Things Hoped For Page 12

  Because I want things to work out the way they do when Bach is in charge. Or Paganini. Or Jane Austen. Or even Yeats. Because I’m desperate for a nice, tidy ending, maybe with a pleasant rhyme or two, or that wonderful last burst of symphonic harmony that makes me want to shout “yes!”

  But it’s not happening that way.

  chapter 17

  GIFTS

  It’s Monday night, and Robert tells me again that I should practice, but I say, “No, it’s all right. You go first tonight.” And like a gentleman, he goes down to the rehearsal room and leaves me alone.

  With Daddy upstairs watching TV, I hide out in my room. I’ve talked to my mom for half an hour, said hi to both my sisters, and I’ve talked to both my big brothers. Plus I’ve had a call from Uncle Belden, and while we were talking, I could hear a West Virginia catbird singing, and I pictured its little throat moving, pictured it sitting in a tree out in front of his crooked front porch. And as he said good-bye, Uncle Belden wished me well on my auditions.

  My auditions.

  My first audition is at eleven tomorrow morning, but I don’t care anymore. I don’t want to go. There’s a line in a Yeats poem that comes winging up out of my memory, and it slaps me hard:

  Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;

  And it hurts to feel this way. I’m so used to being Little Miss Organized and Little Miss Punctuality, and I’ve been a perfectionist for so long that I can’t remember any other way to be. I didn’t even get to my lesson this afternoon, and I missed my only practice session with the grad student who’s doing the piano accompaniment on the Sibelius during my audition. It’s like I don’t know myself anymore.

  I keep thinking about the questions Robert asked me this afternoon, after we’d had our ice cream. He said, “You know, I don’t believe that, what your grampa said in his letter. He said, ‘I’m at that point in my life where I know what’s going to happen next.’ And I don’t think anybody can know that, do you? I mean, when he climbed into that freezer, like what was he thinking? Because you never know what’s going to happen next, not really. You just have to take your best shot and keep hoping things’ll work out. Right? Because no matter what the coroner says, I don’t really think your grampa died of natural causes. Do you? I hate to say it, but it seems to me like he was kind of bailing out. And didn’t he sort of create more problems than he solved? What do you think?”

  The worst part is that I just kept shrugging my shoulders. I couldn’t answer any of Robert’s questions. I still can’t. I wanted to say, “Well, if Grampa hadn’t done what he did, I probably wouldn’t have met you. And that would have been too bad.” But I couldn’t say that.

  It’s dark now, and I turn off the lights in my room so the place matches my mood. And I lie across my bed and stare up into nothing, and I think back just five days ago.

  Last Wednesday night Grampa was sitting upstairs watching CNN. I’d had a good lesson with Pyotr Melyanovich, and I was down in the practice room making Sibelius smile. My first audition was still almost a week away, but I was going to be ready. I was building up my confidence. I was almost at the peak of my preparation, and soon I would march across the plaza at Lincoln Center, throw open the doors of the Juilliard School, and show those people how a violin ought to sound.

  And now I almost want to laugh. Or cry.

  What pride. And what ignorance—to think everything was going to just trot along like the pony ride at the state fair in Lewisburg, to think that Lizzy would get to marry Mr. Darcy in real life. And to think that I could keep telling myself my own perfect little story.

  Right. Think again.

  I know that I’ll go and take that audition at Juilliard tomorrow. I’m not a no-show. I’d still go if both my arms were broken.

  But I don’t kid myself. I know I’m not ready, mentally or musically. So I’ll have to muddle my way through.

  My cell phone rings, and blue light fills the room. All these calls. Everybody means well, I know that. And everyone wants to say how sorry they are about Grampa. But I don’t want to talk to one more person about him. I don’t want to share those memories. I need to keep that part of my story for myself.

  It’s on the fourth ring now, and I want to whip the thing against the wall.

  But like a nice little girl, I flip open the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, is this Gwen? This is Alicia. Bobby gave me your number. Is this a good time?”

  “Oh—hi . . . sure, this is good. Robert talks about you all the time.” Which feels like the right thing to say to a girlfriend when she’s there and he’s here.

  She giggles. “Robert. I keep forgetting that he’s trying to use his professional name now.” Another giggle, and there’s a whiff of sarcasm in her voice. I like her.

  She says, “Anyway, Bobby said it’s been a rough couple of days. And I’m so sorry about your grandfather. But that’s not why I called. Bobby said if I asked, maybe you’d play a little violin for me. Over the phone. He said I should request the fast caprice.”

  I can’t help smiling. “He’s trying to be my big helper, and he’s recruited you to cheer me up, right?”

  She laughs, a beautiful sound. “That’s my Bobby . . . and your Robert. Not very subtle, but sweet. But I wouldn’t have called if I didn’t really want to hear you play. Bobby says you’re a great violinist, and he never exaggerates, at least not about music. So, how about it?”

  “It’s going to take me a minute or two to get ready. Want to wait?”

  “Minutes, hours, days—I’m all ears.” Again, that trace of irony.

