Things Hoped For Page 8

  Robert says, “Pretty good, eh?”

  I whip around and glare at him. “What, that you scared me to death? I can’t believe you did that.”

  He shrugs. “It worked, didn’t it? He would have stood there banging on the door all afternoon. He might have even gone to get the police.”

  “And he still might, for all you know.”

  Robert shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I predict he’s off the radar screen for a solid week. And you can thank me anytime you want to.”

  I’m still glaring. “So what happens when he calls Kenneth Grant, or when he shows up next Sunday?”

  He shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t know. But I know that your Juilliard and Manhattan auditions will be over by Wednesday, and then you should be on your way to Boston for your tryout at New England Conservatory. If your grandfather’s back, he can deal with Hank and the lawyer. And if he’s not, then who knows? Not my job, and it’s not your job either. We’re just two kids trying to get into college, remember?”

  Robert’s exasperating, and he’s got this superior attitude all of a sudden. And he’s also right. Or almost right. Because even though I want my story to be that simple—that I’m just this kid trying to get into college—I know it’s more complicated than that. It was always much more complicated, and I’m finally starting to figure that out. I mean, so many things had to happen just right, or I wouldn’t even be here, wouldn’t be doing any of this. So many others have been part of my story.

  Still, it wasn’t my mom and dad who boosted me onto this particular tightrope, and it wasn’t Uncle Belden, or even Mr. Richards. Yes, they all had parts to play, and, yes, I owe a lot to each of them. But right now, I owe the most to Grampa, who took me into his home, who built me a hideout in the basement. He’s still holding one end of my tightrope, and right now, right when I want to see him, I can’t. Because maybe he doesn’t know how much I appreciate all his help. And that I still need it.

  But Grampa’s not here.

  Then it occurs to me that it might also be nice to talk to Robert about this, about all of it, about my whole story.

  But I’m too upset to talk, so I just say, “I’m going to practice.”

  “Good,” Robert says. “That’s the right thing to do.”

  As if I didn’t already know that.

  Because playing music is the one part of my story that’s still absolutely my own.

  chapter 11

  NO STEAK

  Walking down to the basement, I take deep breaths. I try to let all the stress dissolve. I try to put Robert and Uncle Hank and Grampa out of my thinking, push everything aside until there’s nothing left except me and the music. Pyotr Melyanovich taught me that.

  I can hear his thick Russian accent. “The music is not in your violin. The music is not in your bow or your technique. And the music is not in the notes on the page. A hundred years of practicing will not help one bit unless we have the music in here. This is where we must find the music, inside our hearts.”

  Sometimes I know what he means, but today it’s not working. And I can imagine the judges on Tuesday, frowning, whispering to each other, shaking their heads. Who is this girl? And why did we decide to give her an audition? Because I’m playing all the right notes, but I don’t hear the music. I’m glad Pyotr has taught me the difference.

  On this Sunday afternoon I keep playing the notes anyway, running through every piece. Because that’s important too, to have each note of each score burned into my mind and my fingers. The physical part of the performance needs to feel as natural as pouring water from a pitcher.

  Still, with just two days to go, I should be feeling actual music. It should feel real. The composer’s ideas ought to be burning the paint off my practice room walls. The emotions should be vaporizing the muscles and the violin and the fingers and the bow, until there’s nothing left but pure thought. Because that’s what a true performance is, and nothing less will do.

  And as I begin the correnta section of Bach’s Partita number 1 in B Minor, I remember last night, playing for Robert in the dark. That was real music. And our trumpet-fiddle duet? That was music and poetry and life and everything else. Everything else that matters.

  And as I sweep into the stately opening of the sarabande section, my mind jumps to Robert’s question, about playing a fiddle tune for my teacher, about trying to close the gap between West Virginia and Lincoln Center.

  So for a few measures, I pretend I’m Alison Krauss, and I introduce Bach to the Soggy Bottom Boys. But it’s the wrong time for experimenting, so I toss my fiddle back into the hills and keep playing violin. Which is all the challenge I need at the moment.

