Things Hoped For (5 page)

He looks at me. Grampa said not to judge him too harshly, but I’m losing that battle. I can’t believe this person is Grampa’s brother. His lips keep smiling, but not his eyes. He shrugs. “You don’t need help. Not yet. But you might if your daddy knew you were sassing me like this.” He crosses to the parlor door and opens it. “I was ready to leave anyway. When you see Lawrence, you tell him to call me. It’s important. Good-bye, Gwennie,” and he yanks the door shut so hard that a painting on the opposite wall shakes and tilts to a crazy slant.

I run to the door and chain it, my hands shaking. And then I slam the Fox lock in place, the long steel rod that leans between the door and a slot in the floor. Uncle Hank might have a key to the deadbolt, but Grampa added Fox braces to the three outside doors just a month ago. And there are only two keys, Grampa’s and mine. And the brace-release locks have Medeco cylinders—pick-proof. New York turns everyone into a lock expert.

I scramble downstairs, trot past my bedroom, past the door to the basement, through the laundry room and into the utility room, and I put the brace rod in place against the door to the backyard.

My pulse is still racing, and as I go back through the utility room, the compressor on the big freezer kicks in and I nearly jump out of my shoes. I’m at the ground floor door and I only have thirteen minutes to get to my lesson. I use the straps and put my violin on my back. I put the brace rod into its groove, and when I close the door and turn the key in the cylinder, I hear it settle into place with a solid clunk that seems to echo through the whole empty house.

“Perimeter secure, sir.”

I trot over to Broadway, and I flag a cab because I have to be on time for my Friday lesson. I
have
to be. Grampa would want me to be on time. Even if it meant that I had to leave my beautiful daffodils gasping in the kitchen sink.

And I am on time. I make it to the third floor studio with only a minute to spare. Because I
will
have my lesson today. I will play my best for Pyotr Melyanovich, and he will teach me to play even better.

I have earned this tightrope, and I
will
move ahead. I
will
get to the next level—no wishing, no dreaming, no luck.

Cause and effect.

A good lesson is when my teacher doesn’t scold me. A great lesson is when Pyotr Melyanovich smiles or nods.

Friday’s lesson is better than great. When I play the runs and the double stops of caprice number 17, there is a smile. When I plunge into the third movement of the Sibelius concerto, after eight measures, there is a nod.

I’ve heard other kids at my school talk about their private teachers, and our experiences are all so similar. Any one of us would walk through fire if we thought that would make our teachers approve of our playing, or compliment the tiniest bit of progress. It’s scary how much power Pyotr Melyanovich has over me, over my life and how I feel about myself as a musician. I want this strange little man to be so proud of me, proud to call me his student, proud that I’ve begun to master another difficult piece, proud that his teaching has helped me ace an audition.

A smile
and
a nod. A superb lesson.

On the way home I stop at the café on Broadway to give myself a small reward: cocoa, cake, and Yeats.

As I try to decide how large my cocoa should be, it occurs to me that it’s nice not to have to rush home to see how Grampa’s doing. And immediately I’m ashamed of myself for having such a selfish thought. But then I have to admit it’s still true.

And while I’m having my little truth-telling session, I notice a guy behind me in line. Actually there are three guys: one wearing a greasy Mets cap, one in a suit and topcoat talking too loud on his cell phone, and one wearing khakis and hiking boots with a trumpet case hanging from his shoulder. He’s the one I mean, the boy with the trumpet.

I’m in a booth a few minutes later and I’ve got my book open, and the trumpeter comes and stands there until I look up.

When I first got to town, I thought that there were West Virginia rules, and then there were New York City rules. But now I know that’s not true. People are people. Still, I decide I should go with the old city rule that applies to a moment like this: Don’t be too nice.

I give him the stony eye. “This table’s taken.”

He shakes his head, smiling. “Just a quick question.” He points at my violin. “I thought you might be able to tell me how far I am from Manhattan School of Music.”

I’m still made of marble. “It’s about a fifteen-minute walk. North on Broadway to 122nd Street.”

