by Sally Mandel
I opened my mouth to talk but all that came out was a croak.
“What? What, Bess?” Angie said, holding my hand to her cheek.
“Just … one … big … happy … family.”
Chapter Six
I asked Jake to cart Amadoofus away.
“You sure you’re ready for that?” he asked me.
“Can you do it soon?”
When he left to get his truck, I picked a souvenir from the rubble and put it in a shoebox—the key for middle C, which had turned even yellower over the years.
Jake showed up an hour later and took Amadoofus away. I didn’t ask where they went.
After that, the house seemed to ooze an ugly hopeless smell. The only person holding her head up was Mumma, who was exhausted and pissed off all right, but that wasn’t the whole picture. All of a sudden, she’d started bothering with her appearance. Those faded house-dresses wound up in the rag pile and she trotted out attractive clothes she used to save for weddings and wakes. Every morning before going off to work she’d read us a list of things to do. It was pretty unnerving, this lifetime nonperson suddenly becoming the queen of efficiency. Already, after only a few weeks on the job, she’d gotten a small promotion, and I could understand why.
Mumma had moved back into the bedroom with Dutch, but things had changed between them. I heard him using words like “please” and “thank you” in his conversations with her, and once when he didn’t know I was looking, he reached out and took her hand. But Mumma had put up a wall and seemed to be studying him over it as if he were some kind of species in the zoo. I’d catch her with this look on her face that read How did I ever wind up with him? There was a sharper edge to her, as if the blurred outline was coming into focus. It didn’t occur to me that maybe I’d never really bothered to take a close look.
One evening about two weeks after my father killed Amadoofus, Angie and I were sitting in the kitchen playing gin. It was getting dark earlier, and as soon as dinner was over I just marked time until I could go to sleep. That night, Dutch had been cleaned up and was in bed watching 90210. Angie and I flipped our cards over without talking. There wasn’t really anything to say anymore. But then Mumma came and stood in the doorway. She had a strange look on her face. I couldn’t tell if somebody had died or just won the lottery.
“Bess, you’d better come,” she said.
“What is it?” Angie had just picked up the ace I was looking for and I was in no mood for bad news.
“Someone’s here to see you.”
Angie and I got up and followed her. I don’t know what I expected. Those last weeks had taught me that thinking too much was a dangerous proposition. I’d learned to shut down my brain, move my body around like a machine, and do what was required. I was your basic robot-woman, and as far as I knew robots didn’t have a hell of a lot of imagination. In my stupefied state, I was not exactly prepared to see right there before my eyes, standing just inside the front door, Monsieur David Montagnier. He was wearing a tux, with his white bow tie hanging loose, and he was emitting about eight hundred watts in the hallway. I thought I would pass out from love.
“Fuck me,” I whispered. This time I couldn’t help it.
“Bess,” my mother said with that new no-nonsense tone.
“Sorry.” It took me a few seconds to remember that once upon a time I had had a life and that there were things you were supposed to do when a person came to call. I went up to David and stuck out my hand. He took it, but drew me closer and kissed me on both cheeks. Somehow I found the wits to make the introductions. Angie looked surprised all right, and a little intimidated, but even with all that she was checking him out. It still makes me smile to think of it. If it had been Ludwig van Beethoven himself in that doorway, Angie would have had that look: Yes, all right, I’m impressed, but exactly what do you want with my sister?
David turned to Mumma. “I’m sorry to show up unannounced. There seems to be something wrong with your telephone and I’ve just gotten off a plane.”
“In that?” I asked, indicating the tux. I was hoping he hadn’t noticed how evil the house smelled.
“I was performing in London and barely caught my flight. Mrs. Stallone,” he said to Mumma. “I’m sorry about your husband. How is he?”
“It’s a slow recovery, but thank you for asking,” Mumma said. “Wouldn’t you like something to eat after such a long trip?” Mumma was poised and gracious. I wasn’t used to feeling proud of her.
“Actually, I was wondering if I could speak with Mr. Stallone for a few moments,” David said. “I realize it’s a lot to ask but I’m not a total stranger, really.” He smiled at me. I guess I’d thought that I’d never see that phenomenon beamed in my direction again. I wondered why the entire house didn’t fall down from how my heart was careening around like a pachyderm on crack.
“I have to warn you, he hasn’t been much for company,” Mumma said. If that wasn’t the understatement of the millennium. Pauline was allowed to watch the soaps with him so they could gossip about his favorite characters. Except for her and Jake, Dutch would barely speak to anyone. Even Corny from the firehouse gave up when my father told him if he showed up with his bleeding-heart face one more time he’d buy an attack dog.
“Let me just go and check,” Mumma said, and went off to drop the news on Dutch. That left the three of us standing there.
“You’re thin,” David said to me, and turned to Angie. “Is she eating enough?”
“There’s a new tailor who’s supposed to be reasonable,” Angie said.
David looked confused.
“It upsets my sister to see my clothes hanging loose,” I explained. “I promised to get them taken in. So exactly what are you doing here?”
David smiled. I knew he liked it that I wasn’t big on slinging the bullshit.
