Duet for Three Hands (15 page)

N
athaniel

T
he metronome
on the piano kept rapid time. Nathaniel matched the clicks of the metronome with bobs of his head, standing in the peripheral vision of his student, Sally, as she played Chopin’s
Revolutionary Etude, Op. 10, No. 12
. Always a crowd pleaser at the annual Alabama College for Women recital, the piece was based on simple arpeggios and recurring hand movements. Most of his pupils could play it decently after some practice, even with their small, female hands. But poor Sally was hopeless. It was pacing, mostly. A sturdy, blonde, fresh from her family’s dairy farm, she had energy like an earnest, rambunctious puppy and short, thick limbs with fingers to match. When she entered his office, he had the urge to put away Frances’s photograph and the papers stacked neatly on his desk in case Sally careened unexpectedly and fell over. Sally, hunched over now with her brow furrowed, plunked and pummeled the keys in a haphazard rushing and then slowing so that it felt to Nathaniel like he was on a boat in a stormy sea.

He looked out his office window. It was a glorious September day, blue sky over brick buildings with white pillars. Matching brick paths wound between expansive lawns, scattered with young women chatting or studying under the shade of oaks and pines. Walt, his former manager, had urged him to consider the position as a professor in Walt’s hometown of Montevallo, Alabama. This was after Nathaniel had spent a year watching the birds fly outside his New York City apartment while the world crashed below. Black Thursday had come on that dark day in October 1929, and nothing had been the same since. The world slid further and further into despair.

Given that, Walt urged him to consider a steady job in the small college town as a way to move forward. “Alabama College for Women is the place to send proper young ladies to study post high school. You’ll teach debutantes how to play the piano while they look for a young man to marry. Just temporary, while you figure out something to do next.”

Just temporary had turned into three years. This is the way, he thought. Time tumbles along without any effort at all. What had seemed alien at first was now routine, was now a life. A music professor living in the small, quaint college town of Montevallo, Alabama? Surely he could not have predicted it, yet, here he was.

A few leaves on the oak tree outside his office remained, flapping like the sad wings of a dying butterfly, holding on when the others had fallen and been swept up by the groundskeeper into piles.

“Was it better today, Professor Fye?” Sally asked when she finished, her wide, pale blue eyes hopeful.

“Much better, Sally. Keep up the practice, and you should have it mastered in no time.”

She sighed, sliding off the bench. “You’re only saying that to be kind. I know I’m dreadful.” She swept a section of her hair behind her ear.

He went to the bookshelf, leafing through the phonograph records until he found a collection of Chopin pieces. “Take this and listen to it with your friends tonight. Pay special attention to the pacing.”

“Professor Fye, I know we have months left in the semester, but do you think I’ll pass? I need this credit to graduate, and I’m supposed to get married next summer.”

“It’s only necessary that you try. I understand you’re not a music major. Anyway, your effort’s been exemplary. Keep trying, Sally, and all will be well.”

She smiled and clasped her hands over her chest. “Oh, thank you. I’m so relieved. Professor Fye, one of the other girls told me you sometimes play with your right hand.” Her eyes skirted to his left hand and then back to his face. “Won’t you play the right hand part for me, just so I can hear how it’s supposed to be played?”

“If you think it will help.”

She slid from the bench and stood by the open window as he took her place at the piano. The breeze brought the smell of camellias as he played the notes with his eyes closed, hearing the left hand in his mind.

There were tears in her eyes when he was finished. “It’s awful pretty when you play it.”

“Thank you.” He rose from the bench. “Now, scoot along. I’ve two more students to hear before I get to have my lunch.”

Tuesday. After Sally, there was Matilda, and then Gertie. She was the best of his students, not particularly gifted except that she adored music and loved playing, and therefore put in the hours of practice that were necessary to improve. After Gertie’s lesson, he would have lunch and then teach his music appreciation class, ending the day by grading papers at his desk for an hour before heading home to see how Frances had fared. This was a day in a long string of days so similar to the others it was impossible to remember later almost any detail that would distinguish it.

