New Year's Resolutions

by Briggs, Laura

  “Rodney,” crooned Abby, bending down to give him a hug. “How are you? Are you having fun at your new school?” She heard a chorus of greetings from the students behind her, Rodney replying with a shy wave.

  “Go on, Rodney,” said Mrs. Riley. “Ask your teacher.” The boy stared at his shoes in an uncharacteristic show of restraint.

  “Can I play in the concert, Miss Abby?” He was mumbling in a quiet voice. “Please?”

  This new version of Rodney touched her, a slight feeling of heartache in the plaintive voice directed at the floor.

  She tousled his hair, her face breaking into a gentle smile. “Of course you can, Rodney,” she said. “We’d be happy to have you play with us. You still have your instrument, right?”

  He raised his face, a familiar grin appearing. “Yeah, I do,” he said. “Thank you, Miss Abby.”

  “Let me get you some sheet music,” she said. “And you have to promise to practice every day. And come practice with us on these nights–” she handed a sheet to Mrs. Riley, “–so you’ll be a real part of the orchestra again.”

  “Hey, Rodney, you look like a dork!” This from Travis, who kicked his heels against his chair with this statement. Normally, Abby would scold him, but she could sense a rough playfulness in the words, especially since Rodney was getting brave enough again to make eye contact with his old classmates.

  “Yeah, wanna make something of it, Travis?” He brushed past Abby and charged into the group, where the students were already greeting him eagerly. Jacqi gave him a hug, then turned away shyly.

  “Thank you,” said Mrs. Riley, in a low voice. “I really mean it. He saw one of the posters and couldn’t talk about anything else...”

  “My pleasure,” said Abby. “I’ll talk to Principal Gyvers about it, but I wouldn’t have him miss it for the world.” Even if every ex-student she had showed up, she would find a way to squeeze them into the performance.

  “He was looking forward to it last year,” said Mrs. Riley. “But then I had to change apartments, there was this new job...” She trailed off, with a shrug.

  “Make sure he practices whenever he can,” said Abby. She glanced behind her, where Rodney was now showing the other kids a keychain game from his pocket.

  “Come on, Rodney,” called Mrs. Riley. “We have to go now.” When he didn’t respond, she moved into the midst of the group and took his hand, steering him towards the door.

  “Bye, Miss Abby!” he called. “Bye, guys!” He waved his hand as he disappeared through the door, a noisy farewell issued from the orchestra in his wake.

  She had missed him; just as she missed all her students. Closing her eyes for a moment, she let a smile linger at the thought of laying awake worrying about Rodney’s onstage antics in the way she worried about Jacqi’s shyness and George’s moods.

  “Can we practice ‘Jingle Bells’ now, Miss Abby?” asked George, interrupting her thoughts.

  “Yes,” she answered, “Yes, we can.”

  *****

  At the book club meeting, Abby brooded over Wuthering Heights. Another member of the club was complaining about this month’s choice, given the holiday season.

  “Why can’t we read A Christmas Carol?” A surgeon named Rebecca, one of the newer members, argued. “Or The Gift of the Magi. Something more seasonal.”

  “Those are so contrite,” said Russell.

  “And Wuthering Heights isn’t?” countered Rebecca.

  Abby turned the page in her book, not interested in the outcome of the story in the coffee shop or on the page. Romance seemed pointless at this time, a ludicrous proposition in the midst of hectic music practices and holiday shopping.

  Was she in a slump? She pondered this as she listened to Russell and Rebecca drone on through the tedium of the book club’s Wuthering Heights discussion. Her resolve to be confident had paid off, since the orchestra had its concert and she finally found the courage to sing before an audience.

  On the other hand, she had accomplished a grand total of three recipes this year. Not to mention the sting of what happened between her father and herself, something that sent a sharp pain through her chest whenever a reminder surfaced. Such as a song on the radio or a photograph tucked in a book at home.

