A Song for Julia (14 page)

I discreetly turned and watched Julia’s reactions. She looked more relaxed than I’d ever seen her, curled up in her chair, elbow on the table, chin resting in her hand. She had a broad smile, which was remarkable, and her blue-green eyes were wide as my dad waved his hands around, trying to describe the antics of one of the gangs that had terrorized the neighborhood in the 1970s. At one point, she threw her head back in a full-throated laugh, her whole body shaking. 

Watching her like that, I thought she just might be one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. 

Not because of physical beauty, though she had plenty of that. It was in her bearing and in her eyes. This was no pill-popping, cocktail drinking college girl who’d never experienced anything in her life. Somewhere along the line, she’d been through something. There was grief and loneliness behind those eyes. And strength like I don’t think I’d ever seen before.

I didn’t realize I was staring. But at one point, Dad paused in his story at the part where he was climbing in the back windows of South Boston High School, and looked at me. Then she looked at me and met my eyes, and I took a sharp breath. I realized I’d been standing there at least two or three minutes, a dripping dish in my hand, just watching her. 

Stumbling over my words, I said, “Don’t stop, Dad,” and went back to washing dishes like nothing had happened. I’m not the blushing beauty type, but I could feel a little bit of heat on the back of my neck, probably from their eyes boring through me like laser beams.

This was getting way too cozy, so as I finished drying the last dish, I interrupted Dad’s story to ask Julia, “So how do you want to work this thing about the car?”

Dad gave me a seriously annoyed look, as if to say, ‘Where the hell did you learn your manners.’

She shrugged. “Um … go get an estimate and let me know how much it is? I can give you a ride back over there when I go.”

I nodded. “All right.”

“How bad’s the damage?” my dad asked.

“Not bad,” I said, “just dented,” right at the same time she said, “I think it’s probably totaled. Frame’s bent.”

Now she was a car expert, too? What I knew about cars you could fit in the change pocket in my wallet. 

“That’s bad,” my dad said. 

“We’ll find out,” I said. 

“How much did you pay for the car?” Dad asked.

“A thousand.”

One thousand dollars. Which, after studio and recording fees, and the rent, and eating, and public transportation, had taken six months of cooking for me to save. Morbid Obesity wasn’t exactly making the charts, and right now we were very much in the red.

She grimaced. “It’ll cost a lot more than that to fix it, if I’m right. Might be best to just buy you a new one.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t exactly have the money to buy a new car.”

“I told you I’d take care of it. It’s my fault.”

“Maybe we should get going, then,” I said.

She nodded, her face suddenly looking sad again. I didn’t get it. Most of the time when I was here, I wanted nothing more than to run away. But here she was, suddenly making herself at home. Was her ‘I don’t get involved’ all some kind of game, and she was one of those clingy girls who would be calling and texting me in the middle of the damn night? 

“You promised,” Sean said, not even looking up from his book.

“So I did,” she responded to him. “Let’s go check out that piano.”

She stood, and my eyes followed every inch of her as she did so, from the curve of her butt, her breasts, to the slight hollow in the base of her neck. I’d had my share of beautiful girls. But Julia was something different.

So, somehow the three of us, my dad, brother and I, ended up following her into our living room as if we were the guests.

She approached the piano with extreme caution, her body turned just slightly away from it. “This is a beautiful piano,” she said.

My dad said, “It’s my wife’s … it belonged to her grandmother.”

“Does she play often?”

“Not anymore,” dad replied, sadness in his voice. God, that killed me. The way he acted—like it was his fault she’d left. I’d never understand that. But both of my parents were a mystery to me. How they fell in love, how they split up, and especially how they manage to stand each other now, given what happened.

She sat down and lifted the fallboard gently, then touched the keys, somehow reverently and expertly at the same time. She positioned her hands expertly. “I’m badly out of practice. I don’t get many opportunities to play these days.”

Then she started playing, gently, and I recognized the piece instantly. It was the sad, almost menacing beginning of Mozart’s Piano Concerto No. 20. Not an easy piece to play, under any circumstances, much less if you were badly out of practice. She was being almost falsely modest, because her execution was perfect. Better than perfect, it was haunting. And not the least of which was because my mother had once played it in this very room. I looked over at Sean, half expecting to see him blow up. 

