The Bridegrooms

by Allison K. Pittman

  Then silence, until the auditorium echoed with the footsteps of Erik Vlasek. By day he taught music at Cleveland High School, and here he was, violin and bow tucked under his right arm, holding the second most powerful position in the orchestra. Oh, how Garrison hated him.

  Still, she clapped along with the audience as he gave a twirling flourish of his left hand as he bowed. He signaled the oboe player to play an A. The woodwinds echoed the note, followed by the brass, and finally the strings. It was Garrison’s first official note in front of an audience, and she clutched her sisters’ hands, beaming.

  Vlasek, satisfied, took his seat, and Herr Johann came onstage, getting taller and taller with each step, as if elevated by applause. It died down as he turned his back and took his place. All around her, programs fluttered as the audience lifted them to read the title of the first piece. But not Vada. She knew this one by heart. She knew it so well, she could be on that stage in minutes with her violin and play it along with the men. Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto no. 5.

  Three taps on the music stand. Baton poised. Such an eternal, excruciating moment, as everyone—audience and musician alike—held a single breath. All bows primed, lips graced precious silver and brass, mallets held inches above taut, stretched skin—all ready to touch down at one command and make music.

  Then…

  Oh, it was lovely, and perfect. The sound of a beautiful creation. More beautiful now that it was received by the people who loved such a thing. She scanned the musicians, her heart full of love for each of them—accountants and clerks, dock workers and tailors. And lawyers. Well, one in particular.

  His pale brows knit together in concentration, his thin frown, his long fingers holding the bow with that soft grip. A few tendrils of his thin hair floated straight up from his head, and she wished she’d been one of those women with the right to paste it down.

  Because she loved him.

  Oh, Lord, she offered up from her seat, I love him.

  And when she brought up her hands to wipe away her tears, the scent of the roses brought only one memory—that of a handful of new spring lilacs pilfered from a neighbor’s yard.

  She moved to the edge of her seat. All those moments of the past few days when he’d been excluded from her thoughts came in a flood as she could see, hear, think of nothing but him. His nubile fingers dancing up and down the violin’s neck, his elbow at that peculiar akimbo angle he favored, maneuvering the bow across the strings.

  She longed for the touch of those hands, to walk with her hand in the crook of that elbow. More than that, she wanted a life in harmony with him, his steadfast nature to counter her impetuous one. His love so firmly rooted in his faith in the future God planned for them.

  Slowly—as if she were coming out of a five days’ sleep—the image of such a future took hold. She didn’t see a partnership. She didn’t see a house. For the life of her, she didn’t even see her veiled self walking down an aisle. Every person on the stage and around her disappeared. For her, the entire concert—the whole world—receded behind the third chair violin.

  And then, with all the abruptness of that first glorious note, the music stopped. Not all of it, just him. Somehow, something had gone wrong, and there he sat, a world away, his bow suspended over the strings, useless.

  He was lost.

  If it were rehearsal, Herr Johann would be pounding his fist on the podium, screaming, “Does the third chair need an invitation to continue? Shall I punch your ticket?” But no such outburst would do now. Only Vada knew the meaning behind the new sharpness in the conductor’s gestures, the jab, jab, jab as if spearing the notes with his baton. At the end of this piece, Herr Johann would probably make Garrison leave unless something happened.

  Look at me.

  Onstage, his eyes were glued to the floor, and her fellow patrons, who just moments ago were lost to her, began shifting in their seats.

  Garrison! Look at me!

  His fellow musicians labored valiantly on, the music swelling all around him. He lifted his eyes, and Vada leaned forward. But he didn’t look to the house. Instead, he focused his gaze on the music, but by now he was hopelessly behind.

  To her left, Lisette snickered into her hand; to her right, Althea slouched down into her seat. Behind her, people wondered what was wrong with that man. In front of her, they shifted from left to right.

  On the conductor’s box, a murder was being plotted.

  Please! Look at me! Lord, let him look at me!