“Great. Thanks.” He’s got a nice smile. Straight brown hair. A good face. Doesn’t talk like he’s from New York. Of course, neither do I. Almost nobody here is actually
from
New York, not originally.

Before he turns away, I want to ask him what he’s doing at Manhattan School. But I don’t, and he’s headed toward the door.

I go back to my Yeats anthology, where I’m into this batch of poems that he published in 1899. The ones about this woman he loves are my favorites, and I keep coming back to a poem called “He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven.” Grandmother put an exclamation point in the margin, and I’ve added one of my own.

I look up and I blink my way back to the coffee shop, because the boy with the trumpet is standing there again, still smiling. “I know this table is taken, but could I just sit a second and finish my drink?”

I nod, and he moves my violin and sits across from me.

I try to read, but I can tell he keeps looking at me. I can feel my face beginning to turn pink.

Then he says, “You were at Tanglewood last summer, right?”

I nod. “Yes.”

“I
knew
I’d seen you before. I’ve got a good memory for faces. And other things. I’ve just got a plain old good memory.”

I say, “Were you there for the orchestra session?”

“Yeah, and the brass workshop too. It was a great summer.”

I nod. “For me too. Sorry I didn’t recognize you. The violin program was really intense. I didn’t socialize much.” Which must make me sound like a total music geek. Which is pretty much true.

My face still feels warm. I ask, “What are you doing at Manhattan School?”

“Today? Nothing, just looking around. And maybe I can get into a practice room. They don’t like trumpet playing at my hotel. I’ve got an audition at Manhattan on Tuesday. And then one at Juilliard, and another at William Paterson over in New Jersey. Are you studying at Manhattan?”

“No, I’m in high school, a senior. You too?” He nods, and I say, “But my teacher’s a professor at Manhattan. And I’ve got an audition coming up there too. After Juilliard.”

He nods slowly. “Welcome to crunch time.”

I nod back. “Exactly.”

“I’m from Chicago,” he says. “How about you?”

“I live two blocks from here. With my grandfather.”

“Cool.”

I don’t mention that I’m actually from West Virginia. On Friday, I’m a New Yorker. Cool.

He takes a last noisy pull on the straw in his empty cup, puts it on the table, stands up, and says, “It was great to see a familiar face. Maybe I’ll see you at auditions. My name’s Robert. Good to meet you.” And he holds out his hand.

I shake it and say, “I’m Gwen. Good to meet you too.”

Still holding my hand he says, “I know you’re busy, with auditions and everything, but there’s a concert tonight at Lincoln Center. And there’s an extra ticket. Sorry I can’t invite your grandfather too, but do you want to come?”

It’s a nice smile. Still, I shake my head. “I really have to practice tonight. But thanks.” And I smile back.

His smile gets even nicer, and he shrugs. “No problem. Well, look, I’m at the Empire Hotel, right across from Lincoln Center. And if you change your mind, just call me. The room’s under my dad’s name, David Phillips. And I’ll be there till seven-thirty, okay?”

He still has my hand. I nod. “Okay.”

Except there’s no way I’m going to miss that much practice time. But I don’t let that thought show on my face. I probably look like I might actually say yes, like I might go to Lincoln Center on Friday night with a trumpet player. Who finally lets go of my hand, walks out of the coffee shop, waves, smiles once more, and then heads north on Broadway.

Yeats would probably want to write a poem about this sudden turn in my story. I tuck his book into the pocket on my violin case, leave money on the table, and hurry home to rescue my wilting daffodils. I’ve got to practice. And eat. And then practice some more.

And I do all that, and the hour of playing before dinner goes well, and the hour after dinner goes even better.

And that’s when I decide I deserve some recreation, some culture. Because it’s Friday night in New York City. I’m sure Yeats would approve. And Wordsworth.

And so would Grampa. I’m sure he would.

The desk clerk at the Empire Hotel speaks with a Japanese accent. He connects me to the right room, but the line is busy, so after the tone I say, “Robert, it’s Gwen, from the coffee shop today. I’ll be in the lobby at seven-thirty. Bye.”

