweet boy, the new boy, the boy who had been there all along.
He played the last measure as she held out her ‘o’ and they ended together. He sat with his head bowed a moment, and she waited for his judgment.
He swiveled his head back and forth, as though saying ‘no.’ Then he looked at her with an odd smile. “Yes,” he said, and he reached for her hand and held it in both of his. “Yes, Grace.” He patted her hand and got up and went to get his coat.
Grace followed him. “Do I get it?”
“Hm?” He put on his coat.
“Do I get the solo?”
“Yes, of course.” He went to the door and she followed. He opened the door and waited for her to go out. “But not that one.”
“Not that one?”
“You’ll do ‘Dulcissime,’” he said. To her look of horror, he explained, “I’ve already promised ‘In trutina’ to someone else. ‘Dulcissime’ for you. It’s harder.”
“Duh!” she said.
“You’ll be fantastic!” he said. “I know it!”
He held the front door for her and they went out into the frigid night. The sidewalk lights were widely spaced, creating pockets of near-blackness between them. She could barely see his face as they walked along, it must be there between the two patches of gray, one of hair, the other of breath. “What was that about the ‘truth of my life?’”
So seldom do young people ask for advice. He knew what he wanted to tell her. Would she stay long enough for him to tell her clearly? He let out a deep breath.
“You know Joshua?” he asked her. “The little boy who was just here?”
“He’s the one with, he actually has—”
“He hears,” explained Michael, “all the notes in his head. The music playing in his head is never flat, never sharp. Always perfect.”
“Must be nice,” she said.
“It is horrible, for him.” To her quizzical look, he explained, “When he hears actual music, music made by people, it is not perfect. Singers, instrumentalists, they miss the pitch, if only slightly. But it is enough, for Joshua. It turns a knife in his head, he says. It is painful, for him.”
“You’d think he’d hate music, then,” said Grace, trying to imagine the child’s affliction.
“Yes! You would think that! But he loves music. Strange, isn’t it?”
They came to a crossroads, the common was up the hill, the parking lot and athletic fields were below them. The space the little college occupied seemed immense at night, expanding like the universe, only tiny pockets of life here and there where the lights were, little window suns. How warming music is, Grace was thinking. He probably can’t help loving it.
“You need a ride, Grace?”
“No, that’s okay, I have my car.” They walked together down the hill to the lights of the parking lot.
“I think,” said Michael, “he loves making music. The satisfaction of coming close to perfection is so great, it makes him forget the failures. But he must try, he must do, make his own music. He cannot wait for others. Because if he waits, he’ll never be satisfied. Do you see?”
“Because the music of other people is painful to him?”
“Because,” said Michael, holding up his index finger, “receiving is not enough. And imagining is not enough. You must do.”
They stopped at the perimeter of the parking lot. “You must do, Grace. You can’t wait for it to happen to you.”
Her brows pulled together slightly. This can’t be happening, it’s too good.
“Maybe you give it to the wrong person, sometimes,” he warned her. “But you learn. And you try again. It is the only way to come close to the perfect love you feel inside you.”
She was embarrassed, but she did not make a move to leave.
“Grace, I have said, and I have did, many, many things I didn’t mean, and I deeply regret it.”
“It’s okay,” she said softly. “Who hasn’t?”
“Where is your car?”
He walked her to her car and held the door for her as she got in. “Take a look at ‘Dulcissime,’” he said. “Concert’s week from Friday, you know.”
He stopped at the grocery store and picked up chicken, ground turkey, some lean pork chops, Northern beans, broccoli, asparagus, rice, potatoes, onions, lettuce and tomatoes and zucchini, fresh cilantro, garlic, ground red pepper, a bottle of Chardonnay, a bottle of white Zinfandel, and he drove by their house. Lights were on, she was already home. ¡Mierda! He would try again tomorrow night.
Chapter Nineteen
Huge Meal
The year’s cool El Niño was not done with Kennemac yet. It snowed early and heavily that December. On the Tuesday before the Christmas concert, the town woke up to a foot and a half. Michael got up at six and snow-blowed Charles’ short driveway and got over to his house by seven so he could shovel out Justina in time for her to leave at her customary eight-thirty hour. He knew she did not have a class, but she usually went to read at the library. He did not know that she had relaxed her self-discipline and was sleeping in on Tuesdays and Thursdays. She told herself it was a well-deserved rest, her tenure application was out of her hands now, she could ease up on her research for a bit. The truth was she did not have any ideas she could get worked up about at the moment. Even her advanced conversation class, her “fun” class, seemed an exercise in futility. Would they really be able to converse if they were suddenly plopped down in France?
She was disgusted with herself. She had put on ten pounds, she seldom went out to run, she could not find anything good to read. She had lately got into the habit of watching T.V. sitcoms every night. Some afternoons she went home early in time to flick between Oprah and Ask E. Jean at four. She was fascinated by the variety of people on the shows. Sometimes real people, sometimes celebrities, past and present, Oprah’s pet causes. And E. Jean had such old-fashioned ideas of the difference between the sexes. Woman as the power wielder. Maintain the mystery and you’ll have him eating out of your hand forever. He will give you complete devotion, just don’t make him feel subjugated. He’s a man! He’s the conqueror! You got to play right and let him conquer you. He needs you for sex, you need him for money. Fair exchange, just keep it fun. Is she serious? And what about when he screws up? Ah, now, that all depends. Do you love him? Justina almost called the show one afternoon. She made herself some popcorn instead and just watched.