  Playing at performance level is exhausting. It’s a real workout—mostly for the mind, but the body feels it too. I keep practicing until my fingertips hurt and my neck and arms are aching. And then I stop, because that’s important too—knowing when to rest.

  When I walk back upstairs, Robert has the score of the Haydn concerto spread across the dining table, and he’s tapping out the notes on the buttons of his trumpet. I’m not mad at him anymore.

  He looks up and says, “How’d it go?”

  “Not great. But I ran through everything from memory. So that’s good. Want some food before you practice?”

  He nods. “I’m starved. Got anything like a burger? I could walk over to that market on Broadway and get something to cook.” I get the feeling Robert looks for excuses for walking around New York, and I don’t blame him. It’s an amazing place. But he could wander off for an hour, and I’m too hungry.

  I shake my head. “How about a steak? We’ve got some downstairs in the freezer.”

  I start to turn back toward the stairs, and he says, “I’ll go get it. You look beat.”

  He’s trying to be nice, so I let him. I smile and say, “Thanks. The freezer’s in the utility room, past the door that goes down to the basement. You can’t miss it.”

  Then I go to the oven and turn on the broiler.

  A minute or so later I’m putting water into a pot to start cooking some green beans when Robert comes back into the kitchen. His hands are empty, and he looks a little confused.

  “The steaks are wrapped in white paper. Didn’t you see them?”

  He shakes his head. “You better go down and look for yourself.”

  I’m thinking it’s odd he couldn’t find the steaks, but mostly I’m focused on getting dinner ready, because I’m starved.

  So I walk across the parlor and then down the stairs to the ground floor, and I can hear Robert following behind me.

  I go past my bedroom door, along the hallway, and into the utility room. And I open the lid of the big freezer, because I know there has to be a steak or a roast we can cook up for supper.

  And in the dim light I see my grandfather. Grampa’s in the freezer.

  I don’t scream, partly because Robert is standing so close behind me. But I gasp, and then I push out a breath, and it turns into a small white cloud that hangs in the frozen air.

  I just stare at Grampa’s face.

  And I’m numb until a twinge in my chest makes me think back to when I was little, back in West Virginia. Because I’ve been to plenty of funerals, and sometimes they don’t close the lid on the coffin.

  When you go to a funeral home, you know that you might see a body there, so you’re sort of ready for it. And I remember when we drove for a Sunday afternoon visit with Mama’s aunt Irene, and we all knew she hadn’t been well, and I knew that we might get there too late, and Aunt Irene would be gone. Except for her body.

  It’s a big freezer, an old Kelvinator. When it’s late at night and the compressor turns on, I can hear it from my bedroom.

  I don’t want steak anymore, so I close the lid. Gently.

  chapter 12

  SUSPECTS

  I think you’re going into shock.”

  That’s what Robert says. But I don’t feel like I’m in shock. I don’t even know what that is, going int
o shock. I feel confused, that’s all. Like I ought to be crying. Like I ought to be horrified, screaming and moaning, sitting with my legs pulled up against my chest, rocking back and forth.

  But I’m not doing any of that.

  I’m just standing in front of the big freezer, and there’s fog all around me. I’m just confused. I don’t understand why Grampa’s in the freezer, that’s all. I don’t understand.

  Robert takes my hand, and he leads me upstairs to the parlor. He puts me on the couch, and he pulls a chair over and sits facing me.

  He says, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I did that. I’m sorry I made you walk down there and look. I don’t know why I thought you should see him for yourself. But what was I going to do? Walk up here and say, Hey, I think the man in the freezer is your grandfather? I couldn’t do it, Gwen. But I probably should have. So I’m sorry. Really.”

  There’s a big blue pillow next to me on the couch, and I pull it onto my lap, and then hug it with both arms. I look at Robert’s face, and he’s so pale, I can see little freckles on his nose. He’s the one who looks like he’s going into shock. He’s got his hands pressed between his knees, and I notice he’s wearing the new running shoes. From our trip to the store today. Which seems like years ago.

