Happy Any Day Now (6 page)

“You did indeed.” Charlie chuckled, but when I looked up, I saw his eyes were filled. I’d seen him cry only once in all the years we were together, and that was when Reba died. “I just want you to know I am sorry. Deeply sorry. You’d been abandoned once; I did it to you again. What a bastard I was. So I guess I deserve to be in Irwin’s spot. I can’t ask you to forgive me.”

Dear God, how long had I been waiting for this? “Sure you can. You just did, Charlie.”

And that’s the way I left it because, what the hell, he
did
deserve to wonder if I forgave him. It was the least I could do. The great unanswered hovered between us, but he knew better than to push.

I took my strawberries and moved toward the railing. Charlie followed me. We stood together gazing at the East River, silver in the moonlight, with the lights from the Queensboro Bridge arcing a spangle of stars over Roosevelt Island. Charlie’s shoulder brushing mine charged the still air with an electricity I hadn’t felt in twenty-five years. More than that, I felt something around my heart give way. After the breakup, when he’d left the Cambridge house schlepping the last of his books, the semipermeable cardiac membrane that allows love and trust to filter in had hardened into my shield. Emblazoned with “Never Again,” it stayed tough through Todd, through Geoff. As I stood there with the apology still fresh, I felt it give a little.

I bit into a chocolate-dipped strawberry. There’s nothing like chocolate to haul you into the moment.

Charlie stared down into the anonymous city. “I’m not sure why I’m telling you this, but I ended a relationship recently. You may have read about it in the tabloids. No? Well, that’s refreshing. I was seeing Carolyn Brinks.”

“The newscaster?” How did I miss that with gossip-hound Marti around? Carolyn Brinks, star reporter, famous for her international coverage and interviews with heads of state. I recalled hearing somewhere her father had been busted for running a Ponzi scheme in the downturn a few years back. Got jail time. Now here we had a scenario that sounded vaguely familiar. Accomplished dark-haired woman with a disreputable background. Hmm.

“For the record, it was an amicable, mutual parting of the ways. Carrie really had no time for extracurricular activities. And when we managed to find some, the paparazzi were all over us. I’m uncomfortable in that kind of limelight. In case you forgot, I’m a pretty conservative guy.” No kidding.

He turned as I did. We traded stares. He asked, “And you, are you involved with anyone?”

“I have been.”

Okay, so I didn’t think before I spoke. It was all uncensored and Freud would have had a field day.
Have been
, I’d said. Not as bad as
had
been. But not nearly as honest as
am.

Charlie might have requested details; I might have elaborated. But we each caught a breath, and on our simultaneous exhale his cell phone rang out the theme to
Brideshead Revisited
. He’d loved that PBS show.
Our
show. “Damn,” he grumbled. He checked the screen. “Sorry. I have to take this.”

It really was an emergency. His mother’s housekeeper, talking loud enough for me to follow, advised him that Mrs. Pruitt had passed out in the middle of watching some liberal pundit on CNN. She’d regained consciousness, but was still light-headed. The 911 responders were on their way.

“Her doctor’s been working on regulating her blood pressure medication,” Charlie said as he hustled us toward the door. “That’s probably what’s going on, but just to be sure it’s not a ministroke, it’s a good idea to have the medics check her out.”

In the elevator, he called down to arrange for the driver to take me to my hotel. At the nineteenth floor, before he exited, he said, “I’m sorry the evening had to end on this lousy note.”

“It’s okay. I’ve played my share of lousy notes in my lifetime.”

He gave me the weak smile the weak pun warranted. Then he got serious. “Thank you for tonight, Judith. I can’t tell you how much it meant to me.” He kissed me, Philadelphia style, as in brotherly love, on the cheek. And then he was gone. Back to his mother.

M
y
mother flashed me a glance as I arrived at the Blumen House activity room Monday afternoon. “You look tired. Face too pale.” Then she went back to scanning the numbers on the four bingo cards spread before her. The announcer called out, “I-23.”

“
Hop’ung!
I-23 not on any my boards. Say hello to Mrs. Doyle. She win two games today. Lucky, lucky. You not sleeping, Judith? You take red ginseng tea I give you? Natural estrogen. No horse pee. Good for hot flash, good for sleep.”

The announcer called out, “B-39.”

“Bingo so close. Need one more number. You have bags under eyes. Look bad.”

“Thank you,” I said. “And you look different. What did you do to your hair?” I tried to peer around her to see whether I was hallucinating the wispy bangs and what appeared to be razored tiers in her glossy black hair. My mother had worn the same style forever. Thick bangs, length chopped uniformly to her jaw. Pyongyang chic. This was a major change. “What made you decide to do this? It’s beautiful. I like it.”

