Kimberly Stuart (19 page)

Performance Art

“Are you sure?” Jayne's eyes betrayed hurt.

“Yes,” I said, hugging her. “These last weeks of the semester will be crazy and I should be closer to campus. I can't imagine the folks at the Maplewood Inn could be as wonderful as you all, but I'm sure they'll take great care of me.”

“All right,” she said reluctantly.

The Saturday morning had arrived in a burst of celebratory sunshine after a week's worth of rain. Cottony clouds paraded through a cheery blue sky. We stood in front of the Hartleys' porch, which was freshly swept and looking forward to ample traffic in the coming warmer months. Jayne squinted into the sun, which was already arching away from the horizon behind me.

I leaned over to kiss Emmy, who jostled on Jayne's hip. “Tell your sleepyhead brothers I said good-bye but that I'll still see everybody at church.”

Emmy squirmed to be put down onto the dew-kissed grass.

I pulled the handle out of my Louis Vuitton carry-on. Cal hefted both of my suitcases and I trolled behind him to the truck. In the days following our talk in the barn, Mac and I had made a valiant effort in our commutes back and forth from town. His calm assurance that we were merely in a holding pattern had first annoyed and then worried me. I decided the best option was one of avoidance. Mac clearly wasn't catching my drift and I wasn't about to go through the whole thing again. I'd called the Maplewood Inn the previous night and rebooked my reservation through the Monday after graduation.

“Change is good,” I said, smiling shakily at Cal when I realized I'd spoken my thoughts out loud.
Besides,
I thought,
there's nothing worse than leading a man on when there's no hope for a future together.
I slammed the passenger door shut for emphasis.

One week into my stay at the Maplewood Inn, I had the knots in my neck and back to prove it. Without Dr. Glenn, the most sought-after chiropractor on the Upper East Side, I was at a loss of how to get my spine adjusted back to a straight line instead of the mess I'd created for it by sleeping on a glorified cot. My room at the Inn, though impeccably clean, offered none of the comforts of home. The bedspread was a flimsy nylon number splattered with a floral pattern that made my head hurt. It was fortuitous that I'd come prepared with my own shampoo, conditioner, and other necessities, as the Maplewood Inn had not been informed of the national trend toward complimentary toiletries in hotels. I felt lucky to have a clean towel every day. Each morning as I got ready in the fluorescent-lit bathroom, I'd garner all my exasperation at the pathetic accommodations, readying myself to approach the front desk with my complaints. I
wanted
to lay into the owners, Mr. and Mrs. Shipley. But all my resolve would vanish when Mr. Shipley would stand from his chair behind the desk and call out a chipper, “Very good morning to you, Ms. Maddox. And how'd you sleep?”

Mrs. Shipley would scurry from the small sitting area where she provided a “continental breakfast,” consisting of Wonder Bread, watery Folgers, and a basket of waxy apples. “Morning, Ms. Maddox,” she'd say, cheeks pink and eyes twinkling even at that fragile hour. She'd shuffle over to me and hand me a cup of that dreadful coffee, poured especially for me into a Styrofoam cup. “Just a little something to start the day out right,” she said, without fail, each time acting like spontaneity and wit had just taken hold of her—she couldn't help herself.

“Thank you, Mrs. Shipley,” I would say, swallowing the bile of my woes and resigning myself to yet another night's sleep under nylon flowers.

I
had
to get back to New York. My spine, figurative and literal, was deteriorating under the pressure of all that midwestern
nice
. The inability to be my own advocate didn't stop with the spartan accommodations. That Sunday, two weeks to the end of the school year, I'd acquiesced to Norma's unrelenting requests for “special” music. We'd met at the church after Wednesday evening's choir rehearsal. I'd insisted that I pick the piece, much to her chagrin, as she'd had in mind something by a group called the Sweet Jesus Five that involved not one, not two, but three glissandos up and down the length of the keyboard. She wanted to be Yanni, for Pete's sake. I stood firm through her requests and her pouty lower lip and provided the piano accompaniment to a simple but lovely arrangement of “Amazing Grace.” During our rehearsal that evening, it took a great force of will to ignore Norma's wild gesticulating at the piano. The woman must have had some close calls with neck injuries. But by that time in my week, my semester, my life, I was out of energy to discuss the finer points of musical performance.

