A gifted voice coach and an ambitious French professor fall in love and fret about it. Until his first love returns with plans for his greatness, and a son. Lapwing writes engagingly of loves improvised and memorized, tended and neglected.
She kept the windows up and the air conditioner on against the late summer heat as she drove her new champagne Honda out of the grocery store parking lot and onto the state route that bisected town. Flitting past gas stations and strip shopping centers, encased in glass and metal and infused with new car fumes Justina Trimble had passed from her previous life to this one, from graduate student to assistant professor, from the Midwest to New England, without a molecule’s loss or decay. Turning north onto Dunster Road the old town hall and the congregational church floated by, venerable in bright white clapboards, reverently introducing the traveler to the orchard fields that lined the road above them. So many trees, compared to the landscape back home, where fields lay flat most of the time, the corn and wheat crops transient occupants. None of this was hers, yet, and she wanted it all, all of its beauty and exotic newness.
Gold letters upon a green sign announced the college, its grounds chaotic with the busy passage of students from cars and vans parked at the curb to the doors of the dorms propped open with boxes. Justina flicked on her turn signal. From the campus’ main drive she backed into a space opposite one of the residential buildings and rolled down her window. A humid breeze played with her hair. The smell of green leaves recalled to her the sensation of rolling in freshly-raked grass as a child while her father piled dead leaves. Across the drive a family of three, mother, father and daughter, bustled around a van, all its doors open. Two young men sat on a wooden bench outside the dorm, their arms stretched across the seat back, their mouths slack in grins. The girl, in shorts and sandals, carried in a box, her arms pulled straight with the weight, followed by her mother with an armload of linens. Freshman, Justina guessed, by the teddy bear perched atop the box. The fat
her hauled another box from the car and put it down by the door. He stood with his back to the bench, wiped sweat from his forehead and looked to his side, showing the boys his profile. The boys turned their heads and looked off across the common. The father darted a look at the unenterprising fellows, picked up his box, and went into the building. Justina imagined the mother exclaiming over the charm of the old dorm room, the woodwork nicked and chipped, the hardwood floors warped and scuffed, and how a simple set of pretty curtains would make it her daughter’s own. The idle boys called to another boy who came up to their bench and put a sandaled foot on it, resting his elbow on his hairy thigh. Justina stared at the right angle of his naked leg. White skin, legs round and feminine, black furred.
Like Rourke’s, she thought.
The boys on the bench smirked and looked across the common as the standing boy talked to them, tossing their heads back with laughter. The standing boy turned his head and saw Justina watching him. He turned back to his friends, one of them was talking and as he listened, he stuck out his tongue, licked a finger and used it to rub his forehead.
But he’s nowhere near this place. Old boyfriend thoughts buried by all of these fresh impressions, she unclenched her hands from the steering wheel. Hoping to see the family again, she looked toward the building’s door. She wished the boys would go away and that the girl would never meet them.
The little family came out, smiling and walking more quickly now, and got into their car. Justina checked her watch. One o’clock. One last time to go to lunch together. She imagined the parents exclaiming over the beauty of the orchard-lined old roads, the daughter in the back seat silently questioning the wisdom of choosing this little school up here in the New Hampshire woods”” a “best buy” according to the father’s research”” instead of one of the upscale and up-priced colleges in Boston. After a meal at the Nine Mile Inn, the one nice restaurant in town, the giddy daughter would hug her mother who would try not to cry and her father who would try not to think about anything except the long trip home. The parents would drive off, waving until out of sight and get back on the highway when the mother would suddenly remember the hat she had forgotten to order from L.L. Bean for her daughter’s first New Hampshire winter. The father could count on at least a week o
f worrying out loud from his wife, and not very well-hidden tears that he had better see so that he could comfort them.
