Duet for Three Hands (28 page)

L
ydia

T
he next evening
, Lydia rapped on the front door of the Fye home. She wore her blue dress, freshly laundered and ironed. She’d washed her hair and applied mascara and lipstick carefully, the reasons for which she chose not to examine too closely.

She heard footsteps, and then Jeselle opened the door for her, gesturing her into the house with the same silent nod from her previous visit. The sitting room smelled of talcum powder and roses. Frances sat on the couch while Nathaniel lurked near the piano, sipping a whiskey. There was a stocky, ruddy gentleman with a puffy face, dressed in a light gray suit that seemed a size too small, standing by the bar. The man rose when she came in the room.

“This is Doctor Ralph Landry,” said Nathaniel.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Lydia.

Dr. Landry kissed her hand, holding it for a moment in his own. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Tyler.” She drew her hand away from the doctor’s clammy, plump one, feeling the professor’s eyes upon her. Without planning to, her eyes darted to his for a moment, and a bolt of energy surged through her. She quickly averted her gaze, feeling a flush begin in her chest and creep up through her neck so that she felt inflamed. Taking a shallow breath, she kept her hand from touching her neck by playing with the bow on the front of her dress.

Frances looked like a princess, dressed in a flowing, sleeveless gown, pinched at the waist and with a blossom-pink skirt that cascaded below her knees. Lydia instantly felt underdressed and oafish.

Frances glided to Lydia and squeezed her arm. “So good of you to come. We’ve been looking forward to hearing some delightful stories of your life in Atmore.” Frances spoke with a smile in her voice, but Lydia knew she was mocking her by the way she emphasized the word Atmore like it was a flavor of cake.

Frances put her hand on Dr. Landry’s arm. “Lydia, this is the wonderful doctor I was telling you about the other day. He’s simply saved me. He was there the first night I ever spent with Nate. Do you remember, Doctor?”

“Sure. Seems like yesterday.” Dr. Landry stepped back from Frances, stumbling slightly against the side of the couch.

Frances turned to Lydia. “I’ve suffered so, and this poor man has done everything imaginable to try and figure out what ails me.” Her eyes glistened with tears.

“Would you care for a drink, Mrs. Tyler?” the professor asked.

“No thank you, Professor.” Feeling damp with perspiration, she made her voice light. “I’m afraid I’m a teetotaler. My husband used to tease me that I was partly to blame for Prohibition.”

Dr. Landry waved his empty glass at the professor. “Don’t mind if I have another drop, now that you mention it.”

Nate refilled the glass with whiskey and handed it to the doctor, who gave an appreciative glance at the copper-colored liquid. The way he smacked his lips together after the first sip made Lydia think of a pink frog. “This legal concoction is a hell of a lot better than some of the moonshine that came through these parts.”

“Doctor, have you lived in Montevallo long?” Lydia sat against the back of the sofa, arranging her legs with a modest cross at the ankles in a way that Emma would have approved of.

“Born and raised. Here my entire life except for when I went away to school.” He turned to the professor. “You heard from Walt lately?”

The professor nodded. “Just had a letter from him the other day. He’s managing several projects for the government arts program in New York. And he married a woman from Mobile.” He glanced over at Lydia. “Doc and my old manager, Walt Higgins, grew up together here in Montevallo.”

“Really?” asked Lydia. “Is that how you ended up teaching here?”

“That’s right.”

Frances arranged her skirt in a circle around her on the couch. “Doctor Landry’s a pillar of the community.”

“Now, Mrs. Fye, that’s just flattery on your part,” said Landry. “Although, Professor, I’ve been meaning to invite you to one of my social clubs. Introduce you around.”

“What kinds of clubs do you belong to?” Lydia asked.

Dr. Landry crossed a plump leg over the other. “I’m a Christian man, involved with people committed to preserving our Christian nation.”

She felt a quiver of indignation in her stomach—she was sure he was referring to the Ku Klux Klan. She leaned forward in her seat. “Eleanor Roosevelt—” she began, but the professor interrupted her.

“Mrs. Tyler, won’t you play for us?”

She looked at him in surprise. “Now?”

The professor spoke too loudly for the room, his voice sounding strained. “Something light to match the summer mood. Gershwin?” He pulled sheet music from a stack on the piano.