“Cut this morning. No reason. Time for new. Stop annoy me, child.” She flicked away my fingers fluffing the new layers. “Take seat near window. This last game for big prize.”

She always won something—a trinket, a candy bar. The winnings didn’t matter; it was winning itself that had her hooked. My biological father also liked to gamble. Not me. The universe was haphazard enough without games of chance.

Bingo over, she was all smiles as she crossed the room and tossed a lipstick into my lap. “Not so big prize today, but okay. Cober Girl. You use Cober Girl. Coral no good for me, but your skin it work. So—” She sat herself in the club chair across from me. “New York weekend. Want to hear all about it.”

The thing is, growing up, I didn’t get much of my mother. She managed to check the progress of my schoolwork and music lessons, but after spending grueling days bent over a sewing machine and then doing her homework of cleaning, cooking and laundry, there wasn’t a lot of her left for me. Since coming down to Baltimore, though, and especially since moving into Blumen House, where nearly everything was done for her, she had the time for me and, to my surprise, the interest.

“You and Geoff went to fancy restaurant? Manhattan,
aigoo!
Tell me, tell me everything you eat. What you see.”

“Actually, I didn’t see much of Geoff. He drove both ways because he was taking an extra day to help a friend from Australia move into a loft in SoHo.”

The orchestra provided a bus to haul us to off-site venues, and Geoff and I always sat together. I’d missed having him next to me on the way up. Not so much on the way back, with the previous night still on my mind. And no, I hadn’t heard from him since the concert, but I figured he was probably exhausted from carrying all those cartons.

“Do you remember Charlie Pruitt?” I asked my mother.

“Sure. The one who dump you because you not good enough. With crazy mother who think she’s Martha Washington.”

“That one. He showed up at Carnegie Hall Saturday night and we had dinner together.”

“You had date? He can’t have date. Charlie Pruitt is hot item with girl reporter. I read in
Enquirer
.” My mother was the only person I knew who subscribed to the
National Enquirer
rather than thumbing through it on the supermarket checkout line.

“You read about Charlie Pruitt and you didn’t tell me?”

“Why? To make you jealous old boyfriend have new girl?”

“His romance with Carolyn Brinks is over,” I said.

“No kidding? And he start with you again? Very rich boy. Judge high up. Good catch. Why not?”

“Why not? What about Geoff?” It was the question that had kept me tossing in my bed the night before. And what was it with my friends and family? Marti had just about thrown me in Charlie’s path. My mother was ready for me to make a quick U-turn back to an old boyfriend and leave Geoff sitting on the curb.

“Geoff fine man. He visit me. We play cards, laugh together. Drink beer.” Geoff stopped by to see my mother once or twice a month. He got a kick out of her. She was a survivor, he said. He had a lot of respect for survivors.

“I like Geoff, but he is crane. On one foot, then on other foot. Someday he spread wings and fly away. And Lulu Cho read
I Ching
. She say he never marry you. Wasting your time.”

Lulu was back in favor. When I was in the Johns Hopkins hospital having the stent inserted near my brain, my mother called her to apologize and say she was a first-class
mudang
.

Reportedly Lulu had said, “Surprise she alive. Very lucky girl. You owe me forty bucks, Grace. Already discount, half price because you regular customer.”

“I send you check for one hundred. You deserve,” my mother had told her.

Now Lulu was casting Geoff’s horoscope? “I don’t think I want to get married,
Uhm-mah.
”

“Even to judge? All that money. Big condo in New York, I bet. You be in
Enquirer.
Top-rate musician marries big-time judge with nine-carat diamond.” She threw her head back and laughed, exposing three gold teeth.

“Very funny. But don’t stop the presses. Charlie won’t call. He just wanted to apologize for the way he broke up with me back in Cambridge. Clear his conscience. That’s all.”

“What you mean? You sell short always, Judith. You smart, pretty, good job with famous orchestra. Healthy if you watch step. Nice package. He has your phone number?” I’d given him my card in the elevator. “Will call, I promise.”

“I can’t believe you’d even want him to. He left me because our family wasn’t good enough for him. That means you.” Furious after the split, I’d told her everything.

“Maybe he different, better now. You different, better. Sometime can go back. It happen. I hear on
Dr. Phil
. Old boyfriend, old girlfriend from high school get together. Sometime even in nursing home. And marry, ninety with no teeth. Men, women change, Judith. Your heart like ice. I understand. But maybe melt a little when you see him?”

Melt. Exactly what had happened on that roof garden.

My mother leaned toward me. “You forgive him?”

I thought about it. “I don’t know. He was so apologetic. But I can’t forget. He hurt me so much.”

She reached across the space between us to pat my hand. “You be nice when he call. See what happen.”

