Happy Any Day Now (27 page)

A
s soon as the results were made official, I called my mother.

“
Aigoo!
Principal cellist! I knew it. So sure you win. Everything worth it. The school. The practice. All bring you to today. Very proud, Judith. You never know how proud.”

Irwin hollered in the background, “Me too. Tell her I’m proud too.”

My mother’s joy was expected, deserved. She’d earned it with every stitch she’d sewn at the Slimline Swimsuits factory, every necessity and small luxury she’d denied herself so I could have whatever it took to get me out of the projects and onto the stage. But the pleasure of the old man with the pompadour and the mentholated-cigarette breath, what had he shelled out to own a share in the moment? Except—it rolled in as a wave of visceral recognition—to pay for my first cello and my music lessons, never knowing he’d done that, never knowing how much the checks he’d managed to send had changed my life. Funny how the wave knocked me on my keister.

“Have you told him yet that he paid for my lessons?” I asked my mother, aware I might be opening Pandora’s box, but also that this was a secret I didn’t want buried forever. He was on the far side of eighty. I was coming down fast and hard on fifty. If not now, when?

“Scared to tell. Afraid you be mad,” Grace said. “You okay if I tell now?”

“Yes,
Uhm-mah
. He should hear that he did a good thing. It’s only fair. And say thanks for me.”

“Okay, but you say thanks yourself sometime, yes?”

“I’ll get there.”

“Soon, Judith. He has pacemaker and two stent. Nobody last forever.”

• • •

My next call was to someone who knew that all too well. When I reported the judges’ decision and, sniffling back tears, thanked Sarah Tarkoff again for the Goffriller, she said, “The Goffriller didn’t hurt, but the truth is—and Richard used to say this all the time—talent will out. Judith, he’d be thrilled.”

I phoned Charlie. He didn’t pick up. He was in court or chambers or, for all I knew, tending to Kiki or Chloe. I left a message thanking him for the flowers and giving him the good news.

I got hold of Marti at home, interrupting her writing a review of a seafood house in Fells Point. She was so excited by my news that she nearly (as she so elegantly put it) peed herself.

“Champagne mixed with unadulterated glee does that to me. I’ve been hitting the Piper since three, celebrating in anticipation. Because I never had a doubt in Dixie you’d finish off that DeGrassi turkey with a fork to the pope’s nose.” She choked for a second on bubbles or emotion, then recovered to ask, “So no stage fright? No turning into a gelatinous mass of quivering terror?”

“Just the normal pre-big-audition jitters. As soon as I lifted the bow, they disappeared. Honestly, there was nothing even approaching performance anxiety. I think I’ve knocked the son of a bitch out for good. The consensus seems to be that I’m a pretty good cellist. Who’s my subconscious to argue?”

“Now that’s the attitude! You got through this audition, you can get through anything,” she slurred rapturously. “Stop off here on your way home. I’ll break out another bottle and we’ll toast your victory. Oh, hon, those magpies are dancing their mother-loving wings off.”

And then there was Geoff. Or, more precisely, there wasn’t Geoff. Except in my head. Despite my best efforts to play Whac-a-Mole with thoughts of him, they’d been popping up since I heard he’d probably be moving to England. I envisioned him strolling down Sloane Street arm in arm with Deena the harpist, imported expressly for this excruciating fantasy. I imagined him stretched out on a blanket spread against the banks of the River Cherwell canoodling with a thirty-year-old duchess named Lucinda. I kept this craziness from Marti, of course, but she had a
mudang
’s sixth sense for the awful truth.

“I can’t believe you haven’t called him. Your mother brought you up better than that,” she said later that afternoon, waving her champagne flute, spilling bubbly down the front of her shirt and onto her dining room table. “He hung in there with you, swallowing his pride and a shitload of pain to make sure you aced the audition. Stuck with you through thick or thin, babe or bitch, even after you threw him overboard for Charlie. And you say he can’t be depended on to be around when you need him.”

