Duet for Three Hands (26 page)

“Oh, right, of course.” She tried not to stutter as she accepted his invitation, feeling both dread and excitement. Wife. Well, of course, he had a wife. He wore a wedding ring. It wasn’t a surprise, but it deflated her, nonetheless. “And your wife? Is she happy here in Montevallo?”

His eyes turned hard as his voice deepened. “My wife’s a southerner, but she misses the city. She’s found small-town life to be somewhat stagnant, I’m afraid.” He glanced out the window. “Her health is fragile.”

“I’m sorry. May I ask what’s wrong?”

He pulled the same cigarette from his pocket that he’d abandoned earlier. “Frances suffers from what the doctor calls sad moods.” He lit his cigarette with a small silver lighter and took a deep drag.

Wanting to ask more but knowing it was not appropriate, she nodded in what she hoped was a polite way. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

He went to his desk and opened a notebook where he obviously kept his calendar. “What day next week would you like to come to the house, then?”

“Friday?”

“Good. I’ll see you tomorrow, here at the office.”

N
athaniel

A
week had passed
since Lydia Tyler had come to him. They’d worked together every day except Sunday. Nathaniel and Pastor Ferguson, during these same days, had established a pattern of walking in the early morning hours before he picked up Jeselle. During their walks, Nathaniel slowly told the pastor of his life, including his tribulations with Frances and the death of their child. To his surprise, he admitted to the reason for their marriage and then described the rapid decline of their relationship after John’s death and his subsequent career-ending injury. All of which the pastor met without judgment or criticism. This wasn’t the kind of pastor Nathaniel had ever met before.

Today they began at the parsonage and made their way out of town, to walk alongside the creek, warm despite the early hour. The sun slanted through the trees.

Ferguson pulled his hat farther down over his forehead. “You’re smiling to yourself this morning, like you’re thinking of something else.”

He smiled. “I have a new student. Lydia Tyler. She’s a middle-aged widow, but you’d never know it by the way she plays. She’s on my mind this morning.”

“You’re excited to teach her?”

“More than I can say. More than anything in a long while.”

Ferguson swatted at a fly hovering near his head. “Tell me, Nathaniel, what do you do for fun?”

“Fun?”

“Yes, y’know, something that amuses you.”

Nathaniel slowed his pace, thinking. “I don’t know.” They reached the grassy bank where they often stopped. “It was just music. All my life, music. And then, Frances and music. And then, nothing.” He motioned toward a wooden bench. “Let’s sit.”

Ducks waddled by on their way into the creek.

“Frances likes the moving pictures. She sees everything that comes to town.”

“But what about you?” asked Ferguson.

“I like books. Yes, that’s something. Novels mostly.” He leaned down and picked up a pebble, tossing it into the creek, near the gaggle of ducks. A female dove under the surface, thinking it was some kind of food, brown tail feathers wriggling above the water. “And I love fishing with Whitmore. Frances’s brother. After John died, Whitmore was a solace to me.”

“My littlest daughter died when she was only five years old. Did you know that?”

“Lulu told me. I’m sorry.”

Ferguson took off his hat and scratched the back of his head. “No worse pain than losing a child. You think you won’t ever breathe again, and then, you find you have. But the pain never goes away, despite being able to breathe.” He put his hat back on, adjusting it with both hands. “Do you see Whitmore often?”

“Not enough. He’s at Princeton. He’s a gifted artist and a wonderful boy. I’m hoping to make connections for him in New York when he’s ready.” He tossed another pebble into the water. “Truth is, I don’t find I look forward to much these days.”

“Well, perhaps this new student will help.”

“I think she will.” He felt a flash of happiness at the thought of teaching Lydia Tyler. “And you, Gillis. And our walks. I haven’t had a friend since Walt. I’ve missed it.”

Ferguson smiled and patted Nathaniel on the shoulder. “I couldn’t agree more. But we better go. Lulu hates it when I’m late for a meal.”

F
rom Jeselle Thorton’s journal
.

J
une 9
, 1934

M
y birthday is tomorrow
, the first I will have without Mama and Mrs. Bellmont and Whit there to usher me into a new year.

The memories come to me at night. Memories of home, of those I’ve loved, of moments that shaped me. I lay in the dark on this makeshift bed under the stars, the sound of the pines rustling, the small creatures scurrying behind boards, and the smell of decaying wood, and I remember. Is it that one can only understand something through memory? Is it only later that we can examine it and see how it changed us?

It is Mr. Nate practicing the Gershwin piece I remember tonight. The rest of the house rested that afternoon except for the two of us. As he played, I sat outside the music room, behind the open door, listening in my surreptitious seeking of beauty. I listened as a writer with my journal in my lap, wanting desperately to describe with words this divine sound.

