Duet for Three Hands (31 page)

W
hitmore

W
hitmore sat
on the side of the bed. Jeselle stood near the desk, grasping the back of the chair. “You plan on giving this baby away?” he asked.

“It’s what Mama wants. Doesn’t mean I’m going to do it.”

He got up from the bed and reached for her, took her hand between his own. “I knew it.”

“Mama wants to give the baby to the Reverend Young. But I can’t.”

“Not even when you thought about Oberlin?”

“Even then. I’ve been saving every penny. I planned to go out west. I thought California, but lately I’ve been thinking Wyoming or Montana. Places with miles and miles of space where a person could get lost and never be bothered.”

He moved away from her, trying to keep the pain out of his voice, but it was impossible. “Did you think at all of me?”

“Of course I thought of you. You’re all I think of. I won’t have you giving up your life or getting killed over me. Think of me living with that the rest of my life? Think about that, Whitmore Bellmont.” She crossed her arms over her chest and winced. Was she hurt? He took her arm in his hands, gently. “What is it?” Then he saw it. A burn mark on her soft flesh. He knew instantly who had done it to her. “My God, Frances burned you?”

“Never mind.”

“She burned you? With an iron?” He brought her into his arms and held her. “I’m sorry, Jessie.”

She put her arms tighter around his neck, and he felt her chest moving up and down as she cried, her tears damp on his neck. After a moment he shifted so he could hold her face between his hands, catching the tears with his fingertips as they fell. “Do you love me?”

“You know I do,” she whispered.

“Are you willing to go with me, wherever it is?”

“What about your life? Your daddy’s plans for you?”

“My plan has been and always will be you.”

“How will we live?”

“I don’t know.” He moved his hand to rest on her round belly, amazed there was a baby inside. “I’ll find a way. Will you come with me?”

“Yes.”

N
athaniel

N
athaniel walked
over to the church early that evening, the sun behind a fat, ash-colored cloud dimming the landscape. He found Ferguson in the windowless pastor’s office behind the sanctuary. The warm and untidy office smelled of dust and old books; piles of papers were scattered about the desk, and books stacked sideways and wrong side up looked as if they might collapse a rickety shelf on the far wall. An empty, chipped teacup was perched precariously on a tattered dictionary.

Gillis, writing, looked up and smiled broadly when Nathaniel knocked. “Nathaniel. Come on in. Excuse the mess.” Getting up, he grabbed the pile of books off the visitor’s chair and set them on the floor near the radiator. “This is the only place Lulu can’t get to.”

Nathaniel remained standing, too antsy to sit. “Lydia thinks they should go to France. To live.”

“They could live in relative peace there, I suppose.”

“Except for the war most believe is inevitable.”

“Hitler. Yes.” The room filled with a sound like someone beating a snare drum. “Ah, our friend the woodpecker, saying hello.”

“If anything happened to Whit…” Nathaniel’s throat tightened. “It would be the last thing I could take. I wouldn’t make it through.”

“How would they live?” asked Ferguson.

“I have money put aside from the old days. It’s enough to get them started. Whitmore’s talented. I could introduce him to some art contacts there and in New York City. He could paint portraits or something.”

“The answer seems clear then.”

“France?” said Nathaniel.

“France.”

“I should get home, check on Frances. I haven’t been home since I saw you earlier.” At the doorway, he stopped and turned back to look at the pastor. “Jeselle says Frances is out most afternoons.”

“Out? Where?”

“I don’t know. Frances tells me she always rests in the afternoons. I mean, what would she do out all afternoon?”

“Do you suspect something?”

“What? No. I mean, suspect what?” The noise from the woodpecker ceased, replaced with the hum from a car on the street. “What would I suspect? A man?”

“Just ask her. Most folks tell the truth when asked.”

“How do you remain so optimistic about people?” asked Nathaniel.

He chuckled. “Well, we’re made in God’s image.”

“Yeah, but the mirror’s awfully blurry for some of us.”

W
hen Nathaniel returned home
he peeked into Frances’s bedroom to find her at her dressing table applying lipstick. She met his eyes in the mirror. “Where did you get yourself off to?”

“Business to take care of.” He leaned against the doorframe. “Frances, what do you do in the afternoons?”

“Rest.” She turned from the mirror to face him. “Darlin’, I’ve been thinkin’ maybe we should move to California.”

“What?”

“California. Los Angeles. I hear there are dozens of universities out there. You could get a post at one of them.”

He sat on the end of her bed, sighing. “Frances, I can’t leave my position here.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “Why can’t you give me one thing I want?”

“We’re not moving to California. I’m sorry.”

With that, she jumped up from the dressing table, swiping her arm across the top so that all the contents flew to the floor. “You’re determined to ruin my dreams.” She lunged toward him, wailing and pushing both of her hands into his chest. When she was in a fury, she had enormous strength, and he fell back onto the bed. She beat him with her fists until he managed to get his hands under her arms and toss her off him. Collapsing in a heap, she looked small and fragile and crumpled, her gown in a swoop around her as her small ribcage moved in wracking sobs.

