by Toby Devens
Love,
Your father AKA Irwin
I’d never seen a photo of my parents’ wedding. I hadn’t known one existed. It turned out to be a Polaroid, its colors faded to washed-out orange, its edges curled with age.
Irwin Jerome Raphael and Ryang Yun Mi, who’d taken the American name Grace, had eloped to Elkton, Maryland, and were married by a justice of the peace while my grandmother remained blissfully unaware—okay, maybe not blissfully; Grandma Roz didn’t know from bliss—back in Brooklyn.
The wedding photo. My mother had been pretty, but to get to that essential prettiness, you had to dig through all that Happy Day bar girl makeup: lips iridescent with pink frost, eyes raccooned with heavy pencil, the liner extended perilously close to her hairline. A long ponytail pulled tight and unflattering bangs made her round face even more moon shaped. Of the two primary participants, she appeared the more composed. Sly even, with those Cleopatra eyes, this on-the-cusp-of-hooker Korean girl who’d won the heart of the rich American GI.
I had no doubt Irwin had wowed her with invisible assets and daydreamed prospects. He was four months out of the army with a freshly grown mustache and a sheen of applied confidence, as if he’d spent the ten minutes prior to the ceremony giving himself a pep talk in the men’s room mirror. He held my mother’s hand.
When they returned home as Mr. and Mrs., Grandma Roz literally rent her garment with grief (high drama, but it was an old sweater, already unraveling) and in her most memorable quote said to my father, “You were a schmuck in the crib. You couldn’t find your own thumb. Once a schmuck, always a schmuck.”
On page two—its dog-eared corners crumpled on my fingertips—we entered the Judith era. There was the card from Caledonia Hospital, which said, “Hi, Dad. You have a . . .” In the blank someone had filled in “girl” next to my tiny inked footprint. There was a photo from my first and only birthday party, the tol celebration with me in my hanbok and cake in my hair. I faced the lineup of symbols. A toy stethoscope had been placed front and center, but I’d had to reach to my right for the miniature violin. So that story wasn’t apocryphal.
My father had written corny captions for these photos. Anchors away! for the one of me in a sailor dress handed down from my cousin Staci. Quite a cutie! for a junior high school shot of me, definitely not a cutie, playing the cello at a recital organized by Mrs. Beckersham. He even had my high school graduation photo, the one with the well-developed wariness in my eyes and the disastrous overdeveloped perm. Where the hell had these pictures come from?
And the clippings. From every concert starting with college, reviews from the Baltimore Sun and the Washington Post with my name underlined. Also my engagement announcement to Todd from the Atlanta Jewish Times. A few of the articles had scrawled dates in the margins. And the mystery was solved. Of course Aunt Phyllis’s hand was all over the artifacts and Operation Never Forget. Uncle Arnold had snapped the photos and she’d sent them to Arizona. Newspaper pieces had been clipped and forwarded. Had Irwin asked her to do this or had it been her idea to keep her brother connected to the family he’d abandoned? Even if the child wouldn’t see her father, the father must see his child. And who knows—I could hear that masters-in-social-work mind percolating—possibly one day?
“Maybe, yes, Aunt Phyllis send,” my mother said. “She don’t tell me. But it was your daddy who put together. He hold on to album all these years.” She did not look up as she unwrapped the sweater. “Oh yes, very soft. Like very much. I think it fit perfect since my diet. Need to try on right now.”
Then she had the sense and the grace to leave me in the fading afternoon alone with the album and my thoughts.
Chapter 29
“I’m dying.” Richard Tarkoff’s somber voice came through my cell phone the next day, then sparked as he slammed me with the punch line: “Dying of boredom. Come save me, Judith. I’m at Hopkins, third floor, La Casa de Chemo.”
Richard had made the final cut into a highly experimental trial of some magic potion that might buy him a few months. With one foot across death’s threshold, it was worth it to him to spend three hours in a recliner, three times a week, shivering under a stack of blankets while an IV bag dripped hope into his veins.