Justina pulled out of her parking space and drove deeper into the campus, students giving way to her passage likes leaves to a blower. One week to get yourselves situated, guys, she thought. Settle on a pal or two, figure out where to eat, where to buy books, where to party. I’ll be doing my partying right here, she thought, pausing at the curb to look at the library. It was the biggest and newest building on campus, four stories, with large floor-to-ceiling windows on every level. Old oaks and maples and poplars spared by the bulldozer draped the sky around the building’s roof. There was very little foot traffic into and out of this building, nor would there be, Justina guessed, until the weekend following the first week of classes. This Sunday would be the last pressure-free evening of the semester. On that night Justina expected to be reviewing her lesson plans, while she imagined the freshmen congregated in the more out-going kids’ rooms, poring over campus
maps to figure out where to report Monday morning for their first classes. Alcohol consumption would be kept to a minimum, everyone instinctively drawing the line at a six-pack. Her roommate would down a couple, probably; Justina would abstain. She joined the campus drive once again and drove through to the southern end and on toward Merrifield where she had found an apartment.
She had to put her grocery bags down on the landing, she had not yet figured out how to unlock her door one-handed. Bumping the door out of the way, she heaved the bags onto the scratched white countertops flecked with gold. A paulared fairly jumped out of the peck bag into her hand; she rubbed it bright on her thigh and took a bite, sucking at the surprising juice that ran onto her chin. She put away her food and sat down on the old tan corduroy couch in the living room with her French One text, the cover cracking open, the never-thumbed pages wafting printing press perfume. She finished her apple by the time she had skimmed through the first two lessons, Greetings and the Three Verbs, Être, Avoir and Aller. What comes next? she wondered as she went into the kitchen for another apple. First conjugation verbs? They should come before the irregulars, they’re easier. She would teach it her way, it was only a book. She was the teacher. Professor.
Outside her window the floating oaks and maples nodded their branches. We are yours, too, they said, you belong here. She smiled as she imagined herself bundled by all this green, sitting in a field of thick-bladed grass between rows of densely fruited trees. Straining for a distant memory of this unaccustomed landscape, she felt transformed for a moment into a New England Yankee, all her physical beauty hidden except for her face which in this change was the heavy-lidded, high-cheek boned, gently smiling visage of a woman whose picture she had seen once in a magazine and who had come to represent ideal female maturity to her. She looked again out her window and the branches, still now, seemed to have moved closer, the black lines of their bark in clear, high relief. She felt a hollow widening in her throat as everything she knew began to slide into it, irretrievable, and she dashed her eyes back to her text. Maybe it’d be easier to follow the book.
President Updoc and his wife Diane had invited all the faculty and staff to a welcome back party on Saturday night at the president’s great big 1928 center-entry colonial, the only house of that era in Kennemac that was not a farmhouse. Michael Calderón decided the snap in the air warranted a tweed jacket, and with a happy anticipation, he left his car in the garage and walked the mile to Updoc’s. He left the road and cut through the unmown orchard, the high grass brushing his pants cuffs as he traversed the aisle between the old Cortland and Macintosh bearers, their peeling elderly branches miraculously bent with their heavy progeny. He hummed until the singing could not be held back. He sang, opening his throat wider to correct the flatness.
“Let us drink to the sweet shivers
Which love excites,
For to my heart her eye
Flies supreme.”
He admired his tone tonight; why didn’t he always sound this way? Perhaps he was more keyed up than usual, but not so much that the instrument closed down. Really, I sound good! He made a big finish, singing the last note an octave up:
“In this paradise
Let the new day find us!”
He arrived at the president’s drive as Charles Troy pulled up in his old brown Volvo, tooting the horn.
“Ho! Soprano-eyes!” called Charles, jolly in his bright yellow vest.
Michael answered, “Hey!” and waited for his friend to join him.
Charles came up the brick walkway, swinging on his bowed legs, his hair glowing in nearly white waves, his expression announcing he was glad to be here. “Nice night for it, whatever it is,” he said.
