Duet for Three Hands

by Tess Thompson

  Clare reached across the table and squeezed his forearm. Whit’s face looked both stricken and sympathetic.

  “Now, Whit, don’t look like that,” said Nathaniel. “You must remember, I’ll always have the memory to draw upon.”

  He could recall the night as if it were yesterday, instead of eight years ago. The crowd fell silent, no rustling of programs or stirrings that made chairs creak. He heard them listening, felt them with him at every note. They were at ease, confident in his ability. He’d known then that he was a master of the craft; it was there, unmistakable, in the relaxed silence of a rapturous audience. The months and months of practicing faded from his memory, and he was left with just the feeling of the triumph.

  “Sorry darlin’,” Frances said now, playing with her necklace, “but that’s just about the boringest story I ever heard. You must be the only man alive who can meet the Fitzgeralds and come away with a story about a dead composer.”

  The morning after Christmas, in the downy softness of the guest room bed, Nathaniel awakened from the edges of a long, familiar nightmare. The man, a knife slicing down the center of a piano, the clanging of bells. He jerked awake, guilty, sweaty. Stifling a groan, he rubbed his eyes. The clock on the bedside table told him it was quarter after nine. How many drinks was it last night, he wondered? He hadn’t bothered to count. Frank Bellmont did that to a person.

  The room felt cold, which was a relief to his overheated skin. He breathed deeply and rubbed his burning eyes before turning a bleary gaze to the painting hanging on the wall. Frances at two years old smiled at him. She wore a white dress, and blonde ringlets framed an angelic face. Where had that little girl gone?

  Dishes clanged downstairs in the kitchen. It smelled like his mother’s home on Saturday mornings: bacon and rising bread. He dressed in a freshly ironed shirt and pants, then sat on the wooden chair in the corner of the room, floorboards cold on his bare feet. He bowed his head, as if he might pray, but instead reached for a pair of socks and pulled them over his cold feet and headed out.

  All the bedroom doors were shut except for Whitmore’s. Downstairs, Cassie worked in the kitchen, her hands and forearms covered with flour. She moved with repetitive efficiency, flattening the bread dough, folding it over on itself and pressing it down again, occasionally adding another handful of flour. She looked at him and nodded. “Mornin’, Mr. Nate. Can I make you some eggs?”

  His stomach turned as he sat heavily in a chair at the table. “Just some coffee, please.”

  “Yessir.” Her eyes darted to his face before pouring a large cup of dark coffee. She set it in front of him, adding a splash of cream without him asking.

  He squeezed the bridge of his nose. “Bit of a headache this morning, I’m afraid.”

  “’Spect so.”

  Cassie had the same pencil-straight posture and way of holding her mouth in a line of disapproval as his mother. Rubbing his left arm, he stared out at the fog that hovered over the lake.

  An image of his mother came to mind. She knelt on the patch of grass behind their house, her arms deep in a tub of water, washing clothes. It was warm, the smell of the sea drifting through the Maine breeze, her freckled arms moving up and down, the sun shining on her brown hair so that it appeared almost red, the water in the tub making a splashing sound that harmonized with the waves below. She’d taken in laundry all that summer, washing a stranger’s shirts so that Nathaniel could study piano.

  Cassie’s voice brought him back to the warm kitchen. “Your arm ache this morning?” She asked without a hint of pity.

  “A little.”

  “You have the dream again?”

  “’Fraid so.”

  As if she’d softened to him at the mention of the dream, she sighed and poured a thick green liquid from a tin pitcher into a coffee cup. “Drink this before your coffee.”

  He grimaced. “What is this?”

  “Juices of different herbs and roots. It’ll cure what ails you.”

  He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Even your herbal remedies can’t cure what ails me, Cassie.”

  She put her hands on her hips and shook her head. “Whiskey sure won’t cure you, I can tell you that, Mr. Nate.”

  “Did I ever tell you that you remind me of my mother?”

  She shrugged, the corners of her mouth in a half-smile. “Don’t change that I’m right.”