He lit up at my entrance, even more at the sight of the gold and brown Godiva box I opened and placed in his lap. “Bless you, my child,” he said, squinting over the selection of truffles.
Reluctantly, I shifted my gaze from the box to his skeletal face and arms, skin washed a bilious green. I forced myself to meet the eyes he opened after the first wave of cacao-induced pleasure. They glittered the peculiar feral fear that’s a dead giveaway. Richard had been dying and resurrecting for months. This, I sensed, was the real deal. And it was close. I smelled its proximity the way I smelled the odious chemicals he gave off.
I’d kept my promise to see more of him. A few days after I handed over the bag of books to the housekeeper, I’d made it inside. But a drugged-out Richard had been barely coherent, so no point in staying. I’d also phoned.
“Not so hot,” Sarah would tell me when he was sleeping or resting.
“Hanging in,” Richard would say when he was up to talking.
At the hospital, I could see for myself. Not so hot. He patted the recliner arm, summoning me, and I rolled a footstool over and sat at his feet, where I’d always felt I belonged. For a half hour, with his untethered hand resting on my shoulder, I caught him up on the latest gossip from “the band,” as he liked to call our ninety-seat orchestra. And I confessed my latest neurosis.
“I’ve always felt confident in my talent. Maybe not top league, but I knew I played well, sometimes very well. I thought I was ready to . . .”
I couldn’t bring myself to say “replace you.” He filled in.
“Move up. And you are ready, Judith. This panic thing? You’ve had a lot hit you all at once. A revolving door of men entering and exiting. Your father barreling back in. That lawyer friend reappearing. Don’t look so shocked.” He gave me a sly smile. “I get other visitors. You’re not my only source of information.”
I chewed a fingernail, wondering how I was going to break the news to him about the Inderal. My gut told me he wouldn’t approve. But he had no idea how desperate I was.
“Well, don’t pass this on to your other sources, please, but I was thinking about backing out of the audition gracefully. I have this image of freezing in front of the committee or, worse, totally losing it and being dragged off frothing at the mouth to Sheppard Pratt.”
“Nonsense. You’re not the frothing type. Besides, after all you’ve been through getting to this point, you want to give up a shot at my seat? You want to give up on the North Korea gig? I’d think that would be a deal maker for you.”
“It is but . . .”
He waved a dismissal. “Angela’s already working on the Korea program. And she’s not bringing in a guest artist. She’s thinking of having the principal cellist play Barber’s Cello Concerto. Quintessentially American. How’s that for a tour de force.” His voice softened with longing. “This nearly was mine. Could be yours, Judith.”
It would be a star turn for the likes of someone on a par with Eloise Flint, even Yo-Yo Ma. I envisioned myself alone under a spotlight center stage playing for the leaders of a nation that might have nuclear weapons and wouldn’t hesitate using them at the slightest provocation. Talk about bombing.
This bit of news tipped me over the edge. I took a deep breath, winding up for the pitch, “There is one way I might be able to beat this anxiety thing.”
A knowing smile curved his lips. I got it then. Richard had let me meander through the setup, waiting for me to crawl to the confession.
“Might be able. Might, as in contemplating? It’s my understanding you’ve already played under the influence.”
Damn that tattletale Geoff.
“Inderal. I’ll be honest
with you, Judith. I’m not thrilled you’re on it.”
Mortification mixed with desperation made the perfect formula for tears. I blinked against their sting.
“On it,” I muttered. “You make it sound like it’s heroin or crack.”
“There’s a danger in using a powerful prescription drug off label. Serious side effects. And yes, I personally know of a few musicians who’d be accountants without chemical assistance. I just don’t happen to think you’re one of them.”
I looked up at him. “Well, if I’m not, I’m doing a hell of an imitation of a CPA. And say what you will, it got me through the other night.”
After a moment’s hesitation he said, “Ah, about that. One of my sources seemed to think your playing last Friday was . . . uh . . . emotionally flat. No fire. Lackluster.”
“Emotionally flat,” I repeated, in shock. “Geoff told you that?”
“Angela also stays in touch.”