That afternoon he walked home, enjoying the lushness of the gardens and the moderate temperatures September had blessed them with. Tall oaks lined streets named after trees and shrubs. Homes, a mixture of Victorian, colonial, and modern bungalows in the Craftsman style, sat on small lots with tidy, lush gardens.

They lived on Vine Street in a compact but attractive bungalow. Roses, lilacs, and azalea bushes lined a fenced backyard. A maple in the backyard provided needed shade in the summer months. On a porch covering the front of the house, two wooden rocking chairs sat side by side like a happy couple. He’d had the movers place his piano in the corner by the window that looked out on the front porch.

When they’d arrived from New York, Frances immediately began crying at the sight of the house. “This is where we’re living? It looks like one of those Sears kit houses. I can’t possibly survive here.”

“But it’s lovely.” It was a kit house, in fact, replete with a sitting room, dining room, and kitchen on the first floor, and upstairs, two modest-sized bedrooms and a bath.

She fell to her knees on the Oriental rug. “Please, Nate, I’m begging you. I cannot live here. I have to get back to New York.”

“I’m lucky to have a job. There are so many without work.”

“But this horrid little town? My God, do you really hate me this much?”

“The town’s somewhat provincial, sure, but it’s something. Especially given my situation.”

Now, he walked inside. The house felt cool. Calling out to Frances, he heard her moving about the front room. Bracing himself, he went through the kitchen to the sitting room. Frances paced the floor, a half-empty bottle of sherry on the closed piano. She was dressed in an evening gown with a rope of pearls, and red lipstick was smeared around her mouth. He went to her, taking her gently by the arms. She met his gaze with dazed eyes.

“Back from school so soon,” she said, slurring. “Did you prepare all the young ladies for a life of utter boredom?”

“Frances.” He put the sherry back on the bar. “Let’s eat something. There’s bread and butter.” He wiped the top of the piano with his handkerchief.

“Your precious piano’s fine.”

“It should never have anything on its surface.”

She went to the liquor cabinet and poured another glass of sherry. He moved toward her, like he might with a rabid animal.

“You’ve had enough. You don’t want to be sick.”

“I’m already sick. Of you. Of this sad life we’re stuck in like two pigs in quicksand.”

He let his hands fall to his side. “Frances, please. Let’s eat something.”

Suddenly, she lurched toward the liquor cabinet, grabbed the decanter of sherry, and hurled it toward the piano. “I don’t want something to eat. I want to go home to New York.” The crystal decanter broke, spilling sherry over the top of the piano. He ran to the kitchen to get a towel, thinking of the intricate strings within the instrument. When he returned, she lay collapsed on the couch, her gown around her like a mermaid’s tail. Sopping up the sherry with the towel, he felt relieved to see that none had seeped under the lid. After he finished, he made a pile of the broken glass.

She sobbed from the couch. “I can’t go on this way.”

He looked over at her.

She held a shard of glass with a sharp point. “I’m going to end it, Nate, I swear to God, if you don’t promise to get me out of this place.” She put the glass to her throat.

He inched toward her, his hands in front of him as if she might turn the weapon on him. “All right. I’ll start looking for another position. Maybe I can find something in Atlanta or Chicago.” He said whatever came to mind. “A bigger city.”

She smiled, dreamlike. “Or Los Angeles. I read it’s always seventy-two degrees there. And I could become a star.”

“Sure. Just hand me the glass.” Next to her now, he put his right hand around her wrist, no larger than a child’s, and took the glass from her, sighing with relief when the fight seemed to have gone from her as quickly as it had come. “Let’s get you up to bed.”

She was limp in his arms as he undressed her and tucked her into bed. She fell asleep almost immediately, her hands tucked under her cheek. An angel in appearance. He went downstairs and sat at the piano, practicing easy scales with his right hand.

