Sight Reading (14 page)

Hugh said, “Doesn't every kid? Unless they already have a dog, in which case they want a cat.” He sighed. “Luke and I have an extremely aged cat. I fear we might have to put him to sleep soon, actually.” He lowered his voice, as if confiding something. “He was one of the first things Teresa and I did together, back when we were in graduate school and moved in together. I was thinking the other day that that cat has known me longer than Luke has.” His voice seemed caught in his throat. “And also that Teresa got to spend more years with our cat than she did with our son.” He took a swig of his beer, swallowed, and asked, “Any pets in your past?”

“My former husband and I had a cat. A friend left it with us when he moved away. Well, he didn't say that. He asked us to watch him for two weeks, and then went to California and never came back.” Hazel laughed, though at the time she had thought it abominable. “The ironic thing is that we were the ones who ended up moving around all the time. Poor thing was always being shipped here and there.” It was the first time Hazel had really thought what it must have been like for Rascal, stuck in that plastic crate with the handle on top; back then it just seemed a huge hassle that only she had to deal with.

“In a way, the cat was one of the casualties of our divorce. He got left back home with my parents. But luckily my father really took to him. He was somewhat immobile in his last years, and that cat would curl up on his chest and just stay there for hours.” Hazel took a quick sip of her beer. “To be honest, I'm not much of a pet person.”

The truth, if she had said it more specifically, was that pets just left hairs all over the furniture and peed on the rugs. “I told Jessie I was allergic to dogs. Isn't that awful? ‘Temperamentally allergic' is what I meant. It should be a crime, shouldn't it, denying your daughter a puppy for no good reason? But I just couldn't imagine taking care of another living being all by myself!” Hazel didn't mean to sound self-absorbed. “I thought her dad might let her have one, since he at least has a wife to help out. But they travel a lot, professionally. At least, that's
his
excuse.”

Both she and Hugh were silent for a moment, both feeling wounded, she supposed. His wife had passed away just two and a half years ago, so his wound was surely deeper.

Hazel's own pain was now more of a constant, dull ache—yet there were moments when her wounds felt fresh. The worst was about a year after Nicholas left, when he was unable to pick up Jessie and Remy had arrived instead, with those narrow hips and straight shoulders and thin strong arms, her eyes avoiding Hazel as she waited on the doorstep. What had hurt the most was simply how very different Remy was from Hazel, so that Hazel felt newly rebuffed, at the understanding that Nicholas had chosen to be with someone not at all like her.

At that moment, Jessie had come running with her purple backpack and her favorite Dr. Seuss book and had cried out, “Remy!” with such delight that Hazel felt a knife in her chest. There really was a knife there, twisting.

Remy had appeared almost embarrassed by this greeting, said, “Hey, kiddo” in a soft voice as Jessie propelled herself into her arms. “Here, hug your mom good-bye,” she had told her, pointing Jessie back at Hazel. That gesture itself had enraged Hazel—as if she needed Remy to tell her daughter to do that.

“Bye, Mommy!” Jessie had hugged Hazel and then went with Remy to the brown Volvo that Nicholas had bought after the divorce. Only as Remy helped her into the car did Jessie look back briefly, a sudden expression of complicit guilt on her young face. When the Volvo had driven off, Hazel's shoulders heaved as she sobbed silently, and she had to sit on the front steps to recover.

Since then Hazel hadn't sobbed in a long time, although every so often she felt all over again that something awful had happened to her. And it was true that as much as she enjoyed her life and her job at Maria's fabric shop, through it ran a thread of what could only be called loneliness. No matter how many activities she took up, no matter which new groups she volunteered for, there was always the sensation of being alone in the world. As much as she thought of herself as a strong independent woman, it was one thing to be independent and another to go through life without an ally, a partner, a hand to hold or to pat her on the back or massage her shoulders when the tension became too much.

