Unstrung

by Laura Spinella

  “You’re right.” And she is. Even so, my compassion for a thirty-eight-year-old man, who moved from his second failed marriage into Sasha’s bedroom, is small. “But it’s not like he hasn’t taken a good long whack at it,” I suggest. “That and maybe I have my six-figure symphony salary confused with a charitable stipend.”

  She sighs at a rare Sasha miss—or just the slanted judgment Jeremy fosters. “Okay, fine.” She tilts her chin upward. “I didn’t want to say anything prematurely, but it just so happens, Jeremy’s latest manuscript is in the hands of a big-time publishing house. He’s confident it will result in a huge deal, maybe even six figures—like yours.”

  “For your sake, I hope so. But even Rob agrees that Jer—”

  She holds up a hand, unwilling to be tag-teamed by me and an absent Rob. “We all have our flaws, Liv. Guess my big one is wildly evident.”

  “What’s that?” I ask, standing down, sipping coffee.

  “An inexplicable need to have moody artist types in my life—whether it’s struggling writers or fitful musicians.” She eases back into her chair and focuses again on passersby.

  “Point taken, counselor.” I am reminded that Jeremy’s artsy moody behavior has not resulted in owed community service hours. I adjust my sunglasses, maybe hide behind them.

  We are silent. Sasha picks up a discarded copy of the Boston Ledger. She holds it up as if shutting me out. I narrow my eyes, getting a glimpse of the back page. It’s a headline about Boston’s endowment-funded orchestra. They’ve won their district competition and are on to a regional final. An unlikely flutter of self-worth pumps through me before Sasha snaps the newspaper away from her face.

  “What are you smiling about?”

  “Nothing. The weather.” She drops the paper and returns to her latte. I breathe in early-fall air and take in an azure sky. But it’s an eerie moment that creeps in—a different September day and the boy fatefully connected to it. My mind wanders from the orchestra headline to Shep Stewart’s stories, his 9-11 children. I’ve never dreamed of dropping in on one—Theo McAdams in particular. Doubt invades. I finish my coffee and focus on impending reality. The bottom line here is that in two hours I will owe ninety-eight community service hours. In two hours my life will only be slightly different—different in a way that no one but me will ever see. But even that small thought draws a cowardly breath. “I don’t suppose . . .”

  “No,” Sasha says, glaring in my direction. “I cannot, nor will I, go back to the judge and attempt to alter your community service agreement. Besides, I’ve been thinking about it. Your idea to help mentor these kids . . . I think it’s a good call, Liv.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes. Jeremy agrees.” She smiles at the opportunity to include his opinion. “Jeremy says you may learn about real human emotion—possibly exhibit some.” We trade insulted stares—hers for my less-than-positive remarks about her boyfriend, and mine for now having to endure Jeremy’s take on Olivia Klein Crime and Punishment. I’m sure he’s foreshadowed many a rancorous fate, the kind Dostoyevsky would relish. “As for our opinion on your choice of just deserts . . .” Sasha squints into the bright morning light. “Hmm, how to phrase this so you’ll benefit as opposed to being pissed off.”

  “Go for it,” I say, knowing I’ve got one coming.

  “You know how I take pro bono cases?” I nod. “I mentioned that a few of those have been your soon-to-be students.” She points toward Braemore, diagonally across the street.

  “Right. You have to. Your firm requires it, something like that.”

  “Yes. But what you don’t know is that I take almost double the number required.”

  “Why?” I’m unsure where she’s going with this. Not while my stomach is doing somersaults and the bowl of Special K I had before leaving the house feels like it’s on a return trip. “What’s in it for you besides extra work?”

  “Nothing monetarily—and that’s my point. I do it because there’s satisfaction in helping someone who, otherwise, wouldn’t get a fair deal. And just so you know,” she says, sipping her coffee, “I work those cases with Nick Zowzer.”

  “Seriously? You and Zowz—together, for no money?” I’ve stumbled on benevolence that exceeds even the Sasha I know. “You loathe working paying cases with him. Why the comradery over pro bono?