The piece began with notes like repeated drops of tears into a tin pail from three different sets of eyes, a man’s and two women’s. Then the thud of a large tear, saved up behind that man’s eye for years until it pushed itself out, despite his efforts to keep it inside, accompanied by the higher pitched plink from the women, who let their tears flow without restraint.

I thought, all is possible when there’s beauty such as this.

Yes, it is this I remember under the starlit sky tonight. That music, played by a master.

We could not know then what would happen hours later. Would either of us have loved it more, knowing it was the last time?

Where did it go, this moment of beauty?

W
hitmore

W
hitmore’s classes
were over for the year, final exams completed, and bags packed. The summer loomed before him. Warm, he slid out of his sweater as he walked to the campus mailroom, trying without success to keep his mind from Jeselle.

The tenth of June. Jeselle’s birthday. For the first time in their lives he would not be with her to celebrate. He understood, finally, that he was not going to hear from Jeselle. Her silence was an answer to the question he posed in his last letter. “Do you still love me? Just tell me one way or the other, and if it’s no, I will give up and stop writing you.” That was more than two weeks ago, and still no answer. His mother had written about Jeselle’s acceptance to Oberlin College. Why hadn’t she written to tell him herself? He couldn’t fathom what her silence meant except that she no longer loved him. Had she met someone else? Or was it that college would create a whole new life for her? A life with no room for him?

His roommate, Reggie, had invited Whit to join the King family in Cape Cod for the summer, and Whit had resolved to accept. He’d lingered after classes were over, hoping for some word from home that Jeselle wanted him to come back to her, but finally he wrote to his mother of his intention to join the Kings. He hated to be away from the lake house for the summer and knew that his mother would be disappointed. But seeing Jeselle each day with this separation between them would be too difficult. Yes, he’d go to the beach with Reggie and paint, try to forget about the past. Which he knew was nearly impossible.

Now, he went into the post office. The kind postmistress sorted mail into boxes behind her counter. Whit made an effort to square his shoulders and keep the wobble from his voice. “Anything for Bellmont today?”

“Let me look. Yes, here’s one.”

“Thank you.” It was from his mother. Of course it was. How could he have thought differently? How long would it take before he gave up hope? A week, a year, or the rest of his life?

“Have a good day, Mr. Bellmont.”

“Yes, you as well.” Once outside, he sat on a bench near the large magnolia tree and opened the letter. His mother wrote of her work with the Salvation Army, that his father was rarely home, and that she missed him terribly but that, of course, he could go to Cape Cod for the summer. But the next paragraph stunned him.

Jeselle was at Nate and Frances’s.

He sat, dazed, holding the letter in his lap. Jeselle was with Nate and Frances. But why? The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood up. There was either something his mother didn’t understand or didn’t know. He was certain of this. He searched his mind, trying to come up with a reason, but nothing came to him. There was only one way to find out.

He sprinted back to his room, ignoring the stares of other students strolling along the green paths of campus. In his room, he gathered his belongings and stopped only long enough to cash his mother’s check at the bank before making his way to the train station, where he purchased a one-way ticket to Montevallo.

It was late afternoon by the time he boarded the train. He took a seat across from a tired looking woman and a boy with sunken cheeks. Both were clean, with neatly combed hair, but the woman’s dress, so thin he could almost see through it, and holes in the boy’s shoes told their story. Still, the woman had perfect posture—the same proud carriage his mother had taught Frances when they were young. “Where you headed?” he asked.

“Birmingham. My husband’s been down there, trying to find work.” She looked at her hands before clasping them on her lap. “We’ve been staying at my sister’s.” The boy stared listlessly out the window as the conductor came through to take their tickets. This surprised Whit. When he was a child he’d been fascinated by the conductor. This child was hungry, he thought.

Remembering the sandwiches he’d purchased from the cafeteria, Whit pulled them from his bag and offered one to them. The woman began to protest, but the boy grabbed a sandwich before she could stop him. “Please, Miss, take one. They’ll spoil before long.”

She reached out with a bony arm and took one, smiling shyly. “You aren’t hungry?” she asked.

“I’ve got plenty.”

“Thank you kindly.” She watched him with veiled eyes for a brief moment before taking a bite of the sandwich. She reached for her son’s hand and held it in her own while they finished their sandwiches. It must hurt to have a hungry child.

The car bumped along the track in a rhythm, and after a time the boy and his mother drifted to sleep. The sky turned dark, and a quarter moon appeared, hovering above his window, following them, as the train traveled farther and farther south. Whit longed to be lulled to sleep, wished to escape from his restless and disjointed thoughts. But slumber eluded him. He slumped against the window, staring unseeing into the night sky, his sketchbook open to a new page. If only his mind were as blank as the sheet of clean paper, he thought, before pulling a pencil from his bag and beginning a sketch of the sleeping mother and son.