by Jane Lebak
Behind us, a customer entered. Josh said, “It’s all Shr-reya. She’s good.”
“Keep making noise. Remember, you’re a musical family, and people fight like hell to protect their own.” Then he turned to the new customer and corrected her that no, he sold Only Strings.
Out on the street, Josh called his father to coordinate a taxi-swap. I rubbed my hands together and breathed into my fingers. Trombones. Josh. The muted kid who ended up hauling a cello to school, although sometimes he’d carry my violin too, the way he’d carried Harrison’s last Thursday. The fifteen-years-ago strangled look that I’d only now decoded as, “I want something so badly it hurts, and I can’t say a thing.” Shouldn’t I have recognized it?
Who knew if he’d have made as amazing a trombonist, or if he’d have ended up playing cello anyhow? Maybe Fate had better things in mind for Josh than he had for himself, and maybe Fate made it all work together for him because he’d never have made it happen on his own. If he hadn’t been afraid to speak, or if the school hadn’t had only two trombones, or if the music teacher had been organized enough to lead starving wolves to fresh meat, Josh wouldn’t be here right now.
When he got off the phone, I said, “You could still take trombone lessons.”
He shook his head. “I messed around with Stuart Carignan’s once. It wasn’t all that great.” His mouth curved mischievously. “You can whack the guy in front of you, but not much more.”
I stared at the pavement.
“You okay?” He put his hand on my shoulder. “No, you’re not.” He blinked, then gave a little head-shake. “Don’t worry about the lll-lawyer. It’ll be all right.”
And you got your law degree where? But that wasn’t right. He wanted to help. He just didn’t know what else to say.
His cheeks flushed. “They can drag us into court. They can’t take our mmm-music.”
Why was he so sure? There were a dozen ways, from court orders all the way to damage penalties that would require selling our instruments. “And what if they do? That’s what scares me.”
“Don’t let it.” He put his hands on my shoulders and lowered his head toward me. “You’re a musician. I’m a musician. We’ll p-play. That’s what we do.” And then, after a hesitation, his hands tightened. “The best music the quartet plays... is something no one can steal. It’s ourselves. It’s the four of us.”
ELEVEN
At two in the morning I returned home, my thoughts firing in random directions. What waited for me: email threats? a subpoena? If a subpoena, maybe they nailed it to the door, and then I’d get in trouble for the hole in the woodwork.
No, my grandmother would have intercepted that. I’d find a thick envelope in the middle of my table, a note in her loopy script on a yellow sticky note. “Josie, a nice gentleman brought this. Please bring up my laundry before going to jail.”
In the absence of a process server sitting on the stoop, I checked behind the garbage cans to find that my stray kitty had finished all the food. I added some, then refilled the water bowl from my plastic bottle. I clicked my tongue against the roof of my mouth.
My breath was visible in the chill. Shortly a shadow brushed my leg, followed by a petulant meow.
“Yeah, you’re suffering,” I whispered. “Most cats get fed during the daylight. Deal with it.”
I squatted beside the cat. In the streetlight I couldn’t make out his tabby stripes, only the white on his paws and his nose. He growled at his food, terrifying the kibble awaiting its quietus.
When I extended a hand, he skittered away. “Silly thing. I’ve been doing this for a year. I’d have eaten you by now if I wanted to.”
Grandma hated cats, always had, saying they’d pee on the tree. She’d have pitched a fit if she realized, but because I was the one dragging the trash cans to the curb and back, she never saw the bowls. I stashed the cat food in the entryway in an unlabeled Rubbermaid container alongside the shovels and rock salt.
A car passed. I tensed until it turned the corner, but the cat kept eating. I touched his flank, and he leaped away, then glared and returned.
“Have you ever been sued? I imagine it’s scary. What if I can’t afford your food any longer? You’ll have to eat pigeons.”
The prospect didn’t worry the cat as much as it should.
