Allison (A Kane Novel) (14 page)

“Hi, Mr. Petrinski,” I replied, noting that for the evening Travis’s music teacher had worn a dark suit and tie.  “You’re looking pretty sharp yourself,” I added, again thankful I had taken my mother’s advice and dressed for the occasion.

“Thank you, Ali.  And congratulations on surviving your recent visit to the beach.  Helping that young girl showed tremendous courage.  I saw it last weekend on TV.”

“Thanks.”

“Alex, it means the world to Travis that you’re here tonight,” said Mom.  “Thank you for coming.”

Petrinski’s eyes shined with pleasure.  “Oh, I wouldn’t have missed this for anything.  Did you get a chance to talk with Trav when you arrived?”

Mom nodded.  “He tried to hide it, but he’s terribly worried about tonight.  Not only regarding his performance, but about the reception his concerto will receive.”

“I know,” Petrinski said thoughtfully.  “Over the course of his Van Cliburn recitals this summer, Travis has performed a few of his own shorter compositions.  All were relatively brief and sandwiched in between other works.  This will be different.”

“Yes.  It will.”

“Nevertheless, despite his apprehension, I’m convinced that Travis has the maturity to play brilliantly,” Petrinski went on.  “As for his concerto, I believe it will prove a lasting contribution to the symphonic repertoire.  The music world will discover something wonderful tonight.  As will Travis.”

A late-arriving group of musicians filed onstage and quickly joined those already present in a discordant round of tuning.  As I flipped through my program, I pondered Petrinski’s words, wondering what he had meant about Travis discovering something.  Moments later the lights dimmed, summoning latecomers to their seats.  Shortly afterward the concertmaster rose at the head of the first violin section, motioning for the principal oboist to play an A.  As the entire ensemble readied itself in a final cacophony of tuning, I felt a twisting in my stomach, a dampness gathering under my arms.  Around me I could sense a ripple of anticipation coursing through the hall, as palpable as an electric current.

The orchestra members stood as the music director, a robust, broad-shouldered man with deep-set eyes and thinning brown hair, entered from stage right.  Travis, now wearing a black tuxedo, walked at his side.  Smiling at a welcoming round of applause from the audience, the music director greeted the concertmaster and the other principals, then signaled the orchestra musicians back to their chairs.  Smiling woodenly, Travis also shook hands with the concertmaster.  Then, eyes averted, he took his place at a Steinway concert grand piano to the left of stage center.

As the room quieted, the music director mounted the podium and paused, giving the audience time to settle.  Slight rustlings and a spate of coughs echoed through the hall.  Moments later the conductor raised his hands.  A hush fell over the assembly.  I felt the room crackling with tension.

The conductor brought the orchestra to attention, then turned to Travis.  With a nod, Travis placed his fingers on the keyboard.

And then they began.

I held my breath, praying that Travis wouldn’t stumble.  His concerto, a work that I knew he had expanded and then orchestrated with Petrinski’s help from a one-movement fantasy for piano and cello written years earlier, opened with a pulverizing tonic cord voiced by the entire assembly.  Travis answered with a flawless flight of upward flourishes, his solo instrument, though unable to match the force of the combined ensemble, compensating with an eloquence and passion that hinted at the battle between piano and orchestra that was to follow.

Again the orchestra spoke, its thunderous roar filling the hall.  Once more Travis countered with a stormy, knife-edged passage that I recognized as a theme I had heard drifting from the music room in our house many times in the past, often accompanied by Mom’s cello.  But never like this, never played against the full backdrop of a symphony orchestra.  Spellbound, I listened as first the strings and then the horns and woodwinds gradually encroached on the keyboard.  Slowly, other musicians picked up the threads of the idea Travis had broached and embroidered it into a more complex tapestry, then proceeded to a chillingly poignant second theme that stood in resonant contrast to the first.

As the opening passages of Travis’s concerto washed over me, I felt the tendrils of anticipation I had sensed earlier in the room being replaced by something new, something magical.  Fears Travis might falter forgotten, I turned to glance at my mother.  She sat motionless, her eyes riveted on the stage, watching as the conductor addressed different sections of the musical body—his hands expressive, his baton raking the assembly like a rapier.

