chapter Five
“Awkward” doesn’t quite do justice to our next rehearsal. It’s a comedy of errors:
[Enter Isaac.] “Hi.”
“Um, hello, Juli.” [Looks miserable.]
“So, where should we start?” [Julianne twirls hair around finger.]
“Juli, I—” [Isaac rakes fingers through his hair. Both will be bald by the end of the week.] “—let’s just start with Wanderer again. I—”
“Yes?” [Holds breath.]
“Nothing.” He goes three shades of red. He opens his mouth to say something else, clearly thinks better of it and snaps it shut.
Please don’t say anything. If you say a word, I’ll crumble.
“Juli, if there’s something you want to talk about…”
I close my eyes and cringe. I so completely want to talk about it, but not with him. It’s not right. It’s not for me to dump on him. It kills me to be rude, but I have no choice. The best thing he can do for me is help me get the audition, get accepted to the New England Conservatory, and out of Mobile, where this will never happen again. My humiliation gives me the motivation I need to be a total wench to him.
“No, there’s nothing. You’re here to teach me, so teach.”
“I—okay. None of my business. But—”
“But nothing. I’ve got a recording to do, and we’re wasting time.”
I ignore the slapped look on his face. His lips are a thin line, but fortunately, he keeps them closed.
At least about that day. He has no problem opening them to criticize my performance as the deadline looms. We spend hours and hours going over the same passages, to the point that I hate everything I play.
“Try not to be so heavy-handed. Technically, you nailed this a week ago, but you’re still not feeling it.”
I can’t feel anything, haven’t you noticed? Not even the new scrapes on my arms.
We’ve narrowed down the required pieces for my recording, which will then be part of my in-person audition if I get one. I also get to choose a large body of work from a twentieth or twenty-first century composer. Of course, I choose Rachmaninoff.
We’re fine-tuning his Etude-Tableau No. 5 in D Minor when Isaac tells me it’s wrong. Everything I do is wrong.
“If you’re not going to do this right, then don’t do it at all!”
Finally, I feel a twitch of emotion. More than a twitch. I always know from the whoosh in my ears that I’m about to blow. For a split second, I wonder if this is what Mama feels.
“Fine! If you know so much, then show me. You’ve been harping at me for weeks, but I don’t know what you want. ‘It needs color. Add some color.’ What does that even mean?”
I slam down the keyboard cover and grip the smooth, mahogany lid. I sink my fingernails into the finish. It feels good to ruin something so perfect and beautiful. I’ve also ruined my eager-to-please facade. As it falls away, I think of how disappointed Mama would be.
“I don’t know what you’re asking, and you won’t demonstrate. Why? It’s not because I haven’t asked.”
“Fine. Move over.”
My retort dies on an exhale. I fling back the bench and stomp over to the loveseat, throw myself down and cross my arms over my chest. Yes, I’m childish. I was ready for a fight and didn’t expect him to give in so easily. He adjusts the bench a good foot back from where I had it. He closes his eyes and begins, immediately immersed in the piece with the opening low roll.
And it’s magic.
The keys and fingerings are the same ones I play; the dynamics are similar, but the song itself, its coloring is different in every way—every nuance, every pause, every touch. He leans back on the seat, fingers upright and stiff, wrists lifted; then he leans in, presses deeper into the keys, rocks the piano’s frame with the pedal.
His eyelashes glow in the sunlight streaming in from the southern window. Dust motes float in the air, dancing it seems to the quiet energy of his music. I feel his sadness now more than ever. He says much, much more through the piano than he ever does with his spare words. Perhaps this is why he never wants to play for me; he knows I’ll sense whatever it is he doesn’t want to let out. It’s true—there’s something he’s hiding behind the teacher’s critiques and praise.
I leave my body then, transported into the world of heartbreak he creates with his fingertips. I’m suspended in air just like the dust motes, not even aware of breath or heartbeat. For once, I feel…whole? Whatever this is, I want to hold onto it as long as I can.
When he finishes, neither of us moves. I try desperately to hold onto the wholeness, but as the seconds glide by, it flees from me like every other good thing. His hands are in his lap, and he stares ahead at nothing. I slip off the loveseat and over to the piano to stand behind him.
Do I dare? Can I touch him again, or will he push me away?
I rest my hands on his shoulders, a test. When he doesn’t resist, I slide them down in front around his neck and clasp my hands. I lean my cheek on top of his head, and he places a warm hand on top of mine. It’s a gesture I’ve made many times with my brother. We stay like that for a long while until he releases a heavy sigh, and I know the spell’s broken.
