Music From Standing Waves

by Johanna Craven

  “Standing Waves.”

  “Whatever. It’s a total wank. Matt’s already roped Julian into playing electric bass of all things. He can hardly even play the electric bass. Don’t know what they do in their rehearsals. They’ve only had two and he’s come home both times completely wasted. Here.” She tossed me a bag of salad mix. “I’m tying to get Julian to eat some vegetables. Do something useful and put this in a bowl.”

  I emptied the salad onto a plate and waded through the fridge in search of the mayonnaise. “You don’t think I should play in Matt’s band?”

  “No way!” Clara spluttered. “Not unless you want to make a complete idiot of yourself.” She crossed her arms. “What’s the deal with you and Matt anyway? Are you, like, together?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I think we are.”

  Clara tutted. “Are you sure he’s for real? Because Julian thinks he’s only in it to see how long it takes to get you into bed.”

  “That’s crap,” I mumbled, my voice coming out softer than I had intended. “Matt already said he won’t rush me.”

  “Well isn’t he a gentleman...” Clara glanced at the use-by date on the mayonnaise and tossed it in the bin. “You can’t seriously be thinking about this Waving thing though. Do you want to play the pub scene like some washed-up hack?”

  “Matt doesn’t want us to play the pub scene,” I said. “He’s going to advertise at the Con. And get some grants. And make albums.”

  Clara rolled her eyes. “And the quartet?”

  “I’m still going to play in the quartet. I can do both.”

  “Well what about your reputation?”

  “My reputation?”

  “Yeah. You start getting involved in all that freaky stuff and your name as a serious performer will be shot.”

  “Really?” I opened the oven door to check the pizza. Clara slammed it shut.

  “It’s not going to cook if you let all the heat out.”

  I folded my arms. “So who’s going to care if I play in Matt’s band?”

  “God you’re naive sometimes, Abby,” Clara snorted. “The music industry is all about who you know, not what you know. You get a name for yourself as a new music guinea pig and that’s what you’ll be stuck as. If you want to get on stage in the concert hall, you have to be seen playing the right music.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “That sounds a bit hard to believe.”

  Clara planted one hand on her hip. “Look, precious. No offence, but I seriously doubt you could have learned much about the music industry in that pokey little town of yours. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I just think you should trust me.”

  “Whatever,” I said.

  I was scratching through a Corelli sonata in a desperate attempt to find the last piece for my mid-year recital. My phone vibrated on my dressing table.

  “You have to come to Julian’s,” Clara babbled. “I lost the dog.”

  I couldn’t stifle a laugh. “What?”

  “Julian’s dog. He got out and ran away. You have to come help me find him. Jules is going to freak when he gets home.”

  “Are you serious? Cos I still really need to find another piece…”

  “Would I joke about something like this?” Clara demanded. I put down my bow, deciding Clara rarely joked about anything at all.

  When I arrived at Julian’s, she was sitting on the front step, bouncing her heels anxiously.

  “What happened?” I laughed.

  “I didn’t shut the front door properly,” she mumbled. “I was in the lounge trying to do my history assignment and the stupid animal just wandered out. And then he must have seen, like, a cat or something because when I went out to get him he’d run off down the street. I couldn’t catch him.” She narrowed her eyes. “And stop laughing, Abby. It’s really not funny. Jules is going to kill me.”

  “Okay,” I smiled. “Let’s go look. He can’t have gone too far.”

  Armed with Brown Dog’s leash and a handful of meaty chews, we trudged down the footpath. Clouds hung low in the sky. The late afternoon light was pale and grey.

  “Brown Dog!” called Clara. “Where are you, Brown Dog?” She huffed. “God, I feel like an idiot.” We passed the strip of shops and station at the bottom of the hill. A group of school kids came barrelling out of the underpass.

  “Maybe we should ask someone if they’ve seen him,” I suggested.

  “No way. That’s so embarrassing. Let’s just keep walking.” Clara zipped her jacket. We turned down a residential street and she gave a token whistle for the dog. “So Julian’s at Matt’s,” she said. “Rehearsing their nails-on-a-blackboard music.”

