Things Hoped For Read online

  Sharon’s been to three dances with three different boys in the past month. I worry about that child, but I don’t think she’s anywhere near as boy crazy as I was, once upon a time. Carolyn seems a little more sensible, but she’s still young yet—getting straight As too.

  I’ve got the schedule you sent me on the wall in the kitchen where I can see it every day, and I pray that you are happy. I don’t know how you can stand that city, except I know it’s where your music is.

  Your Uncle Belden asked me again if you won’t send him a recording of your playing. I think he has told every man, woman, child, and dog in this part of the state that he’s the one who gave you your first fiddle. He is so proud of that. You know he’d be happy with any little thing. Not right away, I know, because of your college tryouts. But it’d mean the world to him.

  I’m going to bed now. You keep safe. He may not show it, but I know Grampa Page loves having you there as much as I hate having you gone. He’s been awfully good to you, so you say thanks every chance you get.

  I’m counting the days until June. You’re always in my prayers.

  With all my love,

  Mother

  I fold the letter and tuck it with the others in the drawer of my nightstand.

  I feel bad about Uncle Belden. I had to make a CD of my playing to send along with my college applications—prescreening just to get an audition. These schools want to hear a recording first to see who deserves to try out in person. I could have burned an extra CD and sent it to Uncle Belden. And I should have, but I didn’t.

  People hear I’m from West Virginia and right away they think poverty and dirt floors and hog farms down in the holler. My folks are about twenty minutes outside Charleston, and where we live it’s not like that. My dad has his own car repair business, and my mom finished two years at the junior college before she started her family. I guess we’re middle-class Americans. Still, every radio button in both the car and the pickup plays country. And not just because that’s all there is to choose from.

  We don’t have a lot of money, but we’ve never been poor. Now, my mom’s family, they’re poor. They live in the hills about two hours east. Not dirt-floor poor, but pretty close. They live scruffy, and it would be hard to say how much money my dad’s loaned them over the years. Hard for me to say, I mean. I’m certain that Daddy knows to the penny.

  Uncle Belden is my mom’s brother, and it’s fair to say he’s the reason I’m here in New York, even more than Mr. Richards. When I was little and we’d visit, he’d always play his fiddle. He had the magic, and everybody listened, even Daddy. It’s almost my earliest memory, sitting on my mom’s lap, listening to that sound, and then wailing for more when it stopped. Belden knew. He told my mom, “That Gwennie, she’s got the music, you wait and see.”

  Turns out we didn’t have to wait long. I was four and Belden gave me a one-fourth-size violin for Christmas. He put the tiny fiddle in my hands and showed me how to tuck it under my chin, how to hold the bow up and scrape it back and forth across the strings. And to me it all felt as natural as jumping in the creek on a hot afternoon.

  Every time we went up into the hills to visit, Belden and I would play for hours. We found the most amazing harmonies. And when I was ten, Belden declared, “This child knows more ’bout fiddlin’ than I do!”

  And thinking of that simple time makes my eyes smart. But I blink hard and turn off my lamp. And I make myself promise to send Uncle Belden a CD. And I make myself stop wondering how Grampa’s doing, and how I’m going to get the roof fixed. And I make myself stop worrying about my auditions. And then I make myself close my eyes and say a prayer and rest. And I make Thursday come to an end.

  Because I am the brave one.

  chapter 3

  TIGHTROPE

  She is balanced on a tightrope, thin as an E string. There is only emptiness below, and the rope slants upward. In the mist above her there must be a place to rest, a platform she can cling to, but she can’t see it. Wind and rain slap at her from behind. There is no going back, and there is no net. And as she tries to take her next step, the rope goes slack. She is dropping into the darkness. And as she falls, I sit up, bed drenched with sweat, breath rasping in my throat.

  Then my alarm clock goes off.

  First I remember that I’m Gwen. And then that I’m in New York. And then that it’s Friday morning, with only four more days until my first audition. And then I remember Grampa’s phone message. Four items.