“I think I better go.”
“Thank you,” I whisper.
***
It’s after dinner, and I’m headed out to—where else?—the studio. R.J. is packing his truck for his return trip to college. He leaves in the morning, and I don’t think he can cram another thing into or onto that poor pickup.
“R.J.? You under there? Send up a flare if you’re okay.”
“Hah-hah. You suck. How about giving me a hand instead of being snarky?”
“Ouch. Sorry, R.J. I didn’t mean it like—” Unwanted tears burn my eyes.
“Aw, Juli, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m just…nervous.”
I wipe away the evidence. “About what?”
He emerges from behind the overstuffed truck bed and stops in front of me. He puts his hands on his hips—once again looking like Daddy—but he doesn’t say anything. He gazes at the back of the house like it’ll tell him what to say next. I can see him formulating the words, and it makes me nervous, too.
“Whatever it is, just tell me,” I say. “You know you can tell me anything.” I take his hand, and he pulls me in for a big bear hug. A lump forms in my throat at the thought of him leaving me alone in that house. It’s been so nice to have someone to talk to and share the blame.
He kisses the top of my head. “Let’s go into the studio. I don’t want to be overheard.” He nods toward the kitchen windows.
“Wow, this must be pretty big. Just tell me what it is before I puke all over your shoes.”
“You’d do that, wouldn’t you?”
I’m glad I can get a little smile out of him. We settle on the loveseat, and he slumps down until he’s practically horizontal. He links his fingers over his chest and twiddles his thumbs. His nervous gesture puts me even more on edge.
“So, here’s the deal,” he says. “Actually, there are two deals. Or maybe three. I don’t know. One is about me and the other is about you. Kind of.”
“Would you just spit it out?”
With a heavy sigh, he tells me his news. “I changed my major, and I haven’t told Mama or Daddy.”
“Holy crap, R.J. They’ll flip! Oh, let me guess, you met a cute upperclassman sorority chick and you’re both going to major in English so you can write poetry together under the full moon?”
“Shut up, you douche! I’m trying to be serious here.”
“Oh. Right. Continue.” The repercussions of his decision are huge. The men in our family have been lawyers since Le Sieur de Bienville landed on the Gulf Coast in 1699.
He clears his throat. “Anyway, I can’t do the pre-law thing. I know Daddy wants me to join the firm in a couple of years, but I’d rather stick my face in a paper shredder. I’ve switched to pre-med. I want to study psychology and psychiatry. I want to figure out what’s going on with Mama and why we’re so screwed up. I don’t want to be like Daddy and bury my head in the sand, you know?”
I nod, still not sure if I’m on board.
“I mean, what if I have kids and they have problems, too? Or your kids? Don’t wanna be mean, but we both know you’ve got problems. I want to fix this. And I want to help others. I know Mama and Daddy will be pissed, but I think it’s still respectable.” He grins. “And you’d have to call me Doctor.”
I sock him in the shoulder. “Okay. I’ll support you. I assume I need to keep this hushed up?”
“Yeah. Definitely. I’m gonna wait to bring it up when I’m home over Christmas. I want to see how this first semester of classes goes before I spring it on them.”
I take a deep breath. “You said there was something else. Something that had to do with me?”
“Yeah.”
He looks up at the ceiling and blows a bronze wave out of his eyes. I stand and sort a pile of sheet music.
“Here’s the thing,” he says. “I think you’re hiding something. I don’t know what it is, but I don’t think it’s just about Mama. You’ve always told me about that stuff, and you know I’m here for you. I just…I don’t know. You’re different.”
“Different how?”
“It’s hard to explain, especially since I don’t want to piss you off. That’s a first, isn’t it?”
I stick out my tongue. Long ago, we agreed we couldn’t tell anyone about the craziness at home. For one thing, it’d make the situation worse. Mama would freak. For another, we don’t want to get Mama in trouble. She’s sick, and she can’t help it. We know that at one time, and in her own way, Mama loved us. Still does. Before R.J. went to college, she often went on tirades, but that was nothing compared to what she does now. I don’t know if he can’t see it or chooses to ignore it. I like to think he loves me enough that it’s the former.
