Читать книгу Song of Silence - Cynthia Ruchti - Страница 7

Chapter 1

1

Lucy removed her glasses and watched Ellie’s thin, thirteen-year-old fingers splay against the girl’s too-flat stomach.

“Try it,” Lucy said.

“I don’t have much breath.”

“I know.” The confession drilled so much deeper than it would have coming from any of Lucy’s other students. “Please try.”

She watched as Ellie struggled to fill her scarred lungs from the bottom without moving her upper chest or shoulders. The girl’s hand moved an inch.

“Now, inhale and exhale without letting your hand move at all.”

“I can’t.”

Lucy tilted her head, eyebrows raised, wordlessly urging a response from Ellie.

Ellie smiled. “Time to be brave? Braver than I feel?”

“Right.” Lucy traced the girl’s line of sight to one of the dozens of motivational posters on the wall. Be Brave. Braver than you feel. Next to it, Right or wrong, blow it strong. Beside that one, Practice doesn’t make perfect. It makes possible. Lucy’s favorite, Just so you know, dogs don’t eat music homework.

“Deep breath from the bottom of your lungs. Push your abdomen out to allow air in. Hold it. Now two small breaths in and out without moving your hand. There! You did it!”

Ellie pressed her lips together but couldn’t stop the smile that overrode her efforts. “I didn’t think I could.”

“Now, let’s try that technique for these four measures.” Lucy pointed to the sheet on the music stand. “Keep that expansion in your tummy, even though you’ll have to breathe. See if it doesn’t help you maintain that beautiful tone you’ve been working on.”

The girl raised the silver flute to her pursed lips, a mix of eagerness and skepticism on her face. She exaggerated the movement of her abdomen, her striped shirt proving her obedience, and played the specified measures. Ellie’s eyes flashed her reaction before she lowered her flute. “That,” she said, “was awesome!”

Tears tickled Lucy’s sinuses. “Yes, it was.”

“Does that work with singing, too? Could I join choir next year? Is there room for me?”

Laughter poured out of Lucy’s mouth, but it originated in her heart. “Four brilliant measures and you’re ready to tackle singing, too?” As quickly as the laughter erupted, it died. Her choir? Next year?

“My doctor says he owes you.” Ellie’s flute lay in her lap, the thin fingers cradling it. She stifled most of a cough. “He says he never would have thought of music as cystic fibrosis therapy.”

I never thought my first chair flutist would muscle through CF to keep playing. “I’m glad it’s helping.”

“GDBD,” she said, running her fingers over the instrument.

“Good days, bad days?”

Ellie looked up. “Do you text?” Incredulity.

Lucy took no offense. Even at a few months shy of fifty-six, she must have seemed ancient to a thirteen-year-old. Despite her sassy haircut. And artsy earrings, thanks to Ania’s jewelry-making skills. “Is today a good day, Ellie?”

The girl lifted her flute then pointed to the line of notes on the page, as a pool player might point to the pocket where she intended the eight ball to land. “Mrs. Tuttle, any day I’m breathing is considered a good day.” She inhaled without moving her shoulders and played the measures as if running a victory lap. Which she would likely never do. Run.

Lucy was three hours away from another school board budget-cut meeting. Could she keep breathing? The discussion had crept too close to destroying scenes like this one with Ellie. Only Lucy’s dogged sense of propriety had kept her from storming the school board’s line of tables and chairs last time. If it crept much closer . . .

Lucy turned her attention back to her admiration for a thirteen-year-old’s breathless ability to muscle through.

***

When Ellie’s smile left the room, Lucy retreated to her cramped office at the end of the line of three small practice rooms. She stared at the screen of her laptop, open to her calendar. The school day was over, but her list of duties hadn’t shrunk. Spring concert next week. She needed to sneak in another announcement for the Woodbridge radio station and create another mass text message for the parents and grandparents who paid more attention to texts than they did the school’s weekly newsletter.

