Chapter 2
REMY STEPPED INTO THE BREEZY WARMTH OF AFTERNOON, HER violin case light in her hand, and turned toward Boylston Street rather than her usual route. Her mission this fine autumn day was both mundane and momentous: she must buy a training bra for Jessie.
Fetching her at Hazel’s the other day, watching her sling her massive backpack over her shoulder, Remy had noted with ridiculous shock the new heaviness there, the faint outline, a girl-chest if not yet breasts. Perhaps because of Jessie’s height and beauty and her comfort in her own skin, there was nothing awkward about it—but Remy remembered what it was like to be a thirteen-year-old, the body suddenly exerting itself in embarrassing ways. Though Jessie possessed the instinctive confidence of a natural athlete, though her skin still glowed with the infinite tan of a teenage summer, who knew what might in fact be going on inside her. There had been a day last month when she came home from the pool and burst into tears: How in the world, she wanted to know, could Remy have not taught her to shave her legs?
The thought had never occurred to Remy. To Jessie she explained that this was a choice a woman could make, and that Jessie’s leg hair was so fine it was nearly invisible. “You could just leave it, if you want.” She truly thought it the right thing to say.
Jessie looked at her as though she had suggested there was no need to wear clothes, either, if she didn’t want to. “Meghan McGloughlin has hairy armpits, and you know what people called her at swim practice? The Amazon. Because it’s a total forest under her arms.” With that Jessie had stomped away, as if Remy were of no use to her anymore.
Until now, stepmotherhood had come naturally, a generally fluid progression she had never given much deep consideration. Rather, it was as if she and Jessie had always been in each other’s lives. Remy was the one Jessie turned to with intimate questions, with whispered jokes and confidences—and until recently anything Remy did had become what Jessie had to do, too. It was why Jessie had taken up swimming, and had spent years loudly wishing for curly hair. She had even become a granddaughter to Remy’s parents—another gift for Remy, after so many years of failing to have a baby.
But all summer Remy had felt something happening, as if all three of them—she and Nicholas, too—were in the throes of puberty.
“Hello, my dear!”
It was Yoni, in his running togs, hopping from foot to foot on the sidewalk before her. Tan from months of sunny travel, lines fanning from his eyes as if from so much time spent grinning. “How nice to find you on my way to the river!”
Remy gave him a quick peck on his moist cheek. “Long time no see.” He and his girlfriend Patricia had been in Madrid all of August. Remy nodded at his training duds. “Nicholas said you were still on a health kick, but I didn’t know if I should believe him.”
“I’ve been trying to get him to join me.”
“Are you kidding? He’d keel over!” The most Nicholas did in the way of sports was go over to Gary’s to watch the World Series on television.
Yoni laughed. “Then what about you? It’s beautiful, you know, running along the Charles. And I’ve never felt better. In fact, I just had my annual physical, and you know what? My heart has grown. The doctor said it’s actually larger.”
“I guess it makes sense,” Remy said, “since it’s a muscle.”
Yoni said he found it wondrous that the heart could actually increase in size.
“It’s a nice metaphor,” Remy said.
“No, it’s literal. My heart is actually bigger.”
“I know that.” Remy poked him in the chest. He was no taller than Nicholas, but there was something grand about the way he held himself, his hair dark and thick, his smile impervious. “I was trying to make it mean something.”
Placing his arm lightly around her to jostle her a bit, the way he did whenever he teased her, Yoni said, “There’s a 5K next Sunday, if you want to join me.”
“You know swimming is all I’m good at.” Remy nudged him away with her elbow. “You’re much too healthy. It’s disconcerting.”
“It’s for a good cause!” Yoni said. “We’re raising money for . . . something or other.”
Remy laughed. “Is it healthy for you to stop in the middle of your run like this?”
“A minute or two won’t kill me. I’m glad to see you. How are you surviving the accolades?”
Remy gave a laughing sigh; she knew what Yoni meant. Lately with each of Nicholas’s premieres came an inevitable shower of praise. This new piece, for woodwind quintet, was no different.
“You know what they say,” she told him. “‘Nothing less than perfection.’”
It was a phrase from a review of Nicholas’s last premiere, which both Yoni and Remy couldn’t help finding hilarious. They still used it to tease him.
“It’s all the conservatory’s been talking about,” Yoni said.
Remy suspected it bothered him, everyone so excited about Nicholas all the time, when Yoni too had tried his hand at composing. Only in the past year or so, though, had she noted on occasion, when the three of them were together, a little wince that sometimes crossed Yoni’s face. “It stops meaning so much,” she said, in concession, though it was true that as proud as she was of Nicholas, he seemed to be becoming someone others had to praise, to prove their own good taste.
“It’s well deserved, though,” Yoni said.
Remy sensed him wanting to say more but not daring to; it was not the first time she had sensed this. “But a lot of people deserve things.” Why had she said that? She felt suddenly that she had told some dark secret about herself.
Probably it was because of the latest news at work.
But she didn’t want to think about that now. To Yoni she said, “Well, I know you have to get back to your run.”
Yoni started to hop from foot to foot again. “But it’s so nice to see you.”
