The Distance Between Us

by Noah Bly

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. Read a book. Drink Irish coffee.” His eyes flickered. “Take off our clothes by the fire in our room, and have a lengthy discussion while the children frolic on the mountainside.”

  That kind of suggestion from him used to make my breath quicken and my knees go weak.

  Anyway, against my better judgment, we packed the children into our ancient blue Cadillac—Paul began bellowing in the backseat the instant we crossed the Mississippi—and we argued our way across half the country, finally ending up in a sweet little town called Fortune, just north of the Montana border with Wyoming.

  Arthur and I spent most of the week in the lodge by the fireplace. I still remember sitting with him on our first day there, nursing a mug of hot cocoa and peppermint schnapps and watching through the large picture window at the front of the building as Paul and Jeremy fell all over each other out on the bunny slope. None of the children had skied before, but after one lesson Caitlin scooted off like a pro, abandoning her ungainly older brothers with a disgusted look on her face. Paul was trying to show Jeremy how to snowplow, but neither of them could get the hang of it and both of them kept tipping over, face first, onto the icy ground. Arthur and I laughed until our sides hurt.

  “See?” he said, putting an arm around me on the couch. “Isn’t this fun?”

  I nodded and smiled. “I had no idea our boys were so good at slapstick. Now all we need is for Caitlin to run over them while they’re on the ground, and we’ll have enough material for a vaudeville act. Where is she, by the way?”

  We scanned the slope and couldn’t find her. Arthur frowned and stepped over to the window, but after a moment he turned around again, perplexed.

  “I don’t see her.”

  We waited a little longer for her to reappear, but after fifteen minutes had passed I became worried and sent him out to look for her. Just as he got his coat on and headed toward the door, though, Caitlin came winging into sight from under the trees near the bottom of the most challenging adult slope. She must have gotten on the T-bar and ridden it up the mountain all by herself. I called out to Arthur and I rose to my feet to watch her finish her descent.

  She had on a purple and white stocking cap with a long tail, and her coat was brown with a furry collar. She flew out of the woods with her knees bent and her upper body crouched low over her skis, and the tail of her cap twitched around on her back like a spastic snake. She passed several slower skiers who were headed toward the clearly marked shute that would eventually disgorge them into a fenced-in corral at the bottom of the slope, where they could either get back on the lift for another ride up the mountain or remove their skis and return to the lodge. Caitlin weaved around the others in line with astonishing competence, and I murmured to myself in appreciation of her newly acquired skill.

  She safely reached the upper lip of the shute, but then with no warning she broke away at full speed from the line of skiers, and without so much as a glance at them or at the signs pointing the direction she should go to end her run, she dodged under a flimsy wire barrier and shot across the flat, icy ground directly in front of the lodge. She dug her poles into the wet snow by a sign that read “NO SKIING ALLOWED THIS SIDE OF FENCE,” and aimed herself like an arrow at where I stood watching from inside.

  My heart leapt into my throat when I realized she was going much too fast to be able to stop before hitting the building. She obviously didn’t understand the peril she was in, because even though her lips were partly open and her eyes were squinting with concentration, there was not even a hint of fear in her face.

  I put my hand to my mouth, and a woman next to me gasped and held up her arms toward the window as if that might stop the inevitable collision. I was dimly aware of Arthur calling out Caitlin’s name in panic from somewhere behind me, yet I couldn’t do anything but stand in mute horror and watch as my daughter raced toward a terrible smashup with the rough log walls and thick glass that separated us. She had to be going at least thirty miles an hour, and I was sure the impact would kill her.

  I found my voice again and cried out just as Caitlin veered away from the lodge with a showy turn to her right, spraying an avalanche of snow at the window that pelted against the panes like a handful of gravel and blotted out my ability to see her. An instant later the spotty white curtain slid off the glass all at once, streaking it with water, and there was Caitlin standing before me, leaning on her ski poles in a studied, casual pose. She met my eyes and gave me a huge, impudent grin.

