No Return: A Contemporary Phantom Tale

by Pope, Christine

  The sheet music was still stored in the piano bench, thank God. I pulled it out, set it on the piano, and got to work, thankful that at least I had the music to pull me away from thoughts of Randall and the worry of how angry he really might be with me. Music had been my escape so many times in the past that I had lost count, and I tried to take refuge in it now, hoping, even as I tackled the difficult modalities of the aria, that Randall hadn’t quite given up on me yet.

  So they were arguing. Erik switched off the tape recorder and smiled to himself. Good—very good. If they kept at each other’s throats for the next few weeks, he wouldn’t have to worry about the progression of their relationship, and whether Christine would find herself attracted enough to Randall to give herself to him.

  The tap on her phone had actually been Jerome’s suggestion, but up until now the tapes of her phone conversations hadn’t been of much use except to keep track of her schedule, since the majority of the time she spent on the phone she was either talking to Meg about picking up shifts or planning time with Randall, which didn’t appear to happen very often. The paucity of personal conversation was in itself illuminating. More than anything it seemed to highlight her utter aloneness in the world. Erik had imagined that most girls her age would spend a great deal of time on the phone talking with friends or calling home to family members, but of course Christine had no family to call, and her circle of friends seemed quite limited. Oddly, she seemed to use the land line far more than her cell phone, which Jerome informed him was the type where you apparently paid as you went. It seemed she couldn’t even afford the sort of plans that most cell phone companies offered these days.

  The situation frustrated him, as he would have liked a little more of the personal information he could have gleaned from listening to her speak with her peers or by reading her text messages to friends. In so many ways, she was still a cipher, even though he had at last finally met her, spoken with her, even touched her. Her conversations with Meg were usually work-related, although he could sense at times Meg was trying to draw her out, with Christine politely resisting. She seemed to have none of the current generation’s self-fascination that led to endless posts on the various social networks; in fact, she didn’t even have a Facebook account. Jerome had observed that she seemed to be well-liked—with the notable exception of that bleached, strutting mezzo in her master class—but she did not appear to have any close friends except for Meg.

  Even an examination of her transcripts back to high school did not reveal much. She had been an excellent student, and of course had participated in choir and musical theater in high school, but those seemed to be her only extracurricular activities. Her grades had suffered a dip during her sophomore year of high school—naturally, since her parents had died on a frosty New Year’s Eve that year—but she appeared to have recovered and gone on to graduate with high honors. She should have gone straight to a four-year university, but the death of her grandmother set her back both financially and emotionally, with the result that she had not been able to attend USC until midway through her junior year.

  Erik would have dearly loved to have seen the personal essay she had to submit with her application, but Jerome was having a hard time getting his hands on it. No matter. The paperwork would probably be procured soon enough, and, if not, then he would have the real thing in his possession within the month. Then he would be able to learn everything about her at his leisure.

  At least his plans on that front continued to progress well. Really, it was a simple enough matter, and Jerome already had several promising leads as to whom to hire for the actual operation. No, the real frustration lay in waiting for the time to be ripe, for the Thanksgiving holidays to be upon them, that blessed four-day stretch where she could be missing for some time before anyone really noticed her absence. Her room was already waiting for her, an enchanting little jewel-box of a chamber ready to address her every comfort.

  He flipped the pages of his desktop calendar from today’s date to the 25th. Twenty-one days. It seemed like such a narrow sheaf of paper when he held it like this, measuring from one date to the next, but he knew so much could happen in such a short span of time. Twenty-one days. Wars had been fought and lost in less time. People had met, fallen in love, and gotten married in fewer days than that. Lives had ended, and begun.

  Still, the last few months of Christine’s life seemed to have followed a fairly set routine, and all he could do was hope and pray for it to continue in such a way. That, and pray as well she really had wounded Randall’s sensibilities to the point where he wished nothing more to do with her. Of course, Erik himself knew that it would take much more than a few stinging words to give up on a woman such as Christine—actually, he had been pleased to see her show that much spirit—but Randall appeared to be made of weaker stuff. At least, that was what Erik hoped. The boy had probably never suffered a major setback before in his life, and now he was faced with a huge financial obstacle as well as a girlfriend who apparently wasn’t the doormat he had thought her to be. What Randall did next would do much to prove his worth as a man.

  Even if Randall did surprise him by admitting to Christine that he had been in the wrong, Erik wasn’t worried...much. The spat had at least set the relationship back a few significant steps, and that would take up more time—time that neither Randall nor Christine knew was running out.

  The development with the Long Beach Opera was interesting, but not of much concern. High time someone paid real attention to Christine’s remarkable vocal gifts, and he was interested to see how the audition turned out.

  Curious on a purely intellectual level, of course. By the time the opera was cast, let alone staged, Miss Daly would have disappeared from the scene, much to the bemusement of her friends and colleagues. Perhaps one day she might be able to return to the opera scene, but first of course she had to prove her loyalty...prove her love.