I wasn't looking forward to church at all, much less my musical debut at Calvary Baptist. Jayne had dropped by the hotel earlier in the week with a basket of rhubarb muffins. The gesture was so thoughtful and so much better than Wonder Bread, I'd thought I would burst into tears. Instead, I'd overcompensated in trying to remain detached, which resulted in a cold reception. I hadn't wanted to, but I knew I'd hurt Jayne's feelings. She'd left quickly and I hadn't heard from her since.

Mac had left a slew of funny and endearing messages on my phone, all of which I'd saved but none to which I'd responded. His final voice mail was notably sharper in tone. I suspected his God theory was beginning to show holes and he was finally getting the idea that I was moving on, moving up, moving out. The whole Hartley clan was sure to be at church on Sunday and my goal was to avoid eye contact with every one of them as I sang four verses of the hymn.

My one consolation that morning was my new Chinese brocade silk jacket. The fit and fabric assured me I could justify every dollar I'd paid at that chichi spot in Midtown during spring break. My hair shone in the spring light as I stepped out of my luxurious hired transportation. Unbeknownst to many, Maplewood did, indeed, have one lone taxicab. Driven by a slovenly but blissfully quiet man named Tom, the cab looked a lot like my mother's old station wagon from the early seventies. Mustard yellow with wood paneling, I'd cringed the first time Mr. Shipley had waved the wagon toward the front entrance of the hotel. Though Tom himself could have used a few pointers on personal maintenance, the car shone inside and out with clean windows, seats, and floor mats. Equally redemptive was Tom's tomblike silence, other than an embarrassed announcement of the fare at the end of each ride. Our soundtrack was the hum of the road beneath us and the public radio station, tuned to a soft drone of Mahler, Beethoven, and Grieg. Sure beat Mac's “My Girl's Got Childbearing Hips” on the country dial.

“Ooooo, what a snappy jacket!” Even from across the sanctuary, I could see Norma's nose pinch in a scrunch of delight. “It's so
exotic
.”

“Thank you,” I said, though not entirely sure of the compliment. “You look snappy too.” I took in Norma's outfit: lime green blouse that ballooned in decorative poofs down her arms, tropical print capri pants in a sturdy polyester, and flip flops crowned with large pink rosettes near painted toenails. Snappy.

We ran through the piece twice before Norma flew to the small portable organ to begin a rousing Bill Gaither medley for prelude. I sat in the front pew and studied my bulletin as parishioners trickled in from the lobby. A few minutes before the service was to start, Drew and Joel Hartley came rushing up and nearly toppled me in a joint hug. Jayne hurried behind.

“Miss Sadie, we miss you,” Drew said, not unlike a line in a school play. “Joel,” he whispered loudly and gave his brother a generous nudge.

Joel looked at Drew a moment and quickly produced from behind his back a mangled bouquet of peonies. He smiled at me and thrust them forward.

I took them from his sweaty hand. “Thank you, boys. Your mom is raising two little gentlemen.” By the time I finished my sentence, they'd run off to join their dad in the Hartley pew.

“Sorry about the attack,” Jayne said. She leaned down and hugged me close. I could smell her raspberry shampoo and the fresh scent of dryer sheets. “We
do
miss you, you know.” She smiled and her eyes said nothing of hurt feelings, just the truth of her sentiment.

“I miss you too. God bless the Shipleys, but I'm losing weight by the day. One can only stomach the soup and salad bar at Old Country Buffet so many times.”

She giggled. “True, but you're smart to stick to the soup and salad. I worked there during high school and haven't been back since.”