“Come over for dinner one of these days,” she told him. Yoni often dined with them, particularly when he was between girlfriends.
“I’d love to.” He gave her a quick kiss good-bye.
She watched him run off. Beyond him the sky looked purged, just a few wisps of clouds stretched in the distance. Remy waited until his figure had disappeared, then continued on toward her destination.
AT THE DEPARTMENT STORE, SHE HAD JUST PASSED THE MEN’S TIES and made her way into the women’s section, toward the lingerie, when she saw the most beautiful dark red blouse.
The blouse seemed to call to her. It was of densely knit silk, in tiers that billowed out toward the bottom. Though she usually wasn’t one to pay much attention to clothes, Remy stopped and touched the fabric, substantial but soft. She took the hanger from the rack and held the blouse up against herself, then turned to see how it looked in one of the full-length mirrors.
The blouse was much too big.
Checking the tag for the size, Remy saw, with a sad little laugh, that it was a maternity shirt. She turned to look at the other racks around her and realized that she was in the maternity department. She shook her head at herself. Of course she would be drawn to this shirt, of all things. She held it up again, imagining what it would feel like to fill it out. Remy had a long torso, plenty of room for a baby. But she had given up that hope. Together she and Nicholas had decided not to pursue any of the recourses so many other couples took—no painful treatments, expensive surgeries, or complicated adoptions. No need to go down any of those roads; they had been lucky enough already. Remy returned the blouse to the rack and made her way toward the lingerie.
She meant to head straight for the training bras, but it occurred to her that she ought to buy some bras for herself, too. Hers were old and stretchy, to the point of barely performing their meager duty. And if she couldn’t have that red maternity blouse, well, then, she might buy herself something else.
This thought was vague, more like a feeling. She found herself plucking up a short, sleeveless nightgown of creamy white satin and a flesh-colored bustier that hooked in a compl
icated way at the back. She imagined herself wearing the bustier under her orchestra blouse, transforming her chest so that there was more of it, propped up under the stage lights. But what solo was she playing? Which part?
Remy had been with the Boston Symphony Orchestra for nine years now—principal second, dutifully leading the second violin section. Along with the other principals, she played the occasional solo and was a member of the official chamber music group. Her seat was tenured, and she never had to play Pops. In a way, it was the perfect position for her.
But now it turned out the associate concertmaster was retiring. Auditions would be held for his seat: second chair of the first violin section.
For some reason, Remy couldn’t help wishing that she would be offered the position—though of course that wasn’t the way these things worked. There would be hundreds of applicants for the seat: a full-time position in a world-class orchestra, with a conductor as gifted as theirs, was a rare thing. Yet Remy couldn’t help wondering if she, too, ought to put her name in for the slot. It could be rejuvenating to play the first violin part for a change.
Not that it would be any less routine than her current position, she told herself as she wandered through the forest of brassieres. Why, even the concertmaster had to play the same old solo in Ein Heldenleben or the “Haffner” Serenade again and again. The rehearsals, the performances, same old warhorses, same days and nights year after year . . . all of that would remain the same. Like the endless cycle of her long black skirts—the tiered crushed velour one, the narrow velvet one for cold winter nights, and the flowing rayon one for the hottest summer days—and nylon stockings that gradually laddered where the back of her shoes rubbed her heel. None of that would change, no matter which chair she sat in.
Next thing she knew, she was putting the bustier back on the rack; those little hooks were simply too much to bother with. Instead she found three new bras: a sheer one of nearly netlike taupe, a slinky one in a leopard pattern, and a lace one with padding. Each could be matched with a thong, but Remy left those on the racks—then thought better of it and went back for the leopard-print one. Though she supposed she ought to make sure the bras fit, she did not feel like stopping to undress and, at any rate, could always return them.
But that was the whole point, not to return them—not to return to her usual self, her same old ways! The fact was, she worried she had become complacent. Sometimes, recalling the pain she had felt in her wrists a decade ago, it seemed she had just barely escaped some awful fate and ought to serenade the gods each time she lifted her violin. Yet she had come to think of her playing as a job more than a gift, and no longer applied herself with such effort. Though she still practiced her scales daily and continued her swimming regimen, she no longer followed all the rules Conrad Lesser had sworn by. There wasn’t always time to pay attention to every detail of a piece, not when it had to be performed after just two or three rehearsals. Often she had to resort to easier hand positions in order to perform adequately in time for performance night. It had been ages since she consciously chose to play something in the fourth or sixth position. Their schedule simply didn’t allow time for such things.
She wondered if the leopard pattern would show through her lighter clothing—though if that were the case, the sheer bra, too, might show through thin fabric. But then the lace didn’t make sense, either.
Remy replaced each of the bras on their respective racks. Since now the leopard thong would not have a bra to match with, she put that back, too. She kept the short satin nightgown, though, and scanned the area until she found the display of the same old brand of bra she had always worn.
Probably it was no good, she thought, to settle so easily back into—herself. But she liked herself. She liked her life! Of course it might be nice to play the melody for once. Sing the lead, emerge high above the others, soar supremely in the top register . . . But the middle voices were just as important. The seconds, the violas, the altos. The ones no one paid much attention to. They were the ones who added texture and depth, whose presence, if generally unnoticed, was absolutely necessary. And what did it matter, really, if she were associate concertmaster instead of principal second? She would still be Remy.
