Kimberly Stuart

by Act Two: A Novel in Perfect Pitch

  Even with their good intentions, however, my audience, only one of whom rose above four feet in height, got weary of the Handel before I reached the second theme. So I capped it off and accepted their applause. Emmalie hadn’t stopped clapping from start to finish but the boys took their opportunity to grace me with effusive accolades, including dog sounds and armpit farts. Jayne chastised them as best she could without stopping her own applause.

  “That was beautiful,” she said, eyes shining. “I’ve never heard anything like it in my life.” She pulled her sweatshirt sleeve over her hand and used it to dab at her eyes. “I mean, we have some CDs of yours, and Cal got me one with Kathleen Battle for my birthday one year, but in person …” she trailed off, shaking her head. She took a deep breath and smiled shakily. “Would you mind singing one more?”

  “I’d love to,” I said. Perhaps Avi was right about this move, I thought. These people were far more appreciative than any roomful of music snobs back East. At least the culturally poor and needy remembered to say thank you.

  As a contrast to the perpetual motion of the Handel, I sang a haunting lullaby by Schumann for the second piece. I kept it in the German, as translating it to English would have been like telling an editor at Bon Appétit to dip his sushi in ketchup. Some things are meant to stay true to their original form.

  Jayne swayed lightly with Emmy on her lap. The baby plugged in her thumb and hummed a monotone line along with my own. Drew lay down on the hardwood and appeared to be counting the overhead beams. Joel said loudly during the second verse, “But Mom, does she know any VeggieTales songs?”

  I finished the piece and received another round of arm flatulence and wild clapping. Jayne stood with Emmy and threw her free arm around my neck. “Thank you,” she said into my hair. “I feel like I’ve seen the best of New York in my own house.” She pulled away and started herding the boys toward the stairs.

  “Jayne,” I said, “wait just a moment, will you?” I raised my eyebrows and looked at the boys.

  “Drew and Joel,” Jayne said, still looking at me. “Go on downstairs and get out your Lincoln Logs. I’ll be down in a minute.”

  The boys raced for the stairs. “Be careful,” Jayne warned as, without care for broken bones, they plummeted down the steep attic staircase. She shuddered as they reached the bottom without incident.

  I sat down on the chair by the window and crossed my legs. “Jayne, what are you doing the second weekend in March?”

  She looked confused but answered obediently. “Um, the usual, I guess.” She searched the ceiling for her plans. “Make a pancake breakfast for the kids, do some errands in town, make lunch, make dinner, clean the house. I think there might be a potluck after church Sunday.” She looked at me and shrugged. “All that glamour packed into two short days. Can you believe it?” The baby started to fuss and Jayne put her down on the floor. Emmy got up on all fours and crawled directly to the bathroom. Jayne hurried ahead to shut the door. I’d been warned of Emmy’s new interest in toilet fishing.

  “Come with me to New York.”

  Jayne stopped with her hand on the bathroom doorknob. She looked at it a moment and then raised her gaze to meet mine. “New York? With you?”

  I nodded. “Sure. Cal can take care of the kids for a couple days, can’t he?” I wasn’t entirely sure this was true but I did my best to sound confident. Lord knew I would run from the room screaming like a little girl if someone asked me to do such a thing.

  Jayne bit her bottom lip, looking every bit as uncertain as I felt. She sucked in her breath. “I don’t think so, actually. I would fear for their survival.”

  “What about a nanny? Can you hire someone?”

  Jayne looked at me as if I’d abruptly switched to speaking Cantonese.

  I tried a different approach. “What about Cal and Mac together? Certainly two intelligent men can take on three children who don’t even know their times tables.”

  “You want me to come to New York City with you? A weekend in New York City?”

  This wasn’t supposed to be so difficult. “Yes,” I spoke slowly and clearly. “As my guest. You’ll only need money for a cheesy souvenir from Empire State.” I can afford it, I thought. It wasn’t as if I’d been a spendthrift out here in the boonies. Other than a modest monthly check made out to the Hartleys, I’d had very few expenses. I could feel the goodwill inside me soaring to new heights. Maybe I was becoming a nice person.

