Every Note Played(33)
Until eight days ago.
But that wasn’t her only chance. When he began touring, playing with a different symphony orchestra in a different city every week, every month, for years on end, he was willing to move and told her so. His home could’ve been based out of any city, out of New York or New Orleans just as easily as Boston if she wanted. Karina chose 450 Walnut Street in a suburb nine miles outside Boston. He’ll never understand why she did this to herself. Maybe fearless Karina had become afraid. Maybe that’s when he began falling out of love with her.
Karina switches to Mozart’s “Rondo alla Turca.” He listens to her play, remembering how remarkable she is and the choices they made and didn’t make and where it all got them—Richard in the den with ALS and Karina in the living room teaching a moron—and Mozart’s lighthearted notes suddenly turn dark and sinister. An anger rises inside him, not a logical notion or a fleeting feeling, but a deeply stored thick black poison.
Why is she teaching pitiful high school students when she should be a world-class, revered musician? What does she earn—maybe $50, $100 an hour? Does she do four half-hour lessons a day? How is she going to live on this?
Grace’s college tuition is already in the bank, thank God, but what little savings he has beyond this is dwindling fast. He hates himself for not having long-term disability or life insurance. But he didn’t work for a company that offered benefits. He was the company, and he was relatively young and healthy and had forever in front of him to earn more than enough money to suit his lifestyle. The worst he could imagine was a career-ending injury to his hands. But in that highly unlikely case, he’d then teach, go on a lecturing tour, take a faculty position at some school. There would always be options. He never considered the possibility of needing insurance. He assumed nothing bad would ever befall him. Certainly nothing catastrophic. Now look at them. Living catastrophes.
After all the lies and betrayals, he’s still devastated that she gave up such a rare, God-given talent for classical piano to chase jazz and then never even catch it. His mind sends fruitless signals to clench his hands into fists. His anger mixes with impotence.
It’s not all his fault.
She blames him for everything.
She lied about everything.
She would say that he betrayed her first.
Cold and wishing for a fleece for the past couple of hours, he’s now running hot. Sweat is soaking his undershirt beneath his paralyzed armpits. He feels shaken, disturbed, as if he needs to sit down or leave the house, but instead he stays pinned to the open door.
Karina’s playing stops, and now it’s the student’s turn with “Rondo alla Turca.” Nothing about it is sweet or lighthearted. He’s reminded of Grace reading aloud when she was five or six, stammering through each syllable of Frog and Toad, despairing several times a page, losing any hope of comprehension as every ounce of focus was drilled into the effort of microscopically sounding out the letters. A joyless experience. Except he loves Grace. He hates this student.
He shouldn’t do that. He shouldn’t hate this poor student. But a poisonous black hate lives inside him, and his hatred needs a subject. The easy choice would be ALS, but ALS doesn’t have a face or a voice or a heartbeat. It’s hard to hate something that isn’t human.
He hates Karina. Her excuses. Her lies.
He hates himself. His selfishness. His infidelities.
Why does a forty-five-year-old concert pianist have ALS? Maybe it has something to do with karma. Maybe his ALS is retribution for something he did equally horrendous in magnitude. Or maybe it’s because of what she did. Maybe his ALS is punishment for their mutual sins.
Or, strangely, maybe ALS is their chance to make amends. If they admit where they’d been wrong and apologize for all the hurt they caused each other and are forgiven, if they settle their bad karmic debt in this other way, maybe he’d be cured. Or, if not cured, maybe healed in some way. For both of them. He realizes that this kind of mystical wondering is akin to wishing on a star, praying to God, or believing in the prophecies of a Magic 8 Ball.
But why not try?
He pulls the door shut with his foot. He can’t tolerate one more second of listening to this wretched piano lesson. And he’d rather go on hating Karina and himself than answer that why.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
From his reclining chair in the den, Richard can hear Karina singing “Baby, It’s Cold Outside.” She’s been in the kitchen all day preparing for Wigilia, a traditional twelve-dish Polish supper served on Christmas Eve, her favorite day of the year. She’s been singing and cooking since early morning, determined to enjoy this day even if no one else at 450 Walnut Street will join her. Or maybe she’s hoping that her dogged cheerfulness might hitch a ride with the velvety smells of cooked onions, garlic, ginger, and yeasty dough permeating the house and infect her daughter and ex-husband.
As far as Richard knows, Grace has always helped her mother cook for Wigilia. They wear matching red aprons. Grace specializes in baking the makowiec, a sumptuous poppy-seed rolled cake. They’re an adorable team, singing and chatting while preparing this special feast from scratch.
Not this year.
Grace has been holed up in her room since walking through the front door two days ago. Her muttered excuses for reclusion have so far included exhaustion, headache, and reading. Every now and then, Richard hears the water running in the pipes overhead, so he knows she’s in the bathroom above the den. She came downstairs a couple of hours ago for a wordless visit to the kitchen, probably to grab some food to go, and scurried back to her cave. It’s now 6:00 p.m., and she’s still up there.