Charlie said he’d eat at Bernie’s tonight. She could work straight through until the budget-cut meeting if she wanted. He’d meet her there. Why couldn’t he be the one to speak up in a public forum? Why did he slip into it’ll-all-work-out mode when her life stood in the crosshairs? So much for knight on a white horse. But he would be there. She didn’t have to wonder if he’d show up.

She needed a new office chair. One that didn’t groan when she moved. Or was that sound coming from her soul?

Two hours later she pushed away from her desk and closed the lid of her laptop. She shouldn’t head into the meeting with an empty stomach. But it might be emptied by the outcome of the gathering, barring divine intervention. So she had no clear choice.

Divine intervention. Nothing short would move a woman like Evelyn Schindler, who approached budget cuts with the ruthlessness of a self-guided chain saw.

***

“It’s difficult to take your perspective seriously,” Evelyn “Chain Saw” Schindler said, leaning too far into her microphone. She jerked back, as if she’d chipped a tooth in her enthusiasm to make her point. Straightening her posture to a stiffness well past at ease, she added, “You’re the music instructor, Mrs. Tuttle. Is there any doubt where you’d stand on the issue? Those overly passionate add a skewed perspective to the subject at hand. I think we can all agree on that.”

The woman nodded to the board members on her left and right, some of whom nodded back. Others dropped their gaze. And their opportunity to disagree. Lucy’s friends, some of them. People she’d known since her father held the position she clung to now with a free-climber’s fingertips-only grip.

Nothing but air at her back. Hundreds of feet above the sun-baked canyon floor. Toes pretending the quarter-inch crack in the rock is enough. Fingertips stretching skyward, muscles straining to hold out for a dependable ledge.

“Mrs. Tuttle.” The board president’s voice sounded like one reserved for the detention room.

“What?”

“You can lower your hand. We’ve heard your opinion. There are others waiting to have their say.”

Lower her—? That’s what she needed. Another reason to be embarrassed. She slipped her hand down and bent to retrieve her bottled water from the floor. It bought her enough time to refocus.

Charlie patted her knee. Could have been his “Steady, girl,” or “There, there now,” or “Way to go, honey.” Probably one of the first two options.

The next speaker’s rabbit trail wandered so far afield, Lucy feared his point had already crossed into the next county without him. Hope followed—a string of community members, many of them parents of her students—voicing logical, well-expressed reasons to look someplace other than art and music for the necessary cuts.

For a small town like Willowcrest to maintain a private school without federal funding for more than four decades, they’d danced to the edge of tough decisions more than once. The seriously sports-minded usually transferred to a Woodbridge school. But thanks in large part to Lucy’s father’s influence, the music program kept students in Willowcrest.

That point worked its way into the next speaker’s impassioned plea. Ellie’s mom. And the next. A parent from a student long graduated.

Lucy watched as the panel of school board members scribbled notes—or graffiti—onto memo pads. Evelyn Schindler’s shoulders sagged. Could the tide be turning?

The next community member given the floor presented an anti-music-education argument so flawed, it drew snickers from the crowd. He grabbed his frayed baseball cap from his folding chair, pointed toward the board and said, “You know we got no choice.” His exit brought Lucy relief she assumed was shared by others, judging from the expressions on the faces of more than half of the attendees.

Who was that leaning against the wall near the exit? A reporter? Mid-twenties, she guessed. Not someone she’d seen around the community, that she could remember. From where Lucy sat, she could pay attention to the proceedings and keep an eye on the intense young man, too, if she turned a few degrees in her chair. Charlie took that gesture as a reason to put his arm around his wife.

“When did Olivia get here?” she whispered into the better of Charlie’s ears.

“She’s here?” He swiveled his head toward the standing room only spot not far from the reporter. He waved like a second grader might wave to his parents in the audience.

“Charlie!”

“What?”