“Yeah.” They walked up the steps together. The door opened for the people in front of them and a tawny pillow of light hung before them. They greeted their hostess, a bony, straight woman free of make-up in the New England fashion, radiant with a surprising, gracious, well-creased smile. They made their way into one of the high-ceilinged rooms off the foyer, renewing contact with colleagues, careful not to knock over the precious decorative urns or stumble over the old furniture.
Michael shook Papageorge’s hand, smiling at the length of his desperado’s mustache, and said, “I have not decided between the Mozart and the Fauré.”
“Doesn’t matter to me,” said Papageorge. “This orchestra has done them both.”
“No preference?”
Papageorge shrugged. “Fauré’s easier. What do you think, Miriam?” A medium-sized, medium-aged brunette woman came up to them, smiling automatically, her eyes blinking in thought. She wore a green dress which hugged her curves. She has a good figure for whatever she is, forty-five? Michael guessed. Her husband stood behind, her colorless guard.
“What do I think about what?” asked Miriam looking from Papageorge to Michael.
Papageorge put the Requiem choice to her. “Which one’s harder to learn?” she asked.
“The Mozart, don’t you say, Papageorge?” answered Michael.
“Mozart, then! Why not?”
Michael cocked his head at her. “Miriam, what I should do in the spring, La Traviata or La Bohème?”
“The prostitute or the seamstress? Hm. Which one did you do last?”
“The seamstress.”
“Then do La Traviata.”
“Kennemac’s lucky to have you, Miriam,” said Michael. Her husband came to her side, Michael shook his hand, smiling more broadly to cover his embarrassment at not remembering his name, and said, “Miriam has been making the year’s music selections for us.”
The husband said, “Ah,” and nothing more.
“If you’re through with me,” said Miriam, touching Michael’s forearm, “I think I’ll go get a drink.”
“Of course, Miriam,” responded Michael, not returning her touch. “Why not?”
Miriam made for the drinks table, until waylaid by the theatre people who were regaling each other with tales of their summer productions in tents and on seaside lawns. The husband waited while his wife enjoyed herself.
“Come on,” said Charles to Michael, “let’s get a drink before Hauser finds me and asks me about grants.”
“What grants?”
“Very funny.”
Charles took a beer, red. “Fraught with significance, Stickbeater. Never trust anyone who hates red. Dirty liars, every one of them. Or cowards.” Tense with party excitement, Charles was talking inanities already. He looked about the room, found a target, and took a great gulp of his beer. “I knew Updoc was good for something.” He poked his chin toward the next room where a trio of young women talked, looking about them. “Come with me, trusty sidekick, make me look good.”
“Now, think about it, Charles. What I did last time I went babe-hunting with you?”
“That’s okay. I brought a handkerchief this time. Spill away!” Charles took another swig of his beer and stretched his lips in a grin and clacked his teeth together, his eyes on the women.
As Charles took off for the females, Michael picked up a glass of white wine, put it down and took a glass of red.
“Come have a drink. If you don’t see anything you like””” Diane Updoc led Justina, her shoulders high and stiff, to the drinks table.
“Oh, this is fine.” Justina took a glass of fruit juice. She noticed Michael standing there, not looking at her but not unaware of her. Diane finished tidying up the plastic cups on the table and noticed Michael.
“Here, let me introduce you, he’s our choral director. Michael Calderón, this is Justina Trimble.”
“Hello,” said Michael and he smiled down at her, taking her for a student.
Justina put out her hand toward him. His hand was warm, hard, his squeeze stopped just short of hurting. Where do men get these hands? They just grow them, it’s amazing.
“Justina’s a new assistant professor in the French department.”
Michael blinked.
“You’re from, Silbert Adams, is it?” continued Diane.
“Yes,” answered Justina.
“I knew it was somewhere in the Midwest. Michael’s from South America. Is it Mexico or Puerto Rico, Michael?”