  I swore and shook my fist at her and ran outside, screaming. I ordered her out of her ski boots and marched her back inside and up to our room past a crowd of amused strangers. Arthur and I then took turns yelling at her for nearly an hour, and afterwards she was confined to the lodge for the rest of the vacation, where she had to endure the torture of watching Paul and Jeremy cavort about on the bunny slope without her.

  It felt like the right thing to do because of how she had frightened us, but in hindsight I think we were dead wrong to punish her like that. All I allowed her to see was my anger, and she deserved better.

  I should also have told her how proud I was. Granted, it was a stupid stunt that almost got her maimed or worse, but she was magnificent on those skis, and I wish I had reacted differently. Children sometimes take idiotic risks, but they ought to be forgiven anyway, to honor the sheer audacity required to attempt such things. I wish now I had rewarded her in some way for her courage, or at least applauded her briefly before confining her to her quarters.

  My God, she was fearless that day. She was strong, and fast, and as graceful as a hawk plummeting out of the sky, and I’ll never forget it, especially because she’s since lost most of those qualities, and I miss seeing them in her.

  But I digress.

  Getting back to what I was saying before: my daughter has multiple skills—teaching, writing, painting, cooking, athletics. She’s terrifyingly smart, and she used to be brave, and if she’s not exactly kind, she’s at least capable of mercy on occasion.

  But none of that has ever mattered to her.

  What Caitlin has always wanted more than anything else is to be a musician. Her heart and soul are stuffed with an almost indecent love of music—especially the meaty, sprawling piano concertos from the Romantic period—and ever since she was a small child, she’s dreamed of one day being able to play Tschaikovsky and Brahms and Chopin. When she’s not teaching, she’s glued to classical music stations on the radio, and she’s a walking library of obscure musicological facts about every composer from Binchois to Stravinsky.

  Unfortunately, she’s also the only person in our family with no musical aptitude whatsoever.

  I suppose I shouldn’t say no musical aptitude; she slogged her way through some semi-difficult repertoire on her flute in high school, and she also managed to play, eventually, one or two medium-level sonatas on the piano that were nearly recognizable as Beethoven and Schubert by the time she performed them. But when your parents are Arthur Donovan and Hester Parker, and your brothers are Paul and Jeremy Donovan, if you aren’t a virtuoso, too, you stick out like a gangrenous thumb.

  And she’s never forgiven Arthur and me for that. She wanted our talent, and to this very day she seems to believe we somehow deliberately deprived her of it when we conceived her, for no reason but to spite her. Jeremy and Paul, in contrast, have never been the targets of her jealousy; I daresay when you detest your parents as much as she does, you have no rage to spare for something as trivial as sibling rivalry.

  CHAPTER 5

  “No, no, no, Miranda.” I lean down and push her right hand out of the way to make room for mine on the keyboard. “You’re making it sound like elevator music, for God’s sake. Do it like this.”

  I pound out the opening measures to the Scherzo of Prokofiev’s Second Piano Concerto, exaggerating the accents and the dynamics to make sure she hears what I want her to do. “Understand? Put some muscle into it.”

  She nods her empty blond head
and plays the phrase exactly the same as she did before I corrected her. I bang my fist down on the lid of the piano and she almost falls off the bench.

  “Are you listening to me?” I demand. “Sloppy performers like you are the reason nobody younger than fifty listens to classical music anymore. They think it’s all boneless, insipid tripe that no one with a pulse can possibly respond to. Dear God, girl, are you breathing? Listen to what you’re playing. Can’t you hear the fire in it?”

  Her eyes, rimmed with dark blue mascara, well up, and her bright red lips quiver.

  Oh, for pity’s sake. I hate it when they cry.

  I sigh. I’m in a foul mood and I’m taking it out on this poor child. She’s actually not a bad player, but I don’t have the patience at this given moment to deal with Miranda Moore’s fragile self-esteem.