“They won’t send me to jail. But if I stop feeding you, maybe they’ve won. Maybe I should run to Canada with my viola the way Harrison suggested.” I grimaced. “This whole situation is his fault. Who thought it was a good idea to mix classic rock and classical string quartets?”
At least the cat didn’t pretend it was a good idea.
I forced a smile. “But hey, there’s the definition of optimism: someone suing a violist.”
Hah, I made my own viola joke.
I stood, and the cat bolted.
I found no subpoena nailed to the door, nor a letter with ten fancy names. Emboldened by that, I should have checked my email, but the thought turned my stomach. Instead I turned on the shower and plugged the tub drain.
Boiling in the hottest stream I could stand, I thought again about my joke. Harrison once quipped that the first rule of law is not to sue broke people. By that measure, my student loans immunized me against lawsuits for the next sixteen years. The quartet’s pocket-change wouldn’t pay the opposing attorney to do more than write a draft of a nastygram (maybe that’s why she phoned?) and beyond that, yeah, they could force us into bankruptcy. We’d have to dissolve the quartet, but they’d never collect.
Some victory. “You lose: we’re dead.”
The Voice might also get sued, but bet me the Voice had twelve attorneys on salary. I think even the garbage man had his own attorney nowadays.
By the time I stepped out of the shower, leaving the water trapped so the heat wouldn’t go down the drain, I’d rehearsed the argument inside my head eight times. There was no way out: we’d end up in court over something spewed out to fill “the news hole,” and just like that, we were sunk. Because before they realized we had no money to take, we’d have spent it defending ourselves.
And what would I do then? My sister was gunning for my apartment, and my grandparents wouldn’t allow me a safety net. What would happen once the attorneys sank their teeth into my wallet and gave it a hard shake? Move back with my parents and...oh, God, Mom would take my viola. I’d never be able to hide it there. If that lawyer wanted to crush me, she could.
It was all so fragile. Mom said I was independent so often I never realized just how easy I’d be to destroy.
In my pajamas, I turned on the kettle for cheap hot chocolate, but then what? During toll-booth lulls I’d finished my library book, and none of my DVDs appealed.
After the kettle whistled, I poured the water into the powder and gave in to the necessary: I checked my email. A dozen new ones appeared.
The first was from Shreya: “Joey, this stinks. I’m not sure if it’s as good as Harrison says or as bad as you say, but it stinks. We’ll get through it, though. Even if we have to relocate to India, hey, I’ve got family there.”
I didn’t reply.
Nothing from Josh, whom I assumed was still driving around Manhattan. Josh had sounded so certain we’d be fine. His assurance had carried me all the way to Brooklyn, but then I’d stood in a toll-booth for eight hours and the worries came even faster than the eight dollar tolls.
Harrison had emailed too. “Joey, when you get this, call me. It’s nothing bad, but I want to talk.”
Yeah, because if it was great news, he’d need to deliver it via voice to cushion the blow? That “it’s nothing bad” brought all sorts of catastrophes to mind. He might as well have said, “Call me so I can pop out your heart with a corkscrew.”
Instead I went to violinist.com and scanned the forums. Only when I kept thinking of the sword hanging over my head did I finally reach for my phone, avoiding a look at how many calls I’d missed.
Harrison’s voice bubbled out at me. “Did you see it?�
�
I hesitated. Then, “See what?”
“You have to go back to the Village Voice article and read the comments!”
I shook my head. “I can’t.”
“Read the comments, Joey.”
“Just tell me.”
He sighed. “I’m promising you it’s not bad. Okay, fine. Here. ‘You guys rock.’ ‘Shreya Ramachandran is God.’ ‘They need to sell this stuff.’ ‘I hate classical music but I like them.’ Yeah, some are negative. Some people don’t like the idea of doing classic rock with violins because it’ll ruin the rock songs. Fine. But no comments about whining crybabies, and the Voice hasn’t taken down the video. And trust me, their lawyers began billing hours the second that attorney called.”
I didn’t answer.