I grab a score and settle back down on the loveseat next to R.J. He reaches over and takes my hand. “Don’t get mad, okay? And don’t freak. It’s just…I think you’re getting really worked up over this NEC thing. I know. I know it’s a huge deal and you’ve got every right to freak out. God knows I did with the pre-law program. It’s just that you’re almost home-free, you know? Literally. Next year you’ll be out of here no matter what, whether it’s in Boston or someplace else. Don’t make yourself sick when you’re in the homestretch.”
I pull my hand away from his and flip through the pages again. “Any other clichés?”
“Um, yeah, actually.”
“Shoot.”
“Okay, this is where you’re really going to freak.”
“Why?”
“See? You’re already doing that eyebrow thing. Man, I wish I could do that.”
“R.J.!”
“Okay! I wanted to tell you to…um…well, I know you’re almost eighteen, and I’m not that much older than you, so this is going to sound weird, because really it’s none of my business, except that it is, because I love you and only want what’s best for you—”
“R.J.!”
“Okay! Just keep your legs crossed. Wait! Down, girl! I come in peace. Ouch!”
I flick him right between the eyes like we did when we were little. It sounds stupid, but man, it hurts.
“Hear me out. I’m trying to be big-brotherly. Just be careful. I think it’s really weird that Mama and Daddy set you up with Isaac Laroche.”
I hit him over the head with the score in my hand, like a puppy and a newspaper. “They didn’t ‘set us up.’ They didn’t give Mr. Cline a stroke.”
“No, I know. It’s just that I heard things about him when we were little. How old is he?”
I see where this is going. “He’s twenty-seven, R.J.”
“Ten years older than you.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, I remember hearing rumors about him when we were in elementary school. Yeah, because it was your first year at solo and ensemble competition. He would’ve been a junior or senior.”
“And?”
“I don’t remember specifics. I just remember his name came up, and Mama and her friends talked about him a lot. I got the impression it wasn’t good.”
“It couldn’t have been that bad if they still let him come to our house every day.”
“Yeah, that’s true.”
“But there’s more?”
“It’s just…I know how guys are. Let me put it this way: You think of Mr. Cline as a grandfather, right?”
“Of course.”
“And he thinks of you as a granddaughter.”
“I hope so.”
“Well, I can guarantee you that Isaac Laroche does not think of you as a granddaughter.”
“R.J., I can honestly say it’s not like that. Isaac is all business. The first couple weeks, I could barely get him to talk or smile. I don’t think he wanted to be here.”
“Has he been a jerk?”
“No, not a jerk. Just…he keeps to himself. Except when he yells or drinks.”
“He drinks while he’s here?” R.J.’s voice goes so high that I expect the neighborhood dogs to howl.
“No, don’t be stupid. I ran into him at Felix’s once.”
“You still sneak over there? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t think it was a big deal.”
“Did he try anything?”
“No, I told you, it’s not like that. He was just a lot more normal when I saw him there. Not so anal.”
“Uh-huh.”
There’s no way I can tell R.J. that I got into Isaac’s car. Or that I kinda sorta kissed him. It didn’t really count.
“R.J., will you relax? With all the problems I have, Isaac doesn’t even register. He’s doing a great job of helping me prepare, and he’s identified a lot of my problem areas. Mr. Cline did the right thing when he ‘set us up.’ So, when will you be home next?”
“Definitely over Thanksgiving and Christmas. Plus, I think I’ll be a back a couple of weekends to get fitted. I told Mama to just take my measurements, but she didn’t think that was good enough.”
R.J. is serving as a knight in the Mardi Gras king’s court again this year. It’s an honor reserved for the male friends and family of each year’s king. Basically, you dress up like an idiot, get drunk, ride on a float and throw stuff at people. Sounds bizarre, but it’s a pretty big deal and a whole lot of fun.
“She just wants any excuse to get you home again. Can’t say I blame her.”
“Aw, I love it when you try to be nice, Sis.”
“Oh, stop it. Don’t make me cry.”
We put our arms around the other’s shoulders and walk through the yard to the back door.
“Mmm, I smell dinner.” He shoves the back door open as Mama takes lasagna out of the oven. She pauses when she sees us with our arms still around each other.
“Talking about me again?”
“What? No. I smelled that wonderful lasagna in the backyard. I hope you made two, because you know it’s my favorite. I’ll eat one just by myself. Here, let me help you set the table.”
R.J. always knows just what to say to diffuse the bomb before she explodes. I grab some napkins and follow him into the dining room.