  “Out of all the things Zowz and I don’t have in common . . .” She takes a lingering sip of her latte. “Working those cases appears to be a patch of common ground. We, um . . . we make a good pro bono team.” I wriggle my nose at the concept—not the pro bono work, the voluntarily spending time with Nick Zowzer. “It’s why we have a justice system, Liv. People have a right to counsel no matter their socioeconomic status.” She continues the lesson. “I’m just saying, doing our part . . . It feels good.”

  I raise the cup to my mouth but then lower it. “I’ll let you and Jeremy know how the whole giving back scenario works out for me.” Choosing not to share my orchestra-funding project with Sasha was a conscious decision. I couldn’t imagine her reaction, other than disbelief. I don’t want to hear it, how unlike me the charitable effort is. Besides, isn’t secrecy the definition of anonymity? Admittedly, a small part of me has zero desire to be judged by the Jeremys of the world. Sasha demonstrates this by continuing to educate me.

  “All I’m saying is that you might find a benefit in sharing your gift.”

  My mouth opens. I begin a reply. But the thought and my gaping mouth freeze, enough to capture a passing fly. Everything stops as a man takes a seat at the table across from ours. I sit up taller. Black-and-white photos turn vivid. Theo McAdams drops a canvas satchel onto the chair opposite him and puts down a cup from which a teabag dangles. I study him, my hand moving in an upward V around my throat. My fingers meet with a pulse that requires a Xanax—possibly two. A tall black man encroaches on my view, approaching. A ball cap sits sideways over dreadlocks, and his pants are slouched midway around his ass. I know the black man’s features, his face. He was pictured with the city-wide orchestra photo; I’ve seen him play with the endowment ensemble. He slaps Theo on the shoulder.

  “Mr. M—how you doin’ this morning?”

  “Octavious . . . what’s happening, man?” They punch fists in some modern, hip way that I’ve seen on TV.

  “I was just on my way to class when I saw you sittin’ here. I, uh . . . I did what you said. I recorded that rhythm I was tellin’ you about, the one that keeps showing up at night—like when I’m dreamin’.”

  “Good, man. Let’s hear it,” Theo says.

  He takes the seat next to Theo and pulls out a cell phone. Sasha starts to say something; I hold up my hand. From the device, sounds emanate. The music I’m most familiar with is, by and large, classical—I’ve learned it the way a physician absorbs open heart surgery—a delicate procedure with no margin for error. Even I admit it’s beautiful when it comes together. But I’m not immune to what I might refer to as street music. The air around the Starbucks tables fills with beatbox melody. Theo’s fingers tap in succinct rhythm. Octavious is bopping in his seat; his timing is exquisite. Anyone would swear a half-dozen studio musicians are creating the rapid, complex cadence. Nearby coffee drinkers are drawn to the sound. Some appear annoyed, but most look on curiously impressed.

  “What’chu think?” he asks as the beats peter out.

  “Hey,” Sasha says, twisting, and then turning back toward me. “Isn’t the white guy your 9-11 kid?” I shush her and shrink back in my seat. But Theo and his student are too engrossed to notice either of us.

  “I think that is a seriously good sound,” Theo says. “How about we play it for the class? We can head on over right about now.” Theo glances at a watch. Octavious laughs. “What?”

  “Man, only white dudes from the suburbs would wear something so lame. You need to get yourself a Rolex—somethin’ that makes a statement!”

  “Not in my budget.” Theo gathers his papers; I see the watch. Octavious is right. It lo
oks like an old watch, nothing special. “Besides, it belonged to my father before he died,” he says, setting Octavious and me straight. “The fanciest watch in the world couldn’t replace it.”

  As they walk toward Braemore, Octavious says, “Shit, another thing that makes white dudes from suburbia stick out.”

  “What’s that?” Theo says.

  “You knew your old man.”

  Theo laughs.

  I watch as they cross the street, pondering this perspective.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Olivia

  A police officer accompanies me to Principal Giroux’s office. I am introduced to an African American man who would make a drill sergeant appear passive. His presence is all consuming and, I assume, a necessity. Even so, he could pass for Harry Puckett’s brother—tall, a wiry-framed man with cheeks that run wider than the rest of him. Harry is a symphony saxophone player from the French Quarter. I like Harry—we share a swig from the flask he carries before every curtain. We also came by our jobs in the same manner—a proclivity for music, not so much for anything else. But unlike Harry, I sense that Quentin Giroux is deliberate in his chosen position, dedicated to a purpose. His gaze glides over my Michael Kors dress.