That gave me a jolt. “Jesus. She knows?”
“She knows what she hears from the podium. The rest is speculation.”
“Oh, shit. Why do I think my career is on the line here?” I meant my life, but I couldn’t say that to a dying man.
I think he picked up on it anyway. He reached down and took my hand in his ice-cold one. “Sweetheart, you’re one hell of a cellist. I only wish you believed in yourself half as much as I believe in you. I wish there were some way I could make you believe it.”
“Me too. Oh God, me too.”
Maybe all that emotion was too much for him, because he shifted into practical mode. He drummed my shoulder with one finger. “Now you listen to me. You’ve got wonderful technique and no shortage of passion. The only concern I have in the entire audition repertoire is the tempo in the middle of the Don Quixote, where you tend to rush. We’ve talked about that before. If you don’t let your nerves sabotage you into hustling through that passage, you’ll ace it.”
I leaned my damp cheek against the back of his hand scarred with needle punctures. What I said next surprised even me. The mind can be quick to rationalize when it’s backed into a corner. “Would it be the worst thing in the world if I stayed in the second seat? I’ve been happy where I am.”
He blew an exasperated breath. “Been happy. Note the tense, please. You and I both know you’d be miserable taking direction from someone who got the place because you forfeited it. You’d never last. You’d be out of there like a shot. And then what? No, my dear. It’s your time and your place.” He waited a half measure. “Sure, the audition is a risk. But life itself is a risk. It’s over too damn soon whatever you do, so you may as well live it with passion. If you don’t, I’ll come up or down from wherever I land and haunt you.”
He unlocked our fingers. “All right, lecture over. The patient needs a shot of sleep. I’m sending you home. Up, up, and away.”
I got to my feet.
“Now give a kiss and know that I love you.”
Was that the first time he had ever said that to me? I love you. Yes.
I bent to kiss his cheek. “I love you, Richard.” I was sure that was the first time I ever told him. And I must have known it for years. How big was the sarcophagus that held my feelings? And how deep was it buried?
Still, I made the deadline, I told myself. I got to tell Richard I loved him. And I did it with time to spare.
Chapter 30
“Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please.”
Our well-disciplined orchestra hurried the process of resuming seats after the first rehearsal break Wednesday morning. Clutching a balled tissue in one hand and the edge of the podium in the other, Angela Driscoll waited for silence.
“I’m afraid I have sad news. I just received word that our beloved colleague and friend Richard Tarkoff passed away early this morning at his home in Roland Park.”
I felt a stab of anguish at the announcement, a spasm of sorrow that took my breath away. Richard’s gone, I thought, trying to absorb the finality of it. But I wasn’t surprised. Before dawn that morning, I’d been roused by the problematic passage in the Don Quixote, the one he’d said I took in too much of a hurry. Wide awake against the pillow, I’d heard the phantom music playing in my head. Of course my tempo was off. Strauss wrote the cello to represent Quixote as a visionary and I played the poor wretch as if he were only a madman. He was a dreamer, so slow him down. How had I missed that? How had I found it? In the dead dark, I heard Richard say, or made him say, “There you go, Judith. You’ve got it now, sweetheart.” I had looked at the clock. It was four thirty-seven.
I knew I’d never ask Sarah to pinpoint the exact moment Richard passed. Let me think what I wanted to think. Needed to think. But I’d seen him the day before and I’d heard him that morning and I’d expected Angela’s announcement. But not so soon. Too soon!
Angela worked to pull herself together. “We can take comfort in the knowledge that Richard’s passing was peaceful and that he was surrounded by his loving family. Arrangements for the funeral haven’t been finalized yet. When I have more information, I’ll pass it on. Before I share Sarah Tarkoff’s personal message to all of us, I’m asking for a minute of silence in memory of Richard.”
I bowed my head, wishing I knew the kaddish memorial prayer to recite for him. I gave him what I had.
Dear Lord, Baruch attah Adonai eloheinu melekh ha’olam, borei peri hagafen— Wrong . . . That was the prayer over the wine Uncle Arnold recited at Passover. But I was pretty sure God and Richard would take it for a blessing.