  I grunt and pat her on the shoulder. “There, there. Buck up, dear.” I force my voice to soften. “If you’re going to make it in this business you need to grow thicker skin.”

  Her voice shakes. “I’m sorry, Ms. Parker, but it’s just …” She leans over and grabs a tissue from the box on my desk and blows her nose.

  I wait for her to get hold of herself. “Yes? It’s just what?”

  She shrugs her shoulders and fresh tears roll down her cheeks. “Last week you told me I was playing too loudly, so I worked really hard on being more musical and more subtle, and now you want me to play louder again. I don’t know what you want.”

  My temper re-ignites. “What I want is for you to pay attention to what I’m saying.”

  She quails. “I’m trying …”

  “No, you’re not. You’re just going through the motions. A lobotomized chimpanzee could play with more feeling.”

  Her shoulders begin to tremble and I pause to rub my temples and collect my thoughts.

  I should have stayed home this afternoon. It was idiotic to come to work. The argument with Paul on the phone earlier this morning was reason enough to cancel lessons for the rest of the day, even if I hadn’t also had a dreadful meeting with my lawyer afterwards.

  The fight with Paul was par for the course, but my conversation with Phillip Hogan was a disaster. The gist of what he had to say today was (in direct contradiction to what he predicted a month ago, when he agreed to represent me) that I am now likely to lose my house to Arthur. He told me Arthur has a much larger chance of winning the house in the settlement than he had originally believed.

  And he also told me—more or less—that I should just give up.

  I suddenly can’t seem to govern my chin, and Miranda is gawking at me. I look away and struggle with my emotions.

  Maybe I shouldn’t be teaching any longer. My students would all be better off and so would I. Maybe all I’m good for these days is terrorizing hapless young musicians like this little girl, and instead of doing that I should just retire and sit in peace by my fireplace. At least there I can’t do any more harm. At least there I’ll be warm and safe.

  A shudder runs through me.

  My fireplace.

  God. What am I thinking? I won’t even have a fireplace when Arthur is done with me. He won’t be happy until he’s tossed my naked body out in the snow for the wolves to feed on.

  How did it come to this? How did I ever end up here? Have I been such a bad person that I’ve somehow earned this?

  I don’t think I have the courage to answer those questions.

  The last few years come crashing into my mind. All the lies I’ve told, all my cruelty, all my selfishness. Everything I’ve done to my husband, everything I’ve done to my children, everything I’ve done to myself. The list is enormous, even if you subtract all the times I was sorely provoked. Is that why this is happening now? Is this what I get for living as I have?

  And beyond all that, far beyond, there’s Jeremy.

  No. I will not think of that right now. I will not. There are limits to how much blame I’m willing to take on.

  Maybe Paul was right to try to get me fired. Maybe I should just accept the inevitable and step down with dignity. Maybe Arthur and Martha deserve the house more than I do. Maybe …

  A fugitive spasm of anger tightens the muscles in my chest.

  Like hell they do.

  Whatever I am, whatever I have done, Arthur is, and has done, too.

  With an effort I lift my head and look in Miranda’s eyes. I speak as clearly as I can. “Look, child. I’m a crabby old woman and I can be difficult at times, but I can also make you a better pianist than you’ve ever dreamed of being, if you’ll just bear with me.”

  I nudge her shoulder. “Move over.”

  She slides to the left on the bench and I sit beside her. I put both hands on the piano and start to play the Prokofiev again. My left wrist immediately begins to ache, but I ignore it and plunge my fingers into the keys.

  “Be adaptable is all I’m saying,” I murmur as I play. “Be soft when you’re supposed to be soft, be loud when you’re supposed to be loud. Think. Use your brain. Use your ears. The phrasing will tell you what to do if you just listen.”

  She sniffs. “But it says mezzo forte there, not fortissimo.”

  “So what?” I snap. “Dynamics are relative. So is everything else, for that matter. Hush now and I’ll show you.”