I took a sip of the champagne, hoping it would dull the ache in my chest. “Well, he’s not sticking around anymore. He’s moving to London.”

“So you’ve told me three times and counting. Good for him. He may be devoted, but he’s not a wimp. You can’t hold on to these men of yours forever, Judith. Now be a menschette. Call and tell him the news. And thank him.”

I ran my finger around the rim of the crystal flute. The last time I’d seen Geoff was when he’d stalked out of my parents’ new apartment. It was going to be one uncomfortable conversation. “It’s nearly midnight in London.”

“Geoff Birdsall hasn’t gone to sleep before midnight since he was six months old.”

I stared at the phone, wanting to share the news with him, most of all longing to hear his voice. Marti gave me a piercing look. “Stop torturing yourself. Call, dammit.”

He picked up on the first ring. “Judith! Good God, woman, I’ve been waiting to hear from you. I was afraid to call in case . . .” The phone magnified a deep intake of breath. “How did it go?”

“I got it.”

There was a whoop at the other end. “You did! That’s smashing news. Well done. Well done. I knew you’d pull it off. You would have done it without the Goffriller, but that clinched it. Yessss!”

He couldn’t contain his exuberance. Imagine, having a friend or whatever who took that much pleasure from my accomplishments. He seemed to have put aside all the bad feelings.

“It’s pretty exciting. You’re in England.” My voice was flat.

That quieted him down. “I am that.”

“I found out from Vince DeGrassi, of all creeps, ten minutes before my audition.” I let that skitter its way across the Atlantic.

“Oh, shit.” He drew an audible breath. “Well, that brilliant plan backfired, didn’t it?

“What a dunderhead I can be, and without even trying. The thing is, you and I weren’t on the best of terms for a sit-down and I thought this . . . uh . . . situation might take some explaining. I was worried it might play with your head right before the tryout.”

“Yeah, well, it’s after the tryout now,” I said, cuing him on.

“And it’s midnight in London,” he countered.

I could almost hear the gears grinding as he considered how he was going to break the news of his defection to me, the poster child for abandonment issues.

“It’s a tad complicated, Jude, and there are lots of details yet to be resolved. How about I tell you all about it when I see you?”

“Fine.” Not fine, but who was I to say so? The next question I did have a right to ask, but it would let him know I cared too much about the answer. Yes. No. Yes. I succumbed. “Which will be when?”

“In time for your party, of course. Ah, Jude, I’m happy it worked out. Never had a doubt, of course. Everything’s coming up roses for you, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” I said. “Yes, of course. It’s been a great day, though I’m glad it’s over.”

There was a pause. Then I said, suddenly swamped by exhaustion and an inability to make sense of all the flotsam churning in my emotional whirlpool, “I guess I’ll let you get some sleep.”

“Now that I know you brought it off, I’ll sleep like a baby. Wonderful news. Good night, Jude.”

Did I want to tell him I missed him? Yes. No. Yes. No. No.

“Good night, Geoff. Safe travels.”

“Nice and ladylike,” Marti said after I clicked off. “Very Aunt Penelope in the parlor with her needlepoint. Miss Manners would give you an A.”

I couldn’t seem to put the phone down, dead though it was. (How symbolic of the way I managed my love life.)

Marti pried it from my fingers. “So? Second thoughts? Or, knowing the way your obsessive mind works, second hundred thoughts?”

I adopted a casual tone and chose my words carefully. All Marti needed was ammunition and she’d be shootin’ advice with both barrels. “Well, I miss him. You know, to hang out with. We have common interests.”

“Common interests. Uh-huh. That’s got to be top of your list, chitchatting about Beethoven’s Ninth and all that.” She managed to snort and smirk simultaneously.

“And he’s fun to be around.”

“Now that’s more like it. Fun is
fun
, isn’t it? Much better than abject misery. Glad you picked up on the notion before it’s too late.”

I shrugged and emptied my champagne glass in a gulp. “It’s too late already.”

