“Hi. Theo McAdams.”
“Olivia,” I say, taking an up-close inventory. “Sorry—you were busy restringing the viola.”
He gestures toward it. “No problem. I’ll fix it later. Or maybe you want to . . .” He smiles wider. “I guess New England Symphony violinists have somebody for that.” I smile in return, my lungs filling. He knows who I am. “I’m a dabbler by comparison,” Theo notes.
“Don’t say that. I know you chose music over sports in college. That’s a bold choice.” His eyes, which are whiskey-colored, look curiously into mine.
“Right . . . Anyway,” he says. “I won’t lie . . .”
I bet he never does.
“I didn’t know who you were until I Googled you.”
My heart returns to sinus rhythm, maybe a beat slower. A bell rings and the principal excuses himself. Students wander into the classroom. There is bumping and brushing against my shoulder. “Uh, you might want to . . .” Theo grabs my arm and guides me toward him, out of the flow of traffic. My feet move. My gaze doesn’t. His grin drifts away from friendly into “What kind of dysfunctional flake did they saddle me with?” We’re swallowed by noise, a sewer’s worth of expletives, and the beatbox sounds I heard earlier. “If you want, you can take a seat over there.” Theo points to a benign corner of the room. “After class we can talk about what it is you want to accomplish while you’re here.”
“Accomplish?” I ask.
“Yeah. I’m curious. What is it you want out of the experience?”
What a great question . . . But in pure Olivia Klein fashion, I haven’t given it any thought beyond this moment.
During class, I feel more like the audience in a theater than a violin virtuoso. Theo makes a quick introduction, and curious stares come my way. “Miss Klein will be sitting in with us . . . for a while,” he states diplomatically. “She plays with the New England Symphony—she’s a professional violinist.” They are unimpressed. Theo tightens his brow. “It’s about the same odds as playing guard for the Celtics.” Amazingly, there are faint sounds that express fascination.
As class moves along, Theo seems to forget I’m here and so do his students. While they are a curious lot, and I am interested in their musical potential, I am ridiculously blindsided by their teacher. Theo and his students compete for my attention, my gaze volleying back and forth. But eventually Principal Giroux’s forewarning takes precedence, maybe Sasha’s ruminations. How will I benefit society from being here? I will my attention onto the group.
The room is an even divide. About half the class is marginally involved in what’s going on, half are passing time. One gets up and abruptly exits. As the boy leaves, Theo says, “Keep going, Ryan, and that will be a yellow card to the office.” I assume there is a color-coded system for rule breaking. I wonder if I should have been given one upon arrival. As Principal Giroux noted, defiling a Porsche and mouthing off to a judge is probably worth street credit. Ryan salutes with a middle finger as he exits. Theo doesn’t attempt to further engage him. I think this is a wise choice.
For those who show an interest in music, Theo has a deft rapport. He is patient, clearly a natural teacher. When it comes to music, that’s saying something, so very few of us are. Octavious has turned up with this group. He appears to be a ring leader. Because he likes Theo, this works to his advantage. Conversation drifts to Octavious’s composition.
“Don’t matter, man. Ain’t nobody gonna hear nothing but a kid from the streets with a foul mouth and some rhythm.” This bit of wisdom is imparted by a boy called Jesus who doesn’t seem to care much for music class, or Octavious. “Shit that ain’t gonna get him anywhere.”
“Not true,” insists Theo.
“Bullshit.” He thrusts a finger in Octavious’s direction. “You think what he puts out will ever get respected? Get him paid? People see what they want.” He motions at Octavious. I see his point. The sad fact is many symphony patrons would cross the street if they saw him coming. Attitudes like that, like my parents’—it’s a big part of what prompted my music endowment.
Theo refuses to give up. “I can’t promise that respect will come tomorrow or even before you and Octavious graduate from Braemore. But it will come.” Both Octavious and Jesus appear unconvinced.