  I toss the phone on the bed, flip on the light, and run upstairs to get my violin.

  My dad’s in front of the TV, and he says, “Hey there, you gonna play for me now? How ’bout somethin’ by Bach?”

  “A little later, Daddy,” and I’m back down the stairs.

  Talking loud toward the phone, I say, “I’m opening the case . . . and this is a quick pluck or two to check the tuning . . . and now I have to get the bow tight, and it needs a little rosin.” I pick up the phone, and say, “Could you hear any of that?”

  “Loud and clear. And this is by Paganini, right?”

  “Right. He’s this wild, romantic Italian guy, a real genius, like a violin rock star. And he wrote these twenty-four solo pieces back around 1800, and they’re just incredible. And impossible. So here goes. This is caprice number two.”

  I bring two pillows to the edge of my bed, put the phone on top of them, stand up straight, set my bow, take a deep breath, and begin.

  The fast caprice. And it is, because it’s all sixteenth notes, and it dips and sweeps and skips all over the fingerboard. It’s been over twenty-four hours since I’ve played, probably the longest break I’ve had in years, but I’m hearing and feeling every note, and every hair on the bow is alive and speaking. And the insane double-stops and the nonstop octaves that constantly challenge the melody—it’s all flowing, and the music is pouring out.

  It’s when I’m riding my bow on this wild climb up the fingerboard, and it’s when I’m skidding down the other side—that’s when I’m suddenly hearing Charlie Daniels, and he’s playing “The Devil Went Down to Georgia,” the instrumental section in the middle. Because this caprice and that song, they’re blood brothers, with the same sizzle and pop and showmanship, except the bearded guy with the leather hat plays so much faster.

  And when I’m almost to the end, and I’m out there on the edge of the musical universe, and I start trying to re-enter the atmosphere so I can land this song, there’s Charlie again, running side by side with Paganini. And I’m thinking that I’d pay a million dollars if just once I could see old Niccolò up there on the stage of Austin City Limits, just him and Charlie Daniels, both of them setting their strings on fire.

  And when I finally drop into the wrenching, clenching, double-stopped finish of the caprice, I can’t quite believe what I’ve just heard. And felt. Because it’s been three minutes of p
ure beauty. And I played that piece with my whole self, my whole heart.

  And I played it with the lights on.

  I pick up the phone. But for ten seconds, maybe fifteen, I can’t talk. Because something new just happened, something important.

  Alicia doesn’t talk either.

  Finally I clear my throat and say, “So, that was it.”

  She’s quiet another few moments. “That was . . . it was just beautiful. Really. Thank you. Perfect. And Bobby’s right about you. I’m sure of it.” Then she pauses. “Bobby told me that you know what happened to him. Two years ago.”

  “Yes, and he told you about the man that showed up here? In the city?”

  “Yes, he told me. Scary.”

  Then I say, “Look, I hope this isn’t too personal or anything, but when Robert disappeared for all those weeks—like, afterwards, did he change? From the experience?”

  She thinks a second or two, and says, “He didn’t do a Jekyll and Hyde or anything, if that’s what you mean. But yes, there was a change. Like with music? Before it happened, he liked to play the trumpet, and he was in the jazz band at his school and everything. But then afterwards, it just started to mean more to him. He got serious about music. That’s what I think changed—he got more serious, about a lot of things. And he thinks more. We both do.”

  I don’t know what to say next, but she can tell, and she saves me.

  “Well, listen, thanks again for my private concert. I loved it. And I hope we can really meet someday. Because I want to hear you play in person. And I want to talk more, okay?”

  “Sure,” I say, “I’d like that,” and I mean it. “And thanks for calling. And thank Bobby for putting you up to it.”

  We both laugh, and then say good-bye.

  Gifts. Moments like this are gifts. A person calls from a thousand miles away, and it feels like a friend, and suddenly there’s some light again.

  I dig around in my shoulder bag so I can check my list of audition times for the millionth time. And in the bag I see the letter, the one from the envelope Grampa sent to Mr. Grant. I stuffed it in there at the end of the meeting at the police station.

  My name’s on the front, blue ink in Grampa’s shaky writing. It’s almost too precious to tear open. And I nearly don’t, because, really, what else could Grampa possibly say to me? Or give to me?

  But I can’t resist, and there’s a single sheet of paper with something folded inside. At first I think he’s giving me one of Grandmother’s necklaces. But I unfold the paper, and his army dog tags drop onto the bed, the ones he wore for six years during World War II.

  So far tonight, a blind girl who doesn’t complain about her life has made me laugh from a thousand miles away; and now my grampa, who never once complained about anything, has made me cry from somewhere else, somewhere beyond a thousand miles away.

  But I dry my eyes, and I pick up my borrowed violin and bow, and I walk down to the basement, and I knock on the rehearsal room door.

  And when Robert opens it, I smile and say, “Time’s up. I’ve got an audition tomorrow.”

  chapter 18

  GREATER LOVE

  On Tuesday morning I wake up early. I don’t touch my violin. I don’t even look at it. I shower and dress and go upstairs. I’m not hungry, but I force myself to eat two eggs and a piece of toast anyway. There’s not much talk.