  The green concoction tasted bitter. Earthy? “Cassie, this is horrible.”

  “You’ll thank me in a few minutes.”

  He got up from the chair. “I’ll take it with me into the study. I’ve got some work to do this morning.”

  “Composing?” She raised her eyebrows, a hopeful lilt in her voice.

  “No, reading through applications for my summer composition course.”

  “Teaching’s fine.” She picked up her dough, smacking it and then making it into a ball. “But no reason you can’t compose.” She buttered the dough and put it into a bowl.

  “Ah, Cassie, you think too highly of me. I’m nothing but a sack of self-pity.” He paused at the door, gesturing with the glass of green liquid. “Thank you for the coffee. And this. I think.”

  “Don’t bring me nothing but an empty glass.”

  In the study, thinking how much a whiskey would soothe his headache, he focused his thoughts instead on the papers scattered across the desk. There were at least a dozen applications for his summer musical composition program. Sighing and occasionally rubbing his temples, he looked through the applications and accompanying sheets of original compositions.

  There were three decent compositions from the typical applicants at Alabama College: wealthy young ladies from upstanding families. The fourth was from a Mrs. Lydia Tyler. Her composition was technically more sophisticated than the other applicants, and her application letter unusual. He read his favorite paragraph twice, smiling at the Eleanor Roosevelt reference.

  I am a middle-aged widow interested in exploring the craft of composition. My life was devoted to my family for almost twenty years, but I now find myself free of obligations. My daughters are grown, and it seems the world would like to discard me as no longer useful. The residents of the small town where I live think I should be content to accompany the hymns at our Methodist church and serve the hungry at our soup mission. However, I rage against the idea that because of one’s age one must stop learning and growing. Mrs. Eleanor Roosevelt is a woman I greatly admire. You don’t see her in the background of life, meek and quiet.

  He wrote the acceptance letters, which included one to Mrs. Tyler, and addressed and stamped the envelopes to ensure they would go out in the afternoon’s mail. Afterward, he decided to call his mother. He’d had a telephone installed at her home just for this purpose, to call her on holidays and her birthday. She hadn’t answered when he’d called yesterday; he imagined how the ring echoed in the stark, small, seaside house with its brick fireplace, stained black from years of soot, and the twin rocking chairs, empty since his father died.

  Nathaniel went to the desk and dialed the operator, asking to be put through to his mother’s house in Maine. She answered on the second ring. “Hello.” She sounded like she was shouting into the sea’s wind, afraid she couldn’t be heard.

  “Ma?”

  “Nathaniel.” Her voice softened, sounding pleased.

  “Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas, son.”

  “Where were you yesterday? I called several times.”

  “Ach, well, had to make the rounds with my pies. There are so many folks down on their luck, Nathaniel. I baked a dozen, and Preacher Thompson and I delivered them all yesterday morning.”

  “You get the money I sent?”

  “I surely did. There was no reason to send it. I get along just fine.”

  “I wanted you to buy something nice for yourself.”

  There was static on the phone line, and he knew she must be shaking her head. “No, I don’t need a thing.”

  “Somet
hing you wanted, Ma.” He stifled a sigh. Was that seagulls in the background? “You have the windows open, Ma?”

  “A crack. Gotta have some fresh air.” Another pause, and then he heard her chuckle. “I gave what you sent to the church, but not before I slipped a little to Earl’s wife. I’m making some bread to send up there right now. He’s been out of work two years, not a toy in sight for those children on Christmas day if it hadn’t been for the money you sent. I was proud to know you had it to send. The people here are suffering, Nathaniel.”

  He heard loneliness in her voice. “I know, Ma. I’m glad you used it how you wanted. Sorry we didn’t make it up to see you again this year.”

  He imagined she tugged on the front of her apron the way she so often did, her eyes gazing unfalteringly toward the sea from her kitchen window. “I know your wife’s family expects you.” She always called Frances his wife instead of her name. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Same, Ma. No difference.”

