Nocturne(117)

I hadn’t spoken to my mother since watching her walk down the steps of Symphony Hall four months ago with Malcolm by her side. My dad encouraged me to reach out to her any chance he got. I told him I would when I was ready, and he said he understood. His understanding lasted until the next phone call or email, where we’d have the same conversation. My promise. His understanding. The end.

News on my mother had died down since opening night at the end of September, but I still scrolled through, peeking for glimpses of the life she chose. Maybe looking for reasons why. Before I had a chance to click on the Theater and Art tab to take me to the full list of stories, the headline smacked me in the face.

Carroll and Carulli To Wed.

... Proposal during an after-show party earlier in the month.

... Wedding this summer at Symphony Hall.

... An affair that will cost well over fifty-thousand dollars and host the most prominent …

Seeing it in print held a different weight than reading it in my father’s email last week. Things with them are getting serious quickly, he’d said. It was only quick for someone who refused to, or couldn’t, acknowledge a prior seven-year affair.

“Well, there that is.” I sighed and worked my way out of the section, scrolling past the Music link I’d grown to avoid out of habit.

Until this time.

Prized Antique Cello Fetches $1 Million at Auction.

My shoulders tensed as I hovered the cursor over the link. It had to be him. It was him. I knew it was him. But ... what? So, I clicked.





At the annual New England Center for the Arts Gala, sponsored by Sotheby’s, world-renowned cellist Gregory Fitzgerald auctioned his nearly 300 year-old Montagnana cello, netting $1 million dollars on the nose.





Shit, it really was him. The article continued and, despite myself, so did I.





The donation was sent, upon request by Mr. Fitzgerald, to the New England Conservatory. Fitzgerald is earmarking the funds to be used for a new program he’s helping to develop for music education students to be trained in specializing in working with children with disabilities.





I pressed the heels of my hands into my forehead as I rested my elbows on the table. Months ago he’d confessed to me how thoroughly unprepared he’d been to take on the young blind cellist, Robert. This was for him.

The rabbit hole wasn’t quite finished with me as I read and reread the last line of the article.

Gregory Fitzgerald was the principal cellist of the Boston Symphony Orchestra until his resignation earlier this month.



“What?” I shouted into the empty air of my apartment. “That’s it?” I scrolled up and down and clicked back and forth, but that was it.

He stayed with Karin … and they’re having babies.

That was the only reasonable explanation for such preposterous news.

I didn’t know which to address first, the bile rising rapidly through my throat, or my dizziness. I was already sitting, but not, unfortunately, near a toilet. I only had time to make it to the kitchen sink, so my painted blue teacup from the morning’s breakfast bore the brunt of my resurgent heartache.

After rinsing my mouth out, I cautiously returned to the Globe’s web page to find the answer.

There was none. The article just … ended there.

Gregory had left the BSO.

And auctioned his cello.

And nothing made any sense.

“Oh shut up, Adele, what the hell do you know.” I clicked off her instructions to have me make someone feel my love and picked up my phone, scrolling to Nathan’s number. He’d know something.

“No,” I said, only mildly concerned about my increased talking to myself. I set my phone down and took a breath. “Just … leave it alone.”





Gregory


“Oh, hello,” Karin said. She looked as surprised as I felt to see each other.

I coughed lightly, then said, “Hello, Karin.”

She gave me a sardonic smile, then said, “Don’t look so uncomfortable, Gregory. It’s all over.”

“Indeed.” I wasn’t sure how I felt about seeing her. The New Year’s party at Joseph McIntosh’s house was in full swing, at twenty minutes to midnight. I’d had three drinks and had a warm glow going that even the sight of my ex-wife couldn’t kill.

“You received the final check?” I asked. The sale of our house, which I’d mortgaged all those years ago to buy the Montagnana, had finally gone through. The tiny amount of cash left over from the sale was split between us, but the lawyers had handled that end of things.

“I did,” she said. “And I’m all settled in my new place.”

“Oh, good.” The words felt stiff.

In the end, our divorce had been amicable, uncontested. All the same, I felt uncomfortable in conversation with her, unsure of what to say, especially in a social environment like this. We’d only been married three short years, but it was long enough to create an immense, complicated tie. I had my own plans, but part of me wanted to know that she was ready to move on with her life without me. But, of course, we didn’t talk about such things.

She put a hand on my arm. “I heard about what you did. With your cello.”

I nodded. That was something I didn’t feel comfortable at all talking about.