“Meaning, that attorney hasn’t got enough in her pocket to take us to court. We did nothing wrong, and they know it. All the paper did was piss off an attorney or two.”
“And a group of living music superstars.”
Harrison said, “But we’d already been denied permission, so what can they do? Deny it again? We’re no worse off than before.”
He had a point.
“I told you to look. I’m your fearless leader. Do it.”
I opened up the article, then clicked the video so Shreya played while I read the comments.
Halfway through, I said, “Not bad.”
“Yeah, not bad. Shreya is some guy’s deity, and that’s not bad.”
A few responders called Shreya’s blend an abomination, plus a few comments about corporate rock. Some saying they hated the song in both versions. But most were approval.
“The question is,” I drawled as I logged into Gmail, “whether any of them feel like propitiating the deity.”
Ah. Fifteen emails.
“Apparently yes.”
“I didn’t check the group account,” Harrison said. “How is it?”
I read them to Harrison. Ten were raves. Five were event enquiries.
“A family reunion. That’s a first.”
Harrison sounded awed. “I wonder what we charge for that.”
“Not as much as for weddings. Music is in the optional category for a reunion.”
“I’m not so sure. If they’re asking—”
“We’ll quote them our pre-jacked-up wedding rate and see if they need smelling salts. Period. Corporations don’t care about saving money. Neither do brides. Families do.”
Harrison sighed.
I smirked. “Unless they’re Rockefellers.”
“I don’t recognize the name,” said Harrison, “but I can ask my parents.”
“Google them. Aren’t tax returns considered public record?”
Harrison laughed out loud. “Wow, that’s mean! I wish I’d thought of it. And no, they’re not unless you’re president of the United States of America, whose name I do happen to recognize.”
I bit my lip. “But it’ll all be for nothing once some lawyer swoops in and snatches everything.”
“It’s not going to happen.”
“You don’t know that!” My heart pounded. “You don’t understand! I’m working around the clock to survive. I don’t have rich parents who will pick up the pieces when some judge torpedoes my life!”
“Joey—”
“Don’t ‘Joey’ me! I’m out there every night to pay off loans I took out six years ago, and when I’m not paying off those then I’m paying off my day-to-day upkeep and the rent my grandparents keep jacking up, and I’m always paying off everything, but I can’t keep making it work if they take money I don’t have!” My vision was blurring. “It’s all payback and maintenance, and the only thing I have going into the future is the music, but they’re going to take it—”
“Don’t you dare wig out on me!” Even as I’d gotten more shrill, he’d gone deep, commanding. “I need you to keep it together. You’re the one with the business sense. Stay grounded.”
I closed my eyes. “But—”
“There isn’t a ‘but.’ Quit freaking out on me!”
I fell silent, clutching the phone so tight it hurt. I couldn’t let go.
“Don’t be scared. That’s what the lawyer wants. If you ever hear from her again, tell her she’s supposed to talk to me. That’s why people have fearless leaders, right? To handle nasty attorneys.”
My heart banged so hard I thought it might quit. I tried taking a deep breath, but it caught. That woman, her voice, her disdain—
“Joey, you need to get calm.”
“I know.” That would have sounded better if my voice hadn’t cracked mid-word. “But she was so angry.”
“They’re paid to act angry.” His words were breezy. “Do you know how angry you could sound for half a million dollars? I mean,” he added, “for fifty bucks an hour, you sound almost like a musician.”
“And you almost sound like you’re not a jerk.”
He laughed out loud.
I rubbed my eyes. “Can your brother do that? Sound like a disgusted hellbeast scraping mud off his shoe?”
“Is that how she spoke to you?”
“Like I wasn’t fit to answer her call.”
“Well, she’s not fit to rosin your bow. They study for years in law school just to sound nasty.”
The memory of her voice felt like a punch to the gut. “She graduated top of her class.”
“That doesn’t mean she’s classy. It’s going to be okay.” A pause. “We’ve got to respond to all these emails.”
I frowned. “Tonight?”
