Caressa's Knees (28 page)

“So, I suppose you either want me to pummel you back into submission, or leave.”

“I want you to leave.”

He stood still and
silent,
and she felt blood fill her face, rushing through her veins in a panicky drumbeat.

“I’m tired of being treated like a child. I’m not a child.”

“I’m happy to hear you say that.”

“I’m not saying it to make you happy. I’m saying it because that’s how I feel. I don’t want to do this anymore, and I don’t need your approval.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I want you to leave. I’m tired of being bossed around by you.”

“Maybe you just feel that way right now.”

“No.”

“Because for a long time I felt like you really enjoyed being with me.
In and out of the bedroom.
I thought we made a good couple. You were happy.”

She wanted to deny it, but she couldn’t. She turned from the window, from the blinding light of the sunny Paris morning. “If you wanted me to be happy, you’d let me be myself. You would accept me for what I am.
A musician.”

“I accept you as a musician, Caressa.”

Ugh, his voice was so steady, not shaky like hers. He rested his hands on his hips, staring at her. She wanted to run to him and kneel at his feet, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t give everything up. “Look, I’ll keep paying you for the last two weeks,” she said. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

He moved then. He moved so fast and so threateningly that she backed up to the wall to get away from him.

“Money, Caressa? You think I’m worried about
money
? You can have every fucking red cent of the money you paid me. I don’t want it.” He pinned her against the wall, waving a finger in her face. “You can send me away, and I’ll go, but let’s be clear about two things. Number one, I was never here for the money. Not from the moment I heard you play that first time—”

“You see?” she cried out, pushing against his chest. “It’s the music! All I am is the music! Even
you
admit it. Would you even love me without it?”

“Number two,” he said, talking over her.
“Number two, Caressa.
I love you no matter what.
Music or no music.
So let’s just be clear about those two things before you send me on my way.”

She turned her face to the wall, defeated. He was lying.
Love?
He threw that word around an awful lot. He thought he’d been hopelessly in love with that Nell girl. He’d even tattooed her name on his chest. “It’s not love,” she said to the wall in a flat monotone. “It’s just more bullet- wound-hero-bullshit.”

That did it. He slammed his hands against the wall on either side of her head, and then he left.

* * * * *

“Caressa?”
Aunt Denise stuck her head in the door of her room. “Hadn’t you better practice? We have a photo shoot for the big Berlin write-up at two today.”

Oh yeah, they were in Berlin now. Caressa couldn’t keep track. She hated Europe. Hopping from city to city on dirty little flights, listening to a bunch of gibberish languages she didn’t understand. The days were dragging and there was still Budapest and Rome to go.

She definitely was going to practice. Practicing was a good thing. She looked again at the package on the desk.

“Haven’t you opened it yet?” her aunt asked.

“Why don’t
you
open it?”

Denise put her hands on her ample hips. “Why don’t
you
open it, since he sent it for
you
?”

Caressa tuned her out. She wasn’t up for fighting lately. She was vaguely aware of Denise taking up the package and opening it while Caressa played an aimless, sliding run of notes. She lifted her bow from the strings with a dissonant squeak. “Just give it to me.”

Her aunt shoved the box into her hands and stood waiting. Caressa glared at her. “Fine, Aunt Denise. I’ll open it. But you might want to leave first. It’s probably anthrax or something.”

Denise threw up her hands in exasperation and turned to go. Caressa considered the box on her lap. It had been sent from Paris ahead to this hotel. Where was he now? Probably back in New York, moving on with his life, hopefully. She was happy to be moving on with hers.

Actually, she was doing just fine on her own. Kyle had taught her a lot of useful skills in their time together. She was more organized then she’d ever been. Her suitcase was a vision of orderliness. He would have been amazed to see it. She was pretty damn proud of herself.

She was getting better at other things too. She hadn’t had a meltdown—not
even
a small one—since he’d left. That might have been because a lot of her spirit left with him. But it was for the best. She really believed that. She was doing her best work now that he was gone, playing flawless concerts. She was acting like a grown-up. She had to. He wasn’t there to break her falls anymore.

She snapped open the tape and lifted the manila wrapping from the rectangular item. If it was another book of train schedules, she’d fly to New York herself to shove it up his ass. She ripped off the bubble wrap to find it wasn’t a book at all, but a framed photograph.

She had to look at it a moment to figure it out. She recognized the grassy edge of the pond finally, and the line of trees among
all the
little pin dots of light.

There was a note she opened with shaking fingers. He hadn’t written much.
Dear Caressa
, it read.
I hope you’re doing well. This is the gift I originally meant to give you for your birthday. Please…I don’t mean for this to make you mad. It’s just that you said you wished you had a picture, and I told you there wasn’t any way to take one, but I found someone who knew how to do it with some kind of prolonged exposure technique. So it
can
actually be done. I miss you. Kyle.

She put the photo and note back on the desk and picked up her cello.
So it
can
actually be done.
She knew exactly what he meant her to understand from those words, from his brief note.

He never gave up, she thought ruefully. The photo was pretty though, the blurry lights scattered around like fallen stars in the forest. Maybe if he’d given her that instead of the train schedule, he’d still be here with her today. Making her laugh, cleaning up her messes. Holding her and making her world so much bigger than the music, so much more than practice and concerts. If he was here, he’d be kissing her and pulling her to the floor. He always knew how to make moments like that. She plinked out a series of treble notes that reminded her of fireflies blinking. Her world was a bleak, dark forest without him.