  Forgetting all protocol, she braced her hands on the seat in front of her and stood. Now, there was commotion all around her—most of it quite unkind. Lisette covered her face with her hands, and Althea slunk even lower. Certainly, if he didn’t look to her, he’d look to this.

  Soon, maybe four or five measures away, would come the point in the performance when all violins would cease, save for Vlasek, who would carry on the part alone, and that’s when he would—

  Everything in her stopped as Mr. Pennington, jowls quivering, took that brief respite to poke first Garrison, then Garrison’s music with his fleshy finger. That was all it took. Seconds later, right on cue, his bow touched strings, and all was as it should be.

  Onstage, at least. The fifth, sixth, and probably seventh rows were all in a lather. She should sit down, join Garrison in feeling sweet relief, but she couldn’t. He hadn’t looked to her. Hadn’t even tried. This one thing they shared. The one part of his life he let her fill, and she’d been given over for Mr. Pennington’s fat finger.

  She felt a tugging on the back of her skirt and turned around, ready to scold the offender only to look down into the tiny, angry face of Mrs. Babbeth, grandmother of Reverend Dickerson who sat beside her. Looking up, she saw Mr. Messini striding down the aisle, his small feet comically in time with the orchestra.

  Turning back and sitting down no longer seemed an option, so Vada began the task of climbing over Lisette and thanking Kenny for vacating his seat. Head down, she followed the elderly usher up the aisle and out the door, a sea of faces turned to watch her shameful exit. Once in the lobby, she ignored the old man’s query as to what, exactly, had gotten into her. If she told him, he’d be dead before intermission.

  No, she continued on, straight outside where a row of carriages awaited, horses hanging their patient heads. The various drivers leaned against them, smoking cigarettes. A few let loose a low, approving howl at her appearance. Any other time, she would have taken them to task, but now she marched right up to a group crouching around a pair of dice and asked where she could find Pete Darvin.

  “Come on, lady.” One rose to a full height that barely cleared her shoulder. “I can drive you home quick as he can.”

  “Don’t pay him no mind. He couldn’t drive you to the corner,” said another, not bothering to stand. He jerked his thumb behind him. “Pete’s about five rigs down.”

  Vada thanked them and strode down the sidewalk to where Pete sat, straight up in his driver’s seat, head thrown back and dozing.

  “Pete!”

  He responded with a snore and a shake of his head before scrambling down. “G-Good evening, Miss Allenhouse. Is the concert over already?”

  “Not quite. I need you to take me—” Where? Home? “I’m not quite sure yet.”

  By the time Pete made the first move to come down and help her, Vada had already gathered a handful of pink chiffon and was climbing up. She wished she’d thought to bring the wrap that now sat in the theater coat-check room, but for now the blue plaid driving blanket would do. She turned and dug around behind the seat until she found it, and when she did, she folded herself in its woolen warmth.

  “Where to, Miss Allenhouse?”

  “Just drive.”

  And with a lurch, he obeyed.

  May this night be the night of our dreams…

  This night? Our dreams? Strange, selfish words coming from the man who would be on the stage making music to write to the woman reduced to cleaning the floors for the audience. Wh
at dream did he think she was harboring? The dream to watch him? Applaud for him? To walk home on the arm of a third-chair violinist? What dream did they possibly share together? Not music. And apparently not marriage—at least not anytime soon. Not until he was ready. Until his dreams were fulfilled. It probably never occurred to him that she had dreams of her own.

  “Pete? Take me to the train station.”

  22

  Vada leaned back, her feet propped up on the opposite seat, her head resting on the back of the seat. Stars rolled above her, their light competing with the saffron tint of the streetlights.

  “Hey, Pete. You have any idea what time it is?”

  The boy touched his finger to his cap. “I’d say eight fifteen.”

  Not that it mattered. She had no idea what she would find at the train station. Possibly an empty platform. Or a new life. One thing for sure, there was no three-year plan. No circus act of balancing on a promise. This was barely even a hunch. Not quite a whim. This was foolishness at its best. Or worst. This was putting out a fire, or starting one, or simply knowing if one burned at all.