  Yes, Christine would have to prove she was completely his before she could ever be allowed to return to the world.

  Chapter 8

  The offices of the Long Beach Opera were located in the heart of the city in an area of gleaming high-rises and expensive-looking restaurants. Of course there was no street parking to be had, so I pulled reluctantly around to the back, where I took a ticket from the attendant with a silent prayer that they would at least validate.

  It seemed a little odd to be holding auditions here, in what clearly were administrative offices, but perhaps they had a recital chamber somewhere on the premises. After a quick glance in the rearview mirror to make sure my lipstick was still intact and my unruly hair no more than usually mussed, I gathered up my purse and the worn briefcase that held my musical scores, took a deep breath, and headed toward the elevators.

  The building lobby was impressively bland, with slick polished travertine on the floors and walls and a security guard who sat at a desk half-hidden by a series of potted palms. He gave me a bored look, and I returned a slight smile even as I hoped that he wouldn’t read my nervousness as suspicious behavior. Apparently not, for he looked away almost immediately and returned his attention to the newspaper spread out before him.

  Between the two elevators was a building directory that showed the Long Beach Opera offices as being located on the fifth floor. I pressed the button, started to bite my lower lip, then stopped, realizing that all I’d accomplish was to chew off my carefully applied lipstick.

  Before I really wanted it to, the elevator reached the lobby, its doors opening. I had to pause to let a brittle-looking woman with over-streaked hair exit the elevator, but then I had it to myself.

  As luck would have it, no one else had called for the elevator, so I rode smoothly to the fifth floor, all the while trying to keep my breathing calm and unhurried. I don’t know what it was with auditions, but I tended to let them get to me more than they should. It always seemed as if they were vitally important to my continued existence as a singer, even though I knew intellectually that not even the most
gifted performer won every role and that my voice, good as it was, was not perfectly suited to every role for which I tried out.

  Meg once tried to feed me some psycho-babble about fear of rejection stemming from the loss of my parents, but I hadn’t let the conversation get very far. Who knows—maybe she was even right. Over the years I had resisted the efforts of well-meaning school counselors and psychologists to get me into therapy, thinking it all a waste of time. No amount of talking was going to bring my parents back, and in the meantime I’d had papers and tests and concerts to worry about. Even Meg had finally given up once she’d realized that particular topic of conversation was a guaranteed dead-end.

  The elevator doors slid open, and I stepped out directly into a reception area. It was furnished with considerably more personality than the lobby downstairs; the couches were covered in a vibrant if tasteful modern print in jewel tones that matched the posters advertising various Long Beach Opera productions on the walls, and a gorgeous orchid bloomed on the receptionist’s desk. She looked up as I entered, her gaze friendly if a bit curious.

  I approached the desk with what I hoped was a confident and professional smile. “I’m Christine Daly,” I offered. “I’m here for the auditions.”

  Behind her fashionable rectangular frames, the receptionist’s dark eyes widened a bit. “The what?”

  “The aud—” I began, then trailed off. Of course. How could I be so stupid? This was an office building, not a theater or rehearsal hall. But maybe only the address on the letter was wrong, or the information as to the actual audition site accidentally omitted. “Just a sec,” I added, when I saw her start to open her mouth to speak. “I can show you the letter.”

  I set my purse down on the floor and scrabbled through my briefcase, looking for the envelope I had tucked in with my scores. Of course it was buried at the bottom, but eventually I dug it out, although it was a bit the worse for wear. Then I unfolded the piece of ivory paper and handed it to her.

  She took it from me, the frown line between her brows deepening as she looked it over. “I think someone’s played a pretty mean joke on you,” she said at last.

  I just stood there, staring at her, as my heart began to pound in heavy, anguished strokes against my ribs.

  “This is our stationery,” she went on, and I could tell she was trying to help me out by explaining further. At least she looked sympathetic. “And we are doing The Rake’s Progress in the spring. But the production was cast two weeks ago. I don’t know who sent you this letter, but it didn’t come from us.”

  I said, in a voice not entirely my own, “I see.”

  “I’m very sorry,” she said, and, to her credit, she actually did look sorry. Then she handed the letter back to me.

  Because it was the polite thing to do, I took it—why? so I could burn it later?—and shoved it back inside my briefcase. Then, because I couldn’t think of anything else to say, and because I knew I had to get out of there before I made even more of a fool of myself, I said, “Thank you,” managed a watery smile, maintained enough presence of mind to gather up my purse and briefcase, and then had to endure the excruciating wait for the elevator to return.

  She watched me with concern as I stood there and wondered to myself what kind of moron had designed an elevator that opened directly into an office suite. Wasn’t a proper hallway with a discreet door good enough for them? Finally, after several eternities, the elevator arrived and I fled inside.

