Pickup Notes

by Jane Lebak

  Mom said, “Honey, you need to be honest with yourself. Bill never thought he did anything wrong either.”

  “That’s because I didn’t do anything wrong,” I said. “I remember what happened, even if you want to rewrite history.”

  Mom said, “You were always so stubborn.”

  “Good.” I picked up my trash bag. “At least someone was looking out for me.”

  I ran upstairs to get my crappy viola. Mom would come snooping, and I couldn’t have her thinking the thing was in two places at once. Of course, this had the ancient case with no shoulder strap, so by the time I reached Harrison’s, my hand was cramped while my head still rang with protests: Does she really think I wanted a life of indentured servitude in five hundred drafty square feet?

  My litany repeated all the way to Harrison’s door: all the proofs that my mother had rewritten reality, that I wasn’t insane, that Viv had no right.

  I stormed into Harrison’s apartment, where Harrison handed me a twenty and a ten. “Oh, I sold some CDs.”

  I so totally did not need this. “How many?”

  “Two or three...? Take off your jacket and stay a while.”

  Whereas I already wanted to leave. “How can you not be sure?”

  “Do I look like an accountant?” He cocked his head. “Why do you have that viola?”

  Sure, when it came to things he shouldn’t notice, he was a regular Sherlock Holmes. “How much did you charge? Was it fifteen each or ten each?”

  He looked puzzled. “You know, I don’t remember. I’d been thinking of cutting one guy a deal—”

  “Yeah, that’s such a hard detail to remember. It’s not like we file taxes.”

  As I stripped off my jacket, he said, “You can count what’s left in the box if you’re so inclined, but as for me, I’d rather play music.”

  My blood pressure must have been sky high, and two hours later, after failing to get all the way through any piece without Harrison stopping us, I expected to blow an artery.

  It wasn’t just us he harassed. A quarter of the time, Harrison the Fearless Leader would critique Harrison the Violinist. “Note to self: subito piano doesn’t mean drown out everyone else.” (Which led to me playing with clenched teeth, and “Joey, you’re bowing a bit tense.”)

  At the end of practice, with my jaw aching, Josh and Harrison both started speaking. Then they both told the other to talk. And while I rolled my eyes, Harrison said, “Yeah, we’re a quartet all right. Josh, you first.”

  Josh, temporarily losing possession of his senses, said, “Would it be okay if we pushed practice to eleven on Wednesday?”

  Harrison looked at Shreya, who shrugged. “Why?”

  Josh said, “Joey and I are g-going to see a play.”

  So much for stealth.

  Harrison’s eyes widened. Shreya caught her breath and said, “Wait—what? Together?”

  Why was everyone jumping on the Josh-dating-Joey bandwagon right after he’d made it clear he never could?

  Josh looked a little too pleased. “P-p-peter offered us tickets to his show.”

  Harrison upgraded shocked to outraged. “Turn him down! Free tickets aren’t a subpoena!”

  Taken aback, Josh said, “I don’t...” He blocked. Grimaced. Still blocked.

  Stealth. Should have mentioned the stealth thing to Josh a bit sooner. I said, “I miss Peter, and he doesn’t hate us. He even admitted we sound better with Shreya.”

  “What?” Harrison’s voice sharpened. “Where did he hear us?”

  “It’s a run-down dive called the internet.” Turning my back on Harrison, I strapped down my viola. “Remember that video the lawyer found interesting? As it turns out, Peter can view it too.”

  “But for God’s sake, why give him the time of day?”

  “Because despite what you think, he’s still a human being.”

  Harrison planted himself in front of me. “Terrorists are human beings. We don’t go to Broadway plays with them.”

  I rolled my eyes. “So now Peter’s a terrorist?”

  “He tried to blow up the group!”

  “It was you!” I exclaimed. “You drove him out when he couldn’t take your attitude anymore!”

  Shreya’s voice was low. “I’ve got an idea. Let’s end this conversation.”

  I fell silent. Josh hadn’t said anything since I interrupted him. And Harrison—

  He said to Shreya, “You don’t think only a total jackass would abandon his group?”