  Time isn’t working anymore.

  I hear myself say something. “We have to call the police.” My voice sounds like it’s out there, somewhere far away. I say it again. “We have to call the police.”

  Robert nods. “Right. Yes. We do. Do you . . . do you think your uncle did it? Put him in there?”

  I whimper and groan and wail all at the same time. Because the how question had not hit me, not until this moment. And the question hurts. How did this happen?

  And I’m seeing my dad’s face when he learns about his father. About how Grampa was found.

  But I see why Robert had to ask the how question. Because this is not an accident, that my grampa’s in the freezer. Who could do that? And why? Could Uncle Hank do that? Could anyone?

  How?

  An aged man is but a paltry thing,

  A tattered coat upon a stick . . .

  It’s from “Sailing to Byzantium.” Yeats is no comfort.

  I’m still in the fog, and all I can think to say is, I’m so sorry, Grampa, I’m so sorry.

  Grampa’s face. I want to see him smile. I want to hear him laugh when that guy on Wheel of Fortune makes a bad pun. It’s not going to happen.

  And the reality of the situation around me begins to take shape in my mind. Because I can see a murder investigation, right off a true-crime TV show. It’s coming. I’m seeing technicians dusting for fingerprints. I’m seeing men and women with rubber gloves and little flashlights poking into every corner of the house, every corner of Grampa’s life. Every corner of my life too.

  And my story, that simple story of a girl trying to get into music school, my story feels like it’s been swallowed up whole, the way an owl eats a mouse.

  Then it’s like this huge gust of wind pushes through my mind and all the fog is gone. Everything snaps sharp and clear.

  It’s my voice again, closer now. “You have to leave, Robert. Right now. Before I call the police. You need to get back to your hotel. You were never here. This is a mess. A huge mess. And it’s got nothing to do with you. Unless you stay. So you’ve got to go. Right now, okay? And I’ll go around and wipe off all your fingerprints. No one will know you were here. So go, okay?”

  “I can’t do that.”

  The look on Robert’s face. Very sweet. And protective.

  I say, “But you have to go. This is going to ruin everything for me, but it’s not your problem. It’s my grampa, and it’s my problem. So go. But first help me go through the house and clean up.”

  He shakes his head. “I really can’t leave—I mean, think about it. I’m a witness here. Because you’re a suspect too. I can’t leave. They’d find out I was here anyway. Think how many people on this block have seen me go in and out with you. And if you wiped my fingerprints off the freezer, you might wipe away something the police will need. We have to tell them everything, tell it exactly the way it happened. Even the part about me faking the voice to your uncle Hank. I might get in some trouble for that, but if I walk away, that’s a real crime. This is serious. And I’m probably a suspect too.”

  I’m hearing what Robert is saying, but I’m stuck back near the beginning. That one thing he said: Because you’re a suspect too.

  Me, a suspect. In the mysterious death of my own grandfather. A suspect.

  So I go into the study, and I pick up the phone. But then I hang up.

  Robert’s watching me. “What’re you doing?”

  I don’t want to explain myself. I pull my cell phone from the pocket of my jeans, and I punch the menu button until I find the call log, and then I scroll until I see a number I don’t recognize. I push Dial, and after five rings it goes to voice mail: “This is Kenneth Grant. Please leave a message.”

  After the beep I say, “Mr. Grant? This is Gwendolyn Page, Lawrence Page’s granddaughter. I just found my grampa. He’s . . . dead. He’s in the freezer, here at his house. In the utility room. And I have to call 911. And I wanted to ask you what else I should do. Because you said I should call if I needed any help. And I . . . I need help.”

  Then I push the End button, because that’s all there is to say.

  Robert’s nodding. “That was a good idea.”

  I sit in the big desk chair. It’s so still, so quiet in this house. I love that silence. I wish it could stay like this, so calm. I need to think. I want to run down to my practice room and shut myself in. I need to play my violin, right now. I need to play Bach, to feel his calm and the perfect order of his ideas.