  “You keeping up practicing with your right hand?”

  He looked longingly at the whiskey on Frank’s bar. The phone cord wasn’t long enough for him to reach it.

  “Yes, Ma. Every day.”

  “That’ll have to be enough to sustain you.”

  “I know, Ma.”

  “The folks at the church, they pray for you every Sunday.”

  A lump developed at the back of his throat. “For what, Ma? What do they pray for?”

  “That you’ll find some peace, Nathaniel. Just for peace.”

  “You thank them for me. Merry Christmas, Ma.”

  “You too, son.”

  After he hung up he poured a generous whiskey, gulping it down in two swallows, then poured another and stared into the glass. He shook his head, like a horse against the reins, and set the drink on the bar, staring at his hands for a long moment before walking outside to the lake. The landscape was encased in fog and the air bitter cold, giving the whole scene a feeling of misery. He threw a stone into the lake. It made a plop into the water, lost in the mist.

  That evening’s party was at a steady hum by eight o’clock. The sounds of the celebration were like those at all of the Bellmont parties Nathaniel had been to: a hum of voices punctuated by the clinks of glasses and an occasional low-toned roar of a man’s boisterous belly laugh. Tonight, though, one saw the fragments of a lost world. Many of the women wore fashions that were years old, something no one would have done before the crash. There were several couples missing, too. Roger Baker was dead by his own hand two days after Black Thursday, and his widow “was living with relatives, God knows where,” according to Clare. The Hardings, after losing their lake home and most of their other assets, disappeared from society. “The poor bastard had everything in the market, and it was gone, poof, before you could say whiskey sour,” said Frank. Colonel Tate’s dream of a summer colony had been postponed as well. “Investor money dried up, unfortunately,” Clare told Nathaniel. “But he got his resort built anyway. Not that anyone uses it.”

  The rest of the crowd, as Clare called them, had managed to keep their lake homes, but their demeanors were frayed. The women self-consciously darted their eyes to their own clothing when they came in and saw Clare dressed in an extravagant European gown. Several of Frank’s friends seemed a little too jovial, with a pretend optimism about their business ventures or finances.

  Nathaniel meandered about the room, feeling unknown and self-conscious at the same time, unsure what to say, wishing to shove his left hand in his pocket to protect it from the inevitable, curious stares.

  Clare came up behind him. “Get yourself a drink, Nate. Eat something. Have a good time.” She smiled and lowered her voice, almost too quiet for him to hear. “Try not to glare at folks like you’re looking right through them, darlin’. It makes people nervous, especially since you’re a Yankee,” she teased.

  He smiled back at her. “I’ll try, Clare.”

  The back of her skirt swept the floor as she walked toward the door to greet a new guest.

  He turned to see Frank approaching, cigar between his teeth. “Frances went outside with that Hazel Murphy woman. Haven’t seen her come back in.” He pointed across the room to a young woman with a flat face. “Hazel came in ’while ago.”

  The scar on Nathaniel’s arm throbbed with a dart of pain. “I’ll go look for her.”

  Outside, the cold caught in his chest. He coughed and pulled his white dinner jacket tighter as he strode across the grass toward the dock. A figured moved in the water. Frances.

  “For Christ’s sake,” he shouted to her. “Frances, get out. It’s disgusting in there.”

  She waved her arms while treading water, calling out to him, “Darlin’, come on in.”

  “Get out of there before you catch your death.”

  “Ah, don’t be such a bore.”

  “There are water moccasins in this lake.” He leaned over the edge of the dock in an attempt to see into the water. “Do you have anything on?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Please, Frances.” He used a coaxing tone as if she were a frightened child. “Come on out of there before people see you.” He sat on his knees on the end of the dock and patted the aging wood of the planks. “Come on now. We can watch the stars together.”

