“Students. Now listen up. Pay attention to Mr. Hart as he has kindly offered to be your teacher today. And if any of you misbehaves, you’ll have me to answer to. Understand?”
They all straighten up and answer in unison, “Yes, Sister Helena.”
She turns, slaps a recorder in my hand, and leaves. I inspect the damn thing because I don’t remember if I’ve ever played one of these.
“So, how many of you know how to use one of these?” I ask, making a funny face.
Every hand shoots up in the air.
“Anyone care to give me a demonstration on your skill level?”
A little brown-haired girl stands and begins. She just blows in the damn thing like it’s a kazoo.
“Well, that was nice …”
“Shelby,” she supplies for me.
“Thank you, Shelby.”
She offers me the biggest grin and I can’t help but melt. Her teeth are huge with giant spaces in between each one, and they are entirely too large for her tiny face. She’s so homely, she’s adorable. Did I look that funny when I was that age?
“So, I take it you all are on Shelby’s level.”
A sea of nods is my answer.
“Excellent. Any of you read music in here?”
Another sea of nods, this time in the negative. Great.
“Then I suppose we should start at the very beginning.”
I check their music sheets and see that they are the perfect ones for beginners. So I start with the F-A-C-E and the Every Good Boy Does Fine. Then I have to find the corresponding notes on the recorder so they know where to start. By the hour’s end, we at least have played each note successfully and shared quite a few laughs. I have to help them all place their fingers correctly on the little holes so they get the notes right, while telling them they don’t need to blow in the damn thing like they’re blowing out candles on a birthday cake. There is one little girl who doesn’t join in on anything. She quietly keeps to herself, follows directions, and only speaks when spoken too.
When I dismiss the class, all the girls band together, laughing and chatting, except this one. Since I don’t know her name, I can’t call on her, so I approach her and introduce myself. I feel a bond with her because I was that kid in school … no friends to talk to and no one to hang out with. Everyone avoided me like the fucking plague.
“Hey there. I’m Kade. What’s your name?”
“It’s Lizabeth.”
“Well, hi Lizabeth. Do you like music?”
“Yeah.” She speaks so softly I can barely hear her.
“So do I. I hope we can be friends.”
“Why?”
“Because we both like music.”
“You’re too old to be my friend.”
“How old are you?” I ask.
“Ten.”
“Well, I’m twenty-seven and you’re seventeen years younger than I am. I’m super good friends with Father Anthony and I’m twenty-three years younger than he is. So I think it’s okay that I’m older than you. As long as we stay music friends. Would that be cool with you?”
“Okay. I guess so.” She still looks suspicious, which is good. I’m a guy and she’s a little girl. Her parents must’ve taught her to look out for guys like me.
“Good. Now don’t forget to practice and I’ll see you next week.” I stick out my fist for her to bump and she does with a slight grin.
The girls leave and Sister Helena comes back. After we discuss the plans for the following Saturday, she asks for a favor.
“There’s a novice at our convent. She needs help, Mr. Hart. The poor thing can’t carry a tune in a bucket, God bless her. I was wondering if you could help.”
“How?”
“Can you give her singing lessons?”
“Sister Helena, if someone is tone deaf, it’s difficult to try to teach them to sing. They can’t hear the music properly.”
“I was hoping that with a little help from you, or proper direction, that you could perhaps guide her? She wants to learn and loves music. I want her to be in the choir but at this point she’s no use to us and it’s a very sad state.” She scowls. Why does she scowl? The woman can’t help it if she can’t sing.
“Okay, I can try, but that’s all I can do. I won’t make any promises. I’ll work with her a few times and if there’s not a chance I can help her, I’ll let you know.”
Sister Helena claps her hands then grabs my arm. “Thank you, Mr. Hart. You will make Emmalia so happy. She’s doing some gardening right now in the back of the convent. You can find her there. Just go through the school and take the back exit. Follow the walkway around to the back of the convent and it will lead you to the gardens. She should be out there now.”
Oh, hell. I didn’t expect to have to do this right now! I wanted to go home and chill. Instead, I nod, run my guitar out to my truck, then follow Sister Helena’s directions.
