Pickup Notes

by Jane Lebak

  I pivoted to look behind me, only then realizing that while most of the women clustered up front for the present-fest, one remained at her table: the woman we’d played for at the retirement party.

  I said, “Was she in a wheel-chair then?”

  Or on oxygen? Because she certainly was now.

  The new father shook his head. “She has emphysema. My father-in-law retired because the company got hostile about him taking intermittent leave when she went on hospice care. Called it an ‘undue disruption.’ He told them no job was worth that.”

  “Oh my God,” Josh whispered.

  Shreya rose and went to the woman’s side.

  That made no sense at all. Who wouldn’t give a guy time to care for his family? Wasn’t that what you had family for? God knows I’d be expected to quit my job if my grandparents needed care. What executive thought this guy’s work was so important they couldn’t get along without him?

  And well, they were getting along without him now, weren’t they?

  The new dad was saying, “Stacy’s aunt was supposed to sit with her, but I guess she went to watch the gifts.”

  Shreya spoke to the woman while the other guests ogled a stroller more complex than the space shuttle. I stood to join them, but unlike Shreya, I couldn’t think of what you say to a dying woman, so instead I wandered over to the rhyming placards. They had a station for decorating a baby t-shirt, some projects already spread out to dry. How many shirts did two babies need?

  Beside that were several cards in a glass bowl, along with the sign asking for advice.

  As I glanced over the display, violin music stopped me. I turned.

  Alone at the table with the new mom’s forgotten mother, Shreya played “Danny’s Song,” the same one requested a month ago.

  The women at the front kept watching the gifts, but for me, I could focus on nothing else.

  Even seated, Shreya moved with the music. The woman in the wheelchair wore a broad smile as Shreya serenaded her, only her.

  With the song finished, Shreya lowered her violin, and the woman leaned forward to lay a hand on her arm. It was clearly thanks. Shreya bowed her head, a reply that was just as clearly, “It was nothing.” But it wasn’t nothing, was it?

  I turned back to the display, and with trembling hands, I printed on one of the index cards, “Love them both the same.”

  I stuffed the card down the side of the bowl, then rushed back to the fortress of music stands.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Invading Canada would have taken less preparation than vacationing at the Archer lake house. Harrison goaded me to create a spreadsheet. I didn’t. I should have.

  First problem: we needed to get there. The only car among us was a beat-up Jetta, too small to hold four adults, their instruments, and their luggage. And while Amtrak had a station fifteen miles from Lake George, we needed transportation after arrival.

  Harrison, therefore, rented an SUV without consulting us, then insisted on paying because it was his idea. And then because the rental was from a Westchester agency, he decided Josh, Shreya, and I would meet him at his parents’ home in Chappaqua.

  “Shreya will have to meet you guys in Brooklyn,” he said.

  Josh said, “It makes more sense for me to get J-J-Joey and then swing by Shreya’s. Queens, right?”

  Harrison said, “It’s better if you all start in one place.”

  Harrison figured if Josh picked up me and Shreya at the same time, he could just take off for all parts North, whereas if Josh got me first, we’d have to (brace yourself) get off the highway and find Shreya’s place, and somehow in doing this we’d lose an hour.

  Josh said, “Why should Shreya have to haul her stuff on the subway?”

  Harrison said, “It’ll save an hour.” He turned to her. “Can you get a ride to Brooklyn?”

  Josh was glaring by that point. “I do know how to drive.”

  And Harrison just blew onward with hurricane force. “At that time of day, you’ll want to take the Saw Mill Parkway.”

  Josh said, “I’m taking the Sp-Sprain Brook.”

  Harrison shook his head. “It’s not worth it. Take the Saw Mill.”

  Josh said, “You know, since you’re such an expert, maybe you should drive a cab? Like, every day?”

  Harrison said, “Just do it, okay? Why are you arguing?”

  It turned out the reason for Harrison’s obsession with the extra hour was that the roads in Lake George wouldn’t be lighted (seriously?) and we needed a plumber to turn the water back on. Two half-days for travel, three full days for practice. Chappaqua to Lake George would be a three and a half hour drive, although Harrison did add, “That’s not factoring in the way Josh speeds,” to many protests from Josh that he wasn’t actually a maniac.