The morning of the snowstorm she awoke at nine and got over to the library at eleven. She did not realize anyone had shoveled her out, she had had to drive the car down the driveway through four inches of snow that had fallen since Michael had shoveled. It was only as she sat trying to read a critical article on Truffaut that she realized he must have been there this morning. She should have invited him in for coffee or something, after all that work, but she had not even known he was there. Now she had to thank him, she supposed.
She had not thanked him for any of the meals he had cooked, either. Since last Tuesday, a week ago, she had come home each night to find dinner all prepared. A note on the kitchen table: “Justina, there’s chicken in oven + rice + beans on stove. Bon appetti! There’s wine in frige.” Or pork chops, or spaghetti, or couscous, all things he knew she liked. She just would fix herself a plate, zap it in the microwave if it had cooled too much, pop open the wine and sit and watch shows all night. Now, why did he have to do that? And he was probably canceling or rescheduling someone’s lesson so he could do it all before she got home at six. She had not gone home early for E. Jean since this started, she was afraid of running into him. Then she would have to thank him, maybe even ask him to stay and join her.
That's it. He's hoping I'll call him up and ask him to come over to eat dinner with me
. If he does it again today, I’ll just not eat it. Great. That’ll show him. This is so stupid. We’re supposed to be separated. I should just serve him the papers, get it over with.
She looked up from the paragraph her eyes had been trying to levitate off the page. Somebody on cross country skis was coursing across the common. I’m hungry. She checked her watch. Twelve-thirty. Probably safe.
She looked all around the fac as she walked in and relaxed: no Michael. She smiled to Pascale sitting with some people she did not recognize and got into line. She looked again: James Benn was there.
Turkey on whole wheat, light mayo, lettuce and tomato. No mustard! She considered sitting by herself until she realized she would not mind seeing James again.
He was smiling at her.
“Hello!” he bellowed. He stood up and put her tray down for her and opened his arms and scooped her up and pressed her close to him. “It’s so good to see you!” he said.
“Good to see you, too, James!” He was not so skinny anymore, he was man-looking and -feeling, wonderful back muscles, probably nice fesses to match. His cheeks creased with his smile. Same naïve look in the eyes that said, Ain’t life grand? “How are you?”
“I’m fine,” he said, smiling at her.
“He’s engaged!” cried Pascale, waking Nicolas, who promptly bawled.
“Oh!” cried a man with them. “You see? He cries, too, another man in slavery.”
“Justina Trimble,” said James, “this is Jacques Muflot.”
Jacques stood and Justina shook his enormous hand. He was extremely tall, or perhaps only tall, but huge, like a body builder; his scarcely groomed chestnut hair and beard created the effect of a mane. He had red lips and very white teeth and deep brown eyes that fixed themselves on her without hesitation. “Hello,” he said.
“Bonjour,” she said.
“Ah!” he said. “Vous êtes canadienne?”
“Non-non!” she replied.
“Justina est professeur de français,” explained Pascale.
“Mon ancien prof,” qualified James.
They continued their conversation in French. Jacques kept his eyes on Justina, as though she were the eighth wonder of the world, a French-speaking American not of French heritage. He remarked on her uncanny accent, she sounded like she was from France, but he could not say from where exactly. He asked her where she had studied.
“Grenoble,” she replied.
“I am from near there!” he cried. “I am from Valence!”
“I visited there, I knew some students from there,” she said.
“Not true! What did you think of it?”
Justina and Jacques talked about her impressions of the places she had been in France. After ten minutes of their tête-à-tête, they took a breather. James wanted to talk about his happy news. He said, “I’m sorry about your separation, Justina.”
Her high-flying kite plummeted as she responded, “Oh, well. So, James, you’re getting married! Tell me about her.”
“Her name’s Mélissa, she’s a great girl, you’d really like her. A French girl with an English name! She shows Borzois!” Justina listened indulgently as James sang the praises of Mélissa the Russian Wolfhound-loving graphics programmer with a licence from the Sorbonne. “And she’s in a folk-singing group. They’re going to perform some of my songs!”
“He says he writes music,” said Jacques, leaning across the table toward Justina, “maybe it will sound like music when they sing it!”
“Mélissa has a beautiful voice,” said James, apparently accustomed to taking this abuse from his copain.
“So,” said Justina, “you guys hanging out at Pascale’s?”
They were indeed, for a week. They had four weeks off, so James was traveling the country with Jacques, it was the Frenchman’s first visit to the U.S.
“But they are staying for the Christmas concert,” said Pascale, looking to them for affirmation.
“Of course!” cried Jacques. “I wish to experience an American Christmas, with Saint Claus and the elks and all that!”
