“Wherever it is that we’re going, they need to have food,” I announced when I got to the bottom of the stairs.
James obliged. A few minutes later we walked into Murphy’s Pizza on the Common and sat down facing each other. A wave of exhaustion washed over me as we sat down, and James gave me a concerned look.
“Stop that,” I said. “Another lecture about how I work too hard would be tiresome.”
He shook his head and shrugged. “How long have we known each other?”
Thank God the waitress appeared at that moment. I ignored his question and looked at the menu, then placed my order. James did the same, and then he looked at me.
“Damn it, I’m not going to lecture you, but look at yourself. You’ve lost too much weight. Your clothes hang off of you. You’ve always been intense, but lately it’s seemed a little much. Even for you.”
I didn’t dignify his micro-lecture with a response. Instead I pointedly looked at the waitress, who had paused to talk to another server instead of bringing our drinks. She saw the look and started moving again, bringing us our beers.
I tasted mine. It was swill, but it would do for now.
James shook his head. “Anyway, that’s not what I came over to talk to you about. Have you thought at all about the email I sent you Thursday?”
I had received an email from James, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember what it was about.
“Refresh my memory,” I replied.
“Jesus, Gregory. It’s amazing we’ve stayed friends all these years.”
I stared across the table at him. “We have a series of shows coming up starting next week, James. I’ve had a lot on my mind.”
He frowned. “This is about the boy.”
Right. The blind boy.
“Yes, I do recall, now that you mention it. Something about a blind boy who wishes to learn cello.”
James sighed. “Don’t sound so callous. His name is Robert Donovan. From what I understand he has considerable natural talent.”
That infuriating phrase again. “Music isn’t about talent, it’s about hard work and dedication to your craft.”
“Fine, then. Whatever it is ... this kid deserves a break in life.”
“How did you encounter him?”
“I met his adoptive parents a few weeks ago at a dinner party.”
“Adoptive?”
James nodded. “Robby was severely abused when he was younger. His birth parents are in prison. They actually thought he was autistic, but that … seems to be trauma. He’s brilliant.”
“And what exactly does this have to do with me? Surely you can find some...” I waved my hand in the air, trying to find a phrase that wouldn’t sound as arrogant as I knew this was going to sound. After flailing uselessly for a moment, I said what I had on my mind. “Surely you can find some second-rate cello instructor to help this boy with his playing.”
Our meals arrived as we spoke, so we paused for a few moments. Once the waitress was gone, James spoke. “This kid has a remarkable ear, Gregory. We’re talking a couple of hours a week.”
“I don’t do private lessons outside of the conservatory. You know that.”
“I want you to consider an exception. Just meet him over spring break and listen to him play.”
I sighed and very slightly shook my head, then took a sip of the “beer”. “Fine, James. I’ll meet him. I’ll consider it. I’m not promising anything. It’s one thing teaching students at the conservatory ... but it’s another thing to teach someone entirely new to music.”
Especially someone who’s blind.
I had no idea how I’d stand a chance teaching a young child how to play notes he couldn’t read on a page, or see the location of my fingers on the strings. I’d figure something out.
James grinned. “Tuesday? 4 p.m.?”
“Certainly. Whatever you require. Just tell me where to be and leave me alone about it.”
James’s voice trailed off in my head as the bells on the door directed my eyes upward, where I saw Savannah Marshall and a group of her girlfriends. I was slightly annoyed, at first, that the waitress sat them at the booth diagonal from ours, given all their high-pitched giggling and incessant talking. The irritation lasted only as long as it took for Savannah to remove her oversized white winter jacket, revealing a snug red sweater underneath it.
Any time I’d seen her in class or on stage, she mostly dressed professionally. Apart from her wildly inappropriate audition clothing three years ago, of course. That aside, I respected that she never seemed to put herself on display the way so many of her female classmates did. This sweater, however, clung to the severe curve of her waist in a way that made my lips part and take in an extra breath.
She was stunning. Absolutely stunning.
Prying myself away from staring inappropriately, I peered up to her face. Just as she turned to sit, Savannah caught my eye, seemingly startled to see me. Her already wind-blushed cheeks deepened in color as she took a visible breath.
“Hi Mr. Fitzgerald,” she said melodically as she politely waved.
Gregory, please. Call me Gregory.
I didn’t say that. I did, however, return her greeting with a grin and a wave of my own. “Savannah,” I replied, nodding once.
“Wh—were you even listening to me?” James held out his hands, exasperated.
“Calm down, James. A student said hi. I was trying to have a life, as you suggested earlier.”
James turned to the gaggle of laughing girls and shook his head, looking back at me.
“What?” I asked as his face turned suspicious.
He shook his head, grinning as he took a sip of his beer. “Nothing. Just watch your ass, Greg.”
Rolling my eyes, I sipped my beer, too. “Must you be so crass, James?”
“Yes,” he chuckled, mocking me, “I must.”
Savannah