He was sitting on the couch, nose stuck in his textbook. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t listening. In fact, this was normal behavior for him when faced with something overwhelming. He just scanned the words, down one column, then the next, then the next, and then he flipped the page. 

My dad, though … he stood in the doorway, leaning against it, and his eyes were watering. He saw me look at him, and an almost angry expression came over his face. He blinked his eyes, then roughly wiped them and looked away from me. 

Of course, I knew why he gave me that look. 

I felt like I was holding my breath as she played. That piano hadn’t been played in six years, and it would have been six more if Sean hadn’t insisted on it. The music was overwhelming. When I was little—really small—my mother used to play all the time. With each year that went by, she looked older, sadder, more exhausted. And then one day she just stopped. And then she was gone. Now, she made appearances for some holidays, and that was it.

Screw it. Time for some new memories. 

I walked over and slid onto the piano bench next to Julia and said quietly, “Know any four-hand pieces?”

She didn’t hesitate. Without a smooth transition, she began the opening bars of Sonata for Piano, Four-Hands in D Major, K.381. It was if she’d taken my question as a personal challenge. It’s a beautiful piece, and also one that my mother taught me to play. I positioned my hands and joined in at the next measure. It starts out slow, measured, thoughtful, but by the third movement it’s a challenge for even two people to play. And I hadn’t heard it in years, much less played it. That’s okay—it didn’t have to be perfect. This was for fun. So we played, our hands moving together on the keyboard. 

I glanced over at her at one point, and she was smiling, a small, secret sort of smile. Her hair was coming loose from the careless bun she’d put it in, a few stray strands covering the right side of her face. They framed her eyes. I swallowed, looked back down at the keyboard. And the funny thing was, I was smiling too. I’m not big on smiling. I’m not big on happiness, to be honest. This was both uncomfortable and strange territory.

But, before you think I’ve changed and become some preppy piano player in a monkey suit and bow tie, I was also very, very aware of her thigh in those black jeans, brushing against mine. It was hot, and let me tell you, I’ve never once in my life been aroused while playing the piano. That could be wicked embarrassing.

We got to the third movement, with its aggressive and very fast fingering, and we both started to fall apart. She laughed and tried to get back on track, and I did the same. But that didn’t work so well, because now we were off kilter, ragged, and it sounded awful. 

“Oh, dear God,” she muttered, and that was all it took. I broke out into loud laughter, and so did she, and we fell together, for just an instant, laughing. She put an arm around me, for maybe a second, max, and then yanked it back.

“Okay,” I said. “We’ve got to try that again sometime.”

“It’s a deal,” she replied, a wide grin on her face.

“Tell you what … we’ve got a piano back at the studio. Want to stop by tonight?”

She blinked her eyes, and a vulnerable, exposed expression flitted across her face. Her smile died, but she tried to bring it back, only it was that fake smile she sometimes got on her face, and then she said, “I can’t … um … I’ve got a date.”

Aw, crap. Of course she has a date. She’s a beautiful, smart as hell girl—she’s probably out every weekend. 

On second thought—somehow I didn’t think so. I was sure she could if she wanted to. But something about her was remote, lonely, isolated. And for just a few minutes, while we played side by side, it felt like I’d broken through.

“I’d love to do it some other time,” she said, sounding extremely uncomfortable. “Really, I would. I just … this was …”

“Don’t worry about it!” I said, too fast. “Have fun on your date.”

I didn’t want to say that. In fact, I wanted to find the guy and pound his face into the Southie pavement. Or the cobblestones or whatever the hell the Barnies have over at Harvard. But I couldn’t say any of that. She wasn’t mine … we weren’t even really friends. What the hell was wrong with me?

My dad cleared his throat behind us. Both of us spun around, quickly. Jesus. I’d forgotten anyone else was in the room.

“That was beautiful,” he said. His voice cracked, “Thank you. That piano … it needed someone to play it. No one plays it any more. It was wonderful.”