Saint Claus’ namesake began to fuss at the mention of the god of toys, he did not yet know about being good for goodness’ sake. Pascale decided she had best get the baby home for his nap. James and Jacques were going into Boston to sightsee. “You come, Justina?” asked Jacques.
“I better stay and get some work done,” she replied. “Maybe another time.”
“We’ll see you at the concert, if not sooner,” said James, wishing he had not when he remembered she was estranged from the maestro.
She shook hands good-bye with Jacques; to James and Pascale and Nicolas she gave kisses. They went out and left her to finish her lunch, which she had not yet touched. Jacques gave her another look over his shoulder, the red lips curved into a closed smile, and waved.
The next day Justina found James and Jacques again at the fac. No Michael, as usual. Justina asked them about their work, and Jacques explained, asking James for translations of technical terms every other word, it seemed to Justina. She switched the topic to his student days and asked if it was true French students went on strike every spring. It was indeed; since May ‘68, every year the students had found something unfair about the state-run university system to rail about. They went on strike for months, then went back to class in June about a week before exams.
“Doesn’t it make you wonder if classes are really necessary?”
“The whole university system is not necessary!” declaimed Jacques. “Students learn! That is what they do! Wherever they are, they learn! They do not have to be in a classroom listening to some old fart drone on, his inspiration departed for decades. That’s higher education? It’s immoral!” He smiled when he realized she was taking his harangue too seriously.
“Jacques does not think you’re an old fart, Justina,” said James.
“Not old,” Jacques said.
What does his look mean? Do I like him? Would he exalt me?
They invited her to go into Boston with them again, but she had classes. She wanted to go. “Maybe next time, though, really,” she said. “I’d like to see the sights with you. I live here, I never see anything.” They made a date for Thursday morning, to go to the North shore fishing towns. “The land of Melville. Shall we go to see the whales?” suggested Jacques.
Jacques called Justina that night after dinner, arroz con pollo, Costa Rican-style. Could she take the afternoon off, too? Whale watching was an all-day affair, it turned out. She had a two o’clock, Survey.
“That’s too bad,” said Jacques.
“Yeah.” She pouted extra-deeply, as though he would see.
“Maybe there is someone who can substitute?” he suggested.
It was the last class meeting before the final; she knew the students would have many questions. “I’ll see,” she said. She put up the rest of the chicken and rice, decided against a second helping, after all, and called Pascale. Her friend said, “I’ll have to see if I can get a babysitter.”
“Okay,” said Justina.
Later that night Pascale called to say she would leave Nicolas with Denis at his office for the hour. Justina was ecstatic. “Great! Thanks, Pascale!”
“I just hope it doesn’t ruin his nap, he’s usually asleep then,” said Pascale, giving her another chance to change her mind.
“Oh, it’ll be a treat for him, to be with his papa,” said Justina, clueless.
The sky was low and heavy next morning; it felt like snow. It was not bitterly cold, but Justina dressed as for a ski trip, just to be sure. James and Jacques came by to get her at eight-thirty and she was groggy, but ready.
It made her cold to look at the granite gray water. It was colder out here on the deck than it had been outside in Kennemac. She could not persuade the guys to sit inside in the cabin, they did not want to miss any whale action. She looked out at the horizon with them. There was nothing to see, not even a bump of land to focus on. It was cold and she felt her cereal sloshing aroun
d in her stomach. After a while they went in to eat the lunch James had thoughtfully packed for them.
“It’s unbelievable that you live so near the coast and you have never been out to see the whales!” crowed Jacques.
She squinted at him, trying to recognize the fun guy she had been looking forward to going on this trip with. The turkey sandwich James had made was not sitting too well with her.
“I’m not much for wildlife stalking,” she said. “Has he met Charles Troy, James? Do you like to go bird-watching, Jacques?”
“I like to go if you do,” he said.
That’s better, she thought. She smiled and said, “I did one time, when Charles came to visit us and we went in search of the Resplendent Quetzal—” She broke off at the intrusion of Michael thoughts.
“Did you see one?” asked Jacques.
“No.”
They were silent as Justina looked over their heads out the window. People had congregated to a part of the deck. They left their spread and rushed out to see.
They were rewarded with a view of spouting water. They counted the spumes, one, two, three, four. They waited on tiptoe, staring at the place where the last spume had occurred, expecting the whale to leap into the air like the black and white performers at Sea World. The whale flexed his tail up and showed them its freeloading barnacles, and then it disappeared. Justina pushed her way to the railing and vomited, spewing her shoes and those of the man next to her with turkey sandwich bits. She retched again and brought up what was left of the cereal, too, but the man had stepped back in disgust, while Jacques had hurried forward, so he got the Raisin Bran on his boots.
“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” begged Justina when the stomach convulsions had subsided.
“That’s all right, it’s all right,” said Jacques, wiping her face with his handkerchief. James came running up with the napkins from his lunch sack and they all wiped vomit from her and from Jacques.
“Gah! I feel so stupid,” said Justina by way of apology.
“Now I know why you’ve never done this before,” said Jacques, smiling.
