“Theo, I don’t think we can.”
With the bottle to his mouth, Theo considers how useless one beer is if trying to get drunk.
“It might not be the end of the world. But what happened . . . It says a lot about . . . me.”
Like all tragic events, the next moments move in slow motion. Theo lowers the beer bottle, and India slips the ring off her finger. Tears run down her sweet face, rivaling the rain on the window. She says something about choosing the restaurant because she can easily get a cab back to the train station. India’s returning to her parents’ house on Long Island tonight. She will not come back to their apartment. There’s more talk, but India cannot be persuaded. In the end, she leaves a shaken Theo inside the restaurant. India is swallowed by the dark and rain while Theo ponders loss and the rarity of precipitation in the Sahara Desert.
PRESENT DAY
Theo glances in the dresser mirror. He takes in his tallish frame and pressed Brooks Brothers slacks, starched dress shirt, and tweed sports jacket with ivy-league patches on the sleeves. His naturally wavy brown hair is secured with a dab of gel. He should have shaved. “What the fuck am I doing? Add a pipe and Braemore students will probably shove it . . .”
He quickly changes into black jeans and a wrinkled button down that could use a trip through the wash. He keeps the jacket. It reeks of intellectualism, but it is also a vintage item that belonged to his father. Theo has filled out enough that the jacket is finally a perfect fit. It’s one of a handful of mementoes he possesses. He would like David McAdams as close as possible today—his first day as Braemore’s music teacher. He decides not to shave. The scruff may present a harder image. He might need it. Theo remembers to purge his wallet. It’s part of the helpful hints tip sheet he was given upon accepting the job at Braemore. Rule one: Do not wear jewelry. Even costume jewelry is discouraged. This is an easy one. Theo’s not a jewelry kind of guy. Jewelry is too easy to misplace. But he does open the shoebox-size cedar box that sits on his dresser—another keepsake of his father’s. Before storing his credit cards inside (another handy tip), Theo looks reverently through the box’s contents.
Inside is India’s engagement ring, a perfect emerald-cut diamond in an antique platinum setting. While it’s been months, it only takes a glance at the ring for everything to rush to the surface. When Theo played lacrosse, he was once hit square in the chest by a ball, which was traveling at about forty miles per hour. It felt like a locomotive slamming into him. Compared to India’s departure, the lacrosse ball now feels like the tickle of a feather. He still cannot believe she gave up on them so easily. His breath shudders. But their breakup is still fairly fresh and this is to be expected. It’s one reason Theo took the job at Braemore; he’s intent on making changes in his life, finding a new one. It’s the rational thing to do.
Theo closes the ring box and focuses on the other chattels kept inside. There’s a fraternity pin from Cornell and a never-thought-about high school class ring. Theo keeps this ring because throwing it away seems wasteful. That and he’s somewhat amazed he hasn’t lost it. At the bottom of the red corduroy-lined box is his father’s driver’s license.
His father’s last birthday was September 10, 2001. Ten-year-old Theo gave him a new wallet. While transferring personal items that evening, the driver’s license was mistakenly left out of the billfold. Two weeks after September 11, Theo found it between the cushions of their living room sofa. At first he thought they should bury the license—it was all they had left. His mother, in her grief and wisdom, insisted otherwise. Of course she was right. It wasn’t until years later that the irony struck Theo: his father’s ability to board a flight, which did land safely, sans driver’s license. Regardless, fate had followed, right into his father’s early-morning meeting in the North Tower.
Theo removes his own driver’s license and holds it next to his father’s. Only here are the names identical: Theodore David McAdams. His father went by his middle name to avoid confusion with Theo’s grandfather: Theodore David McAdams the first. No one was ever “Ted” or “Teddy” in the McAdams lineage. Theo feels privileged to be a part of the McAdams family. He likes to think he sees himself in the plastic preserved image of his father, whose blue eyes pierce through, even in the tiny photo—a strong man with solid values and a well-timed sense of humor. David McAdams was also a hell of a running back. Lacrosse was Theo’s athletic addiction, though music is his passion.