“Well, tomorrow. I was already asleep. I don’t know how you keep these hours.”
“I need to. Besides, I don’t teach violin to preschoolers at nine in the morning.”
“When we get married,” and Harrison sounded cheerful, “I’ll want you coming to bed with me.”
I sighed. “I’m not marrying you, Harrison.”
By the time I got into pajamas, my brain had geared down. I fell asleep thinking about family reunions and Only Strings.
The next morning, Viv banged on my door way too early and strode into my kitchen before I could spring out of bed. “I’m taking milk for Zaden!”
You’d think Grandma would have figured out by now that Zaden wanted something other than skim. Well, for that matter, you’d think I’d have figured it out and started buying skim myself, but I hated the taste.
When I didn’t hear my door slam, I came out to find her standing over the table, grimacing at the Voice.
“What?” I said.
No answer. I pushed past her to the coffee maker.
“Why are you in the paper?”
I blew at my bangs. “Where have you been, Viv? I’m in the paper all the time.”
She went back downstairs, leaving the door open. I kicked it shut.
Five minutes later, I remembered she’d hijacked my milk, so I got dressed, poured black coffee, and went downstairs. As an afterthought, I grabbed the newspaper.
At the kitchen table, I found Grandma and my mother complaining about one of my great-aunts. I milked up the coffee and then waited, pulse pounding.
Grandma looked up. My voice came a little too high-pitched: “I wanted to show you that my quartet got into the paper.”
Mom nodded. “You told us about that.”
“This is a new article. That was about a wedding. This is just about us.” I put it onto the table, but my mom was adding more sugar to her coffee. I edged it closer. “See, we’ve got a photo and everything.”
Mom looked at Grandma. “It’s so nice how she made that band with her goth friends.”
I forced a smile. “It’s not goth. They’re concert blacks.”
Grandma’s eyes widened. “Is your group really doing that well?”
The disbelief on her face left me nauseated. “Well, yeah. This is a huge opportunity.”
Mom shrugged. “What is this paper? I’ve never heard of it.”
“Mom, it’s the Village Voice.”
From the
door, Viv called, “It’s a free paper.”
Mom nodded at her. “Oh. So not like a real paper.”
No, only the number one entertainment newspaper in New York City. If Viv had gotten into the Voice, Mom would have wallpapered my grandparents’ living room with the article.
Grandma handed the paper back. “So...money isn’t an issue for you?”
Great, was she about to jack up the rent again? “Money’s an issue for everyone.” I went to the door. “Hey, Mom, can you bring a copy home to Dad?”
Mom looked at the article, and she frowned. “You’ve been doing this for two years now. Shouldn’t you be more...I don’t know, successful?”
I said, “It takes time. You know that. Most weddings are booked fifteen months out, so we need to build a client base.”
Mom shook her head. “I always thought you were the one who’d make it on your own. If you’d just gotten a real job, you wouldn’t have to take money from men in the streets at night.”
I totally needed to update my website bio: Violist Joey Mikalos, goth strumpet of the tunnel. “I prefer the jobs I have, thanks.”
“You shouldn’t be too proud to ask for help. Vivvy couldn’t make it on her own, but you’re just so stubborn.” She pointed to the picture, then looked me right in the eyes, and for the first time it felt as if all her attention rested on me. “Is that the viola your father bought?”
I tried to sound smooth. “What do you think? I don’t have a real job, remember. A new viola would cost tens of thousands of dollars.”
I braced for the accusation sure to follow my non-denial, but instead she dropped the paper back onto the table. “Oh, I wouldn’t know. All these instruments look the same.”
To her they might, which was why my student viola sat on display while my grandfather’s remained stuffed into the eaves.
She added, “Yeah, maybe you should bring a copy to your father.”
And then she turned back to Grandma with more about her aunt. Dismissed. I walked out, leaving my milk behind.
After practice, I parted ways with Josh at the door, but Shreya fell into step beside me. “How far are you going? I usually walk to 34th to get the F.”