It’s a gorgeous late fall day, unusually warm and sunny. When I get to the garden, it takes me a few minutes to locate her, but I’m shocked at what I find. Pointing in my direction is the cutest little ass I’ve seen in ages. It’s wrapped in a pair of tight cutoff jeans and the owner of said ass is on her hands and knees as she digs a hole in the dirt. It would be my damn luck—the first cute ass I’ve seen in who the hell knows how long that I’m remotely attracted to, and it belongs to a fucking nun. Oh, the irony.
“I’ve got you now, you little rascal. Did ya think you were going to escape from me? Huh? I think not. Ugh!”
Suddenly I hear a snapping sound and this sweet perfect ass tumbles backwards in the dirt as the owner yells, “Ah!” as she falls. Dirt flies everywhere and in her hands is a huge root of some kind. She holds it up in the air and says in a voice with a barely detectable Southern drawl, “Told ya, didn’t I?”
“You sure did! You destroyed the thing,” I add.
When I speak she screams bloody murder. Then she scrambles, as if the devil himself were chasing her. I waste no time in rushing to her side.
“Hey, it’s all good. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I’m not going to hurt you, I swear. Sister Helena sent me.” Jesus, what the hell is wrong with her?
She sits on her haunches and just stares at me. Air wheezes in and out of her lips and her nostrils flare with her inhalations.
Shoulder length brown hair drips with sweat from working in the garden and dirt clings to every inch of her arms. But it’s her eyes that chill me. She’s absolutely frightened to death. Dark brown eyes with gold striations pin me, and her fear transfers to me.
I raise my hands in the air and say, “Look, my name is Kade Hart and I was sent by Sister Helena to talk to you about singing lessons. Please don’t be afraid of me.” My speech is rapid. I need to allay her fears. Her eyes are so disturbing to me it’s imperative I wipe that fear away.
She finally blinks, and then nods. Her hand comes up to wipe the sweat from her forehead, leaving a giant smear of dirt behind.
“I’m really sorry. I thought you heard me walk up or I never would’ve done that to you.”
“No, it’s fine.” Her breathless speech says otherwise. She stands on shaky legs and leans on her garden spade to steady herself.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah.” Her hand circles her throat, massaging it, leaving a handprint of dirt smudges in its wake. She bends down, giving me another view of her fine ass (how can a nun have such a fine ass?) and then I notice the T-shirt she’s sporting. I can’t stop the laugh that bursts out of me. She turns and stares at me.
“I wasn’t aware that many nuns were Metallica, Megadeath, and Slayer fans.”
“First off, I’m not a nun. I’m a novice. I haven’t taken my vows yet. Second, what’s wrong with Metallica, Megadeath, and Slayer?”
Her voice still trembles with the traces of terror. I’m at a loss as to why I scared her so badly. It’s also odd that a nun-in-training would look like she does. Not to say that all nuns are unattractive, and she�
�s not cover model material by any means, but she doesn’t fit my stereotype of a nun. Again, I’ve not been around many nuns, other than the ones here at St. John the Baptist, but none of them seem to be hip like Emmalia.
“Thrash metal just doesn’t seem to be the type of music a nun would listen to. I take it you are Emmalia?”
“In the flesh.”
“Like I said, Sister Helena asked me to stop by. She said you were interested in singing lessons.”
“She did? And your name again?”
“Kade Hart.”
Suspicious eyes rake me from head to toe. “So, Mr. Hart, do you think you can turn me into the singing nun?” Her mouth twitches with a hint of mirth.
“I don’t know about that. Is that what you’d like?”
She frowns. “What I’d like and what is possible are vastly different.”
“How so?”
“Mr. Hart, I’m sure Sister Helena has warned you about my inability to sing. If she hasn’t, I’ll do so. I’m deplorable.”
We’re interrupted by an irritated voice. “Emmalia, what in God’s name are you wearing?”
Emmalia is momentarily thrown off by Sister Helena’s question. She scans her clothing and then answers, “My gardening clothes, Sister.”
“Emmalia, you’re wearing a T-shirt that’s fit for the devil himself. That is highly inappropriate for the convent, not to mention those … those dungarees that display an obscene amount of your skin.”