Maybe my mother had some of Lulu Cho’s
yuk hak
magic in her, because when I got home, there was a message from Marti on my voice mail. Very trilly for a lesbian. “I’ve got something for you. They wouldn’t leave it so I took it in. Call me and I’ll bring it over.”

I’d filled her in on the weekend situation that morning, so her eyes were glittering when she handed over the floral delivery. “You haven’t heard from Geoff yet. What do you think, Geoff or Charlie?”

“Geoff,” I said. He was very competitive and had the rugby scars to prove it. Charlie’s appearance would be just the thing to stir him to action.

But the flowers were from Charlie. A dozen yellow roses, our flower, with a note, a single line from the Piaf song, in French. “
Car ma vie, car mes joies, aujourd’hui ça commence avec toi.
”

I knew the English. “For my life, for my joys, today, they start with you.”

“I
’m glad you liked the flowers.” Charlie Pruitt’s voice came through loud and clear on my cell phone. It was nine forty-five Tuesday morning and he’d called just as I was making my way to the stage for our first rehearsal of the week. Behind me a bass player was tuning up, a timpanist let loose a riff, and a few violinists drifted toward entrance right. Within minutes I would be playing a bitch of a solo and I noticed that my hand clutching my cell was trembling. The maestra
would not be pleased.

“I hope I didn’t go overboard with the inscription on the card. I downed a couple of scotches before summoning the courage to write it.” This was coming from—what had my mother called him?—the big-time judge. Pretty damned charming.

“I thought the sentiment was sweet,” I said. “Sweet” was actually the word I’d used in my thank-you call the night before. “Thanks for the roses and the sweet note,” I’d said to Charlie’s voice mail, kicking myself for sounding like Dottie the Dork.

“I was afraid you might be offended by my dragging up the old stuff. Aside from Saturday night’s abrupt ending—Mother’s doing fine by the way, thanks for asking.” Oh yes, in my message to him, I’d also asked after Kiki. Ugh. “Aside from the scare with her, the evening was so . . . uh . . . enjoyable, I’d really like to see where we go with this. You and I.”

“Charlie . . .” I was about to fill in the blank on Geoff, the one I’d leapt over like Evel Knievel vaulting the Snake River, when who should emerge from the musicians’ practice room but the cipher in question, trumpet in hand. He raised it in salute as he walked toward me.

Trapped!
I lowered my voice for Charlie. “Listen, I’m backstage and it’s kind of chaotic here. This isn’t a good time to talk. But we should.”

“We should indeed. I’m heading into chambers now. I’ll phone later this week. Evenings good?”

“Fine. Except Thursday. We have a performance Thursday night.” Geoff was maybe three feet away. I held up my index finger asking for a moment. It was also a gesture that could be interpreted as “stop.” That’s what he did. In his tracks.

“Just one more thing,” Charlie said.

I wondered whether Geoff could make out the other end of the conversation. At the very least, he’d peg the voice as masculine. Geoff had perfect pitch. As I checked for a sign that he recognized my caller, his glance flew to his shoes. I backed away a few steps, but there was a wall.

Charlie was saying, “Before you take off, I’ve got a quick question. Time sensitive. There’s an RSVP involved. I’m going to be in D.C. in a couple of weeks. Tuesday the twenty-ninth to be exact. A retirement party in Georgetown for Justice Braithwaite.”

The story of U.S. Supreme Court Justice Edwin Braithwaite’s surprise resignation was all over the airwaves. Diagnosed with terminal lung cancer, he had only months to live.

“I don’t know if you remember, but he’s a friend of the family.” Uncle Ed and Aunt Kay, of course. The Pruitts’ and the Braithwaites’ summer homes on the Maine coast were within hallooing distance.

“Anyway, what I seem to have a problem getting to is I’m wondering if you’d like to accompany me.” He stuttered out the
cuh
in “accompany,” a nervous faltering that, under less stressful circumstances, I would have found endearing. All I could think of was,
Hurry up, spit it out, the man I sleep with is listening.

Or not. I couldn’t tell because Geoff was staring at his shoe as if he’d stepped in something brown and odiferous. “Well, it sounds very tempting.” Dottie was back in action. “But I’m not sure. I’ll have to check . . .”

“Your calendar, of course.” Charlie faded for a moment, then returned. “Sorry. I’m being summoned. I really have to go. I hope you can make it, Ju-ju. I think you’d have a wonderful time. In fact I guarantee it.”

“I’ll let you know,” I said. And then for Geoff’s benefit, so he would think Charlie was—who, my auto mechanic? I ended it, “Nice talking to you.” Already I was into duplicity, and my emotional circus, featuring juggling and tightrope walking, hadn’t even begun.