As the minute of silence drew to a close, a soulful sound emerged from the back of the stage. Taps played on a trumpet is as moving as on the traditional bugle, and the way Geoff uncoiled it made my skin prickle. We all knew his distinctive sound. And who else would perform such a spontaneous loving tribute to a fallen comrade?
As the last sorrowing note faded, we looked to Angela for a cue. She waited a respectful beat before saying, “All right, everyone, we’ll continue with this rehearsal as Richard would have wished. Sarah told me his message to us was ‘Play on.’ So let’s pick up with the Frühlingsstimmen.”
This week’s program was “An Evening in Vienna.” Richard had thought the “Voices of Spring” waltz was kitsch squared. Nonetheless, we played our hearts out.
• • •
Geoff was standing in the circle of mourners I slogged past on my way to the storage locker to stash my cello. Earlier that morning we’d had the briefest encounter backstage. He’d said, “Ah, Judith. How was the weekend?”
Something in his tone had told me he knew the Maine attraction had been Charlie. It wasn’t hard to pinpoint the source: my mother, the formerly shy flower who’d blossomed into a bigmouthed senior.
“Cold,” I said, wondering whether he’d work that one word over, plumbing it for meaning. I hadn’t hung around to take questions.
Now as I walked past, head down, he peeled off the circle and caught up with me. “So sorry about Richard. We’re all going to miss him, but you . . . Well, standmates have a special connection, don’t they?” We halted simultaneously and he moved around to lift my chin with his forefinger. “Hey,” he said, checking me out as if emotional bruises showed up black and blue. “Any way I can be of help?”
“Shit,” I said, and in the process of removing his finger I found myself holding his hand. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. Shit!” The initial pain had converted to a dull ache. “It wasn’t as if we thought this would have a happy ending.”
“True. But until the very end, there’s hope. And now that’s gone.”
The smallest sob escaped my throat.
“Ah, Jude,” Geoff crooned, and that did it for me. I moved into my old comfort zone and laid my head on his chest. He stroked my hair, which I took as permission to cry. Except I didn’t. Couldn’t. My stoic Korean side backed off quietly from a public me
ltdown.
“It’s okay. Let it go. It’s good for you to let it go,” he encouraged. Geoff was a full-out kind of guy. He choked up when Queensland won the regionals. A really good Barossa Shiraz brought tears to his eyes. For this favorite colleague, his voice crackled with emotion. “You do know Richard was ready. Oh, I’m not saying he didn’t want to live. But not the way he’d been living for the last year or so. I think he’d had enough of the pain and decided it was time to exit stage left. He just had to make sure all his t’s were crossed, that Sarah and the boys were ready to let him go. And he wanted to make sure you went for his seat.”
“As if I could fill his shoes.” My heart sank with this new obligation.
“You have your own shoes. About thirty pair, if I remember correctly.” He eked out an indulgent smile; then his gaze shifted to middistance. “Uh-oh. La maestra. You’re being summoned.”
I turned to see Angela taking a call while beckoning me with a crooked finger. Geoff poked his chest and she mouthed no and pointed at Ernst Leonard, our pianist. Geoff said, “She wants Ernie too. Go. We’ll talk later.”
• • •
Angela adjusted her earpiece, nodded at Ernie, then at me. “That was Sarah. The funeral is scheduled for Friday at two at Temple Beth Zion on Park Heights Avenue.”
“Not Levinson’s?” I asked. Sol Levinson & Brothers mortuary was the preferred final venue for most of Baltimore’s eternally frozen chosen.
“Levinson’s was booked with other services and the synagogue has a piano.”
Ernie rocked on his heels at the mention of “piano.” A positive Pavlovian response. For me, the word, which fell into the same genus as “cello,” whooshed the air from my lungs. Mudang alert! Storm clouds on the horizon. Magpies racing for cover.
Angela, oblivious, chugged along. “Richard had specific requests about the service. Of course, he wanted music. He asked that you two . . .”
