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The voice on the other end was frail and choked with emotion.
“How are you, Grandma?”
“Oh, my God!” She paused. “You sound just like … excuse me … I think I’m going to cry.”
I beat her to it. Tears started streaming down my face. My past had been closed for so many years. And suddenly, without warning, the door had swung wide open. We both started talking at the same time, then we both started laughing, then crying.
I heard a beeper go off. I looked up. I hadn’t realized that Chris carried a pager. He put on a leather jacket.
“I’ll be back.”
“What?” I suddenly started shaking uncontrollably. “Wait. Don’t leave.”
“Teresa, are you all right?” my grandmother asked.
I spoke into the phone. “Grandma, can you hold for a moment?” I covered the receiver and said, “Chris, don’t leave me alone.”
Chris walked up to me and held my face, wiped my tears with his thumbs. “I’ve got to go. I’ll be back. Talk as long as you like. Good-bye.”
He was out the door.
I put the receiver back to my ear. Actually, it was good that he did leave because the conversation became very emotional. We laughed, we cried; I asked questions and so did she. Then my grandfather got on the extension and soon we were all talking so fast, it was hard to understand anyone. But it didn’t matter. Because within minutes, I was talking to family. Eleven years of emptiness vanquished in a single stroke, all because someone had cared enough to make a phone call.
I gleaned a history of what had happened to them. They had faded into the breeze at my father’s request. He had felt that as long as my mother’s memory was kept fresh in my mind, I would never develop a close relationship with my new stepmother, Jean. They had wanted only what was best for me, so they had pulled away. They related my history, defending my father at every twist and turn. But I could feel only anger and resentment.
Did I ever receive the Christmas cards and presents they had sent me?
I told them I hadn’t.
How about the birthday cards and presents?
Not them, either.
I told them I would write. I told them I would send pictures. I told them I would call whenever I got the chance. If they wanted to send anything or write back, I told them to address the letters in care of Chris, then gave them his address. After forty-five minutes of nonstop dialogue, I finally relinquished the line to a dial tone.
I was so exhausted, I sprawled out on Chris’s leather couch and closed my eyes. He came back ten minutes later. His face looked drawn, his eyes looked dead.
I stood up. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” He brushed hair out of his eyes. “How’d it go?”
I smiled. “Great … it went …” The tears came back. “I don’t know how I’m ever going to thank you.” I moved toward him, then stopped.
He laughed. “Come here.”
I ran to him and hugged him tightly. It was like embracing granite. His arms wrapped around me, his fingers in my hair. He kissed my forehead. “I’m glad it went well.”
I burrowed myself deeper into his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. After a few moments, I became aware of something hard pressing into my hipbone. I adjusted my position in his arms, then went warm with embarrassment when I realized what it was. I giggled out of nervousness.
Chris whispered, “Yes, I have an erection.”
“At least I know you like me.”
“I like you very much.”
My eyes found his. “Then why—”
“Not now, Terry. Please.” He broke away and took off his jacket. Poured himself a shot of Scotch and drank it in a single gulp. “We’re going to have to forgo the lesson. I have a gig lined up. I have to pack.”
His voice was calm but his posture was tense.
I clapped my hands once. “If you need help, I’m a really good packer. I do all of my stepmom’s packing whenever she goes out of town.”
He smiled but it lacked warmth. “I’m fine.”
“Okay.” I shrugged. “Thanks again. I’m going to owe you money for a very long phone conver—”
“Forget it.”
“I also told them to write to me in care of you. I gave them your address. I hope that’s okay—”
“It’s fine, Terry.”
He was very anxious for me to leave. But I couldn’t get my feet to move. “When will you be back?”
“Don’t know. Maybe Thursday or Friday.”
“Where are you going?”
“Back east.”
The room turned quiet. I said, “Are you going to be seeing your fiancée?”
Chris raised his brow. “You really like to torture yourself, don’t you?”
“I feel very comfortable on a cross.”
“Yes, I’ll probably be seeing her.”
“You’ll be seeing Lorraine?”
“Probably. It’s getting late.”
Actually, it wasn’t, but he wanted me out. I said, “I’ll leave now. Thanks again.”
“Take my books.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to fall behind and you’ll need to prepare lessons to catch me up.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out three fifties. Showed them to me. “For the week I’m gone. I’ll deposit them in your bank account.”
“Christopher, it won’t take me ten hours to prepare your lessons.”
“Think of it as a retainer.” He brushed my nose with the corner of the bills, then pocketed the money. “You’re now in my employ.”
“You say that with such glee.” I laughed softly. “Must be nice to be rich.”
“I wouldn’t know. I work for every dime I have.”
I turned hot, glanced at him, then averted my eyes. “God, that was an awful thing to say. Of course you do. I’m very sorry.” I picked up the books. “Thanks for everything, Chris.”
He held my arm. “Terry, look at me.”
Quickly, my eyes swept over his face.
“Nuh-uh,” he persisted. “Look at me.”
