The Bridegrooms (13 page)

There, left since Saturday when she’d rushed out of the office to deliver the programs, she found it. Her violin. Her fingers curled around the handle of the case, lifted it out, and clutched it to her, closing the drawer with her foot.

She put her lips close to the case and whispered, “You’re in for a treat.” Then, without bothering to close the door behind her, she stepped into the dark hallway, made her way down the back stairs and, once her eyes adjusted to the near-total darkness, maneuvered through the backstage area. Her fingers traced the length of the heavy velvet curtain until she found its end, and she walked out onto the stage.

The only light in the auditorium came through the open doors that led to the lobby, which was fine with Vada. Her footsteps echoed in the darkness, and the very sound of opening the latch on her case seemed magnified a thousand times. There was no chair, no stool, so she lifted the violin and bow out and held both in one hand as she gingerly lowered the case to the floor. Again, the echo of leather on the boards and another few steps as she moved away.

Friday’s concert would include Beethoven’s
Pastoral
from his Sixth Symphony, and she summoned that music now. The instrument settled on her shoulder, her chin smooth against the silken wood. She touched the bow lightly to the strings and found her first note. Wincing at the sound, she readjusted, found the correct one, and launched herself into song.

Within the first measure she closed her eyes, taking away the hundreds and hundreds of empty seats. Whether alone in her bedroom or in the parlor surrounded by her family, Vada always preferred to be locked away with all of her senses attuned to her music. When she was younger, she’d imagine herself on a grand stage wearing a beautiful white gown and playing for an audience gape mouthed in awe. Instead, that winter
recital when she’d fumbled through “Au Clair de la Lune” had been her final stage performance. The end of her education.

Still, music called to her, and at this moment it filled her. No room now for the threatening visage of Alex Triplehorn or the haunting scene of the young man possibly dying in her own bed. She imagined herself third, no, maybe second chair in the midst of Herr Johann’s East Cleveland Terrington Community Orchestra, settled in between Garrison and Erik Vlasek, whose square, scowling face would take on an expression of red-faced shock.

Alone onstage, she dreamed a wall of harmonious sound, and when her mind hit a blank and she couldn’t remember the next note, her invisible conductor tapped his stand and directed the entire orchestra back to the beginning of the second measure, where the notes were entirely more comfortable.

At some point the imagined tapping sounded entirely too real, and Vada opened her eyes to see Herr Johann standing directly in front of her. Her eyes traveled the short distance down his stocky frame to find the source of the tapping in the heel of his gray calfskin boot.

Her right hand dropped, bringing the bow with it, and her left soon followed, holding the poor violin uselessly by its neck. “Good morning, Herr Johann.”

“You did not tune your instrument?”

“I—well…”

Herr Johann held out his hand and, like a guilty child, Vada gave over her violin. He held it in front of him like a ukulele and strummed one string with his stubby thumb, twisting the tuning peg until, satisfied, he moved on to the next string.

Uncomfortable watching, and not knowing where to look, Vada scanned the theater seats, grateful in a different way for their emptiness.

When Herr Johann cleared his throat, she looked back to him and handed over the bow. He brought the violin up to his shoulder, wedging it within the thickness of his neck, and launched into the piece Vada had been playing just moments before. Each note carried with it her dreams—those she’d abandoned and those stolen from her. A musical picture, really, of the swift fleeting of time. Each touch of the bow a year then lifted, a decade gone. Though he played only a few seconds, she felt a lifetime had passed when he stopped, holding the bow poised above the strings.

“Sounds better, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Much better, thank you.”

He played one final, triumphant run of notes before relinquishing the violin. Embarrassed for herself and the torture the poor instrument endured at her touch, Vada immediately stooped down to open the case.

“You are putting it away?”

She looked up at him, confused. “I have work to do.”

“What work could possibly be more important than music?” When she started to explain, he waved her off. “How often do you get a chance to play Beethoven on a stage?”

“Never,” she said, straightening.
Maybe if you allowed women to play in your orchestra
—

“Then play!” He was already walking away, repeating “Play! Play!” and directing the air in front of him more vigorously with each step and humming the tune until it disappeared with him into the darkness.

Vada remained in the center of the empty stage for a few minutes more, the echoes of
The Pastoral
still lingering, but she couldn’t bring herself to lift her instrument and play. Instead, she knelt and placed the violin lovingly in its case, the clicking of the latch once again the only sound.

Then, following Herr Johann’s example if not his footsteps, she left
the stage in the opposite direction. She’d learned long ago to be satisfied with what she could easily have. This was no different. Humming, she made her way through the darkness and up the stairs until the case itself was once again tucked inside her desk drawer.

Now to work. First she read through the series of Johann’s notes, instructing her which laundry to use for his tuxedo, where to make reservations for a late supper after Friday’s performance, what color velvet to use in making the “reserved” drapes for those seats set aside for Cleveland’s elite. There were a few less-important ones, like the scrawled rant about the first cello’s unruly hair and the frayed carpet on the stairs leading up to the stage, but as these were issues well out of her hand, she simply tossed them into the small wastebasket in the corner.

For the next task she reached for the accounts ledger and opened it to the entry from last Friday. Mrs. Greenville, who worked tirelessly in the little box office in front of the theater, had left a small envelope bound with string on her desk. In it was a receipt for Monday’s sales and seven dollars in cash that Vada promptly locked in the petty cash box in her top desk drawer.

