All the Time in the World (35 page)

“You think they have cannons in here?” asks Matt. “Like, real ones?”

“Maybe not cannons. But probably an old torpedo or two.”

“What pedo?” George asks, tightening his grip around my neck.

“Ouch, G, that's too tight,” I say. “Can you hold my shoulder instead of my neck?”

“What is that, that pedo?”

“It's called a
tor
pedo, honey. It's like a little rocket that submarines used to fire at each other during big fights.”

“Why the submarines fighting?”

“Um,” I say, searching for the words that will preoccupy him the least. “Like, when a superhero needs to defeat a bunch of villains, all at once. He could maybe get in a submarine and fire his torpedo and take down their headquarters. Or their boat.”

“The villains' boat?”

“Yeah.”

“Torpedo,” says George. “And they shoot the villains all at once.”

“That's right. Hey, can you and Matt hang out here for a minute? You can walk around, but don't go through any doors. I need to talk to this lady about tickets for the show.”

I set George down next to Matt, and Everett joins me at will call.

“God. That conversation. I'm never having children,” he says.

“You probably shouldn't, if an easy one like that freaked you out,” I say.

“Hi,” says Everett, and the woman in charge of the tickets glowers at us, maybe because I'm wearing tights and a wool skirt instead of a ball gown. “Jess Fairchild reserved our tickets.” The woman's face twists a bit, and I take that to be her version of a smile, indulging us because we're acquainted with Jess. Everett gives her his name, and I press my lips together so I won't say anything to her that I'll regret, because I need her to do me a favor.

“Is the seating general admission?” I ask.

“It is.”

“Can I purchase two additional tickets, please?”

The woman gives me a jaw-dropping total, and I give her the credit card. She gives us the same twisty face as she hands over our tickets, and I beckon to Matt and George to follow me into the hall, ignoring the incredulous looks from the ushers as we find some aisle seats and get situated.

“Are there programs?” I ask the nearest usher as I pull out a number-activity book for Matt and hand him a red colored pencil.

“Not today,” he says. “She'll be announcing the sets as she goes. It's meant to be informal, in the style of a—”

“A
salon
, yes, I know,” I say. “Thank you.”

When the house lights begin to dim, indicating the start of the show, Matt and George look up toward the ceiling automatically. The way the light filters into this space looks like magic, and I can see that magic on their faces. I find that I'm not sorry that I brought them here, even though I've never imagined a scenario with all of these elements in play. As Jess walks onstage to a rush of applause, I can tell that Matt has forgotten that it wasn't his choice to be here. He listens with rapt attention, at least for the time being.

Jess starts off solo on the saxophone. Everett catches my eye, and I imagine that he is also thinking back to our school days. Snyder would find some obscure venue in the Meatpacking District where some guy with a mustache was performing his new piece, “Seventeen Suites for Tambourine and Castanets,” and we'd all get dragged along to watch. The evening would be warm, so we'd decide to walk back to school, and Roger would be stumbling drunk and overly friendly. Snyder would get moody because the guy with the mustache had beaten him to the punch. We'd all make fun of Colleen for wearing inappropriate shoes
again
, and we'd wonder out loud, for at least fifteen minutes, what Jess would have thought of castanet-guy's performance.

Now, she's joined onstage by a brass quartet, and she surrenders her saxophone in favor of the piano, which she plays well. By this time, Matt has decided he needs to copy the numbers in his activity book in the colors according to the order of the rainbow, so he has worked out a silent system where he pokes my arm every time he needs the next color. George, on the other side of me, is sitting with his head sticking out into the aisle and his hands between his knees. Every time something in the music strikes his fancy, he looks at me to see whether or not I've noticed, and more often than not, I've been struck too.

Jess follows the dramatic movement with a piece I recognize, a piece that I've seen on paper, the one I deconstructed for her. She turns around on the piano bench and pulls out an acoustic guitar, singing the song herself, a simple melody. A quiet moment. It's beautiful, and I'm so lost in the music that I almost miss what she says to the audience after the long bout of applause is over.