Theo moves toward a section of wall covered in a myriad of classical masters. “Mozart,” he says, his finger thudding against his picture. “Known first for his foul mouth and an obsession with bodily functions. Scriabin . . .” He points to another. “A believer in mysticism and magic—in a time when such outspoken ideas could have easily gotten you institutionalized. Charles Ives,” Theo says, moving into the twentieth century. “Nothing short of genius and a Yale graduate. Yet he was best known for bucking the musical system while forging new and never-before-heard music. None of their paths were easy. But they didn’t let that stop them from pursing their passions.”
Silence settles over the room. Theo’s students absorb his point. He might not have changed minds, but he’s introduced the idea. And he’s right. Like any art form—singing, dance, writing—respect is a hard-fought battle. If you come from this environment, surely it’s twice as hard. For a moment, I indulge in the small contribution I have made to this end.
Theo’s notes about classical musicians are the highlight as the next forty-five minutes tick off and finally a bell rings again. I field more strange looks as the students exit. But since I’ve contributed nothing that they know of, they go without a word. It seems evident that Theo has forgotten me. He begins to erase the white board from when the class—which was mostly conversational—took a brief educational turn. Theo drew out a treble clef in attempt to explain a simple three-quarter rhythm. I clear my throat.
He turns. “Oh, geez. I’m sorry.” He seems like a curious combination of confidence and absentmindedness—the very definition of a talented artist. He abandons the eraser and makes a beeline for my corner of the room. I’m about to stand when he whips a student desk around and sits opposite me. I widen my eyes at the near nose-to-nose point of view. “So that was a class at Braemore. Better or worse than you imagined?”
I push my back into the chair. “You’re good with them. But I see the challenge. There’s some talent. The one boy. Oct . . .”
“Octavious. He was a find. I got lucky. Not only is he musically inclined, he’s a natural leader. Had he turned on me in the beginning, that controlled chaos,” Theo says, thumbing at the empty room over his shoulder. “It would be more like my fourth-period class.”
“So this was a good example of music time at Braemore.”
“You bet. Stick around. My next class has more the atmosphere you’re anticipating—verge of anarchy.”
“And you like that atmosphere?”
“I wish I could tell you that was my sole purpose in taking this job, but that’d be a lie.”
“So why did you do it?” On the desk, under my hand, is a music theory book. Rhythmically, repetitively, I flip the soft-bound pages with my fingertips. It looks like nervousness. It’s not. My hands are almost always in constant motion, and this is a comfort zone. “Why did you take this job?”
He leans back in his chair. I believe Theo felt the next question should have been his: “So what is it you’re doing time for, Miss Klein?”
“I needed to refocus—find a different starting point.” Theo watches anxious energy filter through my fingertips.
“Habit,” I say as the book’s pages whoosh by. “No instrument, but my fingers don’t seem to know that.”
“Funny,” Theo says. “I do the same thing . . . for the same reason.” My fingers halt, clutching the book. Theo reverts to my previous question about why he’s taken the Braemore job. “My fiancée and I broke up last spring.” He says this as if trying the words out on a stranger.
“I’m sorry. I, um . . . I didn’t mean to pry.”
“You didn’t. I offered.” He pauses. “It’s not that you asked, just that it happened. India . . . that’s h
er name.”
“Pretty name,” I say, leaning forward, resting my chin on my fist.
“I always thought so. Anyway, she went back to Long Island where she’s from. She works for her parents’ catering company. I took the job here.”
I wait for more, but there is nothing. There shouldn’t be. They are the tidbits you’d share with an outsider. But I hear the sour note in Theo’s short explanation. This was not what he wanted. It’s a narrow opening to a more personal conversation. I grab it like a kid stealing candy. “I know a little more about you than your teaching status.”
“Oh?” he says.
“I’ve followed the Shep Stewart articles in the Ledger over the years.”
“Oh,” Theo says again. His expression changes, shifting from the fiancée who left him to the father he lost. The pain is completely different, equally intense.
“I’m sorry,” I say, sitting up straight. “I didn’t mean to—”
He holds up a hand. “You just caught me off guard. The column is my mother’s doing. I don’t even look at it—or I haven’t since I was about thirteen.”
“But if you don’t want to be part of it . . .”