Julia laughed, a little uncomfortable. “The end, not so much.”

Dad smirked. “Can’t win everything.”

She looked at me, her fast downcast. “We should get going.”

I nodded, strangely reluctant. “All right.”

Dad looked off to the side for just a moment, as if he were debating something. Then he looked back at her. “Listen … next Saturday we’re having a little birthday party of sorts for Sean. I’d like you to come, Julia.”

“Oh,” she said, her eyes wide. “I …”

“Not taking no for an answer.”

Her eyes darted to me and back to Dad. “I’d feel like I was imposing.”

“I’m cooking,” my dad said. “You said you don’t get home cooked meals.”

“Well …” She started to say, her defenses down. 

That’s when Sean chimed in. “Please?”  

She didn’t hesitate. “Okay. I’d love to.”

So we stood, and she ran off to use the restroom before we left. I started to head upstairs to change, but my dad grabbed my arm.

“Hey,” he said.

“Yeah, Dad?”

“Listen … be nice to her. All right? She’s a good kid, and … I think she’s been through a world of hurt, somewhere along the line.”

I took a breath. “Is that the best you can think of me?”

He shrugged. “I never know what to expect of you, Dougal. Just … try not to hurt that girl.”

I swallowed. “I won’t,” I said.

He gave me a nod, his expression serious, and then let go of my arm.

CHAPTER EIGHT

What happened to you? (Julia)

The ride back to Somerville was tense and awkward. Something, I don’t know what—maybe the humidity or the wind direction or butterflies in China—had put Crank into a mood again. He wasn’t exactly hostile, but he wasn’t friendly either. He sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window, a frown on his face.

I don’t know why this bothered me. It’s not like we were a thing. It’s not like we were anything. But he’d switched moods so quickly, from anger and hostility last night, to open and laughing this morning, and now he was cold. I didn’t get it, I didn’t like it, and I was starting to not like him. At all.

“So,” I said, trying to break the heavy silence. “Once you get your car checked out, just give me a call. Unless it’s going to be a lot of money, I really don’t want to get involved with the insurance, because that’ll mean my parents getting involved.”

He nodded. “All right.”

I got off 93 for Somerville, and we were in traffic again. He was still silent, staring out the window. He was starting to irritate me. A few blocks from the Metro Club, I said, “Did I do something wrong?”

He jerked, surprise on his face. “What?”

“I said, did I do something wrong? Did I piss you off somehow? Because I’m having some trouble figuring you out.”

Crank shrugged and looked out the window again, then said, “I’m not an easy guy to figure out.”

“I’m not interested enough to try. It’s just that last night you were all, stay the hell away, and this morning you were friendly, and now I’m sitting in a car with an ice cube. I don’t do moody.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” he responded.

“Are you always such a dickhead?”

His eyes widened, and he looked over at me. Then he smirked and laughed out loud. We were still sitting at a red light, so I glared at him.

“You’re actually really hot,” he said. The smirk on his face widened a little.

“You’re actually really an ass,” I replied.

He grinned and rolled his eyes, and if the light hadn’t turned green, I might have punched him. But instead, he said, “I’m sorry I was such a dick last night. Look … Sean’s had a tough time. My mom left almost five years ago. And he’s never gotten along well with the kids at school.”  

I don’t think he realized, but as he spoke, his hands tightened into fists. “They treat him like dirt. And I don’t want to bring someone around who he’ll get attached to, only to get hurt again when you stop coming around.”

“Why would he get attached to me? I was only there one night.”

“He’s already attached to you. Sean doesn’t ask people for things. Ever.”

I blinked my eyes, trying to shove back a wave of empathy for that kid. He was nice, just a little different. But I knew what people were like in high school. Nice didn’t cut it in high school. Teenagers could be vicious, and Sean was different. Very different. I could only imagine what he went through every day.

“He’s a good kid,” I said.

“You’ve only seen one side of him. You haven’t seen him having a meltdown, and freaking out and breaking things. You haven’t seen his heart broken. People think Aspie kids don’t want to have friends. It’s not that at all. He wants friends desperately, but everybody rejects him.”