The Distance Between Us (16 page)

I study her for a moment. “Now who’s being dishonest?”

She sees the smile I can’t prevent and her face hardens. “Oh, please, Mother. Do you think I’ve forgotten who and what you are? Or what you did?” Her voice is brittle. “Do you really think I could ever forget?”

I was an imbecile to let down my guard with her. A complete imbecile.

I’m close to tears again as I shake my head. “Of course not. I imagine it’s far too rewarding to continue scapegoating me for something you know nothing about.”

I turn away before she can say anything else and resume my journey toward the reception table.

Nothing ever changes between us. Nothing.

When I discovered I was pregnant with a daughter, I was thrilled. I adored my boys, but I had always wanted a little girl, too. I was sure we’d be instant best friends the moment she emerged from my womb, and I foresaw endless, intimate talks with her about music and art, and literature and drama, and boys and men. I fantasized about how she’d look and behave as a graceful, spirited teenager, and later, as a young, lighthearted adult. I couldn’t wait to share my life with her, and to teach her what she needed to know to survive and flourish as a woman, and to watch her grow into maturity and wisdom, as I knew she eventually would.

Needless to say, things didn’t turn out exactly the way I’d envisioned.

From the moment she was born, we never truly connected. She always preferred her father’s company, forever running to him if she was injured or upset, and keeping her distance from me even when Arthur wasn’t there. Nor did she warm to me any further as she grew older. Our conversations, though polite, were often awkward, and whenever one of us would attempt to be affectionate with the other, it usually felt strained. The boys and I were allies from the start, kindred spirits, but I’ve never known how to speak to Caitlin, nor has she known how to approach me without setting my teeth on edge.

Yet there was love between us, once. There really was. It was a crippled, tenuous sort of love, but it existed, especially when she was a little girl. In moments of weakness, she would occasionally let me hold her, and I would stroke her hair and feel her small heart beating against mine, and for the duration of that embrace I would feel the barriers between us crumble and fall, like the walls of a sand castle, and I would hum softly to her until she fell asleep. And now and then she would take my hand in the yard or on the street, and she’d walk at my side for a bit, and she’d look up and ask me questions about this or that.

And when she said the word “Mother” back then, it didn’t even come out sounding like a curse.

I swallow past the lump in my throat and force myself to forget about Caitlin. I have bigger fish to fry, and I’m going to go fry them, right now.

Arthur and Martha are still standing where they were when I began my quarrel with my daughter, but they’ve since started speaking to Bonnie Norton, the dean of Carson Conservatory’s music faculty. Bonnie is a harpsichordist and a musicologist, and she is also, of course, my boss—which is no doubt why Arthur and Martha have her cornered at this moment. They’re obviously counting on Bonnie’s presence to deter me from dealing with them in the manner they deserve.

Idiots.

Bonnie has her back to me, beside the table, and Arthur and Martha are facing her, doing their best not to acknowledge my approach. I step into the space between Bonnie and Arthur and exchange greetings with them.

Martha pretends to be surprised at my appearance. “Why, hello, Hester. I’m sorry I missed your class today. I understand it was quite entertaining.” She gives me a smug smile and leans her head on Arthur’s shoulder.

It’s all I can do to keep from plucking her eyes out. This is outrageous. The woman has no shame. Arthur at least has the grace to look uncomfortable.

I return her smile. “Hello, Martha. I see you’ve found the cookies.” I glance at the full tray on the table. “I assume you’ll be needing a doggie bag?”

She lowers the plate she was using as a trough and glares. She has magnificent blue eyes, and what they used to call a Roman nose, pronounced and angular and lovely. Thank God she wrestles with her weight; it’s the only sure way I know to get under her skin.

Arthur drops his meaty arm over her shoulders and shakes his head at me in disbelief. “For God’s sake, Hester,” he growls. “Don’t start. Not here, not now.”

It’s as if the moment of rapport in the concert hall a few minutes ago never happened.

Bonnie eyes the rest of us and makes a graceless attempt at redirecting
the conversation. “Hester. That was a tremendous class. Really.”

With her nervous mannerisms and emaciated body, Bonnie always reminds me of a Chihuahua. She takes my arm and tries to lead me apart from the others. “I especially appreciated your insights into the Chopin. I was just saying a moment ago that no one knows the Romantics like you do.”