His father had witnessed a glimmer of who Theo would become at the age of four—stringing rubber bands to the knobs of dresser drawers and plucking at them, beating the bottoms of pots to a level that required earplugs. But David McAdams never got to see Theo’s gift come to fruition. They are even on that score. Theo never saw his father play football, not live anyway, and he thanks God for the videos his mother kept along with more personal footage—baby Theo in a carrier coming in the front door of their Newton home. It was the start of a brand-new year, a new everything for the McAdamses, who had waited so long for a son.
There is footage of Theo celebrating his first birthday, as well as his eighth. In the video, he and his father are lying on the den floor. They are building a Lego tower. The footage captures a teetering structure that finally gives way to the shortcomings of amateur architecture. Theo and his father plop on the floor laughing while trying not to roll over the scattered Legos. So when Theo thinks of towers falling that is the image he tries to keep at the forefront of his mind. He tucks his license back in his wallet and puts the rest of the items in the cedar box with the red corduroy lining before leaving his apartment.
Music classes start one week later than required classes at Braemore. During his forty hours of summer training, Theo was instructed on how to best succeed as a teacher in a challenging educational environment. It was explained that very little at Braemore works like Weston High, where he was previously employed. For one, there’s an entire team of police officers dedicated to the building. For as much as Braemore wishes to educate and mentor, they are realistic about the danger roaming the halls of its weary institution. Principal Giroux, a well-educated man whose presence is daunting from every angle, explained it to Theo. “Park your ideological aspirations at the curb, son, and hope it still has tires at the end of the day. If you manage to get through to one kid before you hit burnout, consider your career here a success.” The average tenure for teachers at Braemore is a year and a half. The average stay for students who don’t drop out is six years in a four-year institution. It’s clear why the students retain the upper hand.
Theo has taken the T and arrives a half hour later at Braemore. At the front entrance, Theo shows the on-duty officer his driver’s license, which matches his name on a pre-approved list. He’s given an ID on a lanyard and told not to remove it for any reason, even at gunpoint. He’s unsure if the man is joking. Theo is granted access to the circa-1940s building and hears a lock tumble behind him that sounds a lot like a prison cell. He wonders if the students feel the same way. The officer instructs him to check in at the office. Two boys with no facial hair, who still look older than Theo, lean against graffiti-covered lockers. Theo offers a friendly smile, though his heart is racing. The boys don’t immediately respond, but then one does. He gives Theo the finger before turning his back.
Maybe this isn’t the best idea Theo’s ever had. In his deep determination to prove life will go on without India, perhaps he’s made too large of a leap. It could be that what he should have done was chase India to Long Island. Theo wonders if she is still living there. Her parents own Take Me to Church Catering, and India ran the small Boston leg of the business. Catering’s not India’s dream—but neither, as it turns out, is Theo. Maybe all along he misjudged India’s uncertainties—or the fact that she had any. Yet he cannot make a real argument for indecisiveness. While he’s endlessly replayed their breakup, he’s also considered the months leading up to it. There were no hints of ambivalence. When India left for the convention, her parting words were about h
ow much she loved her fiancé. A thing like love, it isn’t a sweater or an iPhone. You can’t just lose it on the streets of New York, between a convention center and Booktini—some trendy Midtown bistro. Yet this seems to have been the case. Theo is frustrated by all of it. He’s only concluded that the India he fell in love with is not the India who left him, though he suspects he’s still in love with both.
He saw her once, briefly, after the Ruth’s Chris Steak House fiasco. India returned to Boston a week later with a U-Haul and her sister, Helen. Together they claimed her bulkier possessions. His emotions ran the gamut that day: stunned to hurt to angry. It was similar, yet so very different, from what Theo experienced when his father died. He allowed anger to rule the U-Haul day, and he ended up telling India to go if that is what she truly wanted—a life apart. Theo left the apartment while she and Helen packed. On foot, Theo circled Boston for hours until his feet blistered and he was sure India was gone.
