Catching Genius (6 page)

The things he makes are permanent. He turns imperfections into bowls, split wood into sculpture, lightning strikes into art. He believes the imperfect can become perfect if he can only find the correct form, and then fit it to function. I cannot explain that there is no perfect form or function to this family.

There is nothing beautiful to be made from our lightning strikes.

CHAPTER THREE

The Haydn went better than we expected, and Alexander was pleased beyond measure. He played a quick jazz riff and twirled his cello, laughing, and Hannah and I grinned at each other as we put our instruments away. Alexander's approval was always worth the practice time.

I pulled my wedding rings out of my front pocket and slid them back on my finger as I watched Alexander wipe down his cello. I'd never gotten the knack of playing with the rings on. It was too distracting for me, too invasive, and I rather liked the ritual of it, the trade of one life for another. Without the rings I played unencumbered by earthly possessions and responsibilities, but they were always there when I finished, to remind me that my life was anchored by things more permanent than the notes that died away in the air despite my attempts at sustaining them.

Once I'd laid my case by the door, I broached my trip, showing them the dates in Alexander's date book. It was unfairly short notice, and I almost hoped they would protest so I could have a reason to cancel.

“I'll see if I can take my two weeks here,” Alexander said, tapping his pen against the calendar. “And David can easily sub for this performance,” he continued, circling the date we'd planned for the library.

He poked his pen at the performance scheduled for the week after my return, the night we were to play the Haydn Trios for the conservancy. “But you've got to be back for this, Connie. I'm comfortable with the Beethoven, God knows we've done it enough, and the Telemann is in good shape. Can you guys practice the Haydn during those two weeks? And, Hannah, you're still lagging on the Tartini.”

It would mean taking my violin to the beach house, but it was too important to him for me to turn him down, so I agreed. Hannah, who hadn't taken a vacation since her fourth child, didn't even bother looking at the dates as she closed the case on her flute.

“Whatever you want. I'll try not to screw up too badly, darling,” she said with a smile, blowing an air kiss at him.

“Can we fit a practice in . . . here?” he asked, circling the Saturday after I came back. I agreed to that too, though I knew Luke wouldn't be happy about me having practice on his first day off after I'd returned.

Hannah shrugged. “Long as you don't mind me bringing Jan and Natalie,” she said. “The other kids will sell them on eBay if I leave them alone long enough.”

“No problem,” Alexander said, and we stood there awkwardly. Hannah and I usually walked out together, talking about kids, husbands, houses, anything but music. A trio was a careful mix. There was always eventually someone left out of something. It might be social plans, or the decision to try a new piece, or just gossip. It was like having two best friends; each covert conversation and private joke had the power to instill paranoia, altering the delicate balance.

Alexander cleared his throat. “Connie, I'm still having problems with my server bumping me off. Could you have another look at my computer?” he asked, his eyes pleading with me to go along.

“Sure,” I said. “I'll see you when I get back, Hannah. Enjoy the break if the kids will let you.”

Hannah's eyes flitted between us uncertainly, but she finally smiled and turned away. “Okay. Have a good time at the beach, Connie.”

Alexander wrinkled his nose at me when the door shut. “Sorry,” he said. He suddenly looked very serious, even nervous. I followed him to the kitchen, where he poured us each a glass of wine before perching on the stool next to mine.

“I don't know how to do this,” he said and took a slug of wine.

My heart took a double beat and I licked the wine, too dry for my taste, from my lips. “Just say it,” I said softly.

“I've lost lesser friends than you, Connie.”

I stared at him, taking my fingers off the stem of the wineglass and twining them in my lap. “Say it, Alexander.”

“I saw Luke. I saw him with someone. It was obviously not just a friend.”

Time slowed and slowed and slowed. Another one? So soon. I wasn't ready for it so soon. Had it truly become this easy for him? Apparently, yes. I continued to stare at Alex, my eyes growing dry and then watering, finally forcing me to blink, to move, to breathe again, though I did so in slow motion. Those rubber bands snapped, snapped, snapped, and yet I still couldn't speak. If I didn't speak then perhaps I would not have to listen.

But my tongue betrayed me and I blurted, “When? What did you see? Oh, shit—what did she look like?”

Alexander had tears in his eyes, and I could have cried for him if I hadn't been so intent on not crying for myself. “I'm so sorry, Connie. I really debated whether to tell you at all—”

I held my hand out. “It's fine,” I said forcefully, almost aggressively, and then quickly dropped my hand when I saw him lean back away from me, wide-eyed, as though afraid I might strike him. “Just tell me . . . please.”

He took a deep breath. “Okay. I had a lunch date—” He paused. I knew this was big news and that I should be happy, but I couldn't think about it right then. I took another swallow of wine and waited.

“Anyway, we went to Bruccia's, you know, with the fountain?”

I nodded. I knew the place. It was sensual, with jeweled silk pillows in the private booths and a massive stone water fountain in the middle of the room providing cover, privacy. “When?” I asked.

“Friday,” he said, watching me carefully. “I was sitting by the far wall, in a booth, and I saw them walking up the sidewalk and through the door.”

“What did she look like?” I asked again.

“Long black hair, thin, tall . . . and young. Sort of, oh, I don't know, hippie looking.”

Deanna. The barista. It shouldn't have hurt as much as it did.
Thin
hurt, though I was still damn trim myself;
young
hurt worse, but the real twist of the knife was that it was Deanna, that it was—what? A relapse? To my knowledge, Luke had never seen any of the other women again after breaking it off. Deanna was now a compound fracture.

I considered the Cadillac. Was it the end-of-the-affair apology I'd thought it was and he simply couldn't stay away? Or had it merely been an expensive decoy, taking our unspoken agreement to a new level to see how I might cope? A thought suddenly occurred to me and I slowly lowered the wineglass to the counter.
Was he in love with her?

