The Distance Between Us (15 page)

I feel as if Viktor had tossed a bucket of filthy ice water on me. I’m so appalled by his gross display that my grief has been transformed on the spot into stunned indignation. I’ve never seen such an act of blasphemy on the stage, and every ounce of sadness in me is gone, replaced, as if by magic, by an almost overwhelming desire
to slap this ridiculous child senseless for desecrating such a magnificent performance in this manner.

And yet nothing short of this kind of egregious behavior could have pulled me out of the well I had fallen into.

So I say again, praise God. Today I am a believer.

Praise God for not giving Olga Pavlovskaya the ability to teach proper stage conduct, and praise God for the farcical timing of Viktor’s sneeze, and praise God, most of all, for the much-maligned, incurable common cold. It’s all I can do to refrain from rushing forward and kissing this hapless youngster on his chapped Slavic lips.

A moment before, all eyes in the hall had been riveted on me, attempting to discover the source of my odd histrionics during the Chopin piece, but now there is loud chatter and scattered guffaws, and a palpable feeling of expectation as the audience awaits my reaction.

I fear they know my reputation too well.

I once flung a musical score at a student’s head during a master class, simply because he made the mistake of scratching his armpit during a cadenza. I daresay that story is common knowledge to most of the people in this room, and what the Russian boy has just done is a far worse crime than that—and so, no doubt the audience is now gleefully anticipating Viktor’s impending evisceration.

And if it were any other day than this, I’d be happy to oblige them.

I turn and glance at Arthur. My eyes must be red-rimmed, but hopefully the crowd will now believe the cause of this is rage.

I clear my throat and lift my voice to carry, but I keep my tone mild. “Arthur, dear, do you happen to have a clean handkerchief on you? Viktor’s sweater isn’t very absorbent, and it appears to be chafing his nose somewhat.”

The room ignites with fresh, surprised laughter, and Viktor flushes. Caitlin, of course, only scowls at me.

But Arthur meets my gaze fully, and in his expression is something I never thought to see again: understanding. He knows exactly what’s been going on in my mind, and he’s trying without success to fight back a smile of affection.

He’s a fool for trying.

No matter what he feels about me anymore, it’s simply not in him to resist the appeal of an absurd situation like this, and he should know better. I let my eyes linger on him for a few seconds, and he doesn’t look away, and for that small space of time it’s as if we never separated. All our years together are in that gaze, and he finally reaches wordlessly into his pocket—conscious, as ever, of being the center of attention—and he pulls out a handkerchief. It’s white and spotless, and he waves it in the air above his head, like a flag of surrender.

And I can almost remember why I loved him so.

T
he reception following the master class is in the lobby outside the concert hall, and the very first thing I see as I enter the room is Martha Predel, helping herself to the cookies and punch.

Martha Predel. My husband’s mistress.

Good God. The nerve of that woman. The unmitigated gall.

She didn’t attend the master class, of course (she can’t bear to see me receiving attention on the stage), but I should have known I’d find her here afterwards, waiting to provoke me. She lives for any such chance she can find to appear in public with Arthur at her side—especially when she knows I’ll be in the room as well, and won’t be able to avoid the two of them.

She’s wearing a loose, white and pink, full-length dress that manages to hide the less appealing aspects of her figure and brings out her striking red hair, and she’s beaming a toothy, besotted smile at Arthur, standing next to her. I see the moment when she becomes aware of me across the room; she takes hold of Arthur’s arm in a proprietary manner and pretends not to notice me.

This reception is supposed to be in
my
honor, and she’s beside
my
husband, acting for all the world as if she has every right to be here.

I will not tolerate such brazen disrespect. Certainly not from Martha Moonface Predel.

For fifteen years Martha acted like my bosom friend. For fifteen years she greeted me gaily in the hall here at the Conservatory,
made congenial small talk, and peppered me with flattery. For fifteen years, she played the part of a deferential colleague, begging for advice and assistance on numerous projects, and showering me with gratitude whenever I would attempt to help her.

And for fifteen years that harlot made a fool of me.