“I made my peace with Shep’s living diary a long time ago. It works for my mother . . . it doesn’t for me. We have an agreement. She continues to provide Shep Stewart with basic information, and I politely ignore it.” He smiles at me. “Interesting, you’re the first person to ‘recognize’ me from the stories.”
“Am I?” I don’t know if that makes me sound like a stalker or just ridiculously callous. “But if you don’t want to be part of the stories . . . Joaquin Perez, he opted out last year. He moved to Canada.”
“Did he?” Theo says. “Wow—you must have us memorized.”
Stalker it is.
“I’m sorry. It’s such a painful inauspicious date—for an entire country,” I say, trying to blend with the masses. “I mean, Shep, he continues with the column because it resonates with readers, right?”
“I suppose,” Theo says. “Guess my perspective is more up close.” Our stares turn awkward. From Theo’s point of view, it appears I’ve sought him out to gawk at his all-too-personal tragedy.
I stand. “I apologize. This was a horrible idea. I’m very sorry for your loss.” A father . . . Theo has lost his father . . . It’s never sunk in quite this way. My face rarely burns with embarrassment. Currently, it’s on fire. “I, um . . . I didn’t mean to be disrespectful, following Shep’s stories, bringing that up. I just . . . Musically,” I say, stumbling like a drunk, “I felt a connection. That’s all.”
“Listen, it’s okay, how you found me . . . or why it is you know me.” Theo stands too. “Really.” He presses his hands to the air. “I just don’t feel any connection to Shep’s stories because . . . Well, because I lived it.” His hands are still in an apologetic pose, insisting I sink back into the seat. He sits too.
“Sorry,” I say again. This may be more apologies than I’ve cumulatively offered in the past decade. “I didn’t think this through from your point of view.”
“Doesn’t change what is.” Magnanimously, Theo eases my guilt.
“Still . . . I got unduly caught up in the stories.”
“I’ve read Shep’s other stuff. He’s good at spinning drama. What is it now—fifteen, sixteen stories? I can see how a person could get caught up in them.”
“But if you don’t want to be part of the story, why not take a pass like Joaquin? Why let her . . . your mother keep participating on your behalf?”
“She’s my mother. I’d do anything for her.” Theo shrugs. “The updates don’t alter the facts. They don’t help me. Shep’s stories keep the memory of my dad alive for her—and I’d guess they sell a lot of newspapers for him. I prefer to remember my dad every day but that day.”
“I see. What a thoughtful perspective.” Rational . . . mature . . . enlightened . . . Recognize any of those qualities, Liv? Not so much, huh? “Well,” I say, glancing at the upside-down view of Theo’s watch. “I guess I can check some time off my hours owed—although I was about as useful as this music theory book.” I’ve reverted to strumming pages.
“No worries. I assumed this would be an ‘observation day.’” Theo’s fingers quote the air. “But I thought we could discuss how you might offer some real classroom inspiration.”
“Inspiration?”
“Yes. I mean, you’ll be participating with students in some way, right?”
“Participate . . . Uh, of course.” I’m stunningly reminded of my on-paper purpose for being here. I owe society and Theo. Instead of his watch, I look to the wall clock. “Could we possibly do it next time? I have rehearsal at eleven.” I stand, brushing my hand over my dress. This will be the first time I have ever not worn yoga pants to a rehearsal.
“Sure. But wait,” Theo says. “Don’t I get at least a ten-second Q and A in return?” The brushing stops; I freeze. “I’m not asking your personal business,” Theo quickly adds. “But Principal Giroux did share that your community service hours stemmed from a domestic incident.”
“That’s right.”
He misreads my discomfort. “Is it, uh . . . I mean, you’re all right at home and everything? I’m not prying. I just feel like I should have some sense of where you’re coming from . . . if it’s a violent situation.”
For a moment I have no idea what he’s driving at. Then I connect the word domestic to violence. How obtuse—on my part. “No . . . no . . . nothing like that. Rob, my husband, he’s . . . He’d never . . .” Theo’s tender-hearted assumption causes me to flummox so hard I can’t form a proper reply. “My husband . . . our marriage, it’s hit a rough patch lately. But the community service hours—that was all me. The result of a poor decision. My skill as a violinist is only a close second to making bad choices.” I dart past Theo but find myself twisting back around. “It was kind of you to ask, to be concerned.”