  I can only deal with the first three. Because the fourth one is too upsetting.

  I think maybe I should get out the Yellow Pages and call every hospital in the city until I find him. Because I don’t want him to be alone. If he needs help, I’ll help him. Did he think he couldn’t ask me, that I’m that preoccupied, that selfish? And I’m almost angry at him for putting me in this situation, for making me feel so guilty. And helpless.

  But I make myself be logical, and I remember that Grampa might be old and frail, but he’s still his own person, and he can do whatever he wants. And I remember what he told me to do: You just keep about your own business and leave all the worrying to me. That’s not going to be easy.

  But really, I’m glad Grampa gave me that order, because on Friday I can’t afford to spend a single minute sitting around wringing my hands. And I can’t stay by the phone trying to make it seem like he’s here at home either. So I make a decision.

  In twenty minutes I’m on the subway headed south, and fifteen minutes later I’m on a bus headed for the East Side. Latham Academy of the Performing Arts is a private school, and all the classes are small, only five or six kids. I could never afford it if I hadn’t gotten a full scholarship. It doesn’t feel like high school—more like tutoring sessions, and the academic classes meet only four days a week from nine to noon.

  Because, really, Latham is a conservatory, a music school. Music theory, solfège, harmony and counterpoint, music history, sight reading—it’s excellent and it’s demanding. No way would I have been accepted into the Tanglewood Institute last summer if I hadn’t had this kind of teaching.

  Tanglewood was heavenly. Lessons and master classes in the morning, practice time all afternoon, then rehearsals, performances now and then, and in the evenings and on weekends, the Boston Symphony. And the Berk shires were almost as pretty as the mountains back home.

  But even in that perfect setting, there was tension, this undercurrent of competition, with all the violinists checking each other out. Because I know the kids I studied with there in Massachusetts last summer are the people I’ll see again and again at auditions and competitions and festivals for the rest of my musical career. If I ever have a musical career.

  At nine-thirty Mr. Ware is leading a discussion of The Sun Also Rises, but I am replaying last night’s practice session in my mind, deciding which parts of each piece need the most work. And the part of my mind that isn’t thinking about my auditions is worrying about Grampa.

  At ten-thirty my physics teacher is explaining surface tension and capillarity, but all I can hear is the cadence of the sarabande in my Bach partita. And Grampa’s message, replaying in my head for the tenth time.

  By noon on Friday I am dying to get to a practice room, but I make myself eat lunch first. I know I’m going to need the fuel. When I tried to skip dinner one day, Grampa told me, “Every officer knows that an army marches on its stomach. So does an orchestra, and don’t you forget it. Now sit here and eat a real meal. And that’s an order.”

  Marcy sits down across from me in the lunchroom. She plays cello, and we’re in a chamber group together. I have sat beside this girl for dozens of hours, and we’ve played Mozart and Haydn and Bach together, gorgeous music. Her notes and my notes weave in and out and all around each other, but they never actually touch. She makes sounds, and I make sounds, and the vibrations meet in the air, and when the sounds are right, both of us smile. But does that make us friends? I don’t think so. And that’s probably my fault. To really
be her friend I’d have to give up some of my time. All I’ve been willing to share so far is my music stand.

  “So, are you ready for your Juilliard audition?”

  Marcy’s all bright and bubbly. She can afford to be. She’s a junior.

  I try to smile back. “Not completely. But I know what I have to do.”

  She nods and says, “Oh, I know what you mean.”

  But she doesn’t know. She’s just a junior, and audition madness is still a year away for her. She has no idea.

  I’d like to chat, to be friendly and polite. I want to, but I can’t, not right now. And I’m glad Marcy doesn’t seem to mind.

  “Mark, he’s got an audition at Curtis next week. He plays viola, remember? And he is such a mess right now—as if a bad audition would be the end of the world or something.”

  Marcy doesn’t get it yet. She’s talented, but she doesn’t get it.