***
“This application essay is kicking my butt.” We survived last night’s dinner, but this essay may be the death of me. I push away from the desk and pace my bedroom. R.J.’s stretched out on the floor, so I nearly kick him in the head.
“When’s it due?”
“Next week.”
He laughs. “Way to procrastinate, Juli. Haven’t you been writing it in your head for, like, your entire life?”
“That’s the problem!” I throw my hands in the air. “I need it to be perfect, and when I write it in the shower or in the car, it sounds great. But every time I sit at the computer, I draw a blank.”
“Wish I could help you. But really, does the essay matter that much? They’re going to judge you on your performance, you know?”
“Ugh. Yes, I know.”
R.J. leans up on his elbows to follow my progress around the room. “Let me guess, you don’t know what you’re playing for your recording either?”
I open my mouth to answer, but Mama appears in the doorway.
“Big sales this weekend,” she says. “Let’s go to the outlets.”
Mama’s been normal the past couple of days, so I agree. R.J. begs off. “Gotta finish packing. I’ll be gone by the time you get back.”
On the drive there, we talk about everything and nothing. Mama taps her bony fingers on the steering wheel to the songs on the radio. I watch the boats out on the water as we cross the causeway to the other side of Mobile Bay.
At all the stores, I’m drawn to sweaters and jeans. I flip through the racks and listen to the metal hangers clack before I slide them back into place.
Isaac says it gets wicked cold in Boston. It even snows.
Mama sees me and gives me that withering look that means Don’t get your hopes up.
“That color doesn’t go with your hair,” is all she says out loud.
I steal glances at her every few minutes. All morning I watch, wait, anticipate the moment when the bottom falls out, when the darkness invades her eyes and slowly seeps its poison into her mind. I wait to see the slight pinch of her lips, the scowl that deepens until it’s all that’s left of her face.
It never comes.
After a few hours, we leave with some separates I can layer, a pair of shoes and a pair of boots. Uniforms are required at my school, so I don’t need much. We go to lunch afterward, a miracle in itself given Mama’s eating habits, and we talk together almost like we’re normal. She leads the conversation, but that’s okay.
“Marcie—Mrs. Swann—she’s just insufferable. That woman has an ego a mile wide, honestly.”
Mama and Mrs. Swann are on the committee together for the Mystics of Dardenne ball, and it’s pretty much all she talks about lately.
“She’s taken over the entire project. She won’t delegate a thing. Really. You remember Heather? She’s coming back down to Mobile this year for the ball since her brother’s supposed to be king. But now we’ve got a regular fiasco on our hands because he just got kicked out of the university for running a gambling ring. Blew all the money his parents set aside for royal obligations. Just goes to show that you can’t count on anyone.”
“Well, if Geoffrey’s such a loser, how can he be king?”
“Exactly. He practically bankrupted his parents when he ordered all those place settings and linens for the banquet, and his costume is only half finished. I heard he hasn’t made a single payment on that. He’s already chosen a theme—Birds of a Feather—ordered decorations, favors…and now he can’t pay the balance.” She waves her empty fork in the air. “We’ve never had this happen before. I’m not sure what we’ll do, but if Marcie keeps carrying on the way she is, none of us will even want to go to the ball.”
Here’s what I know about being king or queen at a Mardi Gras ball: money, money, money, and connections. It takes a fortune to be royalty, not to mention your own harem to design, make, and fit your costume, the decorations and dinnerware for your banquet, the menu, and the throws and favors you’ll give away. There’s a king and queen chosen to rule over the entire city during Mardi Gras, but most societies also elect their own, as well. The Mystics are no exception.
“Do you have to replace him?”
“If only it were that easy, I certainly think we would. Marcy insists she and her husband will pay off his debts, but I don’t think we want someone like that to represent us. How would that look? Why, we’d never recover. We might as well disband and join the Joe Cain riffraff!”
I turn so she won’t see me roll my eyes. Joe Cain Day is a tradition in Mobile. He’s the man who restarted Mardi Gras in the city after the Civil War, so he gets his own day. It’s “the people’s” parade. It’s not nearly as impressive as the Mystics parade, but the people-watching is fantastic. You’re guaranteed to see at least one drunken cat fight and plenty of Confederate flags.
“What are you going to do?” I can’t believe she’s telling me all this. I mean, I’m practically a member of the Mystics myself—I’ve been going to balls and serving in the queen’s junior court since I was in diapers—but these kinds of secrets rarely filter down to me.
“I’m not entirely sure. There’s a special meeting next week to vote on our options.”