  I shot a look at Shreya, who shrugged, but it was stiff. “There’s a difference between leaving a group and destroying it.”

  Harrison shoved his hands in his pockets. “All the same in my book. I want nothing to do with him.”

  “He feels likewise.” I zipped the viola case. “What is it with guys and never forgiving anyone? It’s a play. I’m not going to marry him.”

  Harrison sounded stung. “You’re supposed to marry me.”

  “I’m not marrying you either, Harrison.” Ritual banter meant Harrison was defusing. “We won’t even sit with him. What’s the big deal?”

  Instead of pouting, he focused a mistrustful glare on Josh. “Moving the practice makes me an accessory to treason.” Then he brightened. “Afterward, there’s a neat restaurant on Broadway that you guys will love!”

  Back on solid ground, Harrison armed us with (as it turned out) five places we’d love, the last two added with an embarrassed explanation that they were “a little less pricey.” Then Shreya asked what Harrison had wanted to say before he and Josh had their verbal head-on collision, and Peter blew off on the winds of conversation.

  “We’ve all been tense,” Harrison said, delivering the understatement of the week. “So how about a musical vacation?”

  A musical vacation meant...what, we’d pick three locations to spend a weekend, and when the music stopped, one of us went back to work?

  He went on, “My parents have a house at Lake George. It’s sealed for the winter, but in late spring they open it up. We could do that for them, then stay the week.”

  That might be okay. I could swing some time off.

  Shreya said, “I’d have to see how it works with my other job,” and Josh added, “I’d lose income for the week. But it might be worth it.”

  Harrison said, “We couldn’t swim yet because ‘ice-free’ doesn’t mean it’s much over thirty-three degrees. But there’s touristy stuff, and we could take the boat, and it wouldn’t cost anything.”

  Well, other than travel and food. I said, “How do we open a house?”

  It turned out “house opening” meant turning on the utilities, doing a lot of laundry, opening windows, vacuuming months of dust, and straightening the grounds. With four of us, it should take a few hours.

  Harrison started selling us on the amenities (cable, a boat) until I pointed out we weren’t objecting because the place was a dump, but because of employment. “You don’t need to convince us it’s a nice idea.”

  “Although—” said Shreya, then stopped. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but maybe it’s better to have a break from each other.” She sat on the arm of the leather chair. “If there’s tension, we go four different ways when practice ends. But all together in one house, that’s impossible.”

  Harrison’s face tightened as he thought. “We’re not that tense, are we?”

  Shreya opened her hands. “We’re tense enough that you’re suggesting a vacation.”

  Harrison finally cleared his head. “It’s a big house. We can peel off from one another so it won’t be a problem. Trust me.”

  Shreya shrugged. “I’ll look into it.”

  I pulled out the calendar and rearranged to clear the week before the festival.

  Shreya hung around the door until I exited. “Can you come with me?”

  As subdued as she sounded, I anticipated a lecture about the schedule. But who knew: maybe she wanted help getting Harrison’s vacation off the rails.

  Instead, she bro
ught me to a “Grand Opening Boutique Sale!” on a side street off Second Avenue. I squinted as I glanced through the glass storefront. “What are we looking for?”

  She steered me toward a table full of sweaters. “Something perfect.”

  I picked up one and set it right back down. “I couldn’t afford one of the sleeves!”

  “Then you can afford the collar.” Shreya selected a sweater in green and brown. “This would look great on you.” She laid it in my arms. “I’ll try it in red.”

  I leaned forward. “I’m not buying anything.”

  She whispered, “Me neither. But we’re going to try on every single article of clothing.”

  Giggling helplessly, I followed her through the carousels, collecting jeans, tops, anything that caught our attention. Then, laden like maidservants of the queen, we received plastic hangtags from the dead-eyed woman counting our try-ons (thirty...six...thousand) and staked out the double-size changing booth with the three-way mirror.

  I tried on the sweater and jeans, then examined my reflection.