  I nodded.

  “Glad you’re not there?”

  I shrugged. “I could think of worse places to be. Here, for example.”

  Clara shot me a withering look.

  “Matt says they’re sounding really good,” I told her.

  “Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he.”

  “I’m thinking about playing,” I admitted.

  Clara raised her eyebrows. “Well, when you’re doing gigs for beer and waitressing for a living, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  We walked in silence for another block and looped around to the back of the football ground. Cold wind rustled the gum trees.

  Clara fiddled with the clip on the dog leash. “Don’t laugh,” she said. “But I used to want to be a vet.”

  I smiled crookedly. “You know that involves a lot of gross things, Clar. The insides of animals, for example.”

  “Yeah I know. Disgusting, right? But I took biology at school and everything.”

  “Really?” She had begun to walk faster and I had to jog to keep up. “So why did you change your mind?”

  She shrugged. “You know. My dad said he didn’t pay for fifteen years of violin lessons so I could learn to stick a thermometer up a dog’s rear end.” The clicking of her heels disappeared as we stepped onto the wet grass of the oval. “Dad says he wishes I was learning from John Glass. I’ve told him a million times that my teacher is fine, but he keeps telling me to ask John if he has any free places.” She looked at me sideways, as though waiting for me to speak.

  I said nothing.

  “It’s kind of ironic, don’t you think,” said Clara. “That you have John, but your parents don’t want to know about it?”

  I sucked in my breath and folded my arms. Wished I were at home hunting for my last recital piece. “Hey wait.” I pointed to an enormous dog sniffing around the goal posts. “Isn’t that him?”

  “I don’t know. Could be.”

  I squinted. “It is a brown dog.”

  Clara tottered across the grass in her heeled boots. “Brown Dog!” she called, slapping her thighs. “Here, Brown Dog!”

  The dog ignored her and lifted its leg against the point post. She stumbled towards him and he loped off in the opposite direction.

  Clara sighed. “Christ. Look what my life has come to.” She handed me the lead. “Can you help already?”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. You’re from the country. Don’t you know how to, like, rope a steer or something?”

  I handed her a meaty chew. “Give him this.”

  She screwed up her nose and held it in her outstretched arm. Whistled shrilly. The dog turned and galloped towards her. He clamped his slobbery jaws over the chew.

  Clara shrieked and wiped her palm on the grass.

  “You know Clar,” I said, clipping on the leash. “I’m really glad your dad made you go to the Con. You would have made a terrible vet.”

  When we got back to the house, Jess and Roman had arrived for the Friday night piss-up. They were sitting on the back step giggling, while Roman rolled a joint from the stash in Julian’s cutlery drawer.

  “How did you guys get in?” Clara demanded.

  Roman flicked his lighter. “Front door was open.”

  Jess lay back on her elbows. “Where have you two been?”


  “Walking the dog,” said Clara. “Obviously.” She clicked off Brown Dog’s leash and snatched the joint from Roman’s hand. Inhaled edgily before passing it to Jess. She glanced sideways at us. “Don’t tell anyone I just did that.”

  Matt and Julian returned from their rehearsal two hours later. We had finished the decent wine and the okay wine and were cracking open the two dollar I’m-so-pissed-everything-tastes-good cask.

  Matt sat behind me on the floor and squeezed his arms around my waist. “We missed you at rehearsal today,” he said, kissing my neck.

  I filled up my plastic wine glass. “Clara lost the dog,” I announced loudly.

  “What?” Julian looked up from the fridge.

  Clara glared at me. “Nothing. The dog’s fine, alright, he’s fine. He’s in the back yard where you left him.” She took a gulp of wine. “You’re such a fucking big mouth, Abby. Jesus.”

  Roman’s shiny white body ran naked past the window to hysterical shrieks from Jess. He stumbled back inside, dripping from the sprinkler, and launched into a particularly grating rendition of All That Jazz. Jess threw him a towel.