I sighed. “I should just walk up to the square to eat at Marv's.”

“No,” she said gently, “you should just make up with Mac and move back to our place.” She watched my face. “Pancakes every morning,” she said hopefully.

I patted her knee. “So you've talked with Mac.”

She nodded.

“Mac, as you know, is a wonderful man,” I said. “But he and I live in different worlds. It can't work.” I sat up straighter, willing myself not to search the congregation for his face. “I'm sure you understand.”

“I'm sure I don't,” Jayne said, her tone wry but playful. “But you're grown-ups and I can't give you two a time-out, so I'll have to settle for a bouquet of peonies.” She gave me a quick hug as Norma tumbled toward a dramatic close to her medley. Jayne hustled down the aisle and toward her family and I settled in to wait for my cue, the offertory prayer.

While the pastor blessed the offering, I tiptoed up carpeted steps to the small stage. Norma flashed a thumbs-up from her seat at the piano. I stood in the curve of the Baldwin and looked out on the congregation. Mac caught my eye above all the bowed heads. His face had the glow of an early tan, which stood out nicely against a pressed white button-down. He winked at me, a shy smile forming on his lips. I shook my head slightly and his grin widened. I bowed my head and waited for the end of the prayer.

It wasn't until the middle of the second verse that my eye accidentally swept toward the Hartley pew again. Jayne was holding Joel, her cheek on his. Cal sat forward in the pew, his face inscrutable but probably hiding thoughts of hog prices. Mac sat motionless, with an expression of surprise on his face. I realized this was the first time he was hearing me sing.
Just goes to show,
I thought.
The man has never even heard my voice, much less a set of Strauss songs or an entire opera.
Of course, I hadn't exactly volunteered to accompany him to a cow surgery, or whatever it was that he did. In either case, we were two ships, wrapping up our pass in the night and ready to return to our lives as they were meant to be.

My gaze left Mac and traveled onward through “many dangers, toils, and snares,” and right into ten thousand years of singing. Spontaneous applause erupted when I'd finished. I thought Norma was going to kick off her rosettes and do a holy shimmy, she looked so pleased. I smiled at the pastor as I passed and he wiped at the corners of his eyes.

“Thank you, Sadie,” he said into the microphone over the podium. “I can't imagine a more beautiful sound than that of God's children singing together for eternity, amen?” Amens resounded and I smiled from my seat in the front. “As long as we all can sound less like me and more like Sadie Maddox,” he added, chuckling along with his congregants. It was true. The man's voice cracked liked a sixth grader's. To prove his point, he led us in congregational singing of the first verse of “Amazing Grace” and I think we all agreed second time was not a charm.

After the service, I stood near the front of the church and accepted the kind compliments of many Calvary Baptist attendees. At the end of the line stood Mac, which caused me to draw out a conversation with Norma far beyond what was reasonable. She was neck-deep in a story about her nephew who was studying the harp at the University of Iowa but was hoping to transfer to Juilliard and did I have any contacts, when she noticed my eyes flicker to Mac behind her.

She turned and gasped. “Mac Hartley, why on earth didn't you tell us you were standing there?” She took a deep breath, wallowing in his tan and other fine attributes. She lowered her voice to what I think was an attempt at Saucy Norma. “We girls will talk the day away without a man to distract us.”

Nose scrunch for Norma.

Vomit danger for me.

“Might I have a word?” Mac asked Norma, nodding toward me.

“Of course,” Norma said. She looked slighted but bounced back quickly. “I'll be in my office if you need me.” She smiled up at Mac. “Either of you.” She and the tropical booty swished away.

“Sadie,” Mac said, stepping closer to me and then back again. “I,
um
.” He sighed. “Geez. This is ridiculous. Listen, I just want to tell you that I've never, ever heard someone sing like that.” He gestured toward where I'd stood by the piano. “It was … ethereal.”

I raised my eyebrows. “Big word for an animal vet.”