She had so much love to give! Thank God she had Jessie. But even parenthood did not rid her of the drifting, lonely feeling, the residue of evenings spent on the couch across from the television, watching
Murphy Brown
while eating far too many low-fat Cheez Doodles and drinking a too-full glass of sauvignon blanc. At times such evenings felt intimate, at times decadent; other times it felt closer to something embarrassingly prurient, like masturbation. And then there were all the times she found herself in some public place looking around to discover that everybody else—everybody!—had somebody. When, last year, Jessie had let on that she had a crush on the boy in her class who played the bagpipes, Hazel had thought, horribly and against her own will, Even Jessie has someone to love. And I (because of Nicholas, because of Remy) have no one.

Now there was another boy in Jessie's life—her first boyfriend, though they hadn't as yet been on an actual date. They had met at a swim meet this summer, and although he went to a private school in Cambridge, Jessie talked to him on the telephone extensively, like a bona fide teenager. Hazel didn't feel at all jealous, since finally she, too, had someone to be excited about. And here he was, Hugh, sitting across from her, as if Hazel did such things—had handsome men over for a beer—all the time.

“Well,” he said, “I suppose we should head over. Does that sound good?”

“It sounds great,” Hazel told him, feeling fully content. Together they went into the front hall, where Hazel pulled on her autumn jacket and tied her silk scarf, wondering vaguely what the night held in store. Outside, the maples were just starting to turn, the evening's blueness propped between branches. In another month or so it would be cold enough to wear gloves, and Hazel wouldn't have to feel self-conscious about the splotches on her hands. Winter was good for her that way. Sometimes she wished it were olden times, so that she could wear gloves in the warm months, too.

Chapter 2

R
emy stepped into the breezy warmth of afternoon, her violin case light in her hand, and turned toward Boylston Street rather than her usual route. Her mission this fine autumn day was both mundane and momentous: she must buy a training bra for Jessie.

Fetching her at Hazel's the other day, watching her sling her massive backpack over her shoulder, Remy had noted with ridiculous shock the new heaviness there, the faint outline, a girl-chest if not yet breasts. Perhaps because of Jessie's height and beauty and her comfort in her own skin, there was nothing awkward about it—but Remy remembered what it was like to be a thirteen-year-old, the body suddenly exerting itself in embarrassing ways. Though Jessie possessed the instinctive confidence of a natural athlete, though her skin still glowed with the infinite tan of a teenage summer, who knew what might in fact be going on inside her. There had been a day last month when she came home from the pool and burst into tears: How in the world, she wanted to know, could Remy have not taught her to shave her legs?

The thought had never occurred to Remy. To Jessie she explained that this was a choice a woman could make, and that Jessie's leg hair was so fine it was nearly invisible. “You could just leave it, if you want.” She truly thought it the right thing to say.

Jessie looked at her as though she had suggested there was no need to wear clothes, either, if she didn't want to. “Meghan McGloughlin has hairy armpits, and you know what people called her at swim practice? The Amazon. Because it's a total forest under her arms.” With that Jessie had stomped away, as if Remy were of no use to her anymore.

Until now, stepmotherhood had come naturally, a generally fluid progression she had never given much deep consideration. Rather, it was as if she and Jessie had always been in each other's lives. Remy was the one Jessie turned to with intimate questions, with whispered jokes and confidences—and until recently anything Remy did had become what Jessie had to do, too. It was why Jessie had taken up swimming, and had spent years loudly wishing for curly hair. She had even become a granddaughter to Remy's parents—another gift for Remy, after so many years of failing to have a baby.

But all summer Remy had felt something happening, as if all three of them—she and Nicholas, too—were in the throes of puberty.

“Hello, my dear!”

It was Yoni, in his running togs, hopping from foot to foot on the sidewalk before her. Tan from months of sunny travel, lines fanning from his eyes as if from so much time spent grinning. “How nice to find you on my way to the river!”

Remy gave him a quick peck on his moist cheek. “Long time no see.” He and his girlfriend Patricia had been in Madrid all of August. Remy nodded at his training duds. “Nicholas said you were still on a health kick, but I didn't know if I should believe him.”

“I've been trying to get him to join me.”

“Are you kidding? He'd keel over!” The most Nicholas did in the way of sports was go over to Gary's to watch the World Series on television.