  Jayne seemed to emerge out of the cloud. “I’ll figure it out. Yes,” she said, smiling suddenly, giddily. “I’ve only ever been to Chicago once in college. And to Branson for our honeymoon.” She hurried over and hugged me fiercely. “I’ll go. Thank you, Sadie.”

  I thought she might start crying so I stood. “It’s my pleasure,” I said. “Now leave me alone so I can get back to work.”

  Jayne scooped up the baby and went flying down stairs, not a whole lot more safely than the boys, and she was carrying a child to boot. I began the second movement of the Mozart and smiled to myself. Watch out, New York, I thought. Jayne Hartley is in the market for a snow globe.

  14

  Start Spreading the News

  By the time plows had cleared the highway the next afternoon, I was regretting my kind gesture. As predicted, Cal put up a bit of a fuss when Jayne told him about the trip. The air at the dinner table that evening was wrought with tension, and my presence didn’t help. I endured half my meatloaf before excusing myself to the attic. I gave Jayne a subtle thumbs-up on my way out and she sat up in her chair, eyes glinting with fresh resolve.

  I stayed upstairs the entire evening, not wanting to interfere on any progress that might have been made. Cal seemed to be the type of man who wouldn’t appreciate my meddling in an argument with his wife. He was also more stubborn than spilled merlot on white silk, so frankly, I wasn’t holding out much hope that my impromptu idea would come to fruition.

  The next morning the snow had stopped and the sun shone into every cell of the white earth. I stood at my window, wrapped in a quilt and squinting into the bright daylight. I watched as a stream of melting snow made its way down the roof. Mac had been right—March snow was likely in Iowa but at least it had the sense not to overstay its welcome.

  I followed my nose downstairs to the pancakes, eggs, and bacon Jayne had whipped up in celebration of Saturday. When I rounded the corner into the kitchen, I was surprised to see the kitchen empty save for Cal and Jayne, who were canoodling in a very familiar way in front of the sink. Jayne saw me and pulled away from the smooch. She cleared her throat and Cal turned toward me. His hair, normally fit for military inspection, was unwashed and tousled, still bearing the imprint of a pillow. He nodded at me and ran a hand through his coif.

  “Morning, Miss Sadie,” he said. “Sleep okay?”

  “Why, yes, Cal, I did,” I said, fighting the corners of my mouth from upturning. “I slept just fine, but I’ll bet not as well as you.” I raised my eyebrows and he blushed furiously.

  Jayne put one hand over her mouth to hide her smile. Cal worked his mouth over to one side and bit his lower lip. Appearing to be at a total loss as to how to regain the safe, macho distance he’d worked so hard to build between us, he turned in his stocking feet and headed out the door. “I’ll be in the shower.”

  I walked to the cupboard to retrieve a cup for coffee. “Is that a suggestion that you join him?” I asked Jayne, who tsked at me.

  “Sadie,” she said in her best scolding tone. By the nature of her job, she got much more scolding practice than I and would have been quite effective at it were it not for the goofy grin that accompanied her words. “Don’t harass the poor man.”

  “Me?” I said incredulously. “I can’t help it if I find just a teeny-weeny bit of joy in watching the man who had to hoist my rear into his pickup during our first meeting squirm a little.”

  Jayne handed me a plate heaped with food and pointed to the syrup on the table. “There’s juice, too, when you’re ready.”
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  After a few bites of pancakes, I looked up to see Jayne staring at me. She sat down carefully in the chair across from me and, after a scan of the room for any wayward CIA operatives, whispered, “He said yes!” All propriety out the window, she clapped her hands together in one hard smack. “I’ll start packing today.”

  And with that, Jayne proceeded to make the next ten days interminable. A host of problems arose. First was the List Problem. In a matter of hours, Jayne had bathed the rooms of her house with Post-it Notes declaring said room’s importance in the daily life of the family. She didn’t need to access the attic, thanks be to God, but the little fluorescent squares assaulted nearly every other corner of the house.