  It was harder to pick clothes than I thought. Actually just one particular article of clothing. In the end, I took the plunge and cut the tags off my pretty blue shirt.

  On D-Day, Josh and I (and my blue shirt) waited in my apartment for Shreya. The self-nominated Snack Master, I made sandwiches while he puttered around.

  From the next room I heard, “You s-s-saved this?”

  I turned to find him holding our grammar school yearbook. I was about to reply that of course I saved it when I saw what he was holding: a slip of paper.

  The one he’d passed me on the last day. The one saying, “Will you be my first kiss?”

  I flushed right up to my eyeballs. “Um…yeah.”

  He blocked.

  I turned back to the counter. Damn, damn, damn. Him finding that—either he’d think I was pathetic for saving it or he’d be angry at himself for wasting his first kiss.

  I heard the book touch the table, then felt him behind me. I couldn’t face him. He rested a hand on my shoulder, then guided me around toward him. He put his other hand under my chin so I was looking right at him.

  He said, “Could I have another?”

  He leaned forward, and I stretched toward him. He kissed me on the lips.

  Unapologetic, so strong. Unexpected, and over so soon.

  He withdrew, half-smiling, a little breathless.

  I stammered, “I’m sorry.” My cheeks burned. “I didn’t— I mean, I figured—”

  “Thank you.” Josh averted his gaze. “It’s s-sweet that you sss-saved it.”

  I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t cry, hunching my shoulders and fighting the feel of his hands.

  He drew me closer as if he to kiss him again, and I clenched my jaw, afraid I might cry.

  Footsteps in the hallway. Blinking rapidly, I backed half a step into the kitchen counter. Josh moved toward the table as the door opened, and in sauntered my sister.

  She studied Josh like someone scanning merchandise at the secondhand store, a look she’d given me all too many times. Nope, not up to par. Josh must have fit the décor because without saying hello to him, she handed me three beat-up paperbacks. “Here. These are for you.”

  I edged toward her. “Thank you?”

  She shrugged. “Grandma said you were going into the wilderness, and I thought, hell, she should at least have something to do. You always liked those.”

  Still with hand-printed $1 stickers from the used book shop, the books were each two inches thick, women sprawled across the covers with bosoms and ruffles. Each woman’s goal would be to land the richest nobleman so she’d be happy forever. It figured Viv wouldn’t know the difference between historical fiction and regency romance. “Thanks.”

  She finally acknowledged Josh. “Are you from the quartet?”

  Josh nodded.

  Viv looked back. “I know I’ve been pushing you about the apartment. But Zaden and I need to get out of there. Mom thinks I’m totally incompetent and treats me like a child.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.” I folded my arms. “But that doesn’t mean you can move in here.”

  Viv pointed to the closed door off to the side of the kitchen. “Why don’t you use that room?”

&
nbsp; “No insulation. It sucks out the heat.”

  She shook her head. “That’s just ridiculous. Grandma and Grandpa should have fixed that.”

  Josh glared at her under the brim of the ball cap, but I was shocked that my sister cared whether I was cold. “Well, that’s another reason you don’t want it. It’s not big enough for you.”

  As she said, “And what about the—” the door opened behind her. Shreya blew inside, her cheeks flushed. “Josh-man, I need your keys so I can load up your trunk.” She looked Viv up and down. “Have we met?”

  Viv stared at our blue-haired willowy sylvan. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the second violinist.” She flashed a smile while catching Josh’s keys out of the air. “Thanks, dude.”

  Shreya took her cue from Josh, who still eyeballed Viv with caution. She didn’t leave even though she had Josh’s keys in her hands and, presumably, someone waiting in a car outside.

  Viv looked from one to the other, and then to me, annoyed. As if she had something to say to me? Why was she even here? “Well, you guys have a good trip. You’ll be back on Tuesday? Tuesday evening?”

  I said, “Yeah,” and she left.

  As Viv went down the stairs, Shreya looked at me, her expression one big question mark. “Look, I don’t know,” I muttered, and she rolled her eyes.