“Which are?”
“To replace him—whether Marcie likes it or not—or to let him be king, and we all suffer the consequences, or go without a king this year. That would be disastrous.”
I stifle a giggle. Mama’s dramatic, even on her good days.
“Do you have anyone in mind to replace him?”
“Well, everyone on the committee pulled relatives out of the woodwork. I didn’t realize Mobile had so many eligible bachelors. I even thought of R.J. for a while, but I don’t think he’s got what it takes.”
Translation: We don’t have the money.
“So, enough about me and the committee. Tell me, do those new pills work? Do they do what they’re supposed to? You know, I’m not crazy about you taking them.” She fiddles with her straw.
There’s an insinuation there I don’t appreciate. “I know, Mama. I’m not either, but things are better.”
“You haven’t told anyone you’re on them, have you?”
“No! Why would I do that? No.”
I’m embarrassed, but a little pleased that she cares enough to ask. It’s for all the wrong reasons, but still, she remembers. Ever since I was twelve, I’ve had really severe…er, monthly visitations. Mama thought I was just a wimp and told me to take ibuprofen. By my junior year, it was so bad I passed out in school. Twice. Turns out I was anemic, so the doctor put me on iron and birth-control pills to straighten things out. After a couple of months, they’re better.
I don’t really want to talk about it anymore so I start to tell her about the repertoire we’ve built for my audition. “Isaac said—”
“Oh, it’s Isaac now? When did you start to call him by his first name?”
I can’t tell if she’s teasing or not. It’s hard to guess, and I don’t want to guess wrong. I don’t want to ruin our almost-normal day. I study her face for a clue and decide to take the safe route. I tell the truth.
“He said it made him feel really old when I called him Mr. Laroche or sir, so he told me to call him Isaac.”
“That doesn’t seem quite right. How old is he, anyway?” She spears a crouton and pretends to nibble.
“Twenty-seven. I thought he was in his thirties, but he almost fell over when I told him that.” We’re having a real conversation. She didn’t blow up.
“Twenty-seven, such a baby. Such a great time of life. I do wonder why he’s in Mobile again though.” She gives up on the crouton. “I asked him when we set up your lessons, but he didn’t give a straight answer. His mother hasn’t said much either. Marcie’s mentioned it a couple of times, of course, but as long as he does what we pay him to do, I don’t care.”
I want to ask what she means by Mrs. Swann mentioning it “of course”, but the waitress appears with the bill. She takes it away, and Mama reaches into her purse for her lipstick. As I watch her apply it, I’m overwhelmed with the urge to grab her hand and squeeze, tell her I love you, Mama. I wish my love could make you better. I wish you loved me, too. Tears threaten, so I look away when the waitress returns with the credit card slip.
The ride home is quiet, but pleasant. When we shove open the back door, Daddy is in the kitchen fixing a sandwich.
“So, how did it go?” He looks from me to Mama and back.
“Want to see what I got? They were having great back-to-school sales this weekend.”
“Sure. Can I ask how much this cost me?”
Mama bristles at his question. “We went to the outlets, dear, so relax. And it’s a tax holiday.”
“No, hey, that’s fine. Didn’t mean it that way.”
She disappears upstairs as he squeezes the last bit of mustard out of the bottle and tosses it in the trash.
“Did she do okay?”
“Yeah, she was fine. I mean, she was still Mama, but for the most part, we had a nice time. We even stopped for lunch.” His eyebrows shoot up. “I know.”
“Juli, your Mama, she’s…she started a new…the doctor put her on a new kind of medication.”
“Another one? How many is she up to now?”
“I don’t know. Just keep an eye out, okay? I meant to tell you before you left, but you guys were out the door early.”
“Sure, Daddy. No problem. So far so good this time.” And I mean it. She’s been tolerable.
“Can I see what you got now?”
“Yeah. Mama thought it would be best if I got things I could layer. It seemed like she didn’t want me to get any heavy things in case I don’t make it to Boston.”
“Oh, hey, that reminds me. Isaac Laroche called. Said he’s got all the stuff to do the recording this week. Pretty big deal, huh?” He takes a big bite of his sandwich. For a city boy, he does a good impression of a cow chewing cud.
“Yeah, pretty big deal.”
I show him my shirts and pants and boots. He pretends to be interested while he mumphs through the rest of his turkey on rye. I take off all the tags and throw the clothes in the washing machine before I head up to my room.