Yoni laughed. “Then what about you? It's beautiful, you know, running along the Charles. And I've never felt better. In fact, I just had my annual physical, and you know what? My heart has grown. The doctor said it's actually larger.”

“I guess it makes sense,” Remy said, “since it's a muscle.”

Yoni said he found it wondrous that the heart could actually increase in size.

“It's a nice metaphor,” Remy said.

“No, it's literal. My heart is actually bigger.”

“I
know
that.” Remy poked him in the chest. He was no taller than Nicholas, but there was something grand about the way he held himself, his hair dark and thick, his smile impervious. “I was trying to make it mean something.”

Placing his arm lightly around her to jostle her a bit, the way he did whenever he teased her, Yoni said, “There's a 5K next Sunday, if you want to join me.”

“You know swimming is all I'm good at.” Remy nudged him away with her elbow. “You're much too healthy. It's disconcerting.”

“It's for a good cause!” Yoni said. “We're raising money for . . . something or other.”

Remy laughed. “Is it healthy for you to stop in the middle of your run like this?”

“A minute or two won't kill me. I'm glad to see you. How are you surviving the accolades?”

Remy gave a laughing sigh; she knew what Yoni meant. Lately with each of Nicholas's premieres came an inevitable shower of praise. This new piece, for woodwind quintet, was no different.

“You know what they say,” she told him. “ ‘Nothing less than perfection.' ”

It was a phrase from a review of Nicholas's last premiere, which both Yoni and Remy couldn't help finding hilarious. They still used it to tease him.

“It's all the conservatory's been talking about,” Yoni said.

Remy suspected it bothered him, everyone so excited about Nicholas all the time, when Yoni too had tried his hand at composing. Only in the past year or so, though, had she noted on occasion, when the three of them were together, a little wince that sometimes crossed Yoni's face. “It stops meaning so much,” she said, in concession, though it was true that as proud as she was of Nicholas, he seemed to be becoming someone others
had
to praise, to prove their own good taste.

“It's well deserved, though,” Yoni said.

Remy sensed him wanting to say more but not daring to; it was not the first time she had sensed this. “But a lot of people deserve things.” Why had she said that? She felt suddenly that she had told some dark secret about herself.

Probably it was because of the latest news at work.

But she didn't want to think about that now. To Yoni she said, “Well, I know you have to get back to your run.”

Yoni started to hop from foot to foot again. “But it's so nice to see you.”

“Come over for dinner one of these days,” she told him. Yoni often dined with them, particularly when he was between girlfriends.

“I'd love to.” He gave her a quick kiss good-bye.

She watched him run off. Beyond him the sky looked purged, just a few wisps of clouds stretched in the distance. Remy waited until his figure had disappeared, then continued on toward her destination.

AT THE DEPARTMENT STORE, SHE
had just passed the men's ties and made her way into the women's section, toward the lingerie, when she saw the most beautiful dark red blouse.

The blouse seemed to call to her. It was of densely knit silk, in tiers that billowed out toward the bottom. Though she usually wasn't one to pay much attention to clothes, Remy stopped and touched the fabric, substantial but soft. She took the hanger from the rack and held the blouse up against herself, then turned to see how it looked in one of the full-length mirrors.

The blouse was much too big.

Checking the tag for the size, Remy saw, with a sad little laugh, that it was a maternity shirt. She turned to look at the other racks around her and realized that she was in the maternity department. She shook her head at herself. Of course she would be drawn to this shirt, of all things. She held it up again, imagining what it would feel like to fill it out. Remy had a long torso, plenty of room for a baby. But she had given up that hope. Together she and Nicholas had decided not to pursue any of the recourses so many other couples took—no painful treatments, expensive surgeries, or complicated adoptions. No need to go down any of those roads; they had been lucky enough already. Remy returned the blouse to the rack and made her way toward the lingerie.

She meant to head straight for the training bras, but it occurred to her that she ought to buy some bras for herself, too. Hers were old and stretchy, to the point of barely performing their meager duty. And if she couldn't have that red maternity blouse, well, then, she might buy herself something else.