  You will not cry. You will not cry, I scolded myself during the long ride down. Of course, my ignominious retreat had to be attended by the unwelcome addition of elevator riders from the fourth and third floors. I burrowed into a far corner of the elevator, my briefcase and purse clutched against my chest like a shield. Luckily, no one really seemed to pay any attention to me—it was the end of the work day, and all anyone seemed concerned with was getting the hell out of there. In that way, I had a lot in common with them.

  Of course, when I got to my car I realized that I hadn’t gotten my parking ticket validated—no surprise, considering the circumstances—and had to pay for my lovely little episode in the offices of the Long Beach Opera. Price of humiliation, $6.50, thank you very much. Not to mention all the gas this pleasant trip had cost me.

  Not until I had peeled out of the parking structure, popping the clutch from first directly into third and almost stalling the car in the process, did I allow the tears to flow. By that point the quick-falling dusk of late autumn had already come to the city, and it was dark enough that no one could see me weeping as I pointed my battered little car northward for the long drive home.

  Erik had been expecting Christine to make at least one phone call when she returned home from her audition, so he was poised by the listening equipment instead of just waiting for Jerome to give him the digital files for review. The apparatus had been set up in a smaller secondary office that had once been a bedchamber, but of course it was furnished in the same discreet opulence as the rest of the house. Because the evening was already chilly, a small fired burned in the rose marble fireplace, lending a subdued light to the otherwise darkened room.

  The green light indicator for an outgoing call began to flash, and he immediately picked up the headphones and settled them over his ears even as the red recording light turned on.

  “Meg?” came Christine’s voice. She sounded shaky and faint. Then a long pause. “Okay—I guess you’re out. Can you give me a call if you get this tonight? I don’t care how late it is.” Another pause. “Talk to you later.”

  He sat, considering, not bothering to remove the headphones. That hadn’t sounded good at all. The audition hadn’t gone well, then. He couldn’t comprehend anyone not recognizing what a marvelous instrument she possessed, but perhaps Christine was one of those unfortunate performers who choked at auditions. It happened.

  The outgoing call light began to flash again, and he sat up straighter, wondering if perhaps Christine were trying to reach Meg by another number. It was a male voice that answered, however, one which Erik immediately recognized and despised.

  “Randall?” Again that frightening little hitch in her voice.

  “Yeah—Christine?” Even as a disembodied voice heard through a set of headphones, there was no mistaking the sharpened concern in his tone. “What’s the matter?”

  A muffled sound in return.

  “Are you hurt? Christine!”

  A ragged breath. Then, “No—I’m not hurt. I just—I needed to talk to someone.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Almost unconsciously, Erik’s hands clenched into fists. How he longed to be the one Christine had called in her despair, the one she instinctively sought for comfort.

  She took another one of those halting breaths. “Oh, God, Randall—that audition was just a fake. Someone set me up!”

  “What do you mean, ‘set you up’?”

  “I mean that I thought I had an audition and drove all the way down there, and then—then—” For the first time she broke down into weeping, not loudly, but little wrenching cries that were somehow more painful to listen to than outright sobs.

  To do him credit, Randall did not try to cover up the sound of her pain by murmuring platitudes or telling her to hush. There was silence for a moment on the line, broken only by the agonized sound of Christine’s weeping, a horrible moment in which Erik waited, hardly daring to breathe until she spoke again.

  Finally she said, “I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t have to be sorry. You’re upset. It’s okay.” A pause. “Do you want to tell me what happened next?”

  “Oh, God, Randall, it was so humiliating! I go to their offices—their offices, like a complete idiot! Who holds auditions in their offices?”

  “Well,” he said reasonably, “you’d never auditioned for them before. How were you supposed to know?”

  “No one holds auditions in their offices, Randall. A rehearsal hall, even the theater where the production is going to be held, which I sh
ould have known, if I’d stopped to think about the whole thing logically.”

  “Well, we can argue about that later. What happened?”

  “So I walk in and tell the receptionist I’m there for the auditions, and she gives me this look, like I don’t know what I’m talking about. So I show her the letter, and then—” Christine paused and took a breath. “Then she tells me that it had to be some kind of joke, that they’d cast The Rake’s Progress two weeks earlier!”

  “Jesus.” Even Randall sounded shaken.

  “Yeah. Exactly.”

  Then Randall said, “Do you want me to come over?”

  Erik tensed, waiting for her reply. If Randall went to comfort Christine, there was no telling how things might end up. Certainly their previous quarrel seemed to have been forgotten for the moment.

  “No,” Christine said at length, and Erik closed his eyes, expelling a breath he hadn’t even noticed he was holding. “I really appreciate it, but I’m okay. I just needed to talk to someone.”

  “Just someone?”

  “I wanted to talk to you.” Another pause, but not as long as the ones before. “I’m sorry we argued.”

  Interesting comment, Erik thought. She’d admitted regret for the quarrel but not guilt.

  Apparently Randall didn’t notice the distinction. “I’m sorry, too. I was being a jerk.”

  She made some sort of protesting sound, but Randall cut her off.