  Last, but not least, she was still alone. Her one bid for romance in the bookstore had left her soured on the experience of asking someone out. Maureen had wisely never repeated her offer of a matchmaking service to fill the void, although Abby sometimes imagined the temptation to try it was greater than she admitted.

  At her apartment, she packed the photo albums into their box again and shoved it deep in a closet shelf. Her childhood drawings, her letters from her mother, all shoved in the bottom beneath the albums. She taped the lid shut. She could think of no reason to open it again.

  In her drawer, the unfinished letter lay beneath a stack of paid credit card bills and open bank statements. Fishing it from beneath the pile, she crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the garbage. Leaving the rest of the stationary pad on her desk, its topmost page now blank.

  The image of her eight year-old self chasing the car down the driveway pervaded her memory, the sickness sweeping over her as she watched the car disappear from sight. A scene destined to be repeated in so many other forms throughout her life: her father walking out on a family argument, herself slamming the door at seventeen as she ran to the neighbors’. Her rental car pulling out of her father’s driveway on Thanksgiving Day.

  The mistake, she realized, had been the belief that running back would somehow change things in the end. That so long as she persisted and pursued, everything would end happily. The same belief that made her follow his car at eight made her drive two days’ distance over twenty years later.

  Not letting go had rewarded her the same way each time. With nothing but pain.

  She closed the closet door, shutting the rows of coats and jumbled music equipment out of sight. Then she placed an order for Thai takeout and stuffed herself on cashew and noodles.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Dolores unwrapped the box on her desk, sliding the metallic ribbon from the top. Unsheathing the tissue paper inside to find an object tucked below.

  “It’s beautiful, Henry,” she said, lifting the antique leather volume from inside. Gilded letters proclaimed A History of the Opera in Europe. Pages cut along the edges, a copperplate illustration of the London Opera House within.

  Leaning against his office doorway, Henry smiled. “I thought you might like that,” he said. “I saw it in a shop one day and it seemed to be saying ‘buy me’ from where it sat. Besides, it seemed like a good way to say thank you for all your hard work this year.” He knew without mentioning the book cover specifically that she would understand the inference.

  “I love it,” she answered, hugging it against herself. “It’ll have a place of honor among my opera guides.” As she tucked it into the box again, she glanced at the pile of paperwork behind him on his desk.

  “Have you started the cover for Leaves from a Tree?” she asked. Grinning at his surprised expression as she added, “I saw the editor’s memo on the galleys this morning. Not to mention the note from Elaine Tamis’s agent. Apparently, they absolutely love the final design– so I’m assuming you wouldn‘t say no to offering someone else the same opportunity.”

  “All right, enough with the praise,” he said, feeling slightly embarrassed and pleased at the same time. “I’ve done a few preliminary designs for the poetry volume. I talked to the editor Kathleen this morning and she said they won’t expect anything final for at least two weeks.”

  Dolores shook her head. “And to think you would have cheerfully wasted your talents,” she teased. She emptied her leather briefcase of electronic odds and ends, her flash drive and a small video camera.

  “Did you have a good time at the ski lodge?” Henry asked.

  “The best,” she answered. “I have photographs of the snow on the mountains at this perfect angle at
sunset…” She flipped on her cell phone, scrolling through photos of herself and her husband posed before a log resort, then on a slope near the chair lifts.

  He admired her photos with a sense of sadness in the back of his thoughts. He once envisioned himself spending a weekend like this with someone special, escaping from work to the snowy vision of a mountain slope. Then again, he could have had his chance if he reconciled with Lois–something that seemed less appealing with each passing day.

  “Do you need a second ticket for the Christmas chorale concert on Friday?” Dolores asked. “My husband’s assistant canceled at the last minute, so we have a spare. With a little finagling at the ticket office, I’m sure we could get yours moved to our box.”

  “No, thanks,” he said. “I think Seth and Sheryl have other plans for Friday.” His friend’s girlfriend had accepted an invitation for the two of them to attend a cider festival in upstate New York.