  “You look good.” Shreya pulled on a blousy jacket and a thigh-length skirt. “This would rock with a pair of high-heeled boots.” She turned around. “Try the blue one.”

  I changed tops, and she nodded. “Much better. You look less washed out.” She tried on my brown sweater. It looked better on her. In other news, the Earth was still round.

  I struggled not to feel self-conscious about the hole in my bra band. We swapped clothes, and we compared, and every so often I checked out a price tag feeling a keen despair.

  Shreya pointed to one top. “You should buy that. It looks awesome.”

  My mouth twitched. I couldn’t justify that amount, but the shape of it was just right, and the color too.

  I said, “How’d you know this place was opening?”

  She snorted. “They’ve been having a grand opening for the past six years.”

  I laughed out loud.

  “The banner’s been up so long it’s faded. Across the street, their competition’s having their eighth annual Going Out of Business sale.”

  As she tried on a halter top, I noticed a tattoo on the back of her shoulder. In henna-burgundy, it resembled a ten-pointed sun etched in whorls and curves. I stood to get a better look.

  In the center of the sun, the lines merged to form a treble clef, with just two eighth notes and then the end bar.

  “Pickup notes,” I said. It wasn’t even a full measure.

  She said, “What?”

  “Your tattoo. When did you get it?”

  “About a year ago.” She pulled on a different shirt, one with sleeves, so I couldn’t see it anymore. “Okay, talk to me. Are you and Josh dating?”

  I sat myself and my illicit blue shirt back on the bench. “It’s exactly what I said. Peter invited me and Josh to his performance.”

  “Really?” She pivoted so she was staring down at me.

  I saw only a part of me in the mirror, a me too small and too poor, a me who couldn’t make right the things she’d already botched. I studied the back of Shreya, less intimidating than the front. “Josh isn’t interested. He said as much.”

  Her voice pitched up. “You talked about it?”

  I glared at the carpet. “You think it would be unprofessional.”

  “Well…” A plaintive note. Had a relationship broken up her group?

  For once she seemed younger than me, a kid playing pretend in her mom’s clothes. I wrapped my arms around my stomach, hyper-aware of the buzzing fluorescents, the multiple mirrors, the industrial carpet with straight pins embedded near the walls.

  Her voice was small. “Be careful.”

  “I am being careful.” Wasn’t I always? Didn’t I budget things, plan things, protect things?

  I picked up clothes from the heap, set them back on hangers with the tops buttoned so they hung right.

  Shreya unzipped the jeans and slithered out, then studied herself nearly-naked in the mirror, hands on her flat abdomen. Such a perfect body. Such a gorgeous tattoo, only she didn’t want me to know what it meant.

  “Be careful,” she said again, and got back into her own clothes.

  Returning my try-ons to the rack, I hesitated with the blue t-shirt.

  Shreya said, “Buy it.”

  “It’s so expensive.”

  “Well, hold onto it.” She held up a gauzy skirt and blouse. “I’m deciding about these.”

  We browsed again, but subdued. Finally Shreya went to the registers with her outfit, and I stood holding the t-shirt, biting my lip.

  She waved me over. She pointed to the counter. She paid for hers. Then, trying not to notice what I was doing, I paid for mine. My expensive, gorgeous, guilt-inducing t-shirt of concupiscence. But it looked so pretty, so pretty.

  I followed Shreya to a Starbucks, where I went ahead and ordered something with whipped cream because I’d already blown the budget, so why not?

  Walking to the subway with our loot, I said, “Is this an auspicious time to tell me how you learned to improvise?”

  She frowned while sipping her coffee, then perked up. “Oh, yeah, that.” She pointed to the hot dog stand at the corner. “Okay, so pretend it’s summer vacation and that guy has no one to watch his nine-year-old. He brings her with him, tells her to sit where he can see, and that night has her dump out that disgusting water after the hot dogs have boiled in it all day.”

  I gagged.

  She laughed. “If you ever wonder why I stayed vegetarian, that would be it.”

  “And when you realized you’d inherit the family business, you took up violin?”