Evelyn Schindler made her microphone squeal. “If we could have everyone’s attention? Time limits being as they are, we’re going to need to wrap this up for tonight. The board will agree with me, I’m sure—”

Don’t they always?

“—that we’ve been given more than enough food for thought in this matter. As always, we remain open to your comments via e-mail or personal contact. Let’s call it a night, shall we, folks?”

Well. No pronouncement of doom. Had Lucy’s music program dodged another wrecking ball for the moment? She glanced back toward Olivia, who stood talking with the reporter guy. What did her daughter have to say to him? What was he asking? Lip-reading would come in handy at a time like this.

Part of Lucy’s brain allowed her to converse with community members voicing their ongoing support while she watched Olivia and the note taker leave. Together.

***

Lucy texted Olivia on the short drive home. “Cute guy. Someone special?”

Olivia texted back, “Could be. We’ll see.”

“You coming over?”

“Heading back to Woodbridge now. See you soon. Praying for you, Mom.”

“Thanks.”

Lucy had to admit texting came in handy once in a while. It kept her better connected with her kids.

“Nice of Olivia to show up,” Charlie said, adjusting his rear view mirror.

“I haven’t talked to her for a couple of days. Thought maybe she’d spend the night.”

“She isn’t?”

Lucy unlooped the lightweight infinity scarf around her neck and tucked it into her purse. “Heading back.”

“I should have asked her to go out for frozen custard with us.”

“Them.”

“What?”

“Should have asked them. She was with someone.”

Charlie’s eyebrows registered his surprise.

“You’re not suggesting you want to stop for custard, are you?”

“You don’t want to?” His voice wavered as if she’d told him he couldn’t have a puppy.

“Could we just go home?”

“These meetings take a lot out of you, don’t they, LucyMyLight?”

If you’d ever had a passion, Charlie, a job you were invested in, a career or interest that meant as much to you as mine does to me, you’d get it. You’d understand why nights like this are reason enough for a heart attack. “I’m tired. And I still have work to do on next week’s concert schedule.”

“Can we go through the drive-thru? I had my heart set on—”

“Sure.” One day, she’d stop saying sure when she meant no.

***

It was probably too much to expect the school board members to attend the students’ spring concert. Boycotted it, apparently. Lucy didn’t mind that Evelyn Schindler stayed away last night. She rarely showed. But some of the missing board members were parents or grandparents of students in Lucy’s band and chorus. Last concert of the year. They couldn’t all be under the weather.

Community support made up for their absence. Who does a standing ovation for a K-8 concert? Too bad the members of the school board hadn’t seen it.

It wouldn’t be wrong if Lucy sent a copy of the video to each of their in-boxes, would it? It would be informational, inclusive, and thoughtful of her.

With the new school day an hour away from starting, she let herself into the still quiet music room, settled into her office, opened her laptop and calendar, and made a note to send the file when the tech team had it ready. The afterglow of the concert lingered. She’d heard every note in her mind through the night, seen the faces of the young people lit from within as the music took hold in their souls. And that—budget-fussy people—is why you can never cut this program.

Her computer dinged. E-mail. From Ania.

Before she opened it, she keyed in another note to herself to have the music students write a group thank-you to the art students whose work lined the lobby for last night’s concert. Ania might be young, but she’d made great strides with her students her first year of teaching.

Lucy clicked the e-mail.

“Did you open your mail yet?”

The letters and catalogs sat on the edge of her desk. With so much accomplished electronically, her stack of mail rarely amounted to much anymore. She thumbed through it. One envelope wasn’t postmarked. Hand-addressed. A thank-you from one of the faculty members?

It had been sealed in one spot only—at the point of the V of the back flap. Who hadn’t wanted to waste saliva?

Lucy read the first five words before the sound of a distant chain saw stopped her.