  She swam closer, and, holding onto the ladder, climbed onto the dock. Naked, she shivered violently in the night air. Frantic to cover her, he took off his jacket and wrapped it around her thin shoulders. She held onto his arm. He noticed for the first time an empty bottle of whiskey at his feet. Before he could think of how to get her inside as quietly as possible, she shook off his coat and began to dance suggestively up and down the dock, as if she performed in a burlesque show, singing Silent Night at the top of her lungs. Out of the corner of his eye he saw party guests gathering on the veranda of the house. He ran after her with his jacket, but she was too quick for him. She sprinted to the end of the dock and stumbled, dropping to her knees on the muddy shore before scrambling once again to her feet. He overtook her with three long strides and tackled her so that they both fell into the mud. She flailed at him with her hands, scratching his face. Covering her with his body, he held her arms above her head. A screech exploded from her as she planted her bare feet into the sand and pushed up with her hips. “Get off me. You never let me have any fun.”

  Speaking through clenched teeth, he kept his voice low, knowing how sound carried over water. “Be quiet. Everyone’s watching you.”

  She went limp under him. “Won’t Mother be mortified?” It was like one long word.

  “My God, Frances, what’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing’s the matter with me.” She let out a maniacal giggle. “Daddy’s going to be real mad.”

  “Oh, Frances, I don’t know what to do with you.”

  “Nate,” she slurred, “was it Juliet’s mother that couldn’t get the blood off her hands?”

  “No, Lady Macbeth.” He realized he’d dropped his jacket in the chase and had nothing to cover her with. “How much did you have to drink?”

  “Not enough. I can still see your face.”

  He flinched as though she’d slapped him. Shake it off. Think rationally. Behind him he heard Clare’s cashmere voice.

  “I brought a robe, Nathaniel. Help her up while I put it on her.”

  “Mother,” mumbled Frances. “Just what I need.”

  “Nate, is she ill?”

  “Drunk.” He pulled Frances up and supported her body weight while Clare put her into the robe. “Can you walk or shall I carry you?”

  Her eyes fluttered and rolled back in her head as she collapsed against him. “She’s out,” he muttered, more to himself than to Clare.

  “Use the entrance off the kitchen to carry her to her room.”

  He didn’t bother to respond. There was nothing to say. All but the boldest guests had gone back inside the house when they saw Clare on the beach. Regardless, he didn’t glance up as he carri
ed his wife around to the side entrance of the house.

  Chapter 23

  Whitmore

  * * *

  From the window of his bedroom, leaning his forehead against the glass, his breath a cloud of condensation on the window, Whitmore watched Nathaniel carry his sister off the beach. Turning back to his easel, he surveyed his work. It was of the lake that afternoon, gray mist hovering above brown water. Was it finished? Sleep on it, he decided. Sometimes he could tell what it needed after a period away.

  He paced about the room, restless, thinking of Jeselle. Everything felt different. The moment he stepped into the kitchen he knew she’d changed. He remembered vividly how she’d been at ten years old, always laughing and moving through life like a dance, so alert and intelligent. How quick she was to learn things, everything absorbed in an instant and portrayed through the snap of her eyes. But now? She seemed old, almost brittle, like her mother, her carriage in a fixed line like Cassie’s, with hardness in her eyes. Had his leaving done this, or was it the speed and force of adulthood that could capture your innocence, your brilliance, and bring you to your knees, turning you into your parents? He shuddered, thinking of becoming like his father. How could he get through these several weeks of holiday now, without Jes? All his life he’d felt her by his side, and without her he was left off-kilter and barren.

  And his mother? She seemed frightfully thin and nervous, reminding him of a fragile china doll Frances had played with as a child. He couldn’t help but think that things were worse since he’d left for school. For all of them.

  He wandered outside. The sky had cleared during the party, and the moon was full. Sounds of laughter and clinking glasses floated across the yard as he walked along the path to the tree house, the moon lighting his way through the dense thicket of trees. Rung by rung, feeling in the dark, he climbed the ladder. Almost to the top, he stopped. Had he heard someone sniff? He climbed the last rung and looked in. Jes. Crying. Huddled in the corner.