I quite like the amount of skin Emmalia is displaying, but what do I know about nun attire? I’d best stay out of this.
“But Sister Helena, I didn’t think anyone would see me and I knew I would get filthy out here.”
“Emmalia, it seems to me you were filthy before you started digging in the dirt. That T-shirt needs to be destroyed. Those bands are the devil’s works. And those britches—unacceptable.”
“Um, Sister Helena, if I may, thrash metal is known for its use of the power chords, or some refer to it as the fifth chord. In the eighteenth century, some considered the fifth an evil sound or associated it with the devil, but the Catholic Church never punished or excommunicated musicians for using it in their works. It wasn’t often used because it’s not very easy to incorporate into hymns that are lyrical. Or at least that’s the theory.”
Emmalia grins and Sister Helena looks as though she wants to bite my head off.
“Mr. Hart, I would thank you to keep your opinions to yourself,” Sister Helena says with a pinched look.
“Um, Sister, it’s not really an opinion. I’ve studied music theory.”
“Nevertheless, Emmalia, please be sure to destroy those items of clothing. I expect never to see you in either of those again.” She stomps off.
“Damn. Is she usually that stern?”
“Sister Helena is our Mother Superior here. She has to be, but she means well. And I didn’t know you’d be coming or I never would’ve dressed like this. But thanks for the rescue.”
“So? Singing lessons?”
“Yes. I’m at your mercy.”
“What about tomorrow afternoon? I’m not free until around four.”
She pinches her lower lip between her thumb and forefinger as she thinks, smearing dirt on her cute mouth. “Yes, that should work. Where shall I meet you?”
I smile as I look at her dirty mouth. “Would my townhome be off limits? The reason I ask is that I have my music studio there.”
She narrows her eyes. I’ve given her cause to be suspicious, though I don’t know why.
“I have good credentials, although I am a drug addict.”
Her lids widen.
“I know. Disgraceful. But that’s how I met Father Anthony. At Narcotics Anonymous. We use one of the church’s rooms to meet. NA has meetings all over town. I’m an NA counselor now. Anyway, one day our conversation turned to music and before I knew what happened, Father Anthony lassoed me into volunteering here. I’m teaching music lessons all over the place now. I just finished teaching a group of ten-year-old girls recorder lessons. And honest to God, I’d never picked up one of those things in my life.”
She smiled. “Father Anthony has that knack about him. He’ll be having you doing things you never thought possible.”
“So, I know you may think it inappropriate, but I’m trustworthy. You can check with Father if you’d like. I promise to behave like the perfect gentleman. My place, then?”
“Sure. Where do you live?”
After I give her my address, I leave. On my way home, I keep wondering about the nun-in-training. What’s an attractive girl like her doing in a convent? It’s none of my business, but I can’t seem to stop thinking how out of place she looked. And then there’s her perfect little ass. Somewhere, someone is laughing his or her ass off at the mere thought of my little situation. Fuck. I need to get my mind off of that. She’ll be coming over tomorrow and I can’t be sitting there, trying to teach her how to sing, with nothing on my mind but her ass.
Three
Emmalia
My head continually bobs around as I walk to the Denver Animal Shelter. I’m surprised all this bobbing hasn’t given me serious neck issues by now. It’s a little over a mile from the convent, so it doesn’t take long, but I can’t shake the feeling that someone follows me. Without fail, I feel eyes on me all the time. They’re there in the shadows, my constant companions. Like the vivid memories of my massacred family, I doubt the feeling will ever leave. When I go to sleep, I don’t use a pillow to put my head on; I use it to put over my mouth to stifle the screams of terror that usually wake me in the middle of the night. Sometimes I wish I had died when my family did. Anger and resentment rise up like acidic vomit, threatening to choke me. I push it back down, but I want to scream and yell and do all those things that horribly angry people do, like bash their fists against a wall until they’re broken and bleeding. But I do none of those things. I shove it all away, pretending it isn’t there. Pretending it never happened. Living like this isn’t living at all. I’m running scared all the time. Like yesterday, when Kade Hart walked into my garden. I was sure the fist-sized muscle in my chest was going to explode and rupture my ribcage. I’m so sick of being afraid all the time. But every time I think I’ll just drop my guard and let it all go, terror overrides everything, and I can’t do it.
