House of Rougeaux(62)
They remained like that for some minutes, catching their breath. He drew away and they rearranged their clothing. Eleanor was not entirely sure what had just happened and was momentarily overwhelmed by the throbbing, stinging sensations between her legs. Batiste picked up the sheet music from the piano and closed the fallboard over the keys.
“That’s enough for today,” he said. “I’ll see you home.”
* * *
Monday in class, and all that week, he did not single her out as he normally did. He did not ask her to work with him the coming Saturday. His addresses to her were cordial, even kind, but gave no hint of the intimacy that had transpired. Eleanor did her best to focus on the lesson. What had she expected? She didn’t know, but, whatever it was, the lack of it left her crushed and confused. During the lunch break Alma noticed her downcast state and asked her if something was the matter. What could Eleanor possibly say? Only a concealing half-truth, that she wasn’t feeling quite well. Alma asked her if she was homesick, and she said yes, because perhaps that was also somewhat true.
As the weeks went on Eleanor learned to set the incident with Batiste aside; certainly there was so much more to occupy her mind. When not immersed in learning at the Conservatory, Alma and Eleanor, and Sam Higgins, took advantage of their weekends to traverse the city. Sam, who always had his nose in the papers, found countless free events at Madison Square Garden, just blocks away, and in Central Park. They saved carfare by walking everywhere, wearing out their shoes, but learning the city block by block. When they befriended senior students they were invited to parties that often turned into the fiercest of impromptu battles between harps, banjos, guitars, violins, and of course piano. The new students were sometimes dared to show what they could do, and once Eleanor accompanied Alma, whose pure mezzo soprano was already gaining attention, in a new rendition of There is a Balm in Gilead, which earned them whoops and hearty applause.
She might have forgotten that day with Batiste entirely if not for the fact that in mid-July, her menses weeks late, she began to experience a telltale nausea, and, worse, fatigue. She recalled her mother, early in her pregnancy with Dax, when Eleanor was just a girl, and seeing her run out back from the kitchen when sickness overcame her. Mama had explained that she was alright, soothing Eleanor’s worried brow with her cool hand—it was just the new baby getting comfortable. Now, however much Eleanor still didn’t understand about baby-making, the pieces came together in her mind, leaving her to face the unthinkable.
Alma again noticed her change in mood.
“Nora,” she said,“it’s the heat that’s getting to you, is that so?”
“That must be it,” said Eleanor, trying to smile, “and maybe a bad frankfurter at the Park.”
“Poor Northern Chickadee,” crooned Alma, wanting to cheer up her friend. “You aren’t used to it, like we are.” By we she meant anyone from the southern states. “And the recital, of course. There’s a whole lot of pressure on us now.”
* * *
Excitement and anxiety surrounded the upcoming Summer Recital, the 15th of August, wherein the new students would be vetted and separated into those accepted for further study and those turned away. But Eleanor felt herself slipping away from this hopeful group. If what was happening to her was indeed the thing she dreaded, her future as a serious pianist was about to be snuffed out like a candle. And what would become of the rest of her life? She would be a fallen woman, disgraced and ruined.
She went to see Batiste. He kept hours at his small office on the top floor after classes on Wednesdays. She waited in the hall, seated on a chair while other students filed in and out, conferring with him on one thing or another, until the last one went and she could hear him gathering his things to leave. She stepped into the office and stood opposite his writing desk.
“Miss Rougeaux,” he said, looking up, a placid smile drawn on his face.
“Mr. Batiste,” she began, not knowing how she would reach the end of her sentence, “the day that you and I worked on your composition….”
“Yes?” he said, seeing her falter.
“When we, when you and I…” she bit nervously at her lips. “It’s that I am with child now.”
He stared at her blankly. She felt a wave of nausea and swallowed hard.
“That’s regrettable,” he said, standing up. He placed a leather briefcase on the desk, pulled a pocket watch from his vest and consulted the hour. “But it’s really no concern of mine.”
Whatever blood she had left seemed to drain away.
“No concern,” she wavered.
“Where you have been, or what you have done with yourself, or what you are going to do, Miss Rougeaux,” his voice was chilling through the smile, “is your business. Do us both the great favor of not bringing it up again.” A touch of menace lingered in his words. Indeed, she had nothing on him. Any complaint she made he could easily deny, and would only bring worse upon herself. He moved past her into the hallway and held the door until she followed. Then he locked the door and strode away.
She missed classes the next day. It scarcely mattered now. She stayed in her room and Alma worried over her, but she couldn’t speak. The worst had become all too real. Early the next morning, while the other girls still slept, Eleanor found her thoughts pulled to Nocturne in C-sharp minor, by Chopin, the piece she was to play at the recital. Her fingers itched. She badly wanted to play. She rose soundlessly and made her way to the Conservatory. Practice rooms were open before the start of morning classes and she found an empty one. She sat at the bench of her favorite piano, all gleaming black wood and a gorgeous sound. No sheet music sat on the music stand; she didn’t need it. Instead she saw the traces of her reflection in the piano’s lacquer finish, as if she were a ghost contained inside. Maybe that’s just what I am, she thought, a ghost.