  “Eastbound or westbound station, Miss Allenhouse?”

  Brooklyn. “East.”

  Pete brought the carriage around to the area just outside the platform. She could hear the great billowing sound of a train sitting on the tracks, the steam from its engine floating up through the night sky.

  “Need help with your bags, Miss Allenhouse?”

  “I don’t have any bags, Pete. Remember, you picked me up at the house?”

  “Oh, right. So, are you meeting someone?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “If you do, will she need help with her bags?”

  She sighed. “No, Pete. You won’t be carrying anybody’s luggage tonight. But I would appreciate your giving me a hand down.”

  Pete heaved a sigh of his own and, with sluggardly slowness, slid down and met her at the carriage opening, holding up his hang-nailed hand. Although the night was now quite chilly, she chose to leave the riding blanket wadded up in the seat. There were few people around this late at night, but those who would see her deserved to see her in this dress. She did, however, reach back to grab her violin case.

  “So, you want me to wait for you here?” The boy seemed genuinely, pathetically confused.

  “Yes, Pete.”

  “How long?”

  “Until I give you word to do otherwise.”

  She walked into the station, right up to the ticket window, and inquired as to where the sitting train was bound.

  “East,” came the reply of the lethargic man behind the glass.

  “New York?”

  “Among others. Look, lady, you buying a ticket? Because this window closes in ten minutes.”

  She had nothing with her but a violin and a letter, but he didn’t care about that. Ten minutes would have to be enough.

  Opposite the door she’d come through was one leading to the tracks. Squaring her shoulders, feeling the weight of the embellished straps of her gown, she grasped her case and walked out onto the platform.

  A conductor stood next to the folding steps and barked, “Train leaves in ten minutes!”

  As she approached, he graciously moved aside, offering her a hand up the steps. “I hope you have a wrap on board, miss.”

  She inclined her head, saying, “Thank you,” and stepped onto the train.

  Judging by the men and women aboard, this car must be for first-class passengers. The seats were wide and tall, upholstered in red leather; the windows adorned with Roman shades. Stewards in white jackets were pouring cups of tea or walking down the aisle with glasses of wine held high on a tray. She smoothed a hand down the front of her dress. No wonder he’d let her walk right in.

  But the team wouldn’t be here. No troublesome troupe of baseball ruffians would be allowed passage in this car. Turning slightly to avoid causing a collision, she strode down the aisle, out and over the coupling, onto the next car.

  In here, she could barely see through the smoky cloud brought on by cigars and cigarettes, floating as freely as the laughter. She bent her ear, listening for one voice in particular. She’d know it anywhere—she’d hear it in her dreams if God ever allowed her to sleep so deeply again.

  At first, finding it seemed as impossible as finding a—well, who was she to say? Hadn’t Althea and Eli found each other? Hazel and Barth? Lisette and the life of her dreams? So she closed her eyes against the stinging smoke and walked down the aisle, listening…

  “So if you choke up on it more, you’ll get a faster swing…”

  “…little linseed oil on the leather, then stick it in the oven. Honest to Moses, right in the oven…”

  “…anyway, we start dancin’ and the next thing I know…”

  “…then I say gar ici, mon frère, I’m doin’ no harm—”

  “Mr. LaFortune?”

  The man jumped in his seat, like he’d seen a ghost rising from the mist. It took only one long glance, from the top of her head, past her bare shoulders, to her pink silk toes, and back again for his face to move from fright to fancy.

  “Fais-toi?” He stood from his seat, surrounded by the appreciative sounds of his fellow passengers, and enfolded her in a protective embrace. “What are you doin’ here, belle?”

  “I-I had to talk to you.”

  “I hear already about the young man. This, Eli? He wake up, merci á bon Dieu.”

  “It’s not about him. It’s about…us.”

  “Allons.” He steered her down the aisle, growling at the hoots that followed, and soon they were right back out on the platform.