  “Ms. Klein, welcome to Braemore. I see you’ve followed basic instructions.” I offer him a confused look. “No jewelry,” he says. “Although your dress is a little more Beacon Hill than Braemore.” I brush my hand over the silky sleeve. I haven’t endured a wardrobe critique since moving out of the Wellesley house.

  “Yes. I thoroughly read the packet of materials Braemore sent over, cover to cover.” This is a slight exaggeration, skimmed being more accurate. But it’s not as if I’ll be in charge of anything, and I assume my presence is cursory. How much could I need to know? Principal Giroux continues to stare.

  “I’ve been curious to meet you.”

  “Have you?” I smile, deciding it’s Principal Giroux’s job to be intimidating, and that my dress and preparation is fine. “I hope I can be of some value. I, um . . . I suspect there might be untapped musical talent here at Braemore. I’m no teacher, but I have a usable skill and—”

  “Fascinating. Absolutely fascinating.” His head tips, like he anticipated a different remark. “For the life of me, I cannot figure you out.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Assessing people between my doorway and this desk . . .” He motions to the entrance, ten feet away. “That’s my skill. It’s what I do. Nobody surprises me. Granted, I always have a solid head start . . .” He plucks up official-looking papers, with my name in bold print, and drops them back onto his desk. “I assumed whatever I was missing with you would be evident upon arrival. You are a collision of adjectives—capricious, accomplished, ill-tempered . . . eleemosynary.” He narrows his eyes at me. “I repeat; you make no sense.”

  “Seems to be a common conclusion.” It also seems to be a safe reply as I’m unsure what eleemosynary means. He waits. “I, um . . . I can understand the question. I guess it isn’t every day a symphony violinist turns up at Braemore as part of the system.”

  He leans casually onto the desk, though there is nothing casual about him. “Mmm, that’s only a small piece of what I’m referring to, Ms. Klein. When I got the call from the DA’s office, your name rang a bell.”

  I roll my eyes, waiting for Principal Giroux to tell me, like Judge Nicholson, he too subscribes to Musical Notes. “Fan of the symphony?”

  “Never been.”

  I furrow my brow.

  “It took numerous phone calls and days to solve the mystery—where I’d heard your name and why.” He pauses, a hum ringing from his throat as he shakes his head. “I had more claims of denial than the regulars from Braemore detention. Trust me. That’s saying something. But I’m not easily deterred. I dug; then I tunneled. I know who you are. I know what you do.”

  “Right. I’m a violinist with the New England Symphony.”

  “A woman who—when not being arrested for crimes that would earn serious street credit here—also provides funds for music education. A singular program used to serve the needs of students who, otherwise, wouldn’t get high-end arts opportunities. The kind kids from well-to-do families are handed. All of it under the stipulation of complete, almost iron-wall, anonymity.”

  “You must have me confused.”

  “Ms. Klein, do not call on hubris here. Don’t come into my school and think you can bullshit me.” He smiles at my slacked jaw. “Don’t add to your list of mystifying adjectives. If you want to remain anonymous in your benevolence, that’s your business. But understand mine. My job, the safety of my students, requires I appreciate the particulars of every person who comes through Braemore’s doors. To this point,” he says, “you make no sense.”

  I guess, on this score, the jig is up. “Who told you about . . .”

  “The endowment?” I offer a small nod. “You just did.” He smiles widely. “I’ve been doing this a while. I’d overheard your name once—an off-site conference where liquor flowed and mouths moved. I could not, however, get confirmation. Whoever pulls your strings does so with the utmost finesse.” I smother a smile. Kudos to Rob’s rather brilliant sleight of hand. The source for the endowment is buried so deep, Sherlock Holmes would be hard-pressed to figure it out. “Don’t feel bad. Getting confessions out of people who visit my office . . . That’s probably like you playing Brahms’s lullaby.” He looks me up and down. “Now that the field’s leveled some, can we stop wasting my time and cut to the chase?”