***

The two-mile drive from the Willowcrest School to her house on Cottonwood had never felt like a commute until today. Innocent clouds seemed sinister. Her body registered every groove or divot in the pavement despite the layers of automotive steel, plastic, and upholstery separating her from them. She was fourth to arrive at all three of the four-way stops. Hollowness expanded like out-of-control yeast dough the farther she drew from the school.

May usually represents hope reborn in the Upper Midwest. Winter laid to rest. Spring-almost-summer putting down taproots. Vivid colors. Lilied and peonied air. Leaves so fresh, they look damp. A vibration of exuberant life that thrums like a baby robin’s heartbeat.

Despite the only partly cloudy sky, Lucy saw dull colors, faded, fogged over. She heard only muted tones. The smell of her car’s citrus air freshener choked her. While stopped at another stop sign, she ripped the freshener from its resting place and jammed it into the litterbag.

Was it just her, or did the street sign on Cottonwood look tilted? Not much. Just enough to notice. And the mailbox leaned the opposite way. Dr. Seussian.

She turned off the engine and stared at the front door of her house. What made her think she could pull off a turquoise door on a moss green house? Ania’s idea. Ania didn’t know everything. But who was Lucy to talk?

In a motion so automatic she didn’t have to think about it—which was good on a day like today—Lucy pocketed her keys, slid her purse and tote bag from the passenger seat, and exited the car in one nearly smooth motion. The glaringly bright turquoise door swung open as she reached for the knob.

“I found my passion!” Charlie’s graying eyebrows danced. Nothing else moved. A statue of a man with jive eyebrows.

“Happy for you. Is it okay if I get all the way into the house before you tell me the rest of your story?” Lucy nudged her husband with her shoulder as she scooted past his Ed Asner form. How much could a doorframe swell in mid-May’s premature humidity? Were the walls swollen too? The whole house felt smaller. Shrunken.

Charlie stayed on her heels as she deposited her 2014 Milner County Teacher of the Year tote bag and leather hobo purse on the repurposed vanity/hall table. “Charlie. Some space?”

“Don’t you want to know what it is?” Charlie’s head tilt reminded Lucy of a terrier pup they’d seen in the neighborhood. Cute, on a puppy. Mildly cute on the sometimes-annoying love of her life.

“Can I have a minute to acclimate?” She cupped his jaw and kissed the tip of his decades-familiar nose. “Not my best day, Charlie.”

“Mine,” he said, pulling her close, “got decidedly better when you walked through the door.”

“You read that line in a book, didn’t you.” Her heart warmed a degree or two in spite of the icy talons holding it in their grip.

He pulled back. “Am I that transparent?”

“Like a sixth-grader’s homework excuse.”

“I never claimed to be a romantic.”

She tugged at the silver curling in front of his ears. “Time for a haircut, young man.”

“My barber had a bad day, I hear. Not sure I trust her with scissors.” Charlie pressed his palms to the sides of his head. “I can’t afford a distracted stylist. Or shorter ears.” His grin would have seemed impish on an ordinary day.

“You could spring for a professional barber once in a while, you know. We can”—could, she silently corrected—“afford it.” She turned to the stack of mail on the table. Not yet. She wasn’t ready to say the words. “And they’re shears. We semiprofessionals don’t call them scissors. They’re shears.”

“You bought them at Walmart.”

“Touché.”

The fencing foil—lodged in her throat since eight hours earlier—slipped farther down. To the hilt.

She’d have to tell him.

So . . . after all these years, he’d found his life’s passion. On the day she lost hers.

***

“Worms, Lucy.”

She’d only managed to kick off one shoe before he spewed his news. Hers would have to wait. “You have worms?”

“Not yet. But I will.”

“You need to stay away from the pet rescue center for a while.” Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. “And keep hand sanitizer in your truck.” Second shoe. Coffee. Need coffee.

He bent to line her abandoned leather mules in a row with the other shoes on the mat beside the entry table. Who knew retirement would turn him into a neat freak? So not his style.

“Worm farm, LucyMyLight.”