  Because her boyfriend’s right: A bad college audition is the end of the world. Or at least it’s the end of one world. It means you have to go and find another world to live in—a world that’s not about studying with a great teacher, or learning new pieces, or mastering an instrument, or playing music for a living. A world that’s less perfect. A world where music might become a sad, wistful hobby.

  I’m done with my sandwich and I finish my milk and I smile at Marcy. “See you later.”

  “Okay, and good luck on your auditions, Gwennie.”

  “Thanks.”

  I walk up the winding staircase to the third floor and go to my favorite practice room.

  Good luck. Everybody says “good luck.”

  I open the case and rosin my bow.

  It’s not about luck. Mr. Ware has a quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson on the wall in my English classroom:

  Shallow men believe in luck.

  Strong men believe in cause and effect.

  I close the practice room door and begin my warm-ups. Fingers, strings, pressure, bow, friction, sound. Cause and effect.

  Emerson gets it.

  An hour into the practice my cell phone rings. I don’t know the number, and I almost reject the call. Then I remember: This could be Grampa.

  I catch the call on the fifth ring. “Hello?”

  “Is this Gwen?” It’s a man’s voice.

  “Who is this?”

  “Lawrence Page gave me your number. I’m Kenneth Grant, his attorney.”

  “Oh—Grampa called you?” Because that would be wonderful news.

  “No, I got a voice mail from him late Thursday afternoon, very brief. But in the message he asked me to check up on you. I don’t really know why he wanted me to call. So . . . everything’s okay?”

  “Yes—fine.” Grampa’s paying this lawyer three hundred dollars an hour to see if I’m all right. It’s ridiculous, but it makes me feel good anyway.

  “And you’re a music student, right?”

  “He told you that?”

  “Yes. And you’re in college?”

  “Not yet.”

  The lawyer pauses. “So, what’s going on with Lawrence? Is he okay?”

  That tells me Grampa hasn’t told this man about him leaving.

  More cautious, I say, “Sure—fine. He’s fine,” but I don’t believe that.

  Neither does Kenneth Grant. Picking his words, he says, “You know, your grandfather’s been my client for twelve years now, and I’ve known him all my life. And if he needed some help—or if you needed any help—it would be all right to tell me about that. I know how he’s under pressure to sell his house. I know about his brother, his finances, his health, everything.”

  I can feel how nice it would be to talk with this man, to ask him for advice. But Grampa’s instructions on the answering machine are clear: Please don’t tell anybody.

  So I say, “Grampa naps a lot, and I think he gets worried about me being out around the city all day. And sometimes I don’t get home until after dark. He gets worried. That’s all.”

  A long pause, and then Mr. Grant clears his throat. “So you don’t think it’s odd that I’ve tried to reach your grandfather six times since nine-thirty this morning and he hasn’t answered, hasn’t called me back? You think he’s just napping a lot?”

  I’m not ready to play this game, and it shows. “Um . . . he might have walked over to the park. Or maybe he’s been with some friends at the coffee shop. Down the block.”

  “Oh. So he’s doing better with stairs now?”

  “Yes . . . much better.”

  This man knows I’m lying, but I don’t care. I don’t want to talk about Grampa, or think about Grampa or worry about Grampa. And I need to get back to Sibelius. So I say, “Well, thank you for calling me, Mr. Grant. I’m sure this will make my grandfather feel better.”

  “All right,” he says. “My cell phone number’s in your phone now, so if you need anything, either of you, call me. And I mean that. You probably don’t know this, but Lawrence saved my dad’s life in Italy in 1943, took a bullet in the leg doing it. If it wasn’t for your grandfather, I wouldn’t be here. And I live close by, right at Riverside and Ninety-fifth, so you can call me day or night, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good-bye, Gwen.”

  “Good-bye.”

  It takes me ten minutes to bottle up a fresh batch of fears about Grampa, and ten minutes more to get back into the concerto. I play for another hour, but my heart’s not in it now. I can’t shake the feeling that things are skidding, sliding out of control. And I hate feeling so powerless.