“I’ve been on the phone from Europe with Harold Stein,” David said. “He apprised me of your situation.”
“He’s been checking in,” I said guiltily. It had hurt to hear his voice and I think I was sometimes a little short over the phone.
But before I could get any more information out of David, Mumma came back.
“He’ll see you,” she told David. “He’s a little … cranky,” she said.
“Yuh,” I said. “Think Jabba the Hutt.”
David disappeared with Mumma. Angie and I stared at one another. I don’t know if my eyes were as big as hers, which were approximately the size of Brazil.
“What the fuck is he doing here?” I said.
“That’s the handsomest man I’ve ever seen in my life,” Angie said.
Mumma joined us and we all went into the kitchen to wait it out.
“What did Dad say?” I asked Mumma.
“I don’t know. They were talking Dutch.”
“Wait,” I said. “To Dutch?”
“No,” she said. “Mr. Montagnier, your friend…”
She was having trouble with what to call him. I knew how she felt. There was the French pronunciation, plus that formality of his.
“He thanked your father for seeing him,” Mumma went on. “Then he asked him something in a foreign language. It has to be Dutch because your father answered him.”
“Dutch speaks Dutch?” This was news.
“Well, you know he was born in Holland. Your grandmother was from there.”
“The perfect mother,” Angie said. She meant that Dutch never tired of telling us how wonderful his mother was and how beautiful life was back in the old country where people had values. His mother died when he was eight and he came to America with his Italian father who he didn’t like much.
“I thought he’d forgotten it after all these years,” Mumma said. “He’s a nice man, your David. I’ve never seen anyone famous up close. It’s strange how he looks almost like his pictures but not really.”
“Well, he’s not my David,” I said.
“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Angie said. It’s al
ways so naked when she says something direct.
“What are they talking about in there?” I said. I shuffled and reshuffled the cards like I was trying out for a job in Vegas.
“Mumma, you’d better learn how to play gin,” Angie said. I was too freaked out to make the leap.
After what seemed like twelve hours—Angie said it was twenty minutes—David showed up in the kitchen doorway. Maybe it was his tux, but the thought went through my head that he was going to bow from the waist and say, “Good evening, I’m David. I’ll be your waiter for the evening.” I started to giggle. Then I choked. Then Mumma started pounding my back and I had to get a paper towel to wipe my eyes. It was quite the display. After I got myself under control, David sat down at the table. His legs were so long, they got all tangled up with ours. With all the chair scraping, the three of us girls automatically glanced toward Dutch’s bedroom. That sound ordinarily guaranteed a temper tantrum. But there was nothing coming from the other end of the house except silence. I wondered if David had killed him as a special present to me, and that’s when I knew I was this close to losing it completely.
“What’s the story?” I asked David.
“I just made a proposition to your father. Could I possibly have a glass of water?”
Mumma and Angie shot out of their seats while I sat there gawking at him. I was playing a Brahms Intermezzo on the kitchen table, which is something I do when I’m truly nervous. I can do it while barely moving my fingers so nobody notices. David took a long drink, leaned on his elbows to look at Mumma. She had that dazed look that I suppose I got when his face was that close.
“You may be aware that I had a long, successful partnership with Terese Dumont,” he told her, and waited for Mumma to acknowledge this with a nod. “After she retired, I decided to pursue a solo career,” he went on. “I believe I made a fair try.” True, he’d played with most of the premier orchestras and given solo concerts all over the world. I’d kept clippings of things he’d done since we met.
“I didn’t enjoy it,” David said. “I was losing my interest in performing and even wondered if I was through with music as a career.” A little moan escaped from my mouth as I imagined the pain. This was something I could identify with. “But then I heard about this pianist named Bess Stallone.”
“Where did you…?” I started. But David raised two fingers without taking his eyes off Mumma.
“For several weeks, whenever I was in town I eavesdropped on her practice sessions,” he went on. “Mrs. Stallone, there are many pianists with technical mastery of the instrument, but Bess is special. She has tremendous emotional power. I know of no one like her.”
He got up to pour himself more water. I found out later how airplanes will do that to you, suck every last drop of moisture out of your body until you feel like you’ve been crawling across Death Valley. At the moment, I was thinking how it hadn’t taken him long to feel at home.
“What I’ve realized over the past few weeks is that I miss the musical partnership. It’s what gratifies me as a pianist. If I’m to continue with music, I need Bess.”
I saw Mumma shake her head as if she was trying to make his words settle into her brain. I was having the same problem. “But,” I said. There were maybe a hundred and twenty buts that occurred to me off the top of my head and that was without even trying.
“Please, Bess,” David said, “if you’ll just let me finish.”
“Finish,” Angie echoed at me. I’m famous for figuring out the end of a movie by halftime, but I was having serious trouble getting to the resolution here. I clamped my mouth shut, which as we all knew was entirely against my nature.
David leaned against the kitchen counter. “I’ve been one of the lucky ones,” he said. “Success has provided me with a great deal of money, far more than I need. I’ve been fortunate with investments here and in Europe. What I proposed to Mr. Stallone is a barter arrangement. I’ll supply the funds to pay for whatever home care is needed until he recovers. I’ll supplement Angelina’s scholarship, and I’ll pay Bess’s living expenses so that she can devote herself to music full-time. In return, I’ll have my new partner.”