She's talking about teaching, and what a humbling, edifying experience it can be if you let it in the right way. She doesn't mention me by name, but I wonder if this is meant to appease me, as close as she can bring herself to putting my name in the program.

“My students inspire me every day, and I'm grateful for the opportunity to work with such insightful and talented young people,” she says, wrapping up, and I look around at the faces in the audience, so appreciative of her, not only because she makes humanity better with her music but also because she acts as a mentor to the composers of tomorrow. I wish I was fighting the urge to stand up and expose her for a fraud, but I'm not. I almost admire the way she views the world, the way she's able to spin the tale of her own life. She is a composer
and
she is a performer, through and through, and I am not the things that she is. I am something else, something separate.

After the program, the audience is shepherded en masse to one of the reception rooms across the hall. Everett is chatting with the couple who sat behind us, who had also been to see him at Carnegie Hall those few months ago. The kids are not going to last much longer, so I hand their jackets and my backpack to Everett in his distraction, and then I bring the boys with me to say good-bye to Jess.

“They're adorable,” she says, kissing me on both cheeks. “Thank you so much for coming to see me, boys. Did you enjoy the concert?”

Matt kind of shrugs, without ever taking his eyes from the table full of cookies and champagne to the left of us. George stares straight up at her, too occupied with whatever assessment he is making to say anything.

“Okay, guys,” I say. “Two cookies each. Help your brother, please, Matty.” They scamper off, and I call after them. “Don't put your hands on any of the ones you're not going to eat!”

“You got the tickets I left,” says Jess.

“Yes. Thank you.”

“I hope they didn't charge you admission for the kids.”

“We didn't mind making the donation.”

“Well,” she says, “then I should say thank you to you. The generosity of donors is going to make the foundation possible.”

I could explain where the money came from. I could ask what the foundation will benefit. I could compliment her work. But instead of any of that, I ask, “Is there anyone here to see you?”

She looks around at the packed reception room. “Charlotte, you're so funny.”

“No, I mean, specifically to see
you
. Do you have, like, a boyfriend somewhere in here? Or, I don't know, a cousin?”

“The head of the chamber series at Lincoln Center is here. And some folks from the festival in Prague. The executive producer over at BAM. I can introduce you, if you'd like.”

“No, thank you,” I say. “I've got to get going. These two aren't going to be adorable for very much longer.” I look over at George and Matt, who are now standing with Everett. George has his jacket on and is holding on to Everett's pant leg, waiting patiently. His cookies are gone, with not a crumb left in sight. Matt is licking chocolate off his fingers and ignoring Everett, who is holding his hoodie out to him on the end of one finger, looking perplexed.

“I'm surprised,” says Jess. “You can't stay for five more minutes and meet a few people, make a few connections? It's so important.”

“Well, so is dinner, to these guys. Somehow I can't picture the man who runs BAM throwing himself on the floor and moaning about his dire need for mashed potatoes.” I take a few steps toward the door. I'm about to reach back, to squeeze her arm and tell her what a nice job she did, to part on peaceful terms and let go of her, gently, without her even knowing that it's happening. I'm about to.

“That's the difference between you and Everett, I think,” she says. “I'm looking forward to the day when you get your priorities in order. I don't know how to make it any clearer that I think the world is missing out on you.”

“It's funny you should bring that up again, Jess,” I say. “It kind of feels like a dare, every time you say something like that to me.”

“I'm not sure what you mean by that.”

“A significant portion of the population has heard me, in fact. That theme you sold a few years back, the one we wrote together during my final for your seminar. No one knows who I am because my name is not on that piece. But as for depriving the world of my particular sound—I don't think we have to worry. You took care of it.”

Jess is looking around. There are a bunch of people in close proximity. “I don't like what you're getting at.”