  “Like you said, it’s my private business. I’m here to serve out my community service hours. Beyond that—”

  “Beyond that I need to understand why you came so unhinged you turned your husband’s luxury vehicle into something that couldn’t be sold for parts on Craigslist.”

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  “From the report I read, not that much. Are you mentally ill?”

  “Am I . . . ?”

  “Do you feel you suffer from mental illness? It’s a serious question—a problem highly ignored in this country, but not at Braemore, not if I can help it.”

  “I’m not—” I lower my voice. “I don’t believe I’m any more impaired than the next high-strung musician,” I say, smoothing my dress. “Although, I will say not many share my personal history in breeding or background. As for what landed me here, I was drunk . . . It was stupid. Not bragging points, but it does factor into my actions.”

  “Uh-huh,” he says, arms folded. “Ms. Klein, be aware. I can terminate your community service hours more easily than I agreed to them. Enough risk runs through these halls. I don’t have time for supposed adults and public tantrums. So unless you’d like Officer Mortman to return you curbside, where you can fulfill your hours elsewhere—”

  “I can’t undo what happened,” I say quickly. “But I take responsibility for it. I’m sure you’ve read the transcript, the catalyst for the, um . . . unfortunate incident.”

  “Something about going postal because your husband lost your mother’s house in a bad business deal.”

  “Yes. That’s what I told the judge and my attorney—neither of whom is aware of my connection to the endowment. Something I wasn’t inclined to share in open court. It was my hope that, eventually, my family home—a valuable asset—would provide more permanent orchestra funding. Currently, means are limited and so is space in the program.”

  “I’m aware. We have a few students who showed an interest. But only one’s been granted admission. Octavious Pendleton.”

  I do not acknowledge the boy I recognized outside Starbucks or from performances where I sat anonymously in the back row. “So, yes—I lost it that night. I blew a gasket on Newbury Street, but not for the reasons everyone assumes.”

  “I want to ask why you feel it necessary to remain so secretive in your efforts.”

  “But that would mean going back on your word, that remaining anonymous is my prerogative, my business.”

  His lungs fill
with an assessing breath. “Indeed it would.” He waits. As always, judgment looms. “Follow me. But a word of caution,” he says, turning back. “If Mr. McAdams gets the faintest whiff of anything more than a compliant professional violinist, serving community service hours, your time here will cease abruptly. You get me?”

  He leads me out of his office. It sounds like a phrase often used on the newbies he marches down the halls at Braemore. Fortunately, it is the one thing I can guarantee him. “No worries. Mr. McAdams won’t encounter anything more than what’s on paper—a professional violinist who owes a hundred-hour debt to society.”

  “Despite your complexities . . .” He glances at me. “I’m going to accept your word on that.”

  In my head I hear Sihvola’s Ruins—one of the most ominous pieces of music ever written. It’s a menacing cadence, the kind that makes your belly ache, teeth clench. It continues to play as Principal Giroux and I walk together down Braemore’s halls and toward the future.

  We arrive at the classroom, which is empty aside from Theo. He sits on the far side of the room, bent over a viola. “Mr. McAdams,” Principal Giroux says with authority, though he lightly taps the door as we enter. “I bring you an adult hoodlum.”

  It’s not the introduction I would have chosen. Clearly, Principal Giroux has zero tolerance for bullshit or formalities. On the other hand, my elevator pitch bio is not his fault.

  It doesn’t matter. Theo barely hears; he is seriously engaged with the instrument’s missing strings. “This is Ms. Klein. I believe you spoke with her . . . counsel.” I am grateful for the soft landing; surely Principal Giroux is in possession of legal vernacular to match every introduction at Braemore. “She’s your temporary, professional assistance—about a hundred hours’ worth.”

  Theo looks up and looks back at what he’s doing. He looks annoyed that he has to let go of the broken instrument. But he hustles across the room, burying any attitude. He smiles and extends a hand. Standing before me is the man Claire McAdams has described to Shep Stewart for fifteen years.