I managed to meet his eyes.
Chris said, “You didn’t offend me. I knew what you meant.”
“You don’t need to pay me—”
“Terry—”
“All I’m saying is, I’d tutor you for free.” I felt my eyes get wet and looked away.
“I know you would, Terry. And that means a lot to me. But it’s not necessary.” He kissed my forehead. “Go home.”
A very good idea. He’d been full of them this evening. Quietly, I shut the door behind me. I thought my grandmother had taken away all my tears. But I was wrong.
5
The trips had become so routine, he wondered why he didn’t keep a prepacked valise. Same inventory every time. Two white shirts, two black shirts, two pairs of black pants, couple of ties, underwear, socks, shoes, and a suit in case he decided to see Lorraine. Her daddy liked things nice and formal. Proper. He didn’t want things to get out of hand before the wedding. Not a problem for him. But daughter had undergone a severe case of hot pants over the past year.
She had detested him when they were first introduced. And she had taken every opportunity to tell him so. He was immature, ugly, stupid, unmannered (that was a lie)—and worst of worst, he was a mick. It had been an insult to her intelligence that her father had ever agreed to the arrangement. She’d go through with it because she knew she had to. But he shouldn’t ever, ever, expect anything!
Her words had stung his cheeks like a blustery day. But eventually he had learned to tune them out, just like everything else. His apathy to her had been so complete, it took him months before he realized her change of attitude.
At first, he had wondered why. He hadn’t changed. He was the same person. Until he looked in the mirror one day for a self-portrait. His cheeks had been thick with grizzle, toughening the flawless skin that had once been speckled with teenage blemishes. His eyes had deepened in color and in intensity; his mouth had turned sensual and hungry. His body had hardened from pumping iron. His forearms were developed from hours of cello playing. Suddenly he realized what had happened. Hormones and genetics had finally worked in his favor. They had turned him into a man.
A vengeful person might have reacted with hostility. But since emotions weren’t part of his equation, he reacted as he always did. With control and calculation.
He regarded himself through her eyes. It must have been hard for a rich, spoiled Italian princess to accept a gawky fourteen-year-old mongrel three years her junior. Her former boyfriends had been older than she—nineteen or even in their early twenties, with deep voices and developed muscles. He must have looked like a worm in comparison.
So he decided to be gracious with her. Kind but never attentive, closed but not cold. Physical affection, of course, but only the obligatory kind if you please—a peck on the cheek, his hand on her arm as they strolled through the family’s vast country acreage.
She knew something was off, but she couldn’t call him on it. Because he behaved like the perfect gentleman that Daddy had ordered. They played tennis together. He always won, but not by too many points. They went to the symphony together. He knew the pieces by heart, could have conducted them if push came to shove. She had a hard time staying awake. He teased her about her strong New York accent, but it was always in good humor. They went to Mass together. He prayed fervently as she sneaked him sidelong glances, her leg rubbing against his thigh.
He jerked her around like a rag doll, kept her off balance. After the official engagement had been announced, she waited … and waited and waited. Finally, she came to him. To his amazement, she was still a virgin. So he’d been gentle with her. Gentle but dispassionate. Their first nighttime tryst, which she had arranged to cement their relationship, had only served to increase her anxiety.
What was wrong?
Nothing, it was fine.
What could she do to please him more?
Nothing, he was fine.
What could she do to make herself better?
Nothing, she was fine.
He had finally gained the upper hand.
He pulled a suitcase down from his bedroom closet. He didn’t feel like packing, so instead he lit a cigarette.
What he really wanted was another drink.
But that was the wrong thing to do.
It was time to use logic, analyze why he wanted the drink so bad.
Was it the gigs? After all these years was he finally getting performance anxiety?
No, he never was anxious about anything.
Was he worried about failure?
No, he was a pro.
Was the thrill gone?
He sucked on his smoke.
That was part of it. Just wasn’t as thrilling as it used to be. Truth be told, he was just going through the motions. So what? That was life, buddy. Everybody had to earn their keep. Besides, he needed the bread now more than ever because he was doling out so much of it to her.
Her.
Still the same thrill every time he thought about her. At least that much hadn’t changed. How she’d slipped by him in orchestra was still beyond his comprehension. He chalked it up to the way he was. He never went after girls. They had always come to him.
Just like Cheryl.
Not that he hadn’t noticed Cheryl. How could he not have noticed Cheryl? And yeah, he had wanted her. But Cheryl had been business as usual. He’d sent her “the vibes” and she had responded quickly … satisfyingly …
Terry had been different. He hadn’t noticed her because she’d been buried in the back of the second violin section. They’d been playing Rossini’s William Tell Overture. The beginning of the piece, Hedding purposely dragging the tempo, milking the cello solo—his solo, of course. Then Hedding had stopped the orchestra. Apparently, someone had been making loud snoring noises in the background.
Lack of sleep, Miss McLaughlin, or do you have a problem with the tempo?