  “Shut up, man,” laughed Julian. “And go put some fucking clothes on.” He opened his beer. “Looks like me and Matt have got some serious catching up to do. Who’s up for a beer snorkel race?”

  Matt laughed. He put his lips to my ear. I shivered.

  “Race me. As a thank you present.”

  “Thank you for what?”

  He reached into his bag and handed me a thin, spiral bound folder.

  “I wrote you a piece to play for your recital. Perform it for me and it’s yours.”

  And I obediently downed three beers in sixty seconds, suddenly certain that Matt was the only thing I had ever wanted.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I woke up on the floor of the study, my body aching and my mouth dry. I was sprawled over Matt’s chest; a thin blue blanket tossed over our naked bodies. Bright light streamed through the half-open Venetians. I could remember Matt’s drunken voice.

  “I’m sick of waiting, Abby…”

  I fumbled for my clothes and climbed off the floor. I stumbled into Matt’s waist but he didn’t move. I closed my eyes for a second then crept out of the room.

  Jess was sitting on the back step, drinking a glass of water and rubbing the dog’s belly. I sat beside her. “I slept with Matt.”

  “No shit,” said Jess. “The rest of us could hear you loud and clear.”

  “Oh my God…” I buried my pounding forehead in my hands and took a deep breath. “Oh my God…”

  Jess put her glass down on the concrete. “You don’t remember?”

  I shook my head. “Hardly…”

  “Oh honey…” She rubbed my shoulder. “I guess you were pretty wasted last night. It was your first time?”

  I nodded. “I didn’t want it to be like this. Not after what happened with Justin…” I sat up. “I’m going to be sick.” I rushed into the bathroom and threw up in the toilet. The swirls on the wet, grey lino danced in front of my eyes. I’d never felt so awful in all my life. I wanted to die. At least then I’d never have to make eye contact with any of my uni friends again. Jess pushed open the door and knelt beside me. She handed me a glass of water. I gulped it down, then puked it straight back up again.

  Jess stroked my hair. “You have to be careful, honey. Take it easy.” She hugged me. “It’s okay. At least it was with a guy you really care about.”

  “I’m never drinking again,” I groaned. “I can’t believe I got that drunk.”

  Jess rubbed my back. “Do you want to go home?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay.” She kissed the side of my head. “I’ll go get my keys.”

  I soaked in the bath for an hour that night. Jess had given me some lavender oil and decorated the bathroom with candles. I alternated between states of relaxation, misery and plain humiliation.

  I stepped onto the bath mat, my head spinning from the heat. I wiped the steamy mirror and stared, dripping, at my reflection. It hadn’t changed. I was just red from the heat of the bath. I had always thought that having sex would nudge me over the line into adulthood. I didn’t feel like an adult. I felt like a stupid, slutty child. I awarded myself a thousand dickhead points. Sighing, I dried myself and climbed into my pyjamas. As I ran a comb through my wet hair, there was a knock at the door.

  “Abby?”

  I flicked open the lock and let Jess poke her head in.

  “Matt’s here,” she whispered. “Do you want me to tell him to go?”

  I shook my head. “No. I need to talk to him.”

  Matt was sitting patiently on my bed. As I walked in, he stood up and grabbed my hands. I felt myself pull away.

  “How come you disappeared like that this morning?” he asked. “And why is your phone off? I’ve been trying to call you all day.”

  I turned away from him. “Why did you take advantage of me last night?”

  “Abby, I am so sorry,” he said. “I thought you wanted it. You certainly seemed to last night.”

  I rubbed my eyes. “Julian says you’re only going out with me to see how long it would take to get me into bed.”

  “Yeah well Julian’s full of shit,” said Matt angrily. “You know me better than that.” He put his hands on my shoulders. “I’m sorry about what happened, but I wasn’t thinking clearly either. I was just as drunk as you. You can’t put all the blame on me.”

  “I know,” I sighed. “I’m sorry. This just wasn’t how I wanted it to happen.”