I rip my eyes away from Arthur’s protective embrace of Martha and turn to Bonnie. “That’s very generous of you, dear. Yes, I’m quite fond of Chopin.” I give a conspiratorial chuckle and plant my feet in the ground, refusing to be herded. “Even though he was a bit of a scoundrel, really. For instance, did you know that while he was in a supposedly monogamous relationship with George Sand, he was also having an affair with a brainless, unbathed, stubby little village girl?”

Martha blanches and Arthur looks as if he’s having a grand mal seizure. He grinds his teeth together and tugs at his gray beard with his free hand. “I’m warning you, Hester.”

“Warning me about what, darling? I thought you’d rather enjoy hearing about another musically famous lecher with deplorable taste in mistresses.”

Bonnie’s grip on my arm tightens. “Please, Hester. Stop this.”

Silence is forming around our small group as other people in the vicinity become aware of the altercation.

I wince, and lie. “That’s my bad arm, Bonnie.”

She flinches and lets go, but then narrows her eyes at me. “It isn’t either. You broke your left wrist, not your right.”

“Oh, yes, silly me. What I meant was, mind your own business, Bonnie. This has nothing to do with you.”

She tightens her jaw. “Anything that happens in this building between faculty members is my business, Hester. Watch yourself.”

“Excuse me?” I can’t believe my ears. This yapping little bureaucrat actually thinks she can rein me in. I draw myself up to put her in her place, too, but all of a sudden Caitlin reappears on my other side and interrupts for no apparent reason.

She gives a cold nod to Arthur. “Hi, Dad.” She examines him
with hostility. “You look ridiculous with that beard. How have you been?”

It’s heartening to see she now despises Arthur as much as she despises me. That’s a relatively new development; up until this last year she always reserved the lion’s share of her wrath for me, and basically ignored Arthur. But much can change in a year.

His nod is equally chilly. “I’m well.” He waits a moment before deciding to simulate polite behavior. “And you?”

“Fine.” Caitlin shrugs. “Ever since I disowned both you and Mother, my life has been quite good. But thanks for asking. Really.” She sniffs. “I so much appreciate your pathetic mimicking of fatherly concern.”

The hurt on Arthur’s face is unfeigned. He’s not used to the change in their relationship, and whatever psychic armor he’s constructed thus far to ward off her attacks is woefully inadequate. Caitlin may not be a virtuoso on the piano or the violin, but she has a genius for hatred.

“That’s unnecessary,” he says. “I don’t deserve that from you, do I?”

The cruelty in her smile surprises even me. “Are you really going to attempt to take the high moral ground here, Dad? I wouldn’t bother, if I were you.”

He bristles and starts to say something else but she turns to Martha before he can get the words out.

Her voice, oddly, becomes almost civil. “Hello, Martha. You look wonderful today.” She pauses. “Have you lost weight?”

If I didn’t know better, I could swear she was being sincere.

Martha, surprised, puffs up at the compliment. “Thank you, Caitlin.” She gives me a pointed glance before going on. “Yes, I’ve found a terrific diet and it’s doing wonders.”

I nod with enthusiasm. “It certainly is!”

She gapes at me.

“Honestly, Martha, I’m being serious.” I play with one of my earrings. In truth, she’s gorgeous, and it makes me furious. “I really do believe you’ve lost at least a chin or two since I last saw you. Congratulations.”

Bonnie seizes my arm again and pinches me. “That is absolutely
enough.”

Martha purses her lips. “You have no right to speak to me like that.”

My control begins to slide. “And you have no right to speak to me at all, Martha. Lying whores should be seen and not heard.”

Tears of fury spring into her eyes and she begins to sputter. Arthur is so irate he’s trembling. He looks at me for a long time with complete scorn, all the while fussing with his beard, then he turns his head back to Martha and squeezes her shoulders again.

“Don’t pay attention to Hester, sweetheart,” he murmurs loud enough for us all to hear. “She’s just bitter because she lost her looks so many years ago.” His hand drifts up to stroke her hair.

“Arthur!” Bonnie barks. “Not another word.”

“Don’t, Dad,” Caitlin whispers.

Arthur ignores them both. “And not only that, she also knows I never loved her the way I love you.” He kisses her cheek twice. “Ever.” He fixes me with his arctic gray eyes, unblinking. “So pity poor old Hester, but don’t let her get to you, okay?”