H
e awakened
to a sound coming from the washroom and reluctantly got out of bed. The bathroom light was on, and the door was propped open several inches. Frances was bent over the sink, scrubbing her hands. Dressed in a filmy white dressing gown, her hair wet and flat against her head, as if she’d just gotten out of the bath or come in from a rainstorm, she looked up when the door creaked.

“Frances?”

“Nate, is it you?” She blinked. Her gray eyes were now black, their large pupils dilated, like she was in a trance. “I can’t stop thinking of him.”

“Who’s that, Frances?”

“The dead man. I can’t get the scent of him off my hands. He smelled of mulch, Nate. Like something rotting.” With a glazed look, like a sleepwalker, she spoke in a whisper. “See, no matter how I scrub.” She held up her hands for him to see. He gasped. They were red and raw, like his mother’s had been after taking in laundry.

Grabbing a towel, he patted them dry, careful not to rub too hard for fear of making the chapped skin worse. He brought them to his nose. “Frances, I smell only soap.” When had she stopped wearing the perfume that smelled of gardenias?

“I’m so very tired.” She closed her eyes and tucked her head into her collarbone in a way that reminded Nathaniel of an injured swan.

“Come now. It’s time for bed.” He took her hand and led her to her bedroom.

Once he had her under the covers, she looked up at him with those stormy eyes that had once made his heart beat fast and furiously. “Do you mind terribly?” She spoke with the same strange, vacant look in her eyes.

“Mind what?” He tucked the covers tighter around her frail shoulders.

“Sleeping alone?”

“It’s fine. I know I keep you awake with my nightmares.”

“I wonder why I don’t dream?”

We’re just two injured birds, he thought. “Never mind that. Just get a good rest. It’ll all look better in the morning.”

“Maybe Mother could send some of that soap Cassie makes. It takes out all smells.”

He smoothed a lock of her hair back from her forehead. “I’ll write and ask your mother in the morning.”

Her eyes were closing now, and then she began to breathe in a steady rhythm that sounded so peaceful it was hard to imagine that the moments before were real.

J
eselle and Whitmore

S
eptember 10
, 1933

Dear Jeselle,

After the long train ride, I’ve finally made it here to Princeton. It’s my first night in the men’s dormitory. My roommate is Reginald King, Reggie for short. Apparently his father owns half of New England. Our room’s stark and small with two single beds and two desks. I’ll start classes in several days, but for now I’m free to wander about and paint. The campus is lush and beautiful this time of year. There’s much to capture, many colors and textures.

I’ll keep my promise to write twice a week. I realize I’m not as capable as you in remembering all the details of a given situation, especially when it comes to what people say, but I’ll try as hard as I can to tell you all the interesting parts with the right details so that it will seem like you were here with me, only this way you won’t have to actually experience the boring parts.

Please write soon.

Yours,

Whit

S
eptember 18
, 1933

Dear Whit,

We’re back in Atlanta. We closed the lake house two days after you left. It will take some adjustment, as it always does, to be back with your father. Your mother isn’t eating much since we’ve been back. It’s like the sound of his voice makes her feel sick. I noticed a bruise on her forearm the other morning. Mama keeps a close watch on things, but we’re both on pins and needles all day long.

Mama announced one morning that I was to get a job. Your mother made a protest, but she was no force for Mama’s will in this, telling your mother that it was time for me to earn my own keep.

I found a job working for Mrs. Greer down the street. I’ve worked only two days, and I’m so tired I can hardly pick up my pen to write. I’m asleep before I hit the pillow.

I’ll write another time. Until then, know I’m thinking of you.

Yours,

Jeselle

S
eptember 21
, 1933

Dear Jeselle,

There are so many smart people here I’m humbled and, dare I say it, intimidated. I was accustomed to being less clever than you, but I was remiss in my understanding of the quantity of other intelligent minds out here in the world.