The memory puts Theo in a foul mood, which turns out to be a good thing. He’s quick to note that Braemore students carry the same blueprint of emotion. While they’re not likely to take shit off anybody, neither is Theo. He mentally thanks India for his current attitude. Inside the music room, he peruses the sad stockpile of instruments, gum-laden chairs, and ancient music stands. Students wander aimlessly into the room. They look Theo over with clear intent: “How fast can we intimidate this lily-white asshole out of a job?”
Not as fast as they think. In his most commanding voice, Theo instructs them to settle down. To his surprise, to a point, they do.
It doesn’t go as badly as anticipated. Yes. They are tough and they are unruly. But they are not unmotivated. Sure, there are three linebacker-size boys, who look like men, seated in the back row of risers. They completely ignore him. Conversely, Theo does not try to engage them. For today, it appears to be an amicable arrangement. One thing at a time. There are only twelve students in the class—music appreciation. Unlike math or English, music is a voluntary elective. Theo takes this as a plus; they must have some desire to be there. He doesn’t try anything flashy or too out of the box, like bringing up Mozart or early-twentieth-century modernism in music. Instead he asks what they want to accomplish while they’re there.
A girl with long blond hair continuously twirls a tendril around her index finger. She eyes him up and down. “Before I came in here,” she says, “I thought it might be an easy hour to kill until they unlock the doors at three. You know?” She cracks her gum. “Now I’m kind of wondering what you’re doing after three? I’d give you a blow job behind that bass drum for the hell of it.” Theo manages zero reaction, as if she’s offered to wipe down the dry erase boards. She’s rattled the control he’s mustered; catcalls and complementary remarks fill the room. Theo’s face grows warm. He considers sending her to Principal Giroux’s office, but he doesn’t want this to be the topic of his first student-teacher run-in. He needs to handle it.
Theo glances at the girl, who smiles at the discomfort she’s created, or at her offer—he’s unsure which. Realistically, the girl’s suggestion isn’t his first encounter with sexual overtures from students. In his previous teaching job at Weston High, a couple of girls made inappropriate remarks, though none were as direct as the blond. After a second girl at Weston came onto him, Theo asked his fiancée to accompany him to a few school functions. It sent a corrective message. That wouldn’t be an option here. He’d never bring India to Braemore—with her eye-catching smile and sweet figure. Then Theo remembers he no longer has a fiancée to invite. He ignores the blond and moves on.
As he suspects, it’s music that allows him to shove a foot through the door and start a semi-civil conversation. Theo sits on top of the desk and asks for iPod examples of what they are into musically. It is totally rap oriented—Drake, something called Wiz Khalifa, White Iverson, and a more violent Eazy-E are among the most popular. It’s offensive and crude and hardly anything a young man with a background in classical music can appreciate. But they can, and that is of use to Theo. He allows them to educate him, at least for today. Theo suspects developing a rapport is paramount to taking the target off his back.
There is another music appreciation class after lunch. Only nine students show up to that one. Five minutes in and an African American boy remarks, “This is fucking bullshit, man. What I need some cracker who ain’t never set foot in Dorchester to tell me my shit. Fuck yo ass—”
He knocks over a chair, which gives Theo more of a start than the blond girl did. He leaves the room, and Theo is admittedly glad he is gone. The boy is particularly angry, and while all Braemore students had to pass through a metal detector, Theo imagines there’s more than one way to obtain a weapon on the inside. Things quiet down after this incident, and later that day, students are invited to sign up for band and orchestra. Theo is encouraged when eleven students add their names to the list.
When the day ends and Theo heads for the T, he thinks it’s gone about as well as can be expected. No one pulled a knife on him or took a swing—the offer of sexual services was the only one. There was a fistfight between two girls in the hall, but he wisely left that to the officers on duty.