  Matt pulled me into him and kissed the top of my head. He stroked my hair with long, even movements. “I love you, Abby,” he said. “If that counts for anything.”

  My heart somersaulted. I wrapped my arms around his waist and pressed my cheek against his thick woollen jumper. Suddenly, I couldn’t hold him close enough. “It does,” I told him. “It counts for a lot.”

  I went into the street in my pyjamas to kiss him goodbye. The wisps of hair around my face had dried and he smoothed them behind my ears.

  He held his lips against mine for a moment. “Come over tomorrow night. We’re having a Standing Waves rehearsal.”

  Suddenly, I didn’t care about Clara’s quartet, or if I was seen playing the right music. All that mattered was Matt. Matt who was in love with me. And Matt who I was pretty damn sure I was in love with too.

  “See you tomorrow,” I said.

  I could hear a low, sultry voice floating over the groaning dryers as I climbed the steps of Matt’s apartment. She was singing the piece I had seen on Matt’s computer; the words of an old Spanish love poem. Matt was plucking out a jazz progression on the guitar. I let myself inside. Matt put down his guitar and leapt out of the desk chair. He kissed my lips.

  “Hey. I’m so happy you’re here.”

  He introduced me to Sam, the singer, then reached into the drawer and shoved a cigarette between his teeth.

  “Can I see the score?” I asked.

  He rummaged through the pile of papers on his desk, throwing aside unopened phone bills and catalogues of recording equipment. I lifted the cigarette out of his hand and held it between my thumb and forefinger.

  “You’re going to set fire to something.”

  Matt laughed. “Here it is.” He traded me for the cigarette.

  “Leave you guys to it,” said Sam, padding into the kitchen; her faded red gypsy skirt covering her feet.

  I slid the dog-eared pages onto the music stand and tuned my violin.

  “Hell, I’m glad you’re doing this,” said Matt. He kissed my neck and sent a rush through my body. I lifted my violin.

  “The piece you wrote for me is beautiful,” I smiled. “I played it all last night.”

  “You’ll like this one better.” Matt ran his finger down my arm and across my poised bow. “You’re my inspiration.”

  Julian and the percussionist arrived half an hour later. They squeezed their instruments into the lounge room to sight-r
ead through the first piece.

  “This one is really laid-back,” said Matt. “Sam’s part is kind of free, so just follow her.”

  I plucked quickly through my part. Sam began to sing and the others picked out their lines around her. I tried to tap my foot to feel the rhythm, but the beat was too relaxed.

  Matt nodded to me. “That was your entry.”

  I cursed myself and tried to jump over the bars I had missed. My part didn’t sit right and I couldn’t tell where the others were up to. I skimmed over the score to find the lyrics Sam was singing, but didn’t recognise the Spanish.

  “I don’t think I can do this,” I told Matt, after I’d scrabbled around the score for half an hour. The others had disappeared into the kitchen. “I suck at following the singer. And I hardly played at all in the improv section.” I sighed. “This just isn’t my thing.”

  Matt smiled. “Give yourself a chance. You’re not going to pick it up straight away.”

  “But I’m used to picking things up straight away.”

  He laughed. “So you’re being challenged for once.”

  “I think you should get someone else.”

  He bent his head a little to look in my eyes. “Abby, I want you. Come on.” He lifted my violin for me. “Play the last phrase of the notated section.”

  I played carefully. My line was smooth and full of jazzy chromaticism, working in harmony with Sam’s vocals. Without the others, it was easy to add expression.

  “Nice,” said Matt. “Now close your eyes. Picture yourself playing that line again, then imagine where it would go from there. Do you want to repeat that motif? Or borrow from the vocal line?”

  I held my eyes closed and tried to conjure up a melody. All I could hear was someone slamming the fridge.

  “This is never going to work,” I huffed.

  “You’ve never improvised before?”

  I shook my head, feeling grossly inadequate.

  “But don’t you ever play just to express the way you’re feeling? To get stuff out?”