I lower my voice. “It's not important though, what you did. It doesn't matter that there's this blurry, uncomfortable thing between us, because we don't have to see each other again. You taught me a lot, and now I'm done learning from you.” I start to button up my sweater. “You know what is important?” I point to Matt, whose sweatshirt is now on the floor, being used as a picnic blanket by George. “Them. They're important. Their dinner, and everything else they need. That's George, over there on the floor. He hates to stand around for too long, and if I'm dawdling, I always find him sitting on the floor, looking resigned, by the time I'm ready to go. I know that about him, just like I know that if I crack a snarky joke to his brother, Matt, I can distract him from almost anything. I could fill a hundred volumes with all the things I know about them. What I'm doing for them is important. But you, and all the things you do to get what you want—that is not important, at all.”

“Well, that can be your opinion. You're allowed to think whatever you need to think,” she says, and I've never seen her face so red, never seen her struggle so hard for grace. I want to feel vindicated and smug, but instead I'm feeling something closer to pity.

“The larger world probably needs you, Jess, just the way you are,” I say. “Maybe the world that needs me is smaller. But I don't think our worlds have to be static, only one way forever. It's probably better if we don't run into each other again, even though we might be part of the same circles in the future. Okay?”

I don't wait for her answer, and I don't look at her face before I turn around to go. I don't savor the moment the way I always imagined I would. I don't want to spend my energy thinking about it anymore. Everett is nowhere to be seen, and I don't bother trying to locate him. I help Georgie to his feet and take his hand, pick up Matt's jacket, and let him follow me out of the room. He comes with me reluctantly, not because he wants to but because he knows that that's the rule, and by now, we have a very good understanding of each other's boundaries.

*   *   *

WHEN WE WALK
in the door to the apartment a few minutes later, the phone is ringing, so I drop our stuff in the hallway and run to grab it.

“Hello?”

“Charlotte? Is your cell phone off?” I can hear the tension in Scotty's voice.

“Oh. Yes, it is. I'm sorry. I had to go to this—”

“I just got off the phone with the bank.”

“Um. Okay.”

“They want to know why my credit cards are being used in Berlin and New York, which was easy enough to explain, but then they mentioned a charge for twelve hundred dollars. To something called the Fairchild Foundation.”

“Oh. Yeah, that was me.”

“The Fairchild Foundation?” It sounds a lot worse in Scotty's voice than it did in my head.

“Yes,” I say. “I asked Patrick to babysit today, and he canceled. I had to take the boys with me to a benefit concert, and the tickets were six hundred dollars. I'm sorry. I didn't know what else to do.”

Matt walks into the kitchen, where I'm standing with the phone, with his shoes untied but still on his feet. “I'm hungry.”

“TUCK!” bellows George from the other room. I hope it means that his shoe is stuck and not his head.

“Matt, take your shoes off, please, pal. I'll get you something to eat in a minute.”

“Why didn't you call me?” asks Scotty.

Matt opens the refrigerator door. “But what are we having for dinner?”

“Please take your shoes off, Matthew, and then we can talk about it.”

“Charlotte,” says Scotty.

“What?”

“Why didn't you call me about the tickets?”

“TAHR-LETTE! Can't get my foot out! Need someone to help me!” George yells.

Matt flings one of his shoes off the end of his foot, and it hits the wall. “Oops,” he says and starts to laugh.

“I didn't have time to call you beforehand. I thought Patrick was coming until the very last minute,” I say, gesturing at Matt not to do that with the other shoe. He ignores me. His left shoe flies upward, barely missing one of the blades of the ceiling fan. “Matt, do you understand that you could break something? Please, please, take your shoes out to the hall and put them away.”

“I could have helped you figure out another alternative,” says Scotty.

“OW!” yells George, and I look around the kitchen for Matt, who has disappeared. I walk out into the hallway to find him trying to pull off his brother's shoe, but wedging George's knee into an uncomfortable angle in the process.