The nickname he’d started using when they dated in college had never seemed aggravating before. But it felt as uncomfortable as a fiberglass sweater today. She blamed it on the barbed letter.

He took her hand as he had so often over the years and tugged her toward the kitchen. She slumped into the chair he pulled out for her, then forced her posture into a neutral, unreadable position. The man was pouring her a cup of coffee, eyebrows still dancing, and launching into a personal infomercial about worm farms. Now was not the time to collapse.

“I think this is it, Lucy. The thing I can get passionate about.” He slid her treble-clef mug toward her and lowered himself into the chair opposite hers. The pale beige brew in his nondescript coffee mug looked more like anemic chocolate milk rather than the Costa Rican mahogany that filled hers.

Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. “You want to raise bait? Fishing bait?”

“Now, see? That’s the common misperception—that worm farms are only good for producing night crawlers. Which, honestly, is reason enough by itself. I think anyone would admit that.”

She held the coffee under her nose. Too hot to drink. The aroma helped her mood about as much as a photograph of an antidepressant.

“A high-tech worm farm can produce—”

Had he just used high-tech and worm farm in the same sentence? His words squirmed in the air between them.

“—and soil enrichment, because of their . . . you know . . . feces.”

Collapses hold to no schedules. She pushed her coffee out of the way and laid her head on the table like a toddler falling asleep in her SpaghettiOs.

“Lucy! What’s wrong? Is it your heart?”

Her heart? She was not that old. And, sure, heart attacks knew no age limits. But really? His first thought was her heart? “No. Yes.” Her words disappeared into the tabletop. The scent of oranges cocooned around her. He’d bought the off-brand furniture polish again.

His chair legs scraped the ceramic tile. “I’ll get a baby aspirin.” She heard his footsteps pounding toward the powder room. Who knew he could move so fast?

She lifted her head long enough to say, “I’m not having a heart attack.”

“Stroke?”

Such a helpful man. “No. Close, but no.” She propped her elbows on the table and cupped her forehead in both hands. Her skull still seemed two sizes too small.

“Look, do I call 9-1-1 or not?” Charlie’s voice shifted from panic mode to irritation.

“Not. They can’t do anything about this.”

She knew without opening her eyes that he’d set the portable phone back in its base. A moment later, she felt his hand rubbing her upper back, tentatively, as if unsure if touching her would make it worse. “Lucy . . .”

The only warmth left in her lay across her shoulders, under his hand. “I lost my passion.”

“For . . . me?”

How could he think that after all these years? She sat back and leaned her head against his Ed Asnerness. She could hear his traditional mid-afternoon popcorn digesting. “I lost my job,” she said, choking on the words. “They cut the program.”

He stepped away without warning. Her head lolled. It surprised her she had the fortitude to right herself.

“They can’t cut the program.” His voice revealed the fierce protectiveness she’d come to count on, one that sometimes got in the way, truth be told.

“Closed session meeting last night sealed it.” Her coffee burned its way down her esophagus.

“Is that even legal? To schedule a school board meeting on the night of your spring concert?”

“I don’t know if it was legal, but I’m convinced it was intentional. The whole community showed up at the concert, not the meeting. It’s a wonder they had a quorum for the vote. Not that a small thing like regulations could stop a wrecking ball like Evelyn Schindler.”

“That’s one—”

“Watch your language.”

“—driven school board president.”

Lucy’s sigh started at her toes and worked its way upward. “A skilled manipulator of thought.”

“Or lack of it.”

She almost smiled at his assessment. Would have, if it hadn’t been such a tragedy. “When I think of what they were plotting while my students were singing their hearts out . . .”

“I wasn’t the only grown man shedding—what do you call it?—tender tears. Your students’ music moved us. In a good way. Your best concert ever, LucyMyLight.”

Strains of the concert’s high points replayed in her bulging brain, soothing and aching at the same time. “My last ever, Charlie. My last ever.”

The day the music died.