The preliminary exposition complete, Travis broke in anew with growing confidence, subtly slowing the tempo as he elaborated on the militaristic main theme he had first introduced.  He sat erect at the keyboard, his manner devoid of dramatic arm movements, his fingers deceptively quiet yet fluid on the keys, his left hand alternating the cascading melody with the right.  Reluctantly, the orchestra surrendered and joined him as a subordinate, arising once more like an enraged beast when he attempted to shift to the lyric second theme, the main orchestral body angrily insisting on the first.

At times a fierce rivalry between piano and orchestra, at times a seamless collaboration, Travis’s concerto unfolded with inexorable, sweeping beauty.  And as the minutes slipped by, I gradually began to comprehend that unlike many of the classical piano concertos with which I was familiar, my brother’s composition was not simply a vehicle to demonstrate his own prowess at the keyboard.  To the contrary, often Travis allowed the larger assembly to take the lead, forging a bond between keyboard and orchestra that gave his work a soaring, cathedral-like grandeur.  And as I listened, I felt myself filling with an almost unbearable pride in Travis’s accomplishment.  Respect and admiration for his work were there as well.  And to my shame, so was the aching, consuming envy I had felt for my older brother all my life.

Forty minutes later, following a heartrendingly tender second movement, the orchestra joined Travis in a majestic closing theme, building with shattering, pounding momentum toward the climax.  Shocked, I realized the piece was nearly over.

His pace driving and relentless, Travis engaged the percussion section in a short staccato duel, then again took the musical initiative with a torrent of right-hand triplets, his ardent outpouring plummeting to a profoundly satisfying recapitulation that welded together with perfect simplicity the concerto’s initial statements and its sublime closing ideas.  And then at last, as the music rose a final time, the entire assembly joined Travis in a blazing crescendo of exaltation and triumph and joy.

Seconds passed as the final strains died away.  The audience sat stunned, as if life itself had been suspended.  Then, in a surge moving from those in the front rows to those in the back, the entire audience rose in recognition, filling the chamber with a deafening round of applause.  Mom, Petrinski, and I rose as well, clapping furiously.

Onstage, Travis stood and took the conductor’s outstretched hand, then joined him in a bow.  Next, with a grin, Travis turned to the orchestra and applauded them in turn.  As the smiling conductor waved the entire assembly to its feet, I noticed that Mom was no longer joining in the ovation.  Puzzled, I turned, noting a clammy sheen of perspiration on my mother’s face.

Without warning, my mother slumped forward.  I caught her, barely preventing her from toppling over the row in front.  Arm around her shoulders, I lowered her awkwardly into her seat.  “Mom, what’s wrong?”

“Dizzy . . .”

“Put your head down.  Take deep breaths.”

“I feel so silly,” Mom said, dropping her forehead to her knees.  “I think I stood up too fast . . .”

“Keep your head down.”

“I’ll be okay in a minute.  I’m so embarrassed . . .”

By now several people, including Petrinski, had turned toward us in concern.  I indicated that I didn’t need help, then gently began rubbing my mother’s back, shocked at how icy her skin felt.  “It’s okay, Mom,” I said softly.  “Just take it easy.  You’ll be okay.”

Later that evening at the hotel, I couldn’t sleep, still troubled by thoughts of my mother’s collapse at the concert.

“Mom?”

A rustling came from the adjacent bed.

“Mom?”

A groan.  “What, Ali?”

“Are you awake?”

“I am now.”

“Sorry.”

“Me, too.”  Mom checked the clock on the bedside stand.  “It’s after midnight.  What’s so important that you have to talk to me about it now?”

I hesitated.  “I, uh, I was wondering what Mr. Petrinski meant when he said Trav would discover something tonight.”

“I’m not sure,” Mom yawned.  “But a conductor once told me that very same thing, just before I went onstage to play the biggest concert of my life.”

“The Dvorák?” I guessed, referring to a cello concerto that Mom had performed with the Los Angeles Philharmonic years earlier.

“Uh-huh.”

“So what did
he
mean?”

“I think he meant that after the concert I would know more about myself as a musician.”

“And did you?”

“Yes, honey, I did.”

“What about Trav?  Think he had some sort of big epiphany tonight?”

“Of that I have no doubt,” Mom replied warmly.  “Trav has a wonderful life in music ahead of him—not only as a performer, but also as a composer.  And after tonight, I’m sure he knows it.  And so does everyone else.”