After I turned off my cell phone and slipped it into the rear pocket of my jeans, Geoff moved in. He patted it familiarly, then draped an arm around my shoulders and we began walking toward the stage. I allowed for maybe twenty seconds of silence before I felt compelled to speak.

“Long time no hear.” It had been a grand total of sixty hours.

“Yup. I’m sure you have lots to tell me. We’ll talk at break.”

• • •

An hour later we stood at the soft drink machine. “You played flawlessly. Bloody confident bow work. I was worried there for a while.” Geoff held out a hand and deliberately made it tremble. He shot me a questioning look, which I ignored. “No caffeine for you.”

I dropped my seventy-five cents into the slot, punched the button for a Sprite, took a sip, and gave him my brightest smile. The best defense is a good offense. “So, the move went well? You have fun with your old mate?”

“It did. We did. Worked hard, drank a lot of beer, hauled a lot of Aussie ass. You?”

“Excuse me?” Buying time.

“Did you have fun with
your
old mate?”

In the note I’d left him after the Carnegie Hall concert, I’d written “meeting a New York friend.” No name. But his question sounded loaded. Could he have known? How?

Ah, my mother. They were pals. It would be just like Grace to add a pinch of jealousy and stir the pot. See whether she could cook up a happy ending.

He was shifting his weight from one foot to another. Waiting for my answer.

“Fun. Oh sure. We spent the evening catching up.”

I was aiming for nonchalant, but Geoff had the keenest ear. He picked up a sharp that should have been played flat.

His voice went tight, tone testy. “And are you sufficiently caught up?” When I didn’t answer immediately, when I vamped by taking a swig of my Sprite, he recanted, “Sorry, Jude. Not to pry. I’m a clod.”

There you go: the perfect example of everything that was screwy about our relationship. Which boiled down to one thing, really. It was unyieldingly superficial. Geoff and I could talk about music, politics, mutual friends, but what we felt for each other? How we defined our relationship? Our future? Off-limits. We’d established the ground rules early on. Geoff had laid it out: many ties, no strings. I’d agreed. Eagerly. Because it fit seamlessly with my own mishegoss, my personal nuttiness having to do with trust issues. So far it had worked for us. It was working for me right now. So why was I having second thoughts about this cushy arrangement? And how come Geoff, with only the shadow of Charlie in the picture, looked so miserable?

“Change of subject, then. You saw the posting, I take it? No? Check your mailbox.” The musicians had mail cubbies downstairs near our locker rooms. I’d been heading for mine when Charlie’s call had knocked me off course. “Richard’s position is now officially up for grabs.”

That hadn’t taken long. Richard was well liked, highly respected. Everyone was sad, management included. But for them business was business.

“It’s also posted on the job Web site. Auditions are scheduled for the first week of June. That gives you almost two months to prepare. And prepare you must, because you’ve already got stiff competition.”

Shit.
“Really, who?”

“Burt says Vince DeGrassi’s going to try out.”

According to our timpanist Burt Silverman, his friend Vincent DeGrassi, principal cello with the San Francisco Symphony, had decided to jump ship in the wake of the recent collapse of his marriage to the SFO’s concertmaster. I knew Vince DeGrassi from a summer stint at Jacob’s Pillow. He was a cellist of prodigious talent and unquenchable ambition.

“Messy divorce. Burt says Vince would like to put a continent between them. This spot would be perfect for him.”

“I am one dead Oriyenta.” The nickname my sensitive lox-slinging father had given me as a toddler. No wonder I was so screwed up.

“I’d be glad to help you train for the ring,” Geoff said. “I’ll whip you into shape. Figuratively, of course. We can start next Monday at ten a.m. and do an hour or two every Monday thereafter until June.” He paused for a frown. “Unless you’d rather not.”

I realized there might be potential complications with the arrangement, but for the moment it was an offer I couldn’t pass up. “I’d rather. And thank you.”

Geoff gave me the twisty smile that I found so sexy. That it probably resulted from all those hours of trumpet practice perfecting his embouchure made it no less hot.

“Brilliant. We can talk it out over lunch.”

“Can’t today. Marti’s coming over to go through the party plans. I brought her a pastrami sandwich from New York.”

“Ah.”

I thought for a moment. I’d have three hours with Marti in the afternoon to tap into her cut-to-the-chase wisdom. I’d lay out the Charlie/Geoff situation and by the time I got to see Geoff that night I’d have all my ducks in a row. Or I’d be a dead one. Either way, decision made.

“Free tonight?” I asked.

“Shame, but I’ve got a few lads coming over to watch some Ozzie football on the telly. Here’s my final offer—” He hitched up the smile. “Tomorrow, dinner. My house. I’ll cook.”

“It’s a date,” I said.

The twisty smile unraveled into a grin.

“There you go. That’s my sheila.”