  I turned back to Josh, only he had picked up my bag. “Let’s g-get the car packed,” he said, and he went downstairs with Shreya.

  Last to leave, I paused on the landing, dizzy from Josh’s kiss and my resulting bewilderment. Then, with a firm click, I locked the door and left it all behind.

  Harrison’s parents had not been timid about using their money to buy a home. Although not quite a mansion, it sat well back from the road on a landscaped lawn, and my mouth went dry just beholding it.

  Josh hesitated before making a left onto their property. “Do you think they’ll b-b-ban my car from their property?”

  Shreya snickered. “They’ll just throw a tarp over it.”

  Unreassured, Josh pulled up alongside their garage.

  Harrison met us on the driveway and grabbed Josh to pick up the rental (and maybe keep Josh’s Jetta from infecting the asphalt). I watched Josh leave, wondering whether I felt disappointed that I couldn’t pull him aside. Disappointed…or relieved.

  Harrison’s father invited me and Shreya into the kitchen. We sat at the table while Mrs. Archer prepared lunch and Mr. Archer “mingled.”

  I’d met the Archers at the quartet’s earliest functions. We’d booked our initial weddings only because Mr. Archer, who knew half of New York, promoted his son’s quartet with a doggedness that made Harrison seem like a second-century hermit. This might have been the first time either of them saw me in jeans. Or Shreya in blue hair.

  While a grey-muzzled golden retriever sprawled treacherously across the tiles, Mrs. Archer started the coffee maker. “Harry wanted to order a pizza, but I said that was ridiculous.”

  With a covert glance at me, Shreya mouthed, “Harry?” I stifled a giggle.

  Mr. Archer leaned back in his chair. “Make sure to take time to relax. You’ve been under such pressure lately with the festival, the recording, and your regular bookings, not to mention needing a lawyer to deal with that record label.”

  “And what’s the problem with involving a lawyer?” said Mrs. Archer, Esquire. Dr. Archer laughed and flashed her a very-familiar demurring smile.

  “It’s not that bad,” I said. “She only called once.”

  Shreya said quickly, “You’re an attorney, right, Mrs. Archer?”

  “Please call me Allison.”

  Mrs. Archer said she normally worked on Saturdays, but she’d wanted to give us a proper sendoff. And aww, she was Harrison’s biggest fan. She loved our first CD and looked forward to the next.

  As soon as Harrison set foot in the door, the golden retriever padded out of the kitchen. Harrison got down so the dog could be all over him, tail wagging like a hurricane fan on a movie set. “What a good girl!” He roughed her fur. “Yes, you missed me. You’ve totally forgotten I was here half an hour ago. Good girl!”

  Shreya said, “I didn’t know you had a dog.”

  “Of course I had a dog,” he baby-talked. The dog couldn’t get enough, flopping onto the tiles. “Who wouldn’t want this dog?”

  Mrs. Archer said, “Harry wanted to take Sherbet with him into Manhattan, but that wouldn’t have been fair. She loves it here.”

  Harrison grinned as he stood. “Yeah, Dad gave me the same cock-and-bull story about how she needed the space to run, when really he wanted to keep her.”

  Josh stood behind him, avoiding everyone’s gaze, “everyone” being “me.”

  The dog stayed for lunch. Mrs. Archer had made subs, and for Shreya there was hummus, a tabouli salad, plus a bowl of fruit she could graze on for a week. Mrs. Archer pretended not to notice Harrison slipping tidbits to the dog.

  “Thank you so much for letting us use your house,” I said. “What will we need to do?”

  “Harry’s done it a thousand times,” said Mrs. Archer—surely hyperbole unless Harrison was seven centuries older than his violin. She gave a rundown (during which Harrison looked bored) and finished by rendering special instructions about the quilts: they must not ever, under any circumstances, be slept under. They must be removed from the beds and enshrined.

  I started taking notes.

  Harrison rolled his eyes.

  She pulled out a checklist. “Joey, you’re my kind of woman.”

  Despite the fact that any one of the kitchen tiles cost more than a week’s groceries, the Archers loved us. Harrison’s dad was...well, like this:

  “What have you planned for dinner tonight?”