She looked down and saw a piece of paper on the floor that must have fallen out of Kyle’s package. She leaned down and picked it up. It was a check for all the money she’d paid him, down to the penny, undoubtedly. She tore it into tiny pieces and then went and crawled into bed.

* * * * *

Kyle had hoped to hear from her after he sent the photo. Perhaps it was too little, too late. Her concerto—and the sorely missed music of her voice—still echoed in his mind all the time. He was still in Europe, still following her around. Did she think he wouldn’t? And tonight—there was no way he could have missed this last performance. She was leaving a wake of adoring fans behind, Caressa of the striking gowns and the lovely scarlet lips, and the constellation of wild curls around her head. He was one of them.

There had been no evidence of
a black
elastic in weeks now. She truly seemed to have come into her own. She was playing with a greater, more skilled intensity than she ever had. The fact that this new, improved Caressa had appeared only after he left smarted somewhat. Perhaps she’d been right all along. Perhaps he
had
been bad for her.

Still, he didn’t begrudge her
her
success. He was proud of her, and he’d always wanted what was best for her. He looked down at his watch, anxious for the concert to begin. It was past time. But then, this was Rome, where people often moved at their own maddening pace.

The longer the audience waited, the louder the murmuring grew. Kyle looked ahead at the heavy velvet curtain, and imagined he could hear the orchestra growing restless backstage. Then, over the swishing of the silk dress of the woman shifting beside him, beneath the rustle of programs opening and closing, he heard it like some haunting undertone.

His body was in motion before his mind had even decided to act. He unfolded his long legs from the cramped balcony seat and inched by the elderly couple beside him. He took the balcony stairs to the main level and then to the left aisle. Everyone watched him as he stalked toward the stage, mostly because there was nothing else to watch.

He said a few terse words to the usher, gesturing to make up for his lack of Italian. A moment later he was through the stage door and walking down the hall. He didn’t even know what he’d said to the usher. He wasn’t sure if he’d been granted egress because of his words, or because of the impetus behind them. The usher probably realized if he hadn’t let him through, Kyle would have simply pushed him aside.

He followed the sound of her screaming down the white, sterile hallway until he reached the door with the “Caressa Gallo” sign. He pushed it open and took in the scene with the quick facility of someone who’d lived through it many times. He noted the impatient conductor, the mousy stagehand, the harried aunt, and two men in suits he assumed were theater personnel.

And behind them all, huddled in the back with her cello bow waving like a weapon, he saw Caressa herself. His wild girl, backed into a corner. He frowned as he noticed one of the suited-up men squeezing her forearm. Denise was wiping away frustrated tears, and Caressa was melting down in her own inimitable way.

“No.
No!
” she screamed. “I can’t do it. I won’t go out there until this is taken care of. This is my reputation as a musician—”

“Caressa, honey—” Her aunt begged.

“No, it’s not in tune! I swear to fucking God—”

The conductor shook his head. “It is in tune. Be reasonable, Miss Gallo. I checked it.” He spoke to her loudly, trying to capture her attention, but she wasn’t listening, wasn’t hearing a word. Kyle recognized the look on her face. He had seen it before. He knew all she heard at the moment was the terrifying pounding of her heart and the sound of the earth opening to swallow her whole.

“I can’t! I won’t play! The tone is off. How can you ask me to do this?”

The circle around her closed tighter, scolding, cajoling.
They didn’t even notice Kyle until he started pushing them out of the way. Then Caressa was in his arms, the warm, living shape of her. With one hand he pried the shredded bow from her fingers and handed it to Denise. Caressa went silent and stared in shock as he pulled her close, turning his body to block the others from her.

He could feel her shaking against him—pure, wild terror in a silk gown. She only fought him a moment before she slumped against him. He cradled her head against the lapel of his tux, not caring that her tears would probably ruin it.

“
Shh
. That’s my girl,” he said. He put his hand against her cheek and held her tighter, whispering in her ear. “I’m here now.
Caressa.
Shh
.
Be
a good girl.” He felt her sucking in breath, and her hand clutched spasmodically at his arm. He made soft, sibilant sounds against her temple until he felt her gasping breaths slow.

He pulled away to look at her. The others—the conductor, Aunt Denise, the theater people—had retreated to the other side of the room. It was just him and her, and a theater of waiting people.
A lifetime of accomplishment—and deep, paralyzing fear.

“Miss Gallo, please,” the conductor pleaded. “We must know if you will fulfill your obligations. The audience—”

“She’ll play,” Kyle said. “Tell them there’s been a short delay.”

At Kyle’s look, the rest of them left. He looked down at Caressa in consternation. “You will play, won’t you? You didn’t endure this entire tour to blow off the last night.”

“What are you doing here?” she asked in a trembling voice.

“Like all these other people, Cara, I came here to see you finish this thing.”

She closed her eyes, leaning against his chest again. “I can’t. You were right, Kyle. I don’t know why I’m doing this. I just want to be left alone. I just want the music. That’s all.”

Kyle stroked her hair. “You have the music, Caressa. You
are
the music. The rest of them are just spectators. Cara, you’re those fireflies at Burger’s Pond.
Something special.
Something amazing.
You make people’s hearts beat
faster,
you make their mouths drop open. You’re the only one who can do what they’re waiting out there for you to do.”

“I don’t know…”

He squeezed her tighter, his cheek brushing against her ear. “You’re the only one, baby. It has to be you. If you don’t pull it together and walk out on that stage and play that concerto, it ceases to exist as only you can create it.”

“I cease to exist,” she whispered on a sob.