“Could be,” she said. “If so, I guess you’ll just have to suck it up. You’ll survive. You’re good at that.” And she poured us both a refill.

M
y party was held on a warm afternoon that promised to stretch sunlight into evening so the band could play on and on in the gilded spotlight streaming through the Belvedere’s Beaux Arts windows.

According to the Korean calendar, my birthday and the celebration of it exactly fifty years later fell on a golden day. June 22 sits at the very beginning of the tenth solar term, which follows the summer solstice,
haji
. Nothing could be better, Lulu Cho had told my mother shortly after my birth, than for a child to emerge when the earth itself was at the peak of its life cycle, when yin energy was at its height, when all the world was gold.

Fifty years later, as my party guests circulated around the elegant cream and blue ballroom, my aunt Phyllis looked up from a plate heaped with shrimp to give me the once-over.

“You’re half a century old. Incredible. And I was there when you were born. You were so tiny. Only five pounds, ten ounces. When Grandma Roz saw you in the nursery the next day, she said, ‘I’ve eaten chickens bigger than that.’ And now look at you. Look at this party. It’s amazing you even made it to this point with what you’ve been through, but this . . .” At a loss for words for once, she flourished a gesture that took in the scene.

It
was
quite a scene, a fantasy of crystal and silver, music and flowers. Not a mai tai or a tiki cocktail umbrella in sight. Marti’s theme was, she explained with a grin, “plain ol’ elegance—think Versailles, only toned down a smidge and without the heads rolling.”

She had arranged hydrangeas and pink roses from her garden, huge bunches of them in baskets centered on the fuchsia-clothed tables. Waiters threaded through the crowd with trays of hors d’oeuvres. On the bandstand, four of my colleagues from the orchestra—keyboard, bass, clarinet, and drums—were going to town on Cole Porter. At the back of the room, a bartender poured wine with a generous hand and gave out bottled Foster’s wrapped in linen napkins, Marti’s little nod to Geoff, whom she was currently championing. I scanned the room for the umpteenth time. His beer might have been there, but Geoff wasn’t. His absence didn’t escape Aunt Phyllis’s eagle eye.

“So it’s over between you and the Australian. You traded him in, and for what? For him, right? That’s the judge over there?” She cocked her head toward a dark-suited figure standing off to one side, tapping furiously into his BlackBerry.

My aunt sent me a pitying look. “You never had a good eye for men, Judith. From college on. First with
that
one, who left you flat. Then with the rabbi, who was a huge mistake from the start.”

“Todd was a cantor.”

“Todd was a goofball. With terrible table manners. He held his fork like a shovel. And just when I thought you finally acquired some judgment with Geoffrey, you start up again with the blue blood, which is a setback if you ask me. Look at him, in his own little world. All afternoon on his iPod or whatever. Not circulating. Not even a glance in your direction.”

Not entirely accurate. He’d kissed me when he’d arrived. Perfectly appropriate, lip to lip, more than chaste.

We’d just broken apart when I got tugged off to greet my guests. As I moved among them I caught glimpses of Charlie making small talk with strangers—occasionally glancing my way to smile and shrug—until finally I saw him drift off to a corner with his always conversational electronic friend.

But now he must have felt the burn of my aunt’s stare, because he looked up, broke out a decorous wink, and made his way toward us.

“A pleasure,” Aunt Phyllis murmured at the introduction while making it clear it really wasn’t, that she was more than ready to move on. “Look at your uncle Arnold, Judith, with the plate full of sliced sirloin. A triple bypass and the man is determined to kill himself with cholesterol. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go save my husband from himself.”

“So that’s the famous Aunt Phyllis,” Charlie said as she trotted off. “Of the Magic Carpet stores. See, I remembered.” Trying to score points.

“She’s a retired social worker. Actually a pretty smart woman,” I said as he guided me out of the crowd. My mother’s searing beam of death followed us. She’d cornered me in the ladies’ room earlier to tell me he’d introduced himself to her.