  “What about a friend?” asked Dolores. “You know, someone whose acquaintanceship you would like to improve?” Her voice taking on a subtle hinting tone similar to the one she employed when referring to romantic candidates like Annette.

  “No,” he answered, gently. “I think I’ll savor this one by myself.”

  *****

  “Next year, I’m gonna lose the extra pounds,” said Seth. “That’s my New Year’s resolution. Maybe work out a little, get a gym membership.”

  Henry shifted the phone cradled on his shoulder. “That’s a good one,” he said. “Of course, you realize it’ll be tough to keep.” He envisioned Seth’s cabinets, crammed with potato chip bags and mini candy bars.

  “Sheryl’s kind of...pro-salad,” continued Seth. “I think she thinks I should work on my physical image. You know, watch what I eat, what I wear...” He trailed off, as if in thought.

  Sheryl’s transformative powers had become a subtle topic between Henry and Seth for the past few weeks. Despite her somewhat plain appearance when compared to Seth’s previous conquests, who ran the gauntlet from shocking to striking, she was a formidable figure beneath her button blouses and sleek leather jacket. Capable of steering Seth towards country music concerts and health food, apparently.

  “Are you sure you’re comfortable with that?” asked Henry. He tapped a colored pencil against his sketch pad, an image of a sparrow perched on his windowsill.

  There was a slight sigh on the other end of the phone. “Dude, I don’t know.” Seth’s tone was baffled. “I mean, she’s incredible, she’s so...grounded. But I kind of like all-nighters with coffee, weekends sacked out in bed, living off junk food. You know, the life. But then there’s her and–” he fumbled, searching for words, “–and she’s amazing. I mean, really amazing. And sometimes I think, maybe it’s worth it. You know?”

  “I have the idea,” said Henry. Who felt the sharp sting of one who didn’t know, for obvious reasons.

  After a moment’s silence, Seth’s voice piped up again. “But anyway, this is gonna be the year I change things. Do some growing up and all that. I’m gonna get in shape, get my business organized, maybe even take up a new hobby...” His voice perked with enthusiasm as the list grew.

  “You go, buddy,” Henry answered.

  *****

  At the chorale concert, he had time to think about Seth’s resolution at his leisure. The flicker of hope he felt at the empty seats on either side of him died away as a portly businessman claimed one, an elderly theater patron the other.

  In the back of his mind was always the fantasy of a perfect, single young woman claiming one. Giving him a smile that made his heart thud as she asked him to explain something in the program. Those fantasies always remained daydreams, he concluded.

  The chorale poured forth Handel’s Messiah with gusto as Henry’s thoughts wandered towards Seth’s list of changes from their phone conversation. His own list from last year cropped up, the creeping love for books, the growing success in his artwork. Maybe next year he would resolve to take a poetry workshop and return to his college roots.

  On the other hand, he failed to kick his coffee habit. And tonight he was sitting alone in a performance hall instead of side by side with the love of his life.

  The crowd cheered as the song drew to a close, several rising to their feet with the applause. Except for Henry, who was still lost somewhere in his thoughts.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Abby trudged through the snow in her heavy boots, a sketchpad beneath her arms. She paused to breath the cold air deeply, savoring the sharp bite and the faint smell of tree bark.

  Now that the pavement was too slick for her to ride to work, she set off early each morning in order to cut through the park. Sometimes she drew the trees with their icy branches and tried to capture the image of birds in flight through the park.

  Today, however, she would have to enjoy a swifter walk than usual, since it was the day of the student concert. Their practice sessions would be a mini “dress rehearsal”–minus the formal attire, since most parents and guardians vetoed changing into the costumes until just before performance time to prevent mishaps.

  Shaking the snow from her boots, she approached the park’s street entrance as she prayed to hold onto this sense of calm for the rest of the day.