Relief douses the fear that gnaws and burns me, as I enter the public library. This is only a quick detour that I take, as I do several times a week, to further my research on the necklace that stays hidden beneath my clothing. At first, I shied away from it for fear they could track me somehow. But then I put my computer knowledge to use and erased my footprint every time I searched. Using the public library’s computer makes me a bit bolder, too. Twenty minutes later, I leave with no more information, but I refuse to give up.
Soon I push my way through the doors of the animal shelter. Everyone greets me as I enter. I’m here to check on one of the puppies. She’s been here for too long now and if she doesn’t get adopted soon, they may have to do the unthinkable. Everyone turns to me at this stage because I can be very persuasive in helping people choose a pet. This little pup is adorable and I can’t understand why no one has snatched her up.
When I get to her cage, she’s all wagging tail and wiggling butt. “Hey, little one. How’s my baby today?” I unlatch her cage and pull her out. There’s one thing that makes me happy and it’s working with animals. I had to beg Sister Helena to let me work and volunteer here. She finally agreed, but my time here will end when my novitiate period is over.
“Emmalia, we had a couple look at her, but they adopted Rocky instead.”
“Aw, really?” I immediately deflate.
“Yeah.” Bob, one of the employees comes over and scratches Ethel’s head. That’s what I’ve named her. “You need to take her. You’re so attached, and I think the Big Guy up above is keeping anyone else from adopting her.”
“Bob! I can’t adopt Ethel. They would never let me have a dog at the con
vent.”
“Have you ever asked?”
“No, but …”
“Ask. It can’t hurt to check.”
I lift Ethel in the air and say, “What do you think, little fluff?” And that’s exactly what she is. One cream-colored little fuzzy ball. She yaps in response. “Come on, fuzzy. You’re having an outing today.”
“Where you going?” Bob asks.
“I have a singing lesson. I’m taking Ethel with me. I’ll bring her back on my way home.”
Bob laughs. “You? A singing lesson?”
“Hush! Sister Helena wants to see if there’s any hope for me, I guess.”
“Well, good luck at that.”
“I know.” I make a face.
After I put a puppy harness on Ethel, she and I head out. I also take some food with me, just in case I think she’s hungry.
It’s always daunting for me to go somewhere new. I follow the directions I got off the internet to Mr. Hart’s house. Again, eyes penetrate and shadows loom around me giving me the jitters. I see faces and shapes in everything. They slip and slide in and out of nowhere—from behind trees, cars, houses, buildings. Sometimes I even hear their whispers, telling me not to go this way or that way. It’s gotten to the point where at times when I’m out and about, I question my sanity. Are these shapes and shadows real? Why don’t they harm me? I know they’re there. I can feel them like the whisper of a breeze across my skin. Strangely enough, they’re the only things that keep me grounded—reminding me that what happened over two years ago wasn’t a figment of my imagination.
The change in me is so drastic when I think about how I was back then versus today. Gone is the happy-go-lucky girl and in her place is a suspicious, melancholy replacement. How can it not be? Back then, I didn’t have those horrid images filling my mind at night. Or hear footsteps in my room in the darkness, sending ice picks ripping down my spine. I wasn’t afraid that some wicked person would slash my neck for some unknown reason.
The fake smile I paste on daily is a tragic substitute of what it used to be. I weigh ten pounds less, and on my frame that’s a tremendous amount. The nuns always push food on me, but when you have a jagged piece of barbed wire lodged in your stomach all the time, it’s not easy to get much food down. When I think about my life before, it only gets worse. My friends—did they find awesome jobs, boyfriends, or even get married? Do they ever think about me? Miss me? Wonder why I vanished? My heart stutters, then nearly stops when I think about how much I miss my old life, my family, how much laughter seemed to rule everything. Now it’s only a bleak memory of a time that doesn’t seem real anymore. “Oh, Ethel, you and I are quite a pair, aren’t we?”
The Fall and Rise of Kade Hart: A Hart Brothers Novel Page 3