In some dim corner of my mind, I’m aware that the rest of the room has now fallen silent, except for a few nervous coughs somewhere behind me. Someone tosses something into the garbage; I can hear the creaking of the hinged metal lid on the top of the trash can as it swings back and forth. Out of the corner of my eye I see Viktor, watching me with concern. He’s standing a few feet away with his arms folded over his soiled sweater. He looks like a lost little boy. Miranda Moore is here as well, in a cluster with several of my other students.

I feel dead inside. It’s queer how dead I feel. “That’s true enough, I suppose.” I grope for words. “And far be it from me to argue with you about the quality of your so-called ‘love.’”

I take a deep breath, recovering, and reach around Bonnie to retrieve a plastic cup full of pink fruit punch from the end of the refreshment table. “But then again …”

They’re all watching me. Arthur, Martha, Bonnie, Caitlin, and the entire lobby full of people. Arthur’s mouth is pressed into a thin,
angry line, Martha has a triumphant gleam in her eye, Bonnie seems torn between sympathy and indignation. Caitlin, though, just looks resigned, as if she knows what’s coming. She catches my eye, and a sad smile flickers across her face.

My smart girl. She’s always been my smart girl.

“… but then again,” I repeat, “how could I possibly compare to Martha? It’s not a fair contest.” I cough before continuing. “After all, I’m just a human being, Arthur. If I’d known about your perverse fetish for flabby, bucktoothed Jersey cows, I never would have married you in the first place.”

The stillness in the room is almost unbearable. Arthur releases Martha in a convulsive motion and takes a heavy, threatening step toward me, but then he seems to remember where he is and grinds to a halt again.

The dead feeling is gone, ousted by a sudden, cleansing wrath.

I raise my glass and salute him. “Well, kudos for your defiance of those bothersome bestiality laws, dear.” I salute Martha as well. “To your health, Martha. Or, as you’d say it in your charming native tongue: MOO.”

There’s a gasp or two behind me, and what I could swear is several people trying very hard not to laugh.

Oh, my. Martha is so agitated her adorable Roman nose is quivering. And Arthur is clearly beside himself, too; he’s almost panting with fury.

Without warning, Martha snaps. She cocks her arm back and with a loud hiss she flings her plate of cookies at me. I duck to get out of the way, but it turns out to be unnecessary; her aim is terrible. Aside from a half-eaten Oreo hitting Bonnie with some force in the stomach, all the rest of the goodies fall short and land harmlessly on the red carpet at our feet. The paper plate itself careens off Caitlin’s thigh and glides under the table.

We all stare at Martha in amazement.

“How dare you!” she screams. Her whole body is shaking. “You vicious, horrid old
cunt!”

I calmly inspect my drink. “Why are you so upset, sweetheart? Is my bovine pronunciation incorrect? Let me try again. Moo. Is that better?” I draw out the vowels for her. “Moooo? Moooo!”

She screams again and lunges forward. Arthur catches her arm as I toss my fruit punch in her face, ice and all. Her eyes go wide and she stands frozen in horror as the punch cascades down the front of her pretty dress.

Bonnie and Caitlin have disappeared somewhere when I wasn’t looking. The cowards.

“Oh, dear,” I cluck. “That’s likely to leave a stain.”

Arthur’s words are quiet. “You’ll pay for this, Hester. I swear to God, you’ll pay for this.” He grunts profanities in a steady stream as he moves to comfort Martha. He steps on a green-frosted sugar cookie on the way, crumbling it into dust.

The entire room seems to be holding its breath to see what will happen next. The show isn’t over, not by a long shot. Martha is a serious drama queen, and we’re all expecting a marvelous tantrum. Divas are so predictable.

Bless her. She doesn’t let us down.

She turns into a madwoman. She throws herself at me again and again, but Arthur has both arms wrapped around her and won’t let her go, and she howls and spits like a cat in a bathtub.

I applaud. “Bravissima, Martha! What a lovely aria. You’ve never been in better voice.”

She covers her face and wails and bleats. “Make her staaaahhhhhp, Arthur, make her staaaaahhhpp! Pleeaaasse! Aaarrthuuuuurrrr …”

This is the happiest I’ve been in months.

I wait for her to quiet down again so I can say something else. Maybe I can actually cause her to have a stroke.