  “Gwen?”

  It’s Robert. I shut my eyes and shake my head. “Shhh.”

  “Gwen—you have to call the police. Now.”

  I open my eyes. I pick up the handset from the desk phone and the sharp dial tone fills the study. I push 9, and then 1, and then I stop. Still holding the phone, I swivel to face Robert.

  “Who says we have to call the police right away? Why not wait, wait until Mr. Grant calls back? Or even wait until tomorrow? Or Tuesday? I mean, it’s horrible and everything, about Grampa, but the second we call the police, then everything goes completely out of control. And Grampa wanted me to keep working, to follow through on my auditions. He wanted me to.”

  But even as those words come out, I know I’m being irrational. And disgustingly selfish. And I already wish I hadn’t said it.

  Robert’s shaking his head. “Gwen—no. You have to call now. Someone is dead. Downstairs. You have to call the police right now. Do it.”

  I have to call now. Of course I do. If I try to delay the chaos, it’ll be that much worse when it hits.

  So I punch in the number.

  “911—what is your location?”

  A woman’s voice, and I tell her.

  “Tell me your emergency.”

  “I . . . I just found my grandfather. He’s dead.”

  “Your name?”

  “Gwendolyn Page.”

  “Did this just happen? Does he need a paramedic?”

  “No. He’s . . . he’s in a freezer.”

  “Please repeat that.”

  “He’s in a big freezer. He’s . . . dead.”

  “Are you in danger?”

  “No. There’s no danger.”

  “All right. You stay where you are. And don’t touch anything. Officers are on the way.”

  That was the end of call number two.

  By the time I’m done with the 911 operator, I’m sobbing. It’s because I keep having to say “he’s dead.” And it’s hitting me again, harder. My grampa is gone. And I’m not going to get to talk to him again. No more bedtime snacks, no more orders, no more salutes. The only picture I can see of Grampa right now is what I just saw, downstairs. It’s not fair.

  And now the tears, hot and angry. Our little terrier, wh
o got run over by the mail truck, and my cat Gracie, who died right in my arms. And Aunt Irene, who passed on that Christmas—I’m crying for all of them, for everyone and everything I have ever loved. And I’m crying like I did that night I was ten, sitting alone out on the front porch, when I knew for the first time that Daddy and Mama wouldn’t live forever. And now my grampa.

  After a few minutes Robert leans over and puts an arm around me. I feel my shoulders shaking. I’m glad he didn’t leave.

  I force myself to stop crying, force myself to be quiet. Because I am the brave one. I am the brave one.

  And that’s good, because I have to make another call.

  I click to the speed-dial list in my cell phone and punch the top number.

  “Hello?”

  That voice sounds so good to me. “Mama?”

  “Well, hi, Gwennie. I knew it would be you calling. How are you, sweetheart? Have you been havin’ a nice Sunday?”

  “Mama, I have to talk to Daddy.” My voice sounds funny, and my mom knows it.

  “Are you all right, dear? Is something wrong?”

  “I’m fine, Mama, but . . . Grampa died. And I need to tell Daddy.”

  “Oh, my! . . . All right, dear. Here’s your father.”

  My dad’s a big man, built like Uncle Hank. I love hearing his deep voice.

  “Hey, it’s my big city girl. How’re you doing up there?”

  “Daddy? It’s Grampa. He’s . . . passed on. I’m sorry to be the one who has to tell you.”

  My dad is quiet, and I can picture him as he gets all still and serious. And I remember all the stories Daddy told me about him and Grampa, about hunting and fishing together. And how Grampa almost cried the day Daddy left for Vietnam.

  But my dad is also the brave one. He clears his throat and says, “Was it . . . there at home? It wasn’t an accident or anything, was it?”

  “No, not an accident, I don’t think. But it’s . . . unusual, Daddy. Because Grampa’s in the big freezer, the one in the utility room. And I don’t know . . . how it happened. So it’s . . . unusual. I had to call the police. I’m sorry to have to tell you this.”