  On the linen closet:

  1. Towels for baths (Drew: red, Joel: blue, Emmy: pink)

  2. Extra towels for Mac (dark green)

  3. Emergency medical kit (Note: Band-Aids in downstairs med. chest.)

  On the boys’ bedroom door:

  Bedtime ritual:

  1. PJs (bottom drawer) and Pull-Ups (closet)

  2. Brush teeth (Drew: Lightning McQueen toothbrush, blue. Joel: Tigger toothbrush, orange.)

  3. Read two stories (they’ll push for more)

  4. Sing “Jesus Loves Me” twice

  5. Pray

  6. Humidifier to setting 2, lights out, door closed

  On the back of Emmy’s high chair:

  Foods NOT allowed for baby:

  1. PEANUT BUTTER

  2. EGGS

  3. POPCORN

  4. NUTS

  5. JAM WITH SEEDS

  6. SODA, CANDY, EXCESSIVE SUGAR

  This same list was posted on the refrigerator for backup.

  By Wednesday, these things littered the kitchen, bedrooms, and bathrooms. I couldn’t believe that Cal would actually peruse them instead of just opening the closet door or the Tupperware drawer to see what was inside, but the note-taking seemed to make Jayne feel better so the rest of us played along.

  Then came the Phone Problem. The calls began before I finished my pancakes Saturday, lasted until we had to discontinue the use of all electronic devices on the plane, and involved copious amounts of screaming. Here’s an example:

  (Phone rings. Jayne runs to answer it.)

  “Hello? … Hiiiieeeee! I know, can you believe it? I’m going to the Big Apple! (Screaming) … Thursday to Sunday … Mac and Cal. I’m leaving lots of instructions … (Speaking away from the phone) Sadie, Lisa says you are the greatest!”

  I nod and agree, then take my coffee cup with me as I leave the room.

  (Jayne continues) “I don’t know. I’m thinking Regis and Kelly for sure and maybe the Today show one morning. (Quietly) I’m hoping to run into John Travolta or Tom Cruise—maybe Sadie can introduce me! I definitely want to go to a Broadway musical, nothing too racy …”

  I tried escaping to my room with dubious success. Inevitably, Jayne would rap quickly at the door—even that mundane action cheery and optimistic.

  “Yes?” I’d call.

  Jayne would open the door and ask her question, hand cupped over the mouthpiece of the phone. “Sadie, so sorry to bother you, but is Manhattan really an island?”

  Or, “Is it true that most New Yorkers don’t do their own laundry?”

  Or, “Should I take pepper spray?”

  At my replies to these questions, some more patient than others, Jayne would immediately relay the information to Jenni or Natalie or whomever shared the phone line at that moment, accompanied by dreamy sighs, squeals, or hushed and worried tones, as was appropriate.

  In addition to the Post-its and the incessant phone calls, the final and most taxing problem was Jayne’s conversation loop. From the Saturday morning of Cal’s yes until we left for the airport a week and a half later, Jayne was stuck on a track and could not, no matter how I tried, be deterred from her musings on the following:

  1. The survival of her children.

  2. What New Yorkers wore compared with the fine people of Maplewood.

  3. Times Square, Ground Zero, and Planet Hollywood, not always in that order.

  4. The subway.

  I did my best to warn her that a few days was not much in the city that never sleeps. (She loved that—“the city that never sleeps”—and began dropping it into conversation as often as she could.) Under normal conditions, visiting every tourist destination from the Statue of Liberty to the Guggenheim in a weekend was insane if not physically impossible. Plus, I told Jayne, as I was not known for my sightseeing enthusiasm and would need to be in rehearsals much of Saturday, our fanny-pack time was to be limited. Jayne would nod slowly, appearing to think about the weight of these considerations. And then she’d start in on what shoes to bring (we’d walk a lot—probably Nikes, right?), whether she should freeze one lasagna or two, and if she should budget for subway rides or cabs.

  The entire planning phase drained me of any enthusiasm I’d held in those brief moments after the attic miniconcert. And our feet were still firmly rooted on the frozen ground of Iowa.