“Hmmm.  I guess we’ll have to start calling him ‘maestro’ and let him use the bathroom first in the morning and so forth.”

“If you’re insinuating that Trav will get a swelled head over this, you’re wrong.  You know him better than that.  Honey, is this why you woke me?  To discuss your brother?”

“No.”

“What, then?”

A long pause.

“What is it, Ali?”

“I’m worried about you, Mom,” I finally blurted.  “As soon as we get home, I want you to go in for a checkup.”

“Because I got dizzy at the concert?  I told you, I stood up too quickly.”

“It’s more than that.  What about your nosebleed on the plane?  I thought it would never stop.  And you’ve been so exhausted lately.  It’s not like you.”

“I’ve been working a lot.”

“I know.  I still think you should go.  Please, Mom?”

“Sweetheart, I have a full rehearsals with the Philharmonic starting on Thursday.”

“So go in Tuesday, as soon as we get back.”

“Ali, enough,” Mom said sharply, her voice slipping into its no-nonsense mode.  “My yearly physical is scheduled for September.  I’ll have a complete exam then.  Okay?”

“No.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I want you to go in now.  Please?”

“Ali, I don’t have time.”

“Yes, you do.  Look, I don’t want to worry Dad unnecessarily about this,” I went on, taking a new tack.  “But I will if I have to.”

“I don’t believe my ears.  You’re threatening to tell your father on me?”

“As a matter of fact, I am,” I said stubbornly.  “And if he even
thinks
there’s a chance something’s wrong with you, he’ll
make
you go.  And you know it.”

Mom didn’t reply for almost a minute.  “If it means that much to you, I suppose I could try to bump up the date of my annual physical,” she said at last.

“Promise you’ll call first thing tomorrow morning.  Do it before our flight.”

“Ali . . .”

“Promise.”

“All right, I promise,” Mom sighed.  “I swear, sometimes you’re worse than your father.  I’d hate to get in your way if you ever really wanted something.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“You’re welcome.  Now can we get some sleep?”

“Sure.  Night, Mom.”

“Good night, Ali.  Sweet dreams.”

Although Mom fell asleep again quickly, I lay awake long afterward, listening to the soft sounds of her breathing.  And when I eventually did drift off, I dreamed of running, and of giant waves, and of Travis’s sure hands on the piano, and of blood on my mother’s face.

8

The remainder of our weekend in Washington passed quickly.  Mom, Travis, and I spent quiet Sunday morning visiting the Smithsonian, followed by Travis’s second and equally successful performance at the Kennedy Center later that evening.  During that time Mom seemed back to her old self.  But by the following morning I once more sensed an uncharacteristic lethargy in her.  Travis, who joined us for our return flight to California, commented on it as well.  Impatiently, Mom dismissed our concern.  At my continued insistence, however, she kept her promise and called to move up the date of her yearly physical, unexpectedly snagging a canceled appointment for Tuesday afternoon.

After returning to Los Angeles, feeling inexplicably let down after the trip, I spent Tuesday morning at CBS running for coffee and doing internet research for one of the producers.  In a spare moment in between, I experienced an almost overwhelming desire to talk with my mother, wanting to touch base with her before her medical appointment.  I dialed home.  The answering machine picked up.  I disconnected without leaving a message.  Mom didn’t answer her cell phone, either.  Finally I called my father at the station, thinking he might know where she was.  I was transferred upstairs from the front desk, where someone in the squad room finally picked up.

“Homicide.”

“Hi, Paul,” I said, recognizing the voice of Paul Deluca, a detective who worked with my father.  “My dad around?”

“Hi, Ali.  Hey, I caught your beach rescue on TV last weekend.  Way to go, kid.”

“Thanks,” I said.  “Although I sure didn’t expect to be seeing myself on TV when I headed to the Wedge that morning.”

“Don’t worry, you came off just fine—even if you couldn’t recall your own name,” Deluca chuckled.  “Hold on a sec.  I’ll see if I can run down your old man.”

I heard Deluca’s muffled voice yelling into squad room.  “Anybody seen Kane?”

“He’s over at the courthouse picking up the search warrant,” someone shouted back.  I recognized the deep, raspy voice of Detective John Banowski, another member of the homicide unit.  Like Deluca, Banowski had visited the beach house many times over the years, and like Deluca, I considered him a family friend.