  At two o’clock I leave school and head for the cross-town bus that will drop me at Seventy-second and Broadway for the subway ride up to my lesson. Because that’s something I can control. I can be on time. My lesson begins at three-fifteen on Fridays, and if I’m even a minute late, Pyotr Melyanovich locks his door. It only happened once. “Do you think you can rush out onto the stage after the concert has begun?” he shouted at me through the wall. I haven’t been late since.

  It’s a sunny afternoon, and the bus sails across Central Park, and the subway gets me close to my neighborhood a little after two-thirty. I’ve got all kinds of time, so instead of riding directly up to 116th Street, I get off at 103rd. Because I’m going to stop in at home so I can dump my schoolbooks and grab a snack. And I’m also going to stretch my legs in the process and try to breathe in some real air, or as real as air ever gets around here.

  This city is great for walking, especially when the weather’s right. And considering it’s February, there’s nothing to complain about. It’s one of those false spring days, the kind that brings New Yorkers out of their caves for an afternoon stroll. All the produce shops on Broadway have flowers spilling out onto the sidewalk, buckets and buckets of them, and I can’t resist buying a huge bundle of daffodils. And they make me think of that poem—

  I wandered lonely as a cloud

  That floats on high o’er vales and hills,

  When all at once I saw a crowd,

  A host of golden daffodils;

  I found that in a Wordsworth collection. He’s really good. He doesn’t get to me like Yeats does, but he knows how to paint a scene so I can’t forget it.

  I get home, go in on the ground floor, drop everything but the flowers, and run upstairs. A minute later I’m in the kitchen with my mouth full of sliced turkey, and I’m pouring a glass of milk, and I glance across the parlor. And I can see into the study. Because the desk lamp is on. And I see a shoulder. Of someone sitting there. At Grampa’s desk.

  I choke on the turkey, and I croak, “Grampa?” Because it has to be Grampa. It has to be. But it’s not. The man stands up, and Grampa’s not that tall. And the man turns around. Then he smiles. An amused smile.

  It’s Uncle Hank.

  “Probably surprised you.” He sees how shaken I am, and he keeps smiling. “Where’s Lawrence?”

  “I . . . I just got home.”

  “You saw him this morning?”

  I nod and reach for the paper tow
els to wipe up the milk I spilled. My heart is tapping out sixteenth notes.

  “Not like him to be out on a Friday afternoon. I called and left a message I was coming.” Another smile. “Maybe that’s why he’s not here. So I used my key.”

  I hate him being here. Grampa would hate it too.

  It’s two-fifty-two on Friday afternoon, and I have to leave, but I can’t, not with the answering machine sitting right there on Grampa’s desk. If Uncle Hank plays Grampa’s message, he’ll put me out of this house. So he can sell it and get the money. He’ll make me leave, I know he will. I’ll be shipped off home. Or maybe forced to move in with some friend from school. Not that I actually have a friend like that.

  And truly, it wouldn’t matter where I’d be sent, because this close to my auditions, the effect would be the same—disaster. Because I need my routine, and this quiet house, and my practice room. I’m on the tightrope, the one in my dream. I’m on it, and I’m alone, and I have to get across it. One little jiggle, and everything will change. Everything.

  Because my whole life’s story has been building up to these tryouts. I need to keep my balance, take my auditions, get my scholarships. I need to stay on the tightrope. Me and my borrowed violin. I need to get to that next platform. Because there’s no net.

  And as I stare at Uncle Hank, it’s time to leave for my lesson. Because I have to be there on time. I have to.

  I clench my jaw, and I say, “Grampa doesn’t want you in here. In his home. He told me. So you should leave.” My voice sounds strong, braver than I feel. Because I’m speaking for my grampa now. And I say it again. “You have to leave now.”

  “Oh, really?” Hank smiles again, still amused. “I have to? Is that what I heard? You’re telling me that I have to leave?”

  “Yes,” I say. Then I hold up my cell phone. “And Grampa’s lawyer. He’ll tell you too. Shall I call him? His name is Kenneth Grant.”