This is when she should reconcile the numbers in order to give an accurate count to Herr Johann when he came by with his daily question, “So, are we going to play to an empty house?” But every time she attempted to work out the math in the margins of the ledger, she found her mind wandering, first to Alex Triplehorn, the man who’d been able to steal away her mother’s affection, then to Louis LaFortune, who seemed capable of the same feat for her.

The fitful night’s sleep began to take its toll, and she rested her tired eyes on the heels of her palms. It was a different darkness here than that of the stage; there was nothing to chase away the haunting images of yesterday.

Oh, Lord. How am I going to get through all of this? I need…

Her prayer, silent as it was, dissolved within her, and the little office filled with the notes of a simple tune. She listened, head cocked at the un-familiarity, though she herself hummed it. Her mind searched for lyrics, and before she could stop herself, her lips formed the foreign words:
“Fais do do, petit frère…”

Mortified, she clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle the lullaby.

“Oh, Lord,” she tried again, speaking a prayer to fill the room. “I’ve never felt so…inadequate. You took Mama away and that was fine. I was fine. And now—I need You to take Alex Triplehorn
away
. And Mr. LaFortune too. I haven’t the strength to fight these battles. I need…”

But she knew exactly what she needed. She stifled the whining words and drummed her fingers on her cluttered desktop. It was a simple matter, really, of confronting Mr. Triplehorn and avoiding Mr. LaFortune. What an utter waste of prayer, given the gravity of the young man so near death’s door back at home.
That
she could leave in God’s hands. The rest of this—well, He’d seen to it that she’d grown up capable of confronting life’s complications, hadn’t He?

By now the light streaming through the skylight made the little office quite warm, and she stood to twist the handle to open the window and let in a breeze. Too late, she realized she’d forgotten to secure the series of notes from Herr Johann, and they scattered across the desk, landing on the floor.

“Oh, bother.” She went down to her hands and knees to retrieve them. Just then there was a light rap on her door and a muffled voice from the other side.

“Miss Allenhouse? You have found the notes I left on your desk?”

A quiet second later the door opened, and though she couldn’t see
over the top of the desk, the faint whistling sound of Herr Johann’s breathing was unmistakable.

Lest her own breathing have any such telltale presence, she held it, keeping herself quite still until, after a short inquisitive snort, the door was closed again and he was gone.

There, finally, in a patch of sunlight cooled by a spring breeze, Vada found a moment of pure peace.

True to her word, Vada walked into the house at noon sharp, having left her meeting with Mr. Messini, the ushering coordinator, as soon as the last assignment had been resolved.

“Molly Keegan!” she cried the minute she walked through the front door. “What is that delicious odor?”

The two nearly collided at the door to the kitchen as Molly came bursting through, her finger held tight to her lips. “What kind of a lady is it comes hollerin’ into a house such as that?”

“I’m sorry.” Vada dropped to a whisper. “I just don’t think I’ve ever—”

“It’s sausage and peppers is what it is.” She placed her fisted hands on her hips, looking quite pleased. “With a nice butter-and-garlic sauce. Thought maybe a strong odor waftin’ up might do some good in wakin’ himself upstairs.”

“Still no change?”

“None ’t all. And the little one sittin’ at his side all mornin’.”

“Althea?”

“You best fetch her downstairs. I don’t think otherwise she’ll leave his side.”

Vada left her hat and gloves on the front hall table and raced up the stairs, stopping at the top of the landing when she heard a soft, familiar sound coming from her room.

Although Althea hadn’t spoken a word since their mother left, sometimes, when she thought no one could hear her, she would hum. Mournfully, tunelessly when she was sad, high and sweet in moments of contentment. Whenever Vada happened upon such a time—when Althea was in her room or straightening the parlor—she would lurk outside the open doorway and drink in this little bit of sound.

So did she now, walking on her toes as she hugged the wall, then standing flat against it, listening to the remnant of Althea’s voice until she finally recognized the melody within.

Each note was clear and perfect, capturing the essence of the song the way no lyric ever could.

Calls me from a world of care
. Indeed. Who could know how many hours of Althea’s silence were really hours spent in prayer? Vada thought back to the minutes spent back in her office. She’d left bringing every care with her.

She peered around the open doorway, expecting to see her sister’s head bowed in the posture of prayer the song summoned. Instead, Althea sat in the chair next to the bed, the young man’s head cradled in one hand while the other moved a snippet of sea sponge across his parted lips.

Even though this was obviously a scene of some medical necessity, Vada couldn’t help feeling like a voyeur having stumbled upon some precious, private moment. Still, there could be no doubt what
wants and wishes
Althea was making known to their Father.

Althea none the wiser, Vada withdrew from the doorway, backed down the hall, and approached again with a great clattering of heels. “Althea? Are you up here?”

This time when she walked into the room, the man’s head was once again nestled in the pillow, and the sea sponge floated in the glass of clear water on the small table next to the bed. Althea’s hands twitched in her lap.

“Any change?” Vada whispered in deference to the patient.

Althea gave a quick shake of her head, then stood and motioned for Vada to follow her to the dresser. There, looking very pleased, she gestured to a gathering of items in one of the shallow soup bowls from downstairs.

“What’s all this?” Vada touched each item carefully. There was a single key; a handful of coins; a pencil stub; two shirt buttons; a shiny, smooth stone; and a single folded piece of paper. “Are these his? You found them going through his pockets?”

Althea nodded in response to each question. She picked up the piece of paper and handed it to Vada who unfolded it slowly, as if it were some precious antique document and not a brief note scribbled on cheap stationery.