Diva (12 page)

On the other hand, the chicken does smell good. "Well, maybe I'll just have a little bit then. I'll get a

plate."

"I'll help you. Mom follows me. She closes the kitchen door and says, through clenched teeth, "What are you doing here?"

"Having dinner."

"But this was supposed to be our special time together, me and Arnold. If you crash our date, he'll think

he's never going to be alone with me if we're together. Like I'm—"

"A mother?"

"Very funny. Do you know how hard it is to date when you have kids? Any time a man's interested, he gets

a whole family."

I take out my silverware and drop it on the plate. "Well, obviously Arnold doesn't mind a family. He

already has one of his own." I head for the dining room.

"Caitlin, so glad you decided to join us." Arnold spoons some chicken onto my plate.

"Well, it did smell good. Mom's an incredible cook."

"So tell me about your day, honey," Mom says, looking past me to Arnold.

But Arnold's still looking at me. "Did I hear
La Traviata
just now? I've always been a big opera fan."

"Really?" Surprise on surprise. My mother—who doesn't go to anything artsier than an Adam Sandier

movie—is dating an opera fan.

"Oh, yes, we have season tickets."

We
being him and his wife. I smirk at Mom.

She leans closer to Arnold. "More asparagus?"

"What? Oh, no, I'm fine. Everything's delicious." To prove it, he takes an enormous mouthful and turns to me, chewing. "That's from the final act, right?"

"Yes. It's my favorite opera." I'm loving that Mom's completely left out.

"Mine too. Have you seen it live?"

"Yes, my voice teacher took me. It was the first opera I ever saw.

"My first too. What a coincidence. Of course, that was when dinosaurs ruled the earth, but you never

forget your first opera, do you?

Mom's looking from her plate of chicken to Arnold and back, obviously trying to think of something to

add. She knows I'll call her on it, if she says she goes to the opera, but there's nothing else to talk about.

I'm screwing up my courage to pull a Gigi—to ask him if his
wife
loves opera too—when Mom says, "We should go sometime.

This should be beautiful. Mom's never been to the opera, so she doesn't know what it's like—all these

rich people like Dr. and Mrs. Toe-Jam, seeing and being seen in jewels and tuxedos. A man could never

go with his girlfriend. All his wife's friends would see him. I wait for Arnold to tell Mom it's impossible.

Mom's saying, "Caitlin always goes with her friends, but I love the music."

Right. I look at Arnold.
Okay, tell her. Tell her you can't take her
.

"What a great idea," he says. "I'd love to take you, Valerie. Nothing better than great music with a beautiful woman on my arm."

Mom beams at him. "You're so sweet." I stare.
Sweet. Right
.

"The season doesn't start until December," Arnold says, "but we'll definitely go."

Mom's smile widens when he says December, and I know what she's thinking—he's saying they'll still be

together in December, that he'll blow his wife off. But me, I know he's lying to her. And, mad as I am at

her for being a home-wrecker, I'm madder at Arnold because she's
not
wrecking his home. His home's

fine. He's using my mother. And suddenly, even though Arnold looks completely stupid in sandals and

socks, I realize he's not stupid at all. He's using her.

Oh that would be wonderful," she's saying. "I'll buy a new dress."

And we can have a fancy dinner before." I look at the chicken on my plate and wonder how Arnold would

look with sauce covering his bald head.

"Which opera is it?" Mom asks. "Hope it's a love story."

I push my plate away. "I'll let you two spend some time together."

"Oh, that's sweet of you, Caitlin," Mom coos. "Don't forget to clear your plate."

I take the plate into the kitchen and eat everything on it. Then I go to the back cupboard, where we keep

the semisweet baking chocolate. I take it to my room and open it. It's white on the sides, and crumbles like

a dog treat. I eat it anyway. I don't start the music. I don't want to sing anything he might hear.

It's like an opera, really. The other woman, the woman scorned. Except where Mom sees herself as

Violetta, strong and in control of her men and her destiny, I see her as the doomed heroine of
Madame

Butterfly
—the beautiful geisha who thinks she's married a handsome American soldier for real, when

really she's just a plaything while he happens to be in Japan, until he can go home and get a real American

wife, and she's left there, singing "
Un bel di
," one fine day, he'll come back.