  After breakfast I get my case, and at the door, Robert gives me a hug, and he says, “I know you’ll do great. You will.”

  And then Daddy and I walk over to Broadway and get a cab.

  Ten minutes later we’re walking across the plaza at Lincoln Center. Alice Tully Hall, the Metropolitan Opera, Avery Fisher Hall. Some of the best musicians in the world will be rehearsing and performing here all week long.

  It makes me feel small.

  In the lobby of the school, I check in at the tables along the back wall, and then Daddy and I sit down to wait. My accompanist comes and asks if I want to find a practice room and warm up. It’s probably a good idea, but I’d rather be still.

  I’m glad my dad is here. This is not his world at all, and he’s completely unimpressed. And that helps me. No matter what happens here today, cars will still be expertly repaired at the Pro Shop Garage off Interstate 79 near Elkview, West Virginia. No matter what, life will go on. It’s good to remember that.

  I reach into the pocket of my jacket, then open my palm in Daddy’s direction and say, “Look what Grampa gave me.”

  He takes the dog tags, squints to read them, and then runs his fingers across the stamped lettering.

  “It’s not a small thing, to give these up. You know that, right?”

  I nod, but I hold back my feelings. It’s not the right moment to be getting all emotional.

  Then Daddy says, “You find the hidden message yet?”

  “What? What message?”

  He turns the ID over and taps his thick fingernail against the dull metal above Grampa’s name. I take it from him and bring it up close. And I see something, scratched into the stainless steel, maybe by a pin or the point of a knife, years and years ago. There are lots of other small scratches, and the surface is worn so smooth that I have to catch the light just right to see anything at all. Out loud, I say, “J . . . 15 . . . 13, right?”

  My dad nods.

  “What’s it mean?”

  He shakes his head, then he taps the middle of his chest and I hear a metallic clink. “Scratched the same thing on my own tags the day I got ’em. Secret code. Soldier stuff. But I’ll give y’a clue. That J? It doesn’t stand for Jesus.”

  My dad doesn’t have a subtle bone in his body, which is one of the reasons I love him so much.

  I say, “So it’s a Bible verse, right?” Another nod. “And the J stands for . . . Joshua?” Nothing. “Judges?” Nothing. “Job? . . . Jeremiah?”

  I know my books of the Bible, and I run through the rest of the J’s in order. Nothing, until I say, “John?” And there’s a flicker of a smile. “So it’s John 15, verse 13, right?”

  “Can’t say. Secret code. Soldier stuff.”

  “Come on, Daddy. Tell me. Please?”

  But he shakes his head. “Oughta know your Bible better.”

  I look at the clock, and I’ve got seventeen minutes. So I grab the tags and I say, “Save my seat.”

  Because I want to know this. Right now. It feels important. Everything feels important right now.

  And there’s got to be a Bible somewhere close. Because New York City has everything, even Bibles.

  I’m out the door, and as I trot past the fountain at the center of the plaza, I think there has to be a bookstore within a block or two. Then I look up, and I adjust my course, because now I know where I’m going: just across Columbus, straight toward the fifteen-foot-high red neon letters that say Hotel Empire.

  In two minutes I’m at the front desk, and in four minutes a friendly woman in a housekeeper’s uniform is handing me a Bible, courtesy of the Gideons.

  I sit in a huge red chair and open the book. Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, John 12, John 14, John 15.

  And there’s verse 13. And it’s so simple, one sentence. Soldier stuff.

  Greater love hath no man than this,

  that a man lay down his life for his friends.

  Walking back across Columbus Avenue, the tears are streaming down my face. Because now I know.

  I know why Grampa tucked himself into that fox-hole last Thursday. He did it for me. He knew he was going, and he hid himself so it wouldn’t make a commotion. He tried to buy me a few more precious days of harmony and order, peace and quiet. If he could have moved all the mountains of West Virginia and brought them here to shelter me, he would have. But in the end, he hoped that one or two more days in my little practice room would be enough. And it was.

  Grampa said the people who loved him and cared for him would understand. And now I do. Because now I have a whole story.

  I have my own story, and I love my story, but I know
I can’t tell it alone, not now. Because stories have centers, but they don’t have edges. No boundaries. And I needed to learn that. Thank you, Grampa. And Mama. And Daddy. And Mr. Richards and Pyotr. And Robert, and Alicia too. Even William.

  No edges.

  Passing the fountain, I slip the chain over my head and tuck Grampa’s tags inside my white shirt. A minute later, my eyes wiped dry, I walk back into the lobby of the school. I sit down again next to my dad, and when I take his hand, he turns and smiles at me.

  Five minutes later a woman at the registration table calls my name.

  I pick up my violin case, and I nod and smile at my accompanist, because she’s part of my story too. Together we walk to the elevator, ride to the third floor, then take a right along the corridor to find Room 311.

  And I am not afraid. I can play.