Things Hoped For (16 page)

She thinks a second or two, and says, “He didn’t do a Jekyll and Hyde or anything, if that’s what you mean. But yes, there was a change. Like with music? Before it happened, he liked to play the trumpet, and he was in the jazz band at his school and everything. But then afterwards, it just started to mean more to him. He got serious about music. That’s what I think changed—he got more serious, about a lot of things. And he thinks more. We both do.”

I don’t know what to say next, but she can tell, and she saves me.

“Well, listen, thanks again for my private concert. I loved it. And I hope we can really meet someday. Because I want to hear you play in person. And I want to talk more, okay?”

“Sure,” I say, “I’d like that,” and I mean it. “And thanks for calling. And thank
Bobby
for putting you up to it.”

We both laugh, and then say good-bye.

Gifts. Moments like this are gifts. A person calls from a thousand miles away, and it feels like a friend, and suddenly there’s some light again.

I dig around in my shoulder bag so I can check my list of audition times for the millionth time. And in the bag I see the letter, the one from the envelope Grampa sent to Mr. Grant. I stuffed it in there at the end of the meeting at the police station.

My name’s on the front, blue ink in Grampa’s shaky writing. It’s almost too precious to tear open. And I nearly don’t, because, really, what else could Grampa possibly say to me? Or give to me?

But I can’t resist, and there’s a single sheet of paper with something folded inside. At first I think he’s giving me one of Grandmother’s necklaces. But I unfold the paper, and his army dog tags drop onto the bed, the ones he wore for six years during World War II.

So far tonight, a blind girl who doesn’t complain about her life has made me laugh from a thousand miles away; and now my grampa, who never once complained about anything, has made me cry from somewhere else, somewhere beyond a thousand miles away.

But I dry my eyes, and I pick up my borrowed violin and bow, and I walk down to the basement, and I knock on the rehearsal room door.

And when Robert opens it, I smile and say, “Time’s up. I’ve got an audition tomorrow.”

On Tuesday morning I wake up early. I don’t touch my violin. I don’t even look at it. I shower and dress and go upstairs. I’m not hungry, but I force myself to eat two eggs and a piece of toast anyway. There’s not much talk.

After breakfast I get my case, and at the door, Robert gives me a hug, and he says, “I know you’ll do great. You will.”

And then Daddy and I walk over to Broadway and get a cab.

Ten minutes later we’re walking across the plaza at Lincoln Center. Alice Tully Hall, the Metropolitan Opera, Avery Fisher Hall. Some of the best musicians in the world will be rehearsing and performing here all week long.

It makes me feel small.

In the lobby of the school, I check in at the tables along the back wall, and then Daddy and I sit down to wait. My accompanist comes and asks if I want to find a practice room and warm up. It’s probably a good idea, but I’d rather be still.

I’m glad my dad is here. This is not his world at all, and he’s completely unimpressed. And that helps me. No matter what happens here today, cars will still be expertly repaired at the Pro Shop Garage off Interstate 79 near Elkview, West Virginia. No matter what, life will go on. It’s good to remember that.

I reach into the pocket of my jacket, then open my palm in Daddy’s direction and say, “Look what Grampa gave me.”

He takes the dog tags, squints to read them, and then runs his fingers across the stamped lettering.

“It’s not a small thing, to give these up. You know that, right?”

I nod, but I hold back my feelings. It’s not the right moment to be getting all emotional.

Then Daddy says, “You find the hidden message yet?”

“What? What message?”

He turns the ID over and taps his thick fingernail against the dull metal above Grampa’s name. I take it from him and bring it up close. And I see something, scratched into the stainless steel, maybe by a pin or the point of a knife, years and years ago. There are lots of other small scratches, and the surface is worn so smooth that I have to catch the light just right to see anything at all. Out loud, I say, “J . . . 15 . . . 13, right?”

My dad nods.

“What’s it mean?”

He shakes his head, then he taps the middle of his chest and I hear a metallic clink. “Scratched the same thing on my own tags the day I got ’em. Secret code. Soldier stuff. But I’ll give y’a clue. That J? It
doesn’t
stand for Jesus.”

My dad doesn’t have a subtle bone in his body, which is one of the reasons I love him so much.

I say, “So it’s a Bible verse, right?” Another nod. “And the J stands for . . . Joshua?” Nothing. “Judges?” Nothing. “Job? . . . Jeremiah?”

I know my books of the Bible, and I run through the rest of the
J
’s in order. Nothing, until I say, “John?” And there’s a flicker of a smile. “So it’s John 15, verse 13, right?”

“Can’t say. Secret code. Soldier stuff.”

“Come on, Daddy. Tell me. Please?”

But he shakes his head. “Oughta know your Bible better.”

I look at the clock, and I’ve got seventeen minutes. So I grab the tags and I say, “Save my seat.”

Because I want to know this. Right now. It feels important. Everything feels important right now.

And there’s got to be a Bible somewhere close. Because New York City has everything, even Bibles.

I’m out the door, and as I trot past the fountain at the center of the plaza, I think there has to be a bookstore within a block or two. Then I look up, and I adjust my course, because now I know where I’m going: just across Columbus, straight toward the fifteen-foot-high red neon letters that say Hotel Empire.

In two minutes I’m at the front desk, and in four minutes a friendly woman in a housekeeper’s uniform is handing me a Bible, courtesy of the Gideons.

I sit in a huge red chair and open the book. Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, John 12, John 14, John 15.

And there’s verse 13. And it’s so simple, one sentence. Soldier stuff.

Walking back across Columbus Avenue, the tears are streaming down my face. Because now I know.

I know why Grampa tucked himself into that fox-hole last Thursday. He did it for me. He knew he was going, and he hid himself so it wouldn’t make a commotion. He tried to buy me a few more precious days of harmony and order, peace and quiet. If he could have moved all the mountains of West Virginia and brought them here to shelter me, he would have. But in the end, he hoped that one or two more days in my little practice room would be enough. And it was.

Grampa said the people who loved him and cared for him would understand. And now I do. Because now I have a whole story.

I have my own story, and I love my story, but I know I can’t tell it alone, not now. Because stories have centers, but they don’t have edges. No boundaries. And I needed to learn that. Thank you, Grampa. And Mama. And Daddy. And Mr. Richards and Pyotr. And Robert, and Alicia too. Even William.

No edges.

Passing the fountain, I slip the chain over my head and tuck Grampa’s tags inside my white shirt. A minute later, my eyes wiped dry, I walk back into the lobby of the school. I sit down again next to my dad, and when I take his hand, he turns and smiles at me.

Five minutes later a woman at the registration table calls my name.

I pick up my violin case, and I nod and smile at my accompanist, because she’s part of my story too. Together we walk to the elevator, ride to the third floor, then take a right along the corridor to find Room 311.

And I am not afraid. I can play.