Theo is still unsure if Braemore is the right decision. Taking a job like this should be about altruism and desire to help change a life. Selfishness bubbles; the life Theo most wants to change is his own. By the time he arrives at his apartment, Theo has reasoned it out this way: maybe he can accomplish both things—help the students at Braemore and help himself. That wouldn’t be too awful. Maybe it will work out. Maybe Theo will forget India. It could be that she was right, and they would have been a mistake. A quick check of his cell phone supports this idea. There’s no message from India. He wonders how long it will be until he stops looking at his phone, anticipating a missed call from her. However, there is a message from a phone number Theo doesn’t recognize.
He opens the apartment door. The smell of home cooking wraps around him like a blanket. In the kitchen Theo finds a pot of homemade spaghetti sauce simmering on the stove. There’s a note.
I’m not interfering. I’m not intruding on your adult decisions. I’m only making sure you have dinner. There’s garlic cheesy bread in the oven. That and could you please call your mother so I know you’ve made it through the day unscathed?
His mother has been heartbroken for Theo since India left him. She worries like any good mother would. When he announced his job at Braemore, Theo could almost see Claire grit her teeth to keep from yelling, “Like hell you will!” That was if she ever cursed at him or raised her voice. She’s always shown remarkable restraint. Even so, Theo almost turned down the job because of her. He can’t imagine being the thing that causes his mother more pain or unhappiness.
Like Theo, she’s moved on from the tragedy of September 11. But his mother has never moved beyond the loss of her husband. Theo finds this perplexing in that his mother is an attractive woman and a lively conversationalist. Yet in all these years, she has not pursued a relationship beyond one or two dates. Although, this is not to say his mother is lonely—she works in a freelance capacity with her old New York publishing house and sits on the board of several charitable organizations. She has many friends. However, Theo also knows that he has been Claire’s priority.
Theo sniffs the air inside his apartment. It smells of love and Parmesan cheese. He’s poised to dial the phone, calling to thank his mother and assure her that he’s in one piece—it’s not something that could always be said in the McAdamses’ house. But Theo chooses to listen to the odd message first.
“Hi. My name is Sasha Pease. I’m an attorney. Your name and number were given to me by Principal Giroux at Braemore. I have an, um . . . an unusual circumstance . . . I have a client with a profound musical gift. She, uh . . . she’s not a teacher. She’s a . . . Well, she would like to volunteer with your classroom work at Braemore. She . . . It’s like this . . . Maybe you should give me a call back and I can explain the details.”
&nbs
p; CHAPTER FIVE
Olivia
At seven, Rob comes through the door of the brownstone. In his arms are the roses Sasha predicted—two dozen, at least, and white. A formal peace offering. I’m stretched out on the sofa, covered in a cashmere throw, reading a book. Well, I’m staring at a book—something about ghosts, or gifts and ghosts. Absurd. It doesn’t matter; I haven’t absorbed a word. The wide entry to the living room frames Rob, his dark hair styled to its usual coiffed state. If metrosexual were still a popular term, Rob would be the definition; perhaps he was the inception. He looks like a cologne ad—the cardboard kind that falls from a magazine as you sit on the toilet, flipping through.
I shut the book and place it on the coffee table. My hand hovers near a weighty glass-and-pewter cigarette lighter—not that anyone smokes. I saw it in an antique shop and thought it would go perfectly with the brownstone. A wry smile edges onto my face as Rob takes a step back. I pick up my wineglass. A dry red slides down my throat. I tilt my head at my husband. “Rough commute, hon? City bus or did you walk?” Rob loathes public transportation.
“I took a cab,” he says.
I’m hardly surprised.
“Liv, are we going to discuss this—calmly?”
Calmly as I can, I reply, “The Wellesley house? The money—or I should say what it’s worth. You understand how much worse this is than last time? You get it, right?”
“Believe me, Liv. I get the potential fallout of this. What it means.”
Unstrung Page 5