  I can’t help myself. I know how much this will hurt but right at this moment, I don’t care. I’ll dope myself out later on Motrin and brandy.

  I dig in and the music explodes around us; my fury couples with Prokofiev’s genius, and the notes fly through the air like shrapnel. I close my eyes and breathe, and I let myself play for nearly a minute, in spite of the horrific pain in my wrist. Miranda disappears from my mind, and so does Paul, then Arthur, then Caitlin—all vanishing one by one, shoved out of the spotlight by wild, pungent chords and unpredictable, frenzied runs.

  After that I move on to the worries about my house and my future. I may have no control over anything else, but I can control this particular piano long enough to vanquish those feeble anxieties. When they’re gone, I jettison the awareness of my damaged old body, and then I go deeper, tossing out memory after hateful memory, hunting them down and destroying them like rabid animals. I use whatever hurts as kindling, burning it all up inside of me, feeding it a stick at a time into the raging inferno in the center of my chest that used to be my heart.

  It builds and builds and builds until finally there’s nothing left but Jeremy.

  Jeremy is always the last to go.

  Most days I give up long before he departs, but today not even he can survive the noisy apocalypse I’m making. In my mind, he stands in front of me and begs for my attention, but I just play louder and louder, and he eventually has no recourse but to cover his ears and step into the blaze, too. Before my eyes he turns into flame, then ash, and still I keep playing.

  There’s nothing in the world but this wall of sound and fire I’ve created. While it’s still standing, nothing can touch me. Nero may have fiddled while Rome burned, but Nero was a rank amateur compared to me. Rome be damned.

  If I had the stamina I’d burn the whole bloody, stinking world to a cinder.

  I know that Jeremy and all the rest will reappear, phoenix-like, the instant I stop, so I refuse to quit until my left hand goes numb, and it’s all I can do to not scream. The pain is overwhelming, but it’s preferable to what’s waiting for me when it’s gone.

  Burn, damn you, burn.

  I can’t take it any longer.

  The music ends abruptly and I open my eyes. I have to bite my lips to keep from whimpering.

  My studio is just as I left it a moment ago. The two Steinway grands are still sitting side by side, beneath the picture window looking out over Carson Conservatory’s small but tasteful campus, bleak and gray in the late afternoon light of winter. The yellow carnations I brought with me today are also still here, fragrant and bright in a tall vase on the top shelf of the bookcase by my desk.

  It’s all so familiar. On the surface, nothing has cha
nged.

  My life is just as much a disaster as it was before I sat down to play, my prospects for a decent tomorrow are just as grim. I’m still losing my house, I’m still at war with my family, I’m still tired and old and angry. All of this is true, and yet somehow there is a difference now, however slight.

  I feel like me again.

  It’s not much, but I guess it will have to do.

  I let my hands fall from the piano into my lap. Miranda is watching me with her mouth half-open; her eyes are enormous.

  She swallows several times and finally clears her throat.

  “I didn’t know Prokofiev could sound like that,” she whispers. “I didn’t know anything could sound like that.” She seems dazed. “That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever heard.”

  I thank her as gently as I’m able. “So now do you understand what it is I’m after? Do you hear what I’m talking about?”

  She shakes her head. “I hear what you want, but there’s no way I’ll ever be able to play like that.” Her voice is diffident.

  I stand up, cradling my left wrist. “Of course you will,” I say. “All it takes is patience and practice.”

  I watch her go, her face full of wonder. She’s practically floating with inspiration.

  She doesn’t yet know a lie when she hears one.

  She’s right, I fear. She’ll never play as I play. Oh, she has enough talent that she may eventually be able to execute the notes as well, and she has enough discipline to build herself a decent career as a musician. Ten years from now she may even be something of a name in the world; she has ample poise and grace when she’s performing, and a rare physical beauty audiences will likely respond to. I predict she’ll be well reviewed, and many younger musicians will no doubt flock to her for lessons and guidance.

  But Miranda Moore will never have what it takes to play like me.