I can’t even look at her anymore, he thought as he left the room. I can’t even stand to look at her.

L
ydia

T
he next morning
Lydia made her way sluggishly across campus, through air that felt thick with heat, thinking even the bees that usually hovered and sucked luxuriously from the flowers were slower, as if the humidity made their wings heavy. Inside the music building it was cooler, and dim. She went to Nathaniel’s office, where she knew he waited for her to begin their morning lesson.

He sat at the piano, spine straight, his face in shadow, his right hand playing the notes of an unfamiliar melody. She stood at the door, allowing herself to watch him for a moment before shuffling her feet to let him know she was there. At the noise, his hand stilled and hovered over the keys before he turned his gaze toward her. “Lydia.”

Where had he been, she wondered? She opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a squeak that sounded like a question. Then, “Good afternoon.” A trickle of perspiration meandered between her breasts. “Are you ready for me?”

He moved to stand behind the piano. “Please begin with the exercises I assigned you.”

She played through the scales and arpeggios. When she finished, his eyes were hooded, unreadable. “Is it all right?” The walls of the room felt unusually close.

He blinked. “Yes, it was quite good.”

She sighed, feeling limp from the warmth of the room and something else that hung in the air. She stirred on the seat. “I’m so warm.”

“Yes, it’s ungodly hot in here today.” The vein on his neck above his shirt collar twitched. His skin was damp at the back of his neck. Her fingers twitched, wanting to feel his skin.

“Are you feeling poorly?” she asked.

“What? No, not all.”

“You seem distracted.”

“I am, I guess. Worried about the kids.” He paused. “Lydia, how old are you?”

She moved from the piano bench and reached for her bag, attempting to sound lighthearted, teasing, like she’d observed in other women when they were asked a question that made them uncomfortable, but it came out flat and breathless. “My mother said never to tell a man your age.”

He smiled. “Right, men and women don’t discuss these things in polite society.”

She rifled through her bag as if she were looking for something. “I’m forty years old, last month.”

His voice was quiet as he rested his arms on the top of the piano, leaning over to peer at her. “I apologize if I’ve made you uncomfortable. You seem younger yet older, soft and hard, all harmonious.”

“Is that how I appear to you?” She put her finger on middle C and tapped it, twice. The sound reverberated in the quiet room.

“Yes, it is.” The tone of his voice was careful and measured, like he didn’t want to alarm her.

She stared at his mouth. What would it feel like to kiss him? Put it aside, she told herself. No good comes from coveting a married man. Any imbecile knew that. Apparently her heart wasn’t very smart.

“I have something for you.” He rifled through his bag. “Yes, here it is. This is the Brahms
B-flat Piano Concerto
. I’d like you to begin practicing it. Might take you six months to learn, but I want you to perform it in public when you’re ready.”

Startled, she took the sheet music from him, scanning it quickly. “A woman can’t play it.”

“Small, weak women, perhaps not. But someone with the capacity of your large hands? I think you can.” He smiled, teasing. “You’re the perfect age. You should be at least forty to even attempt it.”

“Did you play it?”

“Once. Publicly, that is. I was thirty, and it was only by some miracle it wasn’t an utter failure.”

“I would’ve loved to see you perform.” Why had she said this? It would only make him feel worse.

“Performing made me feel powerful—to hold an audience’s attention like I did. Does that sound awful?”

“Merely honest.”

“You’re either a performer or you’re not. I believe you to be a performer, Lydia. I believe it with all my heart.”

“Nathaniel.” Pesky tears came to the corners of her eyes. “Thank you.”

“It’s selfish, you know, this mentorship. It feels a little like the old days, here, with you.”

The old days? How unfair they couldn’t play together. A world tour with her as the opening act for her teacher? It would have been splendid to be on the same stage as Nathaniel Fye. The same stage? Yes, that was it. And in that moment an idea came to her that seemed too grand and yet obvious all at once. In her excitement the words tumbled out before she could censor or evaluate the validity of the idea. “When I was in college I performed several duets with other students for recitals. One was a Mozart sonata. It was scored for four hands, and we found it difficult because one hand performed the melody while the other three hands provided accompaniment.”

“Yes, it’s difficult to get the balance right.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier for three hands? One hand plays the melody while the other two provide the accompaniment?”

His eyes widened. “For three hands?”

“Why not? If in combination we can play as one, with three hands we could play a duet.”

His brow wrinkled, and it seemed as if he might dismiss the idea altogether. Seconds clicked by, and she could see him evaluating and then considering the possibility. Finally he spoke, casually, almost offhand. “I might take a look at the Mozart, see if it could work for three hands. It would be difficult. The music would have to be completely re-scored.”

“Yes, but it could be done, couldn’t it?”

He chuckled. “Yes, but this is not in our course work for the summer, Lydia.”

“Well then, you’ll have to take care of it yourself. I have the Brahms
B-flat
to work out.”