  *****

  In the glare of the stage lights, her students seemed smaller than usual. Their all-black ensemble was mismatched in comparison to the school’s sleek band and orchestra lines; their efforts showed, however, in shined shoes and carefully-braided hair, in sports coats for boys whose parents could barely afford such a luxury.

  Abby’s dress was a conservative black to match theirs, her shoes sensible flats since she would be on her feet conducting the performance. At this moment, however, she was crouched down to tie Rodney’s tie properly as he squirmed in his seat.

  “Is it done yet?” he whined. Behind him, George fingered his trumpet keys, nervously.

  “Almost,” said Abby. Biting her lip as she struggled to straighten the knot. When she finished, Rodney picked up his instrument and fidgeted into a more comfortable position in his chair.

  “I practiced every day, Miss Abby,” he said. “All of them except ‘Jingle Bells’. I already know it really well. My new music teacher showed us how to play it.”

  “Dorkface,” muttered Travis. Abby gave him a warning glance.

  “Travis,” she said, “remember, we’re supposed to focused on the music right now.” Reaching over, she adjusted the pages of his sheet music, the first song on the program on top the Mozart “Twinkle, Twinkle” from last spring.

  A small hand tugged at her skirt. She turned to confront a slightly green-faced Jacqi.

  “I don’t think I can play, Miss Abby,” she whispered. “Can I go home now?” Abby noticed the sweaty fingers wrapped around the violin bow, the fear in the little girl’s eyes.

  “What’s the matter?” Abby soothed, bending closer. “It’s okay, Jacqi. I feel just the same, but it’ll go away in a few minutes.” She stroked Jacqi’s hair, the snarled layers pulled back beneath a thick headband.

  She should offer for Jacqi to go sit below with her guardian; but she was half-afraid that offer might entice the rest of the orchestra. Whose nerves were showing at the eleventh hour as the sounds of movement in the auditorium grew louder. Whatever happened, she wanted to do her best to be sure they were all onstage when this program began.

  Rising, she stood in front of them, in the place she intended to occupy as their conductor. Body straight in a confident pose, her voice modulated so only they would hear her.

  “You all sound great,” she said. “I’m really proud of all of you. Really, really proud. No matter what happens tonight, you tried really hard.” She took a deep breath. “When the curtain comes up, I want you to look at me, okay? Not at the audience, but at me and your music. Pretend we’re in class and not onstage, just playing the way we would every time we practice.”

  Checking her watch, she read the time: seven-twenty-seven. Three
minutes until the concert began.

  “Why don’t we play something now?” she said. “We’ll play the first song. That way we’re ready when it starts.”

  “But the curtain’s not up, Miss Abby,” Bobby protested. The other students were swaying slightly, wavering between obeying and sitting in nervous silence as they waited.

  “It’s all right,” said Abby. “Everybody, turn to your music. I’m going to count and then we’ll start, okay?” She raised her hands apart, in a conductor’s motion, signaling silence. Under her breath, she prayed it would bring them to attention. To her surprise, it worked. Backs straightened, fingers fumbled for the right position. Rows of frightened eyes trained on her, the sound of noisy breathing and nervous feet tapping.

  On her signal, the first strains of “Twinkle, Twinkle,” emerged from their instruments. A wavering, uneven sound that gained strength as her students sank into the music. Patiently, she kept directing them, a smile growing on her face as she saw the first signs of relaxation–namely, concentration. The familiar frown on Rodney’s face, his freckles dark against his nervous pallor; the way Audrey’s forehead furrowed as she gazed transfixed at her music.

  Abby’s hands remained in motion, even as she heard the familiar flap of the curtain being raised. The surprised stage manager had responded to the orchestra playing, something Abby anticipated–although she hoped it would take them a few minutes more to respond.

  The orchestra continued playing, a few students faltering as the red velvet was lifted skywards, revealing shapes in the vast darkness of the auditorium. The sound of a wobbling tuba, a screechy violin string, as Abby’s heart pounded with dread. Her smile remained fixed in place, hands signaling for them to play louder.