  Harrison shrugged. “Chinese takeout.”

  With Josh’s dad, the conversation would have ended there. Mr. Archer’s conversation continued:

  “You should take them to the Inn at Erlowest.”

  “Chinese is fine.”

  “What’s wrong with the Inn? They have the region’s highest-rated wine cellar.”

  “We’ll be tired.”

  “The view will restore you to life!” Dear Old Dad then told Shreya that the restaurant was set in an old castle, with a fireplace large enough to roast a cow, plus a grand piano, triangular plates, entrees you’d remember for fifty years, and dessert coffees prepared right at the table.

  Next he turned the sales pitch on me, asking had I ever dined in a place like that, and then back to Harrison with the offer of his credit card. “I’ll ask the maître d’ to reserve a table by the window. What time would you like the reservations?”

  Harrison, irritated, muttered, “We’ll figure it out when we get there.”

  Shreya was smothering giggles. Someone could out-Harrison Harrison.

  Mrs. Archer turned to Josh. “You’ve been quiet. Is everything fine?”

  Josh nodded.

  The six of us had taken a family configuration: Mom and Dad on either end, Shreya and Harrison on one side, Josh and me on the other. Until Mrs. Archer pointed it out, I hadn’t noticed Josh’s silence; he hadn’t asked us to pass anything because all the platters had either gone around the table or were within arm’s reach.

  “Did you have enough to eat?” said Mrs. Archer, and this time, Josh forced a soft, “Yes, th-th-thank you.”

  “Oh, do you stutter?” Mr. Archer said it the same way I’d have said, “Oh, are you Italian?” He reached for the salad dressing. “The Journal of the American Medical Association just printed a study of hundreds of stutterers, and there may be a genetic connection.”

  Josh looked the same way I’d feel if Mrs. Archer had noticed holes in my socks and started recommending places to buy socks on the cheap.

  Harrison leaned forward. “It’s genetic?”

  His father shook his head. “The sad truth, Harry, is we don’t know. It’s multifactorial, although these researchers narrowed their study to a specific polygenic mutat
ion in three genes, two of which are associated with fatal childhood diseases; in their opinion, having all three mutated genes offered a protective effect.”

  This was wild. How could someone just whip off a sentence like that? Maybe we could talk about me next, and Mrs. Archer would say, “Oh, toxic family dynamics? According to recent studies in triangulation—”

  Harrison had gotten excited. “Oh, like how the gene for sickle cell anemia stops you from getting malaria.”

  When did Harrison learn to talk genetics? Oh, maybe at the table with a father who discussed medical journals rather than other family members.

  Shreya looked at Josh in awe. “Dude, you’re a mutant!”

  Josh grinned. “I’ll be on the X-Men. The St-stutterer.”

  “But not all the time.” Harrison looked so damn cheerful. “When you had those headphones on, you talked like a pro!”

  In a string quartet, it’s imperative for the violist to read the first violinist’s mind. Because the viola is less responsive, the violist needs to start half a second before the violinists for the instruments to sound at the same time. Right then, I read Harrison’s mind. Read it just like one of Viv’s cheap paperbacks.

  Harrison’s Dad, played more expertly than any violin, said, “Oh, the choral speech effect! Did you know there’s a device that mimics it?”

  That was the moment Shreya, our graceful and poised second violinist, knocked over her glass of water.

  Conversation stopped as we donated our napkins. Shreya apologized, appearing chastened, while Mr. and Mrs. Archer reassured her all was fine, no harm done. Comfortable in the spotlight, Shreya took center stage while Josh fixed on Harrison a look that could have fried bacon.

  Trembling, I handed out new napkins while Mrs. Archer replaced Shreya’s water. Paging a diversion to the lunch table, stat! I said to Mr. Archer, “Where do you work?”

  “Saint Francis Hospital in Port Washington,” he said.

  That was why you don’t put the violist in the spotlight: I didn’t know how to prolong the diversion, and by the time I thought to ask what his specialty was, he had returned to Josh. “I could look into a prosthetic for you.”