Anybody looking in the window would have thought the three Stallone women had just seen the Virgin Mary hop out of the freezer with a Popsicle in her hand. It was quiet for a long time. Angie was the first to get her wits back.
“And Dutch … my father … actually agreed?” She must have figured he’d want us around forever, if only for torture purposes.
“After some thought,” David said. “He doesn’t seem particularly happy with the current situation.”
We were all silent. Then Angie spoke up again. At least somebody had her brains switched on. “You’re talking about a loan,” she said to David.
“No,” David said. “You’ve got what I need and I’m more than willing to pay you for the sacrifice.”
“Wait,” I said. I was beginning to feel like your basic brisket, shrink-wrapped, price-tagged, and oven-ready. “There’s something wrong with this.”
“I don’t want to leave my job,” Mumma blurted.
David, who must have figured we’d all fall down and kiss his beautiful feet, was looking a little disappointed.
“What did our father say?” Angie asked.
“It took some time for him to understand that I’m getting the better deal here. He’s a very proud man.”
But not of me, obviously, I was thinking. Why would anybody want to pay all that money for old pain-in-the-ass Bess?
“You wouldn’t have to quit your job, Mrs. Stallone,” David explained. “You can hire whomever you want to care for your husband.”
“He won’t want anyone else,” she said with a sad smile.
“That doesn’t mean you have to listen to him, Mumma,” Angie told her. Mumma blinked. This type of notion was still real new.
“Beg your pardon,” I said, “but unless I’m mistaken, this proposal has something to do with me.”
“It has everything to do with you,” David admitted.
“Well, thank you. I mean, what if I don’t want to be your partner? What if I’d rather stay right here in the bosom of my family?”
David ran his hand across his eyes. Jet lag was kicking in, along with the realization that things weren’t going exactly the way he’d figured.
“What if it doesn’t work out between us?” I asked David. “We haven’t done a single public performance. I’ve been known to pass out onstage.”
“I’m not concerned about that,” David said.
“Oh, you’re not.”
“No.”
I didn’t know whether to laugh or call the loon patrol.
“It should be equal footing. I mean, isn’t that crucial for a duo-piano partnership?”
“You have priceless talent. All I’m offering is money,” David said, spoken like one of the truly rich. “If it doesn’t work out, you can always come back home.”
“We sound so ungrateful,” Mumma said. “It’s a shock, that’s all. But very generous.”
“I need to think about it,” I said.
“Take all the time you want,” David said. “Should I phone you in a week or two?”
“Stick around for ten minutes. I don’t want this thing hanging.” I turned to Mumma and Angie. “What’s wrong with this? Help me out here.”
“What if Dad never recovers?” Angie protested.
“Don’t say that,” Mumma said.
“It could happen,” I said.
“I’ll put some money in a fund that will provide passive income,” David said.
“You’re really that rich?” Angie asked.
“Yes,” David said. “And perhaps Bess will want to contribute once her career takes off.”
“I appreciate your confidence, David, I really do,” I said. “But this is nuts. You have to face the fact that so many things could screw it up. What if a piano lid falls on my hand? Or on you
r hand? What if you can’t stand the sight of me a month from now? I’m a Lawn G’iland babe who’s hardly ever been out of New York State with a limited vocabulary and a tattoo who’s bound to get on your nerves.”
David was smiling. “You have a tattoo?”
“We have nothing in common,” I said.
The smile evaporated as his eyes flashed at me. “How can you possibly say that?”
He had me there. We weren’t talking about setting up housekeeping. This was about music, our music. I remembered the sounds we had made together in his sunny room. That was real. That was a serious pass at perfection.
I looked at Mumma and Angie. “This has to do with you, too.”
“It’s your decision, Bess.”
It wasn’t going to hurt them if I did this. In fact, it would free them. I was scared. It would mean braving the stage again. I studied David as he sat looking down at his hands, waiting. His fingers were trembling. I was moved—was that for me? The thing was, this place that was supposed to be home wasn’t home, and the man now bent with exhaustion was.
“Okay,” I said.
I could see he was afraid to hope. “Okay, oui?” he asked. Sometimes that happened with David when he was really tired or upset. The French slipped out.
“Yes. I’ll do it.” He took my hand and kissed my fingers. I could see that there were tears in his eyes.
When I walked David out, the Schultz brood was waiting on the porch attached to ours, all lined up by height like they were expecting to be photographed. Old Mr. Schultz had a paper and pencil in his hand ready for an autograph but he chickened out when he saw that I’d noticed. At least the Schultzes were respectful, which is more than I can say for the rest of the neighborhood, which was putting on quite the rowdy display. Everybody was out on their lawns and there were shouts from one end of the block to the other. “Yo! Bess! ’Zat your new boyfriend? Hey, it is David! Holy shee-it! Yo, Da-VEED!” I couldn’t really blame them. A big white stretch limo had probably never even driven past, much less stopped on Walnut Avenue. Anyhow, David and I weren’t saying much to each other. We were both pretty drained.