  “After I realized I’d be with that damned cart every day, I started bringing my violin for something to do.” She rolled her eyes. “When I practiced during lunch hour, people gave me quarters. Some of them even bought a hot dog.”

  My eyes bugged. “You were busking!”

  She nodded with a surprising earnestness. “I pulled down twenty dollars an hour.”

  Color me envious. “Because you were a kid?”

  She cocked her head and widened her eyes, looking cute. “At that age, you can ask any adult for a quarter and he’ll hand it over.” She gave a wicked grin. “But last summer in Central Park, I could still get that much. So yeah, I had a little solo career courtesy of Suzuki Method 3.”

  I smiled at the pavement. “That’s awesome.”

  “One day this guy asks if I do requests. I tell him sure, if you buy a hot dog.” I laughed out loud. “He asks me for the ‘Ave Maria.’ Like I knew what that was. So I said, Sing it, and then I mimicked it.”

  I blinked. “Really?”

  “Oh, I’m sure I fouled up the whole thing, but he applauded and asked for another. I told him to come back tomorrow and buy another hot dog. He actually returned with sheet music, so I played.”

  I sipped my coffee. Whipped cream. I should buy a can of whipped cream and do this at home. “You got your practice doing requests early.”

  She nodded. “Six hours a day! You get good in a hurry. Turned out this guy was a deacon. He gave me a Catholic hymnal, and they were all stupidly easy. I could sight-read by the end of the week. Then sometime in July, a guy selling knockoff watches started playing his stereo, so I’d stand there, figure out the key of any song, and improvise. Bach is awesome, but I got more bystanders for the Beatles.”

  I laughed. “You were fusing!”

  She relaxed. “But you see how I got trained? That’s why when you and Harrison and Josh start comparing Sibelius to Shostakovich I kind of sit there like, Uh, yeah.” She shrugged. “I’m just a performer.”

  Abruptly she stopped speaking. As we waited at the corner, I finished my coffee, then tossed it into the trash can. Goodbye, five bucks. Long live the caffeine buzz. The light changed. I said, “There’s nothing wrong with being a performer. Harrison performs.”

  “Yeah, but— There’s more.” She spoke slower. “In the middle of August, someone stole my violin.” She stare
d off into traffic. “The next week, people asked why I wasn’t playing. I didn’t know who they were, but they knew me. They’d tell each other what a shame it was that someone could steal a kid’s violin, and I realized that when I’d been playing, they’d stopped being a bunch of individuals and become a group.”

  I wanted to meet her eyes, but she kept looking down. I said, “It’s like when we’re taking requests and everyone sits forward, not just the requester.”

  She bit her lip. “Some people gave me a buck to put toward a new violin. But then—” I waited her out. “That deacon asked my dad if I could go with him. He brought me to Saint Francis at 32nd Street, and in the church office, on the desk, the staff had a sweet little half-size.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  She ran her finger over the lid of her cup. “Dead serious. There was even a red bow on the case. They’d raised money with a jar on the table.”

  I frowned. “That’s not nice. The guy was grooming you to convert?”

  Her eyes flew wide. “No, nothing like that. They never even asked if I was Catholic. That came later.” She looked earnest. “The deacon said music was a gift from God, and that by playing, I spread the gift to everyone.” She shook her head. “There were no strings attached, just go back and play on the corner. And one day I thought, I don’t know if music is from fate or God or karma, but I shouldn’t keep it to myself. I could sell hot dogs or make people happy, but maybe I could do something bigger.”

  I hummed. “Bigger how? Did you play for their choir?”

  She chuckled. “Well, the next summer, yeah. Sometimes. On and off for years. But that still wasn’t what I wanted.”

  “What did you want?”

  She paused for so long I thought she wasn’t going to answer, but then she said, “One of the stories in the Bible is about a guy who finds a perfect pearl, so he sells everything he has in order to buy it. What if music was my pearl? Would I be happier with all that other stuff, or should I just go all in and hang onto that one thing?”

  “But you didn’t know that story then.”

  She laughed. “No, but later on, when I heard it, I knew just what he was talking about.”

  I said, “Then why’d you become Catholic?”