“Connie?” Alexander said.

“Did he see you?”

He shook his head and poured more wine. The neck of the bottle chattered lightly on the rim, making me wince. “No. No way.”

“How did you know they were together? I mean, that they weren't just friends?”

He looked down into his glass, swirling the wine, pretending to inhale its fumes while he decided what to tell me. “It was obvious, Con. He had his hand on her waist when they came in, he put his arm around her shoulders when they talked to the host, they sat on the same side of the booth.” He stopped and looked up at me. “There was more.”

I nodded. I believed him. How could I not? My mother's old advice, given years ago, to maintain a stiff upper lip as long as Luke was discreet, ran through my mind. I wondered who else had seen him. I was as scared as I was angry, and I wasn't sure which emotion I wanted to win.

“Connie, tell me I've done the right thing,” Alexander said. His eyes were sad, and in a moment his lip was going to start trembling out of control. I leaned forward and put my hands on his shoulders.

“Of course you did. Yes, you did. Thank you,” I said, feeling not the least bit ridiculous for thanking him. He moved quickly to enfold me in his arms and I let him comfort me, but by the time I left, red-eyed and slack-faced, I still didn't have any idea of what I was going to do. I drove around for almost an hour before I headed to Mother's.

But it was Bob McNarey who opened the door when I knocked. “Connie,” he said, “how nice to see you. I was just asking June about you and the boys.”

He was the last person I felt like seeing. I leaned in to accept his pursed lips on my cheek and then walked past him. Mother took one look at me and tilted her head toward her office. “Bob, we'll be a moment. Perhaps you could find a glass for Connie?”

Bob hustled toward the kitchen and my mother followed me into the office, shutting the door behind her.

“What is it?”

“Luke,” I said quietly.

“A woman?”

I nodded, and then I was crying again. She stayed where she was, backed up against the office door. “There are tissues in the top drawer,” she said, and I fumbled for a minute until I found them. “Is it serious?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Looks like it,” I said, and blew my nose. Mother watched me clean myself up and then crossed the room to sit in the chair beside the desk. She laid one hand on the desk and tapped a manicured nail on the blotter in front of me.

“And what are you doing about it?” she asked.

I looked up at her and told the truth: “I don't have any idea. I just can't do this anymore, Mother. I can't. It's just one after another. It's never going to end. I think I want—”

“What?”

“I want out.” It was almost a whisper.

She was quiet for several moments. “I suggest you make sure that's what you want before you talk to Luke,” she finally said.

“Could you be on my side for once?” I snapped at her. “Just once?”

Her face softened. “I am always on your side, Constance. Always. Sometimes women don't know what divorce will do to them. You're not a young woman anymore.”

I snorted. “When I was a young woman you talked me out of it too. When exactly is the right time?”

She was silent again, and then said, “When you've lost yourself.”

“Well.” I thought about that for a moment, but just a moment. “Then it's time.”

My mother nodded once, decisively. “Do you know how to go about this?”

I stared at her. How to go about it? How else? “I guess I'll have to talk to Luke,” I said.

The look of horror on her face might have been comical if it weren't for the subject matter. “Do no such thing,” she said. “You need to know where you stand first.”

“What are you talking about? I think I know by now where I stand.”

She shook her head. “Not with him, Connie. Financially, where do you stand?”

I sat back in the desk chair and stared at her, stunned. The fact was, I had no idea. I had become everything my friends and I swore we never would. I had allowed Luke to control everything financially. It was his business, it was what he did, and did well. I knew how much was in the household account, and that was about it. I paid the bills out of it every month, I bought clothes for the family, food. But there was never more than a few thousand in the account at one time.

I allowed Luke to handle all the investments. In fact, I had even, years ago, waved my hand at him when he'd been explaining our status. I had done it to myself. I had created and then embraced the role I now found myself in. I felt sick.

“What do I do?” I whispered.

She pushed a legal pad and pen in front of me. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

I picked up the pen. I wasn't sure what she wanted. An affidavit declaring my intentions? “Yes,” I said, “yes, I'm sure. I can't do it anymore.”

“List everything. Luke and the kids' full names and Social Security numbers. All account numbers you can remember. Every creditor. Everything you can get your hands on. Do not, under any circumstance, tell Luke what you're doing. Get started. I need to talk to Bob.”

I stared up at her. “How—how do you know to do all this?” I asked.

She stopped as she was reaching out for the doorknob and stood with her back to me for a moment, then slowly lowered her arm and turned around. “Just because I never did it doesn't mean I wasn't ever prepared to do it, Connie. Even if you don't wind up going through with it, at least you'll be prepared.” She nodded at the pad in front of me and then left the room, closing the door on my shocked face.

When Mother returned to the room she had Bob in tow. He sat down in the chair she'd vacated while she stood by his shoulder.

“I'm sorry to hear about your troubles, Connie,” Bob said. He held his hand out for the pathetically short list I'd made, and I ripped it off the pad and handed it to him. He looked it over and gave me a pained smile. “Is this it?”

I nodded. “I don't know account numbers off the top of my head. It's not like I've been planning this.”

“Planning is exactly what you need to do,” he said, leaning forward in the chair. “Have you considered counseling?”

I looked at my mother and could tell that she was remembering the visit I'd made to her seven years earlier. I'd left Luke, showing up at her house with a packed car, a baby on one hip, a sullen eight-year-old trailing behind me, and a startling case of chlamydia.

Luke had already called her and she was ready for me. She allowed me to stay for two weeks to clear my head. Then she gave me her theory: The wealthier the man, the more affairs he had, and if I were to be married to such a man then I could appreciate all the fine things that came with it, or I could raise two children alone.