This thought was vague, more like a feeling. She found herself plucking up a short, sleeveless nightgown of creamy white satin and a flesh-colored bustier that hooked in a complicated way at the back. She imagined herself wearing the bustier under her orchestra blouse, transforming her chest so that there was more of it, propped up under the stage lights. But what solo was she playing? Which part?

Remy had been with the Boston Symphony Orchestra for nine years now—principal second, dutifully leading the second violin section. Along with the other principals, she played the occasional solo and was a member of the official chamber music group. Her seat was tenured, and she never had to play Pops. In a way, it was the perfect position for her.

But now it turned out the associate concertmaster was retiring. Auditions would be held for his seat: second chair of the first violin section.

For some reason, Remy couldn't help wishing that she would be offered the position—though of course that wasn't the way these things worked. There would be hundreds of applicants for the seat: a full-time position in a world-class orchestra, with a conductor as gifted as theirs, was a rare thing. Yet Remy couldn't help wondering if she, too, ought to put her name in for the slot. It could be rejuvenating to play the first violin part for a change.

Not that it would be any less routine than her current position, she told herself as she wandered through the forest of brassieres. Why, even the concertmaster had to play the same old solo in
Ein Heldenleben
or the
“Haffner” Serenade
again and again. The rehearsals, the performances, same old warhorses, same days and nights year after year . . . all of that would remain the same. Like the endless cycle of her long black skirts—the tiered crushed velour one, the narrow velvet one for cold winter nights, and the flowing rayon one for the hottest summer days—and nylon stockings that gradually laddered where the back of her shoes rubbed her heel. None of that would change, no matter which chair she sat in.

Next thing she knew, she was putting the bustier back on the rack; those little hooks were simply too much to bother with. Instead she found three new bras: a sheer one of nearly netlike taupe, a slinky one in a leopard pattern, and a lace one with padding. Each could be matched with a thong, but Remy left those on the racks—then thought better of it and went back for the leopard-print one. Though she supposed she ought to make sure the bras fit, she did not feel like stopping to undress and, at any rate, could always return them.

But that was the whole point, not to return them—not to return to her usual self, her same old ways! The fact was, she worried she had become complacent. Sometimes, recalling the pain she had felt in her wrists a decade ago, it seemed she had just barely escaped some awful fate and ought to serenade the gods each time she lifted her violin. Yet she had come to think of her playing as a job more than a gift, and no longer applied herself with such effort. Though she still practiced her scales daily and continued her swimming regimen, she no longer followed all the rules Conrad Lesser had sworn by. There wasn't always time to pay attention to every detail of a piece, not when it had to be performed after just two or three rehearsals. Often she had to resort to easier hand positions in order to perform adequately in time for performance night. It had been ages since she consciously chose to play something in the fourth or sixth position. Their schedule simply didn't allow time for such things.

She wondered if the leopard pattern would show through her lighter clothing—though if that were the case, the sheer bra, too, might show through thin fabric. But then the lace didn't make sense, either.

Remy replaced each of the bras on their respective racks. Since now the leopard thong would not have a bra to match with, she put that back, too. She kept the short satin nightgown, though, and scanned the area until she found the display of the same old brand of bra she had always worn.

Probably it was no good, she thought, to settle so easily back into—herself. But she
liked
herself. She liked her life! Of course it might be nice to play the melody for once. Sing the lead, emerge high above the others, soar supremely in the top register . . . But the middle voices were just as important. The seconds, the violas, the altos. The ones no one paid much attention to. They were the ones who added texture and depth, whose presence, if generally unnoticed, was absolutely necessary. And what did it matter, really, if she were associate concertmaster instead of principal second? She would still be Remy.

Quickly she plucked up three of the same brassieres she had been wearing for years. She liked knowing, without having to try them on, that they would fit, and was relieved to be so easily done with it.

After all, either way she would be second—second chair of the firsts, or first chair of the seconds. It was who she was, where she would always be. Always some version of second place.

For some reason she thought of Yoni, running rosy-cheeked toward the river.