I’m struggling terribly with my mathematics course. The professors tell me I only have to worry about it this year since I’ve declared art history as my major. I wish you were here to help me with it.

I’ve decided Reggie is swell. He invites me on all his adventures even though I’m not exactly the liveliest guy around. The others are always on the search for a party, which they consider any place with girls.

Write soon.

Love,

Whit

S
eptember 24
, 1933

Dear Whit,

It may sound strange, but everything’s dim since you left, the colors less visible like there’s a dusting of gray powder on everything. Your mother meanders from room to room, without direction, her footsteps barely discernible and only her deep sighs an indication of where she is. She’s lost without the two of us underfoot.

And what do I have without you? I never knew how much there was to tell you until you were no longer here. I have nothing more than this blank page in which to confess all, to explore every detail of my life. I swore I wouldn’t complain about my fate, but Whit, sometimes writing is the only thing that gives me pleasure. With each word I can almost feel the gush of something come out of me, making things bearable. I scrub and iron and placate, all the while the words forming in my mind, how I might describe it later on the pages of my journal or in a letter to you. Sometimes I even dream in narrative right along with the pictures in my subconscious mind, like there’s a story inside me someone is waiting to hear. That is, when I’m not dreaming of you. Those nights I wake in the morning exhausted, as if I’d walked miles in search of you in my sleep, and dreading another long day at the Greers’.

I don’t know if you remember Mrs. Greer. Your mother has had her over for tea on occasion. Her full name is Lucinda Rae Greer, and she has her monograms everywhere. LRG on the towels, LRG on the necklace around her neck, even a pad at her desk with LRG at the top of each page. I thought immediately that it almost spelled LARGE, ironic because she’s no bigger than a scarecrow hanging in a cornfield. Regardless, I started thinking of her as LARGE, only seeing the letters LRG when I thought it.

As you can see, some things remain the same. My imagination continues to get me into trouble.

I must close. LRG awaits me in the morning.

Love,

Jes

O
ctober 1
, 1933

Dear Jeselle,

Mother wrote of your mama’s insistence that you get a job. She doesn’t understand it, as there’s plenty of work at our house. I don’t either, although I believe she’s hoping to get you out on your own to keep you away from me.

I worry about you working for these women who run in Mother’s circle. They are not like Mother in any way, as you know. I wonder why Mrs. Greer hired you instead of a white girl?

Someday we’ll have a life together, and I’ll take care of things so you don’t have to scrub and placate. Jessie, know this: when there is love, all things are possible. Jesus taught us this, did He not?

Love,

Whit

O
ctober 8
, 1933

Dear Whit,

I believe there were two reasons LRG hired me instead of a white girl. The first is that I come from your mother’s staff. The second is that I work for an amount that LRG would be embarrassed to offer a white girl. But a black girl, in LRG’s eyes, why, we’re hardly better than the savages portrayed in that ridiculous moving picture put out by the Ku Klux Klan years ago. She believes I don’t deserve the pay she’s giving me. In her view, I’m no better than a trained monkey.

Regardless, I was lucky to find a position when so many go without. Mama and I hear every Sunday at our church that black folks can no longer get even the most menial of jobs because a white man or woman is always offered it first. Before these hard times there were certain jobs a white person wouldn’t take, but now they’ll do most anything. We’re all, black and white, like hungry chickens scratching in the yard, trying to dig up something to eat.

I know Mama and I have been fortunate to work for your mother all these years. Yet I can’t help but feel sorry for myself and for your mother. Always there’s this yearning in us for something more, for some meaning to our lives that cannot be found in my chores or her life of idleness. I know it in myself, this thirst I have for a life bigger than the one I have, an existence with freedom and intellectual pursuits. I see it in her, too, how she rambles about her big house with nothing to occupy her fervent mind but the daily, mundane nuances of society and fulfilling the requirements of her husband.

It’s futile to wish things were different. It’s possibly even a sin to want more when I have so much. But still, there it is. A space that needs filling.

Love,

Jes