She moved toward him, feeling Frances’s glare like a beam of light on her back. “Perhaps Frances and Doctor Landry would rather visit?”

Frances flashed a brilliant smile, rising from the couch. “That’s awfully kind of you. I couldn’t agree more. We’ll take a turn in the garden while you play.”

Dr. Landry followed Frances out the screened porch and into the yard. The professor stood near the bookshelf, hands in his pockets. “You must excuse my wife, Mrs. Tyler. She doesn’t care much for music.”

“It doesn’t matter to me whether she listens or doesn’t.”

“Mrs. Tyler, I hope you won’t mind some unsolicited advice.”

“Yes?”

“Doctor Landry’s a southerner. With southern ideals. Do you understand what I mean?”

“I most certainly do. That doesn’t mean I have to like it. Or agree with it.”

“Yes, but I do want you to be safe.”

He was right. It was best to keep her opinions to herself. She’d certainly learned that by now, living in Alabama for twenty years. “Of course you’re correct, Professor.”

“I’m afraid I am.” After pouring another whiskey, he went to the window, pulling the curtain back. Frances and Dr. Landry were strolling in the yard, arm in arm, pointing at various flowers. The professor let go of the curtain and turned back to her. “This Gershwin piece was the last piece I played in front of an audience. The same night as the accident.” He gazed into his glass, his face pensive, speaking softly. “I’ve always thought it strange that I’d played such a happy tune just minutes before...”

She sat perfectly still, frightened.

“Something light. It was a summer party.” He wandered to the piano, the drink still in his hand. “It’s ironic really, when all my life my mother protected my hands, forbidding any kind of physical work, that I’ve ended up this way.” He looked into space, his eyes far away. “I was something of a child prodigy. Have I told you that?” He took a sip of his whiskey. “I worked harder than anyone expected of a boy because I knew the sacrifices my parents made for me. And because I loved it and felt it was what God wanted of me. After the accident I asked myself and God a thousand times—why? But He never answered.” He paused and examined his hands. “I felt forsaken.”

“God never forsakes us.”

He looked at her, smiling in a way that was almost a grimace, sadness in his eyes. “I’ve struggled a great deal with that particular idea, Mrs. Tyler.” He finished his drink and put the empty glass on the bar. “Some works have been written for the left hand alone, you know?”

“Yes?” she said, startled by this turn in the conversation.

“But none for the right hand. Of course you know that.”

“I, honestly, had never thought about it before.”

He blinked and rubbed his temple. “I don’t usually talk this much. Must be the whiskey. I apologize. What were we doing?”

“The Gershwin.”

“Right, of course. The Gershwin.”

“Frances told me you play at night with your right hand.”

He looked surprised. “She told you that, did she? Yes, I play every day, just to remember the feel of the keys.” Taking off his jacket and tossing it onto the couch, he came around to where she sat at the piano bench. “May I sit next to you?”

She nodded and moved to the far left end of the bench. He took the right side.

“One of my early teachers insisted on my practicing each hand separately so that one was not utterly dependent upon the other.”

“Yes, of course. Mine as well,” she said.

She detected the scent of fresh soap on his skin as he rolled up his right shirtsleeve. His long fingers hovered over the top of the keys. “I can remember my old exercises like it was yesterday.” He began to play a scale. She found it impossible to move her gaze from his fingers.

He then scanned the Gershwin and took a deep breath before playing the right-handed notes from the first page. Her eyes filled with tears; his fingers blurred so that it was only the sound that remained. After he finished, the room, like a glass container, held the music.

“I miss it, Mrs. Tyler.”

Her instinct was to take his left hand, which rested on the bench between them, and hold it against her chest, but of course she didn’t. “I can only imagine.”

She scanned the music. “I’ll play the left hand if you play the right.”

At first he looked as if he might refuse but then shrugged as if it was of no importance. “We could try it, I suppose.” As she raised her left hand, he raised his right, and they began to play the opening passage. It felt odd, clunky. In tandem they took their hands from the keys and looked at one another.

“Let’s match our breaths,” said Lydia. “Like we’re one body.”

“Come closer.”

She scooted several inches to the right, until their legs and shoulders almost touched, his left hand and her right resting on their own thighs. Together, they took a breath in and then out, several times, matching the other. She allowed her body to relax and felt his do the same.