“No handshake. He make little bow like I’m Japanese person. He call me Grace, not Mrs. Raphael. I bet you never call his crazy mother by first name. So disrespect. What kind of name anyway, Key-Key? Now I think maybe big-time judge not good enough for you. Not worth your pinkie.” She sniffed. “He is like
haepari.
” Jellyfish. “Not bad man, but weak. No bone in back. Also too old. His hair more white than Uncle Arnold. And he walk bent, like he work in field whole life. Hunch over desk too much, I think. Reading, reading, all time reading. Man like that no fun. You only fifty. Just beginning new half. Best half, I know. Why you want someone like that?”

In that one over-the-sink lecture, my mother had given me two blessings. I was Good Enough. Which, after Richard’s legacy and my own victories, was coming through at last. I didn’t need Charlie or anyone else to validate the rest of what was going to be my new, better than enough, life. Grace had gotten it before I did—
it
being everything really: endurance, forgiveness, the triumph of time over pain, the power of love and of letting go when you should and holding on when you wanted to. It didn’t hurt that she was there as a shining example. I finally got it too.

At a window facing Chase Street, in the harsh light of day, I stared fondly at Charlie. Fondness was my default feeling for the man I had once loved so fiercely. As the music played on behind us, he congratulated me on my birthday and my audition. Then he lifted my bow hand, turned it over, and ran a finger down my lifeline. “So talented. I’m very proud of you.” He brought my hand to his mouth and kissed the palm. “And grateful we found each other again. You have no idea how much I care for you, Ju-ju.”

“Me too, Charlie. And always will.” What I had to say next caught in my throat. I swallowed hard. “The thing is, you and I aren’t a good fit anymore. Maybe we were the only ones who thought we ever were. But now it should be obvious even to us. You’re pretty much who you used to be. And I’m pretty much not. In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve changed.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed,” he said in a mournful voice, as if it were a bad thing. “I turn my back for a paltry twenty-five years and—
presto
—you’re a whole new person.” His laugh was sardonic. “How the hell did that happen?”

It was only when I said it aloud that I realized the strength of its truth. “I made it happen, Charlie.”

Charles Evans Pruitt was no dummy. His smile became a melancholy curve. “It’s over, right?”

I gave myself a moment to say it the right way. After twenty-five years of fading bitterness and then the sweet reprise, it deserved the right way. I took a deep breath, as if preparing to draw across strings.

“It’s over.” My voice matched my feelings, soft with regret for my own wasted dreams as I put us to rest. “I guess our version of happily-ever-after turned out to be not with each other.”

And that was it. No appeals, just a pat on the hand before he let it go, a smooth segue into his business voice and an unsurprising apology. He’d have to leave early. Soon in fact. He was due back in Manhattan for a cocktail reception for the parents of prospective Columbia students. Good thing I hadn’t counted on him for forever after.

“So I’m afraid I won’t be around when you open your gifts.”

“The invitation specifically said no gifts, Charlie.”

“Do people really mean that? In any event, you’ll have to forgive me because I did get something for you.” He extracted a small gray velvet box from his trousers pocket. “Actually, I planned to give you this when the world was young, but now seems as good a time as any. Consider it a farewell token from an old lover or a birthday gift from a new friend. Better yet, both.”

I opened the box to find a pair of diamond and ruby earrings. Gorgeous, if your taste ran to heavy, ornate, antique, and exceedingly pricey.

“I can’t accept these, Charlie.”

“I know what you’re thinking, but they’re not my mother’s. My aunt Honora left them to me. You’ll be pleased to know Honora couldn’t abide my mother. She thought Kiki was a terrible snob.” He held the box up to catch the sun. “Look at those rubies. Have you ever seen such spectacular fire? They’ll be beautiful with your dark hair, Ju-ju. You’ll do them justice.”

Well, it was all very flattering. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that carting around those heavy gems on my earlobes was a weight I didn’t want to carry. What I wanted—what I
needed
,
I’d discovered lately—was lightness and joy. But my mother had raised me to be polite, so I accepted the wildly expensive jewelry. It was the least I could do, considering our history.