I will never know how many times she and Arthur crept off for “nooners” in his studio, or weekend getaways when he was touring. I will never know how often they slept together in my bed when I was out of town at seminars or judging competitions. I will never know how often they laughed about poor deluded Hester, or how frequently they patted themselves on the back for their enormous success at pulling the wool over my eyes.

In point of fact, if you had asked me during that decade and a half what I thought of Martha, I would have told you she was a simple, mildly-talented musician, with a good heart and inoffensive manners. She was conscientious, and pleasant, and she could be counted on for a supportive smile or a soft word on bleak days. More often than not, I might even have told you that I
liked
her.

Well, the joke’s on Hester. And it’s quite a knee-slapper, isn’t it? Martha Predel took my husband, she took my life, and she took my happiness. She took my right to walk down the hall without receiving stealthy, pitying glances from my peers and my students, and she took my peace of mind, and she took a great deal of my self-respect.

In other words, she took everything I had that was worth having. And she accomplished this mighty feat of larceny in sly, bite-sized increments, so I never even noticed it happening. Like a malicious blue jay, she floated into my territory while my back was turned, and ate all the precious eggs in my nest, one by one.

And now, or so I’m told, she also intends to take my house.

A killing rage swells inside me.

The smell of brewed coffee is in the air, and people are bunching together in groups of two or three to make small talk and gossip. I paste a benign expression on my face and begin sauntering toward the refreshment table, pausing here and there to acknowledge the compliments and greetings from colleagues who speak to me on
my way, but I keep Martha in my line of sight the entire time, and I gradually close the gap between us.

I will make that woman pay for having the audacity to show up at
my
reception.

“Hello, Mother.”

The cold, familiar voice behind me stops my feet before I can reach the table, and my heart lurches in my chest as I gather the strength to turn around and face my daughter.

We haven’t spoken in a year. And before that, not since Jeremy’s funeral.

I greet her as pleasantly as I can. “Why, hello, Caitlin. I thought I saw you in the audience today. It’s sweet of you to come.”

The lobby is a large, bright room with a wide set of stairs in the middle, and windows reaching from floor to ceiling all around us. Caitlin is standing with her back to the staircase, wearing a dress the same shade of green—the color of a sickly fern frond—as her eyes.

My
eyes, as Alex noted in the car a few days ago.

She squints at me, frowning at the afternoon sunlight coming through the windows. There’s a long, awkward pause as we study each other.

“So how have you been?” she finally asks.

I don’t know what to say to her. There’s far too much pain and anger here for both of us, and speaking to each other is likely to do nothing but cause more damage. I’m sure she still believes I’m to blame for Jeremy’s death, and God knows I haven’t yet found it in my heart to forgive her for not telling me about Arthur’s affair—the knowledge of which both she and Paul were privy to long before I was.

But what else can I do but answer her? “Well enough. And you?”

She sniffs. “Fine.” She indicates my husband’s mistress with a tilt of her head. “You shouldn’t let Martha get to you, you know.”

Caitlin is much larger than I am. I’m five-foot-four and weigh no more than a hundred pounds dripping wet, while Caitlin is five-eight and much stockier. She’s not fat, mind you, but she has wide shoulders and hips, and somewhat bulky thighs and shins. She’s
certainly not unattractive, but neither has she ever been what you could describe as beautiful. (When I was younger, I was something of “a looker,” but Caitlin inherited more of her father’s physical characteristics, which unfortunately suit a man better than a woman.) Still, her shoulder-length black hair is thick and shiny and very soft, and her skin is clear, and her hands are long-fingered and elegant, with small knuckles and short unpainted nails. She also has a restless energy about her that is quite compelling and no doubt serves her well in the classroom.

I glance over my shoulder. “You’re imagining things, darling. I’m simply on my way to the refreshment table for a glass of punch. I didn’t even know Martha was here.”

I catch Martha watching Caitlin and me. I narrow my eyes at her and turn back to Caitlin again. “I should at least give my regards to the old girl, don’t you think?”