Quickly she plucked up three of the same brassieres she had been wearing for years. She liked knowing, without having to try them on, that they would fit, and was relieved to be so easily done with it.
After all, either way she would be second—second chair of the firsts, or first chair of the seconds. It was who she was, where she would always be. Always some version of second place.
For some reason she thought of Yoni, running rosy-cheeked toward the river.
“Runner-up” was the phrase she heard in her head. She nearly laughed aloud at her pun, picturing Yoni in his jogging outfit as she stood there with her handful of bras. Because Yoni never would come first at the conservatory, would he? Just as Remy would always be second violinist, second chair, second wife.
That was when she remembered: Jessie. She had completely forgotten her reason for coming here! How odd, how unlike her. Remy had to laugh at herself, and scanned the displays for the training bras.
Here they were. She selected the one she knew Jessie would like the best, beige cotton with a butterfly embroidered in white between the flat, flapping cups. Then she turned to join the line at the register.
But first she quickly went back to grab the leopard thong.
HUGH’S BIRTHDAY WAS NEXT WEEK, AND HAZEL HAD BEEN INVITED to celebrate with him: just the two of them, dinner reservations at Radicchio. She had thought hard about what to do for a gift, since this early on one couldn’t risk anything too personal. She thought and thought, and then, during yet another slow afternoon at Maria’s fabric store, came up with the perfect gift.
“What do you know about really good socks?” she asked Ginger, her coworker and best friend. Well, sometimes she thought of her as her best friend, and other times she thought of her as her divorced friend, since that was the main thing they had in common. Hazel had met her six years ago here at the fabric shop, where they each worked three and a half days a week, overlapping on Wednesdays. Sometimes Hazel wished Ginger didn’t work here at all; then Hazel could do so full-time and become as expert as Maria, the Russian woman who owned the store.
“Fine quality ones,” Hazel continued. “Woolen.” When they went out this weekend Hugh had mentioned that he had just one pair of good wool socks, and that he always wished, during the cold winter months, that he would remember to buy some more.
“Do you mean for hiking?” Ginger asked, leaning against one of the enormous bolts of Spanish velvet, looking up from the magazine she was reading; since the store was high end, they had lots of gorgeous, overpriced materials and long stretches of inactivity in between clients. “You can get that sort of thing at REI,” Ginger said, and turned back to her magazine.
Hazel was about to explain that that was not quite what she meant, but it was too early to mention Hugh Greerson; she couldn’t afford to jinx herself.
“Right,” she said, and busied herself with the fabric swatches. Socks would show him that she had listened, had heard what he had to say. Good, finely knit, high-quality ones.
As if holding such a specimen, Hazel ran her fingertips over the thickly embroidered rose pattern on her favorite fabric. She adored this shop, loved the way she felt here, surrounded by beautiful materials. She considered herself lucky to have a job that interested her and paid sufficiently. Between this, Nicholas’s child support, and the money her father had left her, Hazel was able to live without financial worries.
She had even entertained the notion that she might open her own shop, one specializing in Oriental carpets. She had borrowed from the library every book she could find on the subject, had read about natural dyes versus synthetic ones, and the recurring symbolism of the various patterns, and the plight of the Afghani refugees who wove their initials into the edges. The careful craftwork and grand beauty, the
combined elegance and domesticity of the carpets themselves, fascinated her. She drove around to various carpet stores and chatted with the men who ran them, thinking she might apprentice herself somewhere. But it was a male profession—heavy, dusty rugs lugged around huge warehouses, pure physical strength needed to roll them out and up again. In none of those shops had she felt quite welcome. And, of course, to become a buyer she would have had to voyage to all kinds of Middle and Far Eastern countries—and she had long ago lost her urge to travel.
She held the fabric up, to better examine the stitching. The embroidery of each rose petal was perfect. Such things really did make a difference. Even in a pair of socks, surely there was the equivalent of this gorgeous material. “Can you cover me for a coffee break?” she asked Ginger.
“Sure,” Ginger said, pleasantly bored. “Take your time.”
HEADING TOWARD THE DEPARTMENT STORE, HAZEL COULDN’T HELP thinking how wonderful it would be if things worked out with Hugh. That she might be part of a couple again, not just a lone divorcée in a sea of couples, was a thought she barely allowed herself to indulge in. It wasn’t so much living one’s life alone that was awful. It was that her aloneness felt like an element of her personality—as if her singledom were a character trait and not simply a situation beyond her control.
As much as Hazel abhorred this mentality, she herself sometimes thought this way. Take Ginger, for instance. Ginger was one of those busy single women who, because she had no children, was always participating in activities where she hoped to meet available men. Nothing ever came of it. To Hazel the repeated failures had become confirmation that there must be something wrong with Ginger—for being divorced, or simply for trying not to be. That was why Hazel joined Ginger in only one of her activities, the foreign film club (which consisted of five female coworkers from Ginger’s previous job and two doughy-faced older men, one of whom still lived with his mother).
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