I finish the chocolate and go to bed.

In the morning, I find an e-mail from an address I don't know.

I open it.

Subj:Duets

Date: 9/24, 2:35 a.m., Eastern Standard Time

To: [email protected]

From:[email protected]

found these online

Sean

ps sorry i was a jerk

There's an attachment. I open it and find a list of eight soprano/tenor arias—two from Rowena's list, plus

six others—and a link to an online classical music site.

I print out the list, but not the e-mail. Guys apologizing for being jerks is no new thing for me. Outside my

door, I hear Mom singing around the house. Mom has a decent voice, but never sings unless she's really

happy. Happy because of Arnold. I
so
can't deal with that now. I shower quickly and go out, taking my

bicycle even though I know Mom will freak. I'll put my makeup on on the train, and Gigi will have to

understand why I missed her. Maybe I can catch Sean at school.

Opera_Grrrl's Online Journal

Subject: I Didn't Catch Sean at School

Date: September 26

Time: 6:45 p.m.

Listening to: "Con onor muore" ("Death w/Honor") from Madame Butterfly—the aria she sings as she commits suicide b/c she realizes the man she loves is just using her

Feeling: Sleepy

Weight: 118 lbs.

I didn't catch Sean at school Thursday or Friday.

What I learned is:

1. Sean doesn't come to school early.

2. Sean doesn't stay late.

3. Sean doesn't sleep.

We finally chose our duet, "Parigi o cara" from La Traviata (a duet that always makes me cry b/c the

lovers are singing about how they'll go 2 Paris together & then—WHAMMO! She's dead. It also sort of

makes me cry 2 think that Dr. Toe-Jam & I have the same favorite opera) entirely thru e-mails, which

Sean sends after 2 a.m. and I answer when I wake up at 5.

I also tried to tell Mom my whole theory about Dr. T-J & the opera and how he's lying to her if he says

he's going to take her someplace so public. But she just gave me one of her you're-just-sooo-jealous-b/c-

you-wish-you-were-cool-like-me looks and said, "Caitlin, you don't get it. December's a long time off.

He's planning on *leaving* his wife by then. We'll be together."

When I asked why he didn't just leave his wife now, she explained (slowly) that these things take time and

we (we!) just had to be patient.

God! I'd puke but I'm trying not to eat.

I'm standing in the back of the Church by the Bay on Key Biscayne, where Sean works. After two weeks

of rehearsing the group numbers and playing phone tag with Sean, I finally passed him a note Friday.

I know it's a longshot, but do we ever get to sing in the same room?

That's when he said maybe we could get together after his last church service. The choir's singing some

tuneless hymn. I can hear Sean's voice over all the others. The minister says a final prayer, then invites

everyone into the social hall for coffee and cake, sponsored by Mary Somebody in honor of Grandma

Somebody's ninety-fifth birthday.

Mom and I used to go to church. She started, I
think
, as a way of making connections for real estate or meeting guys, neither of which worked. But it did get my mind off the fact that I wasn't visiting my father

weekends, like every other divorced kid on the planet. Not that that bothered me or anything.

I see Sean gesturing from the choir area. Most people left for their refreshments and cake, but Sean and

one other guy stay back.

Sean introduces us. "Rudy, this is the girl I was telling you about—the singer."

I start a little. Sean told someone about me? I didn't think I was the slightest blip on his radar screen.

"Caitlin, this is Rudy Escobar. Rudy's the baritone section leader here."

"What's a section leader?" I say.

"Basically," Rudy says, "someone with a decent voice who sings loud enough to drown out all the old men in the choir."

"Rudy, that's not nice." But Sean's laughing.

"Sometimes the truth isn't pretty." Rudy touches my shoulder. "Oh, honey, before they hired Sean and me, the tenor and bass sections were to die
from
." He looks around to see if anyone's listening, even though he's talking at the top of his voice, which is loud. Real loud. "Half the men were mumbling into their

music. The rest were singing "Shall "We Gather at the River" like it was
The Flying Dutchman
."