He watches my awkward, backward exit. I stare, taking in the indefinable mix of genetics. Some children are like that, nothing you can put your finger on. Regardless, whoever Theo is, it’s the result of good parenting, nothing more. I turn and exit into the hall, wiping a ridiculous tear from my eye. Nurture has thwarted nature. I’ve wondered for so long. I have not lied to Theo. Erratic choices have always been my nemesis. Unbeknownst to Theo, he is the exception: giving away the baby who became music teacher Theo McAdams stands as my singular, finest decision.
CHAPTER TEN
NEWPORT BEACH, CALIFORNIA
Sam
Sam has spent months reacquiring life skills—or adjusting to the fact that he will need some. To a point, Charlene’s words have resonated. Sam is determined to prove her wrong, even if he never speaks to her again. He starts by making phone calls. Sure, he’s been out of touch, but that is to be expected. He goes as far back as seems necessary to the cause. That means old teammates, good friends. Friends he did not want to burden when he was ill. Sam talks to Andy Palmer and Eduardo Muniez. Athletes have bonds, pitchers even stronger ones. Both are happy to hear from Sam, shocked to learn of his illness. The men are elated when Sam shares his good news. He may live long enough to pitch in a Fourth of July old-timers’ game and attend his Baseball Hall of Fame induction, assuming he gets in. He smiles at what is really a foregone conclusion.
The conversations move past history, and the men talk about their present-day lives. Andy, who spent as much time cheating on his wife as he did being married to her, has worked out this particular aspect of his life. A lot of ballplayers are like that—it takes time to transition from the rigors of a pro-athlete existence into an ordinary one. They’re really great human beings. A half hour later Andy is still talking, but Sam’s ability to relate has slipped. He cannot quite grasp Andy’s happy ending, which involves Jesus and something called Marriage Boot Camp. He wonders if Andy was bound and duct taped, whisked away into the night, intervention style. When Andy segues into enthusiastic chatter about how coaching Little League
for Jesus is his present-day passion, Sam feels as connected to Andy as he did the hot dog vendors in the Big A Stadium. When Andy wants to pray over the phone, Sam agrees if only to end the call.
Somehow, catching up with his old teammate Eduardo proves to be even less relatable. He tells Sam that he is divorced from wife number three, a woman Eduardo describes by way of a litany of unflattering terms that Sam would not use on a prostitute. The former center fielder goes on, spending much of the conversation complaining how the bulk of his earnings go to child support and divorce settlements. He tells Sam he is smart for never having married or had children. When another call beeps in, Eduardo says he has to go, and Sam is glad for the reprieve. Eduardo, he decides, is more bitter than Charlene.
But this conversation ushers in a speck of introspection. With his hand still on the phone, Sam thinks about not having had children. He admits it’s not Charlene who is connected to this thought. He did not want a child with Charlene—if this makes him a bad person, Sam cannot help that. Breath trembles out of him, the way it did after receiving various test results from Bogey. During the past year, there were instances where Sam considered changing his phone number, as if this would somehow change his fate. But being as his fate has changed, Sam’s brain now floods with ancient imagery. The only child he might have wanted belonged to him and Livy. But, of course, none of that was meant to be.
Sam thinks back to longer nights during his illness. He spent more than a few wondering how life turned out for Olivia. She’d been so devastated when they parted ways. He shakes off dusty guilt. While the end of Livy’s pregnancy was his fault, not having children was for the best. Sam would have been no better a father than his own. Hudson Nash was a man who kept two belts—one on him and one in his hand. This thought is enough to quiet Sam’s residual regret.
He moves on in the way that’s most comfortable, by not looking over his shoulder. Sam continues to make phone calls. He does not feel vindicated; he has not proven Charlene wrong about wasting his life. There’s more legacy to life than having reproduced. Sam leaves a few more messages, but his phone doesn’t ring. Another week passes before Chaz Thurman returns his call.
Unstrung Page 10