  15

  Multiculturalism

  Wednesday night finally arrived, the night before Jayne and I were scheduled to take Heartland Air 1098 from Maplewood to New York, with a layover in O’Hare. I was up in the attic, filling one of my large Louis Vuittons. After Jayne left Sunday to go back home, I’d remain for the rest of spring break week, luxuriating in the comforts of congestion, good food, and imported chocolate. I hummed to myself as I packed, imagining morning walks through the Park, flaky croissants as a reward for my physical exertion, and rehearsals with people who knew good coffee. It was nearly ten o’clock and the rest of the house was quiet with sleep. Youngest to oldest, the Hartleys had retired early that evening, the kids worn out at the end of the day, Cal exhausted from a debacle involving an infertile boar, and Jayne weary from all her Post-its, plans, and packing.

  As I folded my pink cashmere turtleneck and laid it carefully on one side of the suitcase, I felt someone watching me. I looked up and saw a man in a ball cap standing in the shadows of the staircase, his eyes peeking over where the floor met the railing. In the split second before I let out a glass-shattering scream, Mac was up the rest of the stairs and pulling me to him.

  “Just hush a minute,” he said. “It’s only me. You want to wake up the whole house?” His eyes sparkled, even in the dark room.

  I pulled away and stood with hands on my hips. “What, exactly, do you think you’re doing, spying on me in my room? How did you get in here?”

  He rolled his eyes. “People around here don’t have six locks on their doors because we trust each other. And even if Cal did lock his door, don’t you think his own brother would get an extra key?” He flopped down on the chair by the window and crossed one long leg over the other. He wore dark blue jeans and polished boots. Spring had made a tip-toed entrance that afternoon. Mac wore a long-sleeved dark green shirt but no coat.

  “Please,” I said, the sarcasm dripping, “do make yourself at home, Mr. Hartley. Can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee? Piece of pie?” I stood glaring at him, arms crossed over my worn Eastman sweatshirt.

  Mac chuckled. “Let me assure you, Miss Sadie Maddox, if I were looking for a good piece of pie, you would not be my first stop.”

  “Well,” I said huffily, “how about you tell me why you are here, if it isn’t for my hospitality.”

  He stood and put his hands in his pockets. “Let’s go.” He walked to the top of the stairs.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Time for you to get out of this house.”

  I shook my head, utterly confused. “I’m perfectly happy in this house. I’m packing to go to New York tomorrow.”

  Mac nodded quickly. “That’s my point. How long have you been in Maplewood? Two months?”

  I nodded. “About that.”

  Mac walked over to me and took my hand, pulling me toward the stairs. “Exactly. Two months and all you’ve done is sing, eat, sleep, and aggravate your chauffeur servic
e. I’m not letting you go back to your snooty New York friends and tell them there’s nothing to do around here or that we’re just a bunch of hicks.”

  “But I’m not ready to go out.” I looked down at my ensemble: sweatshirt, jeans that were definitely past their prime, sporty shoes I’d gotten off a rack in Chinatown. In short, I was perfectly dressed to wash dishes.

  Mac sized me up, taking his own sweet time and letting a smile creep across his face. “You look perfect. This isn’t some hoity-toity Manhattan night club.” He started down the stairs, his hand still holding mine. “Now,” he said, turning to face me. His eyes, remarkable at this short distance, were level with mine. I took a sharp breath. “You think we can get out of here without waking the troops? I don’t feel the need to include my little brother and his sweet wife in my nighttime wanderings.”

  I nodded, my heart racing despite itself, and followed him in silence, straight out the door and toward an adventure.

  The Roadhouse sat at the bottom of a hill on the edge of a neighboring town named Clayton. Mac pulled up to the rambling building sided with brown shingles and trimmed in a horrible orange-red. A blinking neon sign crowned the roof and featured a cowboy on a rearing bull.

  Mac turned his truck into an empty space in the gravel parking lot and cut the engine. He turned to me, his face blinking red and blue in time to the sign. “Ready for some music education?”

  I sighed. “Country dancing.”

  He grinned, lips pushed out in a gesture of cocky victory.

  “I’d hoped you were whisking me away to a little known hole-in-the-wall French restaurant, owned and run by a family known only to the discerning few and cherished for their world-class coq au vin.”