“And one, two, three,” he said. They began again, and this time, as if granted a gift by an unseen entity, they were one player.

After they were done, his eyes still on the music, he murmured, “Strange.”

“Let’s play another,” she suggested, trying to keep her voice light so he wouldn’t suspect how moved and inspired and excited she was.

He leafed through the sheet music on top of the piano and pulled out a Mozart. “This is a piece I have my students play from time to time.”

When they had completed the Mozart, he looked at her with a teasing smile. “This is all well and good to play around with, Mrs. Tyler, but your right hand will go to nothing if we play together too often.” His eyes were soft, his voice husky. “But thank you for indulging me.”

Their conversation was interrupted by Frances’s breathy laugh as she came in from the porch. Her arm was still linked with Dr. Landry’s, but Lydia noticed that Frances’s eyes skipped to where the two of them sat together on the piano bench. “What do we have here?” asked Frances.

The professor rose from the bench as Jeselle appeared in the doorway. “I was just showing Mrs. Tyler some scales.”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Fye, dinner is served,” said Jeselle.

The four of them made their way into the formal dining room, set with fine china and white linen napkins. Three shallow vases of cut lilacs lined the middle of the table.

Dr. Landry held Lydia’s chair while the professor did the same for Frances. Nathaniel and Frances sat on either end of the table, with Lydia and Dr. Landry across from each other. Nathaniel said a quick prayer, and then Jeselle served a light green cream soup from a silver tureen. Lydia sipped a spoonful; it tasted of butter, cream, and fresh peas.

Dr. Landry lifted his eyebrows in appreciation and grunted as he dug into the bowl for his second spoonful. “Frances, did you make this delicious dish?”

“Frances doesn’t cook,” said the professor, chuckling. “This is Jeselle’s soup.”

Frances waved her hand in the air dismissively and pouted. “The Bellmont women most certainly do not cook.” She dabbed at her mouth with the end of her napkin. “Doctor Landry has a brother in the motion picture business, Lydia. Isn’t that interesting?”

“What does he do?” Lydia asked, genuinely curious.

Dr. Landry scraped the bottom of his bowl for a last taste of soup. “He helps run a studio. Other than that, I have no earthly idea. He was always the artistic type.”

“Has the industry been hit as hard as the rest of the country?” Lydia asked.

“I suppose, but they keep making them pictures,” Dr. Landry replied, putting a hand on his chest as if he might burp.

“I guess it helps people with their troubles, to watch a picture and escape from their own reality for a while,” said Lydia.

The professor took a swallow of whiskey. “Do you like the pictures, Mrs. Tyler?”

“I’ve only seen one or two. My daughters love them, of course. I’m a relic, still thinking of the days when we had silent pictures and an organist to play the score.”

“Well, those days are over,” said Frances. “Now that we have talkies they need actresses to have beautiful speaking voices.” She turned toward Dr. Landry. “I’ve been told I have a beautiful voice.”

Dr. Landry turned a deeper shade of ruddy and glanced at the professor. “I suppose so.”

Frances cocked her head, looking at Lydia. “Doctor Landry’s promised to introduce me to his brother. See about getting me into a picture. I’ve been imagining it in my mind most every minute of the day since we talked last week.”

“But now, Mrs. Fye, I didn’t say he’d get you in a picture, just that I’d introduce you to him. I don’t actually know that he makes those kinds of decisions.” He spread butter on a biscuit and demolished half of it in one bite.

“But he helps run the studio, doesn’t he?” Frances’s face lost its rosy flush. Her hand shook when she took a sip of sherry. “Isn’t that what you said?”

The professor sighed and spoke slowly, as if measuring his words, “Frances, Doctor Landry doesn’t want you to set your expectations too high.”

“But you said that he could do something for me.”

“Frances, there’s no need to get upset,” said the professor. “I didn’t remember you had a brother, Doctor Landry.”

“Hadn’t seen him for years when he showed up out of nowhere a couple weeks ago. He left town after his mother died. We had different mothers, both dead now.”

Frances played with the stem of her glass. Her eyes glittered, focused on the professor. “The trouble with my husband, Lydia, is that he has no imagination. Isn’t that right, darlin’? He thinks of nothing but his music all day, every day.” She turned to Lydia in a conspiratorial wink. “Isn’t that just the way with men? They think of nothing but themselves and let their poor wives wither on the vine.”