And then I hurry and shower and dress and dash for the subway. Because I’m going to Lincoln Center. On Friday night. With a trumpet player. Who has a nice smile.

The concert on Friday night isn’t quite at Lincoln Center. And it’s not the New York Philharmonic playing, which is what I’d expected. The concert is in the Jazz at Lincoln Center complex at Columbus Circle. And the program features Wynton Marsalis and the Lincoln Center Jazz Orchestra.

Robert’s parents don’t come with us, which seems a little odd. It’s just me and the trumpet player. And he actually has his trumpet. I ask why, and he says, “It’s a three-thousand-dollar horn, and it’s the only one I’ve got, and it’s either lock it up in the hotel safe, or carry it. So I carry it.”

Jazz. I don’t avoid it, but I don’t seek it out. I grew up on bluegrass, and I’m in love with classical now, but I’ve never gotten into jazz. The next time someone offers free concert tickets, I need to ask for details.

William Paterson University. That’s the tip I didn’t catch in the coffee shop when Robert listed his auditions. The specialty at William Paterson is jazz. Robert, he of the nice smile, is a jazz trumpeter first, an orchestra player second—but still good enough to get into the Tanglewood classical brass workshop, which is saying something.

And I’m surprised at how much I enjoy the concert. There are fifteen or twenty amazing musicians in the group, and they open with a piece called “Big Train” that Marsalis wrote himself. It’s beautifully orchestrated, with a great range of sounds. Our house back home is only half a mile from the Norfolk Southern line, and I know those lonesome train sounds. And feelings.

Some of the other stuff is a little too disjointed for my taste, but Robert loves all the tunes, clapping for every soloist, and he’s one of the first people on his feet at the end. The best part for me? I didn’t worry about Grampa once for almost two hours.

When Robert first came into the hotel lobby without his parents, it was a surprise, but I don’t say anything until after the concert. We’re next door to the Empire Hotel eating ice cream—his choice—and it’s almost eleven o’clock, just the two of us at a table. Trying to sound casual, I say, “So, how do your parents like the city?”

He shrugs. “They couldn’t come. My mom teaches college, and she has midterms, and my dad’s locked into a research project. My mom’s gonna try to come Thursday, or maybe meet me in Boston next week. They’re not real happy about me being a music major anyway.”

“How come?”

“Usual reasons—earning a living, job security. Stuff like that.”

“Don’t they think you’re a good musician? I mean, you’ve got an audition at Juilliard.”

“They know I’m talented, but they also know that lots of great musicians never make a good living. And they also know that a big-name school isn’t some magic ticket to success. So they worry.”

“And you don’t?”

Another shrug. “I still want to go for it. It’s what I like best, that’s all. And my girlfriend thinks I’m really good, and she listens to everything. And my teacher plays in the Chicago Symphony, and he keeps telling me I should go ahead too. So if I can’t earn a living in music, then I’ll do something else.”

My girlfriend. Part of me didn’t want to hear that. The part that doesn’t want anyone treading on my dreams.

We’re done eating, and he says, “I’ll ride home with you.”

Not a question. A statement.

I shake my head, feeling like I should pull back a little. “You don’t have to. Really. There’re always lots of people out on a Friday night. I ride the subway alone all the time after the Philharmonic.”

He smiles. “Exactly. You get to cruise around New York City all the time, and I don’t. So don’t spoil my field trip.”

Then his face changes. “Aren’t we close to where John Lennon got killed?”

I didn’t see that coming. “It’s about a ten-minute walk.”

“Can we go there—would that be okay?”

I nod. “Sure.” And we pay our tab, walk out of the restaurant, and start walking uptown.

As many times as I’ve passed Gray’s Papaya at Seventy-second and Broadway, I can never get over the fact that people are always lined up three deep at the counter, day and night. And having stood in line myself a few times, I know why. Even though we’re already stuffed with ice cream, I almost insist we each get a papaya and a hot dog. It’s one of those must-do things on the Upper West Side.