  “Train leaves in five minutes, folks.” It was the same conductor, this time looking a little more suspicious.

  “Cherie, you should not be here.” But he touched her as if she should, his hand cradling the back of her neck. She felt it there, a warm spot on her otherwise cold body, but it did nothing to penetrate the numbness.

  “Just one question.”

  He glanced over at the train, at the line of men plastered at the windows looking like they’d just paid a hurly-gurly nickel. “I hope you do not want les boutons back. I leave them in the dugout when I hear the good news. To leave the curse behind.”

  His tone was light, cajoling, but she only had four minutes, and that left little time for banter.

  “I need to know if you ever, at any time—did you love me?”

  It was amazing—maybe admirable—how his expression didn’t change. The shallow half-smile brought forth for the voodoo buttons didn’t flinch a bit in this turn of conversation. He simply said, “Ah, cher,” and began to press her toward him.

  “No!” She pushed him away. The action was cheered on by the men at the windows. “What if I said I wanted to go with you, tonight? That I have a ticket in this bag”—she held up her violin case—“and I intend to go back with you to New York. And we can spend every night together there. And I’ll be there when you get back from the road. And I’ll spend the winters with you in the bayou.”

  There, a bit of a waver in the grin.

  “Because no man could hold me the way you did. Kiss me the way you kissed me. Look at me the way you looked—the way you’re looking at me now.” She stepped closer, brought her hand up to touch his face. “Because no man could ever, ever make me feel the way I felt when you touched me unless he loved me. Am I right?”

  She steeled herself for his answer, promising not to be hurt, no matter what he said. She was prepared for humor, for flirtation, for flippant denial, but not pity. Oh, please, dear God, don’t let him pity me.

  By the time she got to the end of her speech, the crescent smile was gone, and he simply looked sad. He caught the hand that touched his face and brought it to his lips—the last time he would ever touch her.

  “Ah, ma belle mam’zelle.” His lips moved against her fingers. “A man should be so lucky to love you. I, for you, am not that lucky.”

  It was enough. Not love, but wo
rth, and she’d treasure the revelation.

  “All aboooooard!” The conductor made a point of shouting the command so the words seemed to cut right between them.

  “This ticket? You have it?”

  “I doesn’t matter, does it?” She curled her fingers within his grip, and just like that, they were no longer touching. The train’s whistle blew, and three bounding steps later, LaFortune was just a fuzzy image behind a smoky window, moving along until he dropped out of sight.

  “Ma’am? You must board now.”

  She looked into the conductor’s wide, brown, kind eyes. “I’ve changed my mind, again.”

  Pete was curled up like a baby in the driver’s seat when Vada returned. The jostling of the carriage as she climbed in did little to disturb his slumber, and it wasn’t until a violin case hit him on the side of his head that he shot straight up and asked where to next.

  She, unfortunately, didn’t have an answer.

  “Back to Dresden Theater, then?”

  “No, not there. Just…home, I guess.”

  He seemed relieved at the answer and clicked to the horses to start them on the journey. But they hadn’t gone more than two blocks when she knew she couldn’t go home, not yet. So she hollered up at Pete, giving him a new address.

  “What are we gonna do when we get there?” he asked.

  “We’re going to wait.”

  “How long?”

  “Until I tell you otherwise.”

  She found the ratty carriage blanket and wrapped herself up in it once more. The ride was slow and smooth—not many drivers out on the street, and no hurry to arrive at the destination. Taking advantage of the luxury of having such an enormous vehicle to herself, she leaned up against the far side and stretched her legs the length of the seat. Having one ear pressed up against the upholstery further muffled whatever noise drifted in.

  She gave herself one more long look at the stars before the enormous weight of her eyelids prevented her from seeing them more. The clomp of the horses’ hooves was every bit as regular and soothing as the sound of the distant parlor clock, and the tattered wool blanket sealed in a warmth that dissipated at the slightest movement on her part. So, she didn’t move. She sank, a little. Curled a bit. But didn’t move. No movement until…