Sean cracks up. The whole time Rudy's talking, I can't stop staring at him. He's a total bronze statue—tall,

built, with brown skin and one of those short beards like professional opera singers wear. I don't usually

go for the Latin lover type
or
guys with facial hair, but this guy's… um, everyone's type.

"Hello?" He passes a hand in front of my eyes. "Are you okay?"

Oh.
Excuse me while I die
.

I recover. "You know Wagner's operas?" I ask, remembering
The Flying Dutchman
. A brilliant save.

"Who doesn't?" He grins. "Baby, opera is my life. I was named Rudy—not after some
abuelo
but after Rodolfo in
Boheme
. My mama sung me to sleep with Mozart, and now—here I am—God's gift to the

operatic stage."

"Which basically means he's a sophomore music student at U of M," Sean says.

"Only for now, Sean. In a few years, it'll be…" He gestures with his hands like there's a huge billboard behind us. "Rodolfo Escobar—live at the Met!"

I laugh. In my whole life I've never met a guy my age who knew anything about opera. Now, I'm in a room

with two of them.

"Rudy said he'd play the piano for us," Sean asks.

We start warming up, with Rudy playing exercises on the piano. He starts low and runs me higher and

higher. When I reach a high D (the last
good
note I possess), he says, "Can you do one more?"

"Only if you like screaming," I squeak.

"I bet you can. Want to try?"

I take a deep breath, think,
up
like Rowena said, and go for E-flat.

Rudy stops playing. "Beautiful!"

"Didn't I tell you?" Sean says. "She's really something."

Rudy nods. "You're right. She's like "La Stupenda"—the great Sutherland."

Joan Sutherland was an opera singer before I was born. I can't believe he knows about her.

"Only with better teeth," Sean adds.

"Better everything," Rudy says. "Like Joan Sutherland if she was a hottie. You know you're a hottie, right?"

I actually giggle and forget that the scale said one hundred and sixteen this morning.

"Rudy, we're in a house of worship," Sean says.

Rudy claps his hand over his mouth. "Oops! Sister Mary Michael would so wash my mouth out with

soap." He crosses himself.

I giggle again. I have this great thought. "Is everyone in college like you?"

"Like me, how?" Rudy exchanges a look with Sean. "Gifted and incredibly modest about it?"

"Like, do they know about opera and stuff?"

"Well, not the frat boys with the beer bongs, or the football team," Rudy says. "But the opera students are mostly like me. Only I'm the best, of course."

"Of course," Sean echoes.

"Wow," I say. "People I know don't know anything about art or music, and they think I'm weird because I do."

"You'll love college, girl," Rudy agrees. "I was so over high school. Even the so-called artsy people weren't into what I was. I'm trying to introduce Sean around, see about getting him some scholarship

money for next year."

"I'll need it," Sean says.

Which gets me thinking. Worrying, actually. I've always figured I'd go to a college with a good music

program like Indiana University or Oberlin (no way would Mom let me go someplace in New York City,

but Indiana sounds so… wholesome). But I wonder if I'll need a scholarship too. We sure don't have extra

money lying around. Mom's always said she'd make sure Dad pays, but I don't think he's actually required

to pay for anything after I'm eighteen. So why would he? Because he
loves me
so much? Not likely. I push the thought back again.

Sean picks up our sheet music. "Shall we start?"

I'm grateful to be able to concentrate on singing. We sing really well together, and Rudy shouts,

"
Brava
!"when we finish.

"Hey, don't you mean
bravi
?" Sean says. "For both of us?"

"Nope. I was just applauding her. Your head is swelled enough."

"Whatever." Sean looks at his watch. "Oh, gotta go. Family command performance."

"What else is new?" Rudy says. "Cut the cord."

"You're so sensitive," Sean says. We walk to the parking lot. I glance at my watch. We've been here over and hour, but it seems like ten minutes. I go for my bike.

"Need a ride?" Rudy asks.

I start to say I could use the exercise. Then I stop myself. Why
not
go with him? The guy's completely