“Actually, no. I don’t.” She adjusts her dress because it’s bunching up over her wide shoulders. She notices me watching her and she pauses, blushing.

Paul and Jeremy used to tease her for those shoulders; they called her “Princess Quasimodo” and “Lawrence of Arabia’s pet camel,” and they would favor her daily with witty remarks such as, “Don’t you have to go ring the cathedral bells now?” or “Could you drain your hump for me, Caitlin? I’m thirsty.”

She bore it all with a kind of stoic calm, though, because she was always smart enough to know, even as a very young girl, that if she responded in anger to anything her brothers said, the only result would be an escalation of the verbal abuse. Instead, she got even by embarrassing them in public as often as possible, with clever guerrilla tactics—such as running up to them in crowded rooms to demand that they stop wearing her makeup and panties without asking, or delivering such
bon mots
as, “So Paul, how’s that new plastic sheet on your bed working out for you?”

Paul and Jeremy never stood a chance against her, really.

In truth, they were a little afraid of her, because they didn’t know just how far she’d go to humiliate them. Oh, they could be cruel at times, and they were always insensitive—yet underneath all
the scathing gibes they aimed at her was a furtive, grudging compassion, an inborn reluctance to go for their little sister’s jugular. Caitlin, alas, never had any such qualms, and they were wise not to test her limits.

I shouldn’t admit this, but I’ve always admired her for that.

She greets an acquaintance walking by, then resumes her homily about Martha. “You’re just jealous, Mother. She’s not worth your time.”

I don’t know how she’s able to determine what’s going on in my head, but it bothers me that I’m so easy for her to read.

“Jealous? Of Martha?” I pick a white hair from the front of my black skirt. “Don’t be absurd.”

She rolls her eyes. “Uh huh.”

“Believe what you want. I’m no more jealous of Martha Predel than I am of the Pillsbury Doughboy.”

She sighs. “I thought you might have grown up by now, but I see that honesty is still too much of a leap for you.”

No one in the universe can provoke me faster than Caitlin. No one.

The spiteful words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. “Speaking of growing up, I have to say I’m surprised to see you here today, dear. I know how difficult it is for you to watch others play the piano the way you always wished you could.”

She pales and takes an involuntary step backward. “Lovely, Mother,” she whispers. “Very kind.”

I can barely hear her for all the chatter in the room, but the hurt on her face is plain. I close my eyes for an instant, hating myself. Whatever we’ve done to each other, she deserves better from me than this.

I start to apologize, but she cuts me off.

“It doesn’t matter.” She turns to go. “I really didn’t expect anything else from you.”

She begins to walk past me, and I put my hand on her arm to stop her. She halts for me, but she pulls away from my grip.

“Caitlin.” I drop my voice so no one else can hear me. “Why
are
you here? It’s been forever since I’ve seen you.”

She hesitates and won’t meet my gaze. Standing this close I can smell her perfume; it’s subtle and pleasant, with a faint suggestion of lilies.

“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “I’d heard the Russian boy was going to be here and decided to come. That’s all.”

Oscar Schneider, the skeletal oboe teacher, appears out of the crowd and starts to angle toward us, but neither Caitlin nor I spare him more than a slight nod and he takes the hint and moves away again. Dear old Oscar. He’s one of the few faculty members here at Carson with a functional brain in his head.

“No.” I peer into her eyes. “I mean, why are you at this reception, and why are you speaking to me again?”

She grunts. “This is hardly a
rapprochement,
if that’s what you’re implying. I still want nothing to do with you.”

“I suspected as much.” I clear my throat. “Which brings us back to my question. Why are you here, then?”

For an instant, her lower lip trembles and she sighs. “Idle curiosity, I suppose.”

I can’t believe what I’m seeing. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she’s fighting tears.

Caitlin never cries. Ever.

I start to reach for her again and she recoils.

“Don’t touch me.” She steps back and gets control of herself again. She crosses her arms over her chest and frowns at me. “And drop the solicitous act, too, while you’re at it. It’s making me sick to my stomach.”