“I’ll enjoy the thought of you wearing them.” Charlie checked his watch, craned his neck to peer twelve stories down, and said, “Looks like my driver’s here. Happy fiftieth, Ju-ju. Let’s stay in touch, shall we?”

A BlackBerry gong set to deafening cut through the noise, precluding my need to respond. I gave Charlie’s free hand what I knew would be a final squeeze. Then he went one way and I went another. But not quite forever.

• • •

As I was making my way to Marti to break the news, I was pulled aside by Angela Driscoll.

“Wonderful party, Judith. Big year for you.”

If she only knew. “It has been,” I replied.

“Actually, I meant the big five-oh. But yes . . . Richard. So of course it has been. Well, I think what’s up ahead will be better. Much.”

She handed me a fancy gift bag. Another flaunter of the no-presents policy, but she was my boss and I wasn’t about to reprimand her.

“I wouldn’t normally suggest this, but I’d like you to open it now.” She was conducting this conversation. Her eyebrows rose encouragingly.

I parted a cloud of tissue paper and removed a blue lacquer box decorated with plum blossoms inlaid in mother-of-pearl.

“Gorgeous,” I said, turning it to catch the iridescence in the light.

“It’s Korean, of course. I understand plum blossoms signify new life, new beginnings, so I thought, Just right for Judith’s fiftieth. New beginnings, exciting things on the horizon.” She hitched her chin, cuing me to lift the lid.

It was a music box. With all the noise around us we had to strain to hear the first four bars of
Arirang
, the folk song that bridged the two sides of the Korean divide. The melody every Korean knew from the crib, the one my mother used to sing to me.

“I thought that might hold special significance for you,” Angela said, smiling. I bobbed an assent, overcome, eyes welling. She paused. Angela Driscoll knew how to milk a dramatic moment. “What a haunting melody. I assume you’ll be happy to play it next spring in Pyongyang?”

I looked up from the red-velvet-lined box. “You’re kidding. Oh my God. We’re going?”

“We’re going. Contract signed. Of course, there can always be last-minute glitches, like nuclear holocaust. North Korea has tons of WMD and a short temper. And I admit, there was a time when I thought the concert would fall through. It was dicey for a while.”

“Yes, I heard a rumor . . .”

“Honestly, the CIA should sign up the entire orchestra. Nothing is secret, nothing is sacred.”

“I heard a rumor it had something to do with background checks.”

“That got out too, did it?” Then she read my face. “Oh, Judith! It never even occurred to me—you thought it was about you, didn’t you? No, no. Nothing to do with you. This isn’t for publication, but the issue was Lyndon Shin.” Our piccolo player. “Lyndon’s uncle is vice president of South Korea. That was a sticking point for the North Korean culture minister. Touchy kind of stuff, propaganda-wise. But it got ironed out.”

More proof of Geoff’s Galilean notion that the world, especially when its orbit was off-kilter, didn’t revolve around me.

“So Korea next April. How’s that for a gift, huh? You won’t get two of
them.
” Angela gave me a hug, turned to leave, halted mid-pirouette, and turned back. The woman had mastered the art of stagecraft. “One other small item. We’re not bringing in any guest artists on this trip. We’re showing off our own. As principal, you’ll be featured. You’ll be playing
Arirang
solo
in Pyongyang.”

Ten seconds into my stunned silence, she placed her index finger under my slack lower jaw and pushed up.

“Much better. You’re speechless. Good—that means you can keep the news quiet for a few more days. I don’t want it to get out yet. I’ll announce it to the troupe an hour before the official press release is e-mailed out. It really is a history-making moment for the orchestra.”

I was still in shock. She filled in my answer. “And yes, I can only imagine, Judith. History-making for you too.”

• • •

“Tell me the truth,” Marti said, embracing the room with open arms. “Is this not everything you ever dreamed of for your second birthday party? The joint is jumpin’. Check out your parents or whatever you call them these days.”