He smiled at the familiar mistake. “Costa Rica, Diane.”
“Of course, I knew it was somewhere in Mexico.”
Justina covered her mouth, smiling with him.
She knows her geography, he thought, how refreshing. “Diane, I think you’d better go to rescue those ladies from Charles,” said Michael, nodding toward his friend who was laughing gruesomely, his hands on his bent knees, his open mouth inches from the face of the small woman in the middle. “I’ll take good care of our wrangler here.”
“Goodness, and it’s still so early,” Diane tut-tutted, looking over at Charles. “I don’t know who needs me more.” She squinted at Michael. “Seems to me I left that new econ prof with you last year.” He seemed not to recall. “You remember, the redhead, from Georgia?” To Justina she said, “Didn’t last past Christmas,” and the younger woman copied her critical air.
Michael laughed. “I think I remember she hated it here.”
“How could anyone hate Kennemac?” retorted Diane. “I think something, or someone, may have made her life, a little complicated?”
Michael laughed again. “It wasn’t me.” He looked at Justina, who pretended not to be buying it. “Probably it was the barbecue.” The women’s faces went slack. “You know, Georgians must have their barbecue.”
“Justina, consider yourself warned.” Diane went off to rescue the trio from Charles.
Justina stepped closer to Michael. “I’m from the Midwest, not out west.”
“Then you won’t miss the wide prairie. Where do you come from? No, let me guess.” He pretended to ponder deeply. “Connecticut?”
“A little more west than that.”
“New Jersey, then. Do you know that one out of three U.S. college students is from New Jersey?”
“No. And I’m not a student.”
“Then I have no idea.”
“Illinois.”
“A farmer’s daughter?”
“Engineer’s daughter.”
“So this is what an engineer’s daughter looks like.” She was wearing a camel-colored close-fitting dress and matching shoes, a dark red leather belt around her waist. She was medium-sized and slender, her limbs lithe and smooth, inviting a touch. Her straight hair was very shiny, like a doll’s hair, he thought; the color was a medium, comforting shade of brown. She watched him, shaking her head with embarrassment. He ended his gaze upon her face. She looked very young. Her eyes held his gaze a moment and he saw something inviting, huge. He flashed a rascal’s smile, then a more good-natured one. A woman trying to get to the drinks bumped Justina’s elbow. Michael herded her toward the middle of the room.
“So, you’re a brand-new Ph.D.?” he said.
“Yup. A mere three weeks ago, I was ordinary scum.” She took a drink of her juice. Michael’s eyes widened: cranberry. “And now, I’m”””
“Exalted scum,” he pronounced.
“Just like you.”
“Oh, no. Not like me.”
“Why not?”
“No Ph.D.” He took a drink of his wine and looked out at the room. “M.A. only.”
“Oh. Well, that’s okay, I’ll still speak to you.”
He nearly spewed out his wine.
“What do you do,” she continued, feeling more confident, “with your M.A.?”
“He wipes his nose with it,” Charles butted in, “when he’s not wiping his a”””
“Charles, too, is exalted scum,” said Michael.
“Most Exalted to you, pal.”
Michael introduced Charles to Justina.
“What do you do?” Justina persisted to Michael.
“I’m a musician.”
“Sounds so medieval, doesn’t it?” said Charles. “Musicians’ guild, blacksmiths’ guild. Everybody with a label.”
“What’s your label, Charles?” asked Justina.
“There is no label for me.”
“Oh, yes, there is,” said Justina and she turned again to Michael. “What do you do with music?”
“Everything. Not enough. Whatever I can.”
“Then you’re not only a musician.”
“I’m not?”
She was smiling at him, buying herself time with a drink of her juice.
“Then what I am?”
She looked him over. He was perhaps a head taller than she, lightly-muscled; she wondered if his belly was taut. He wore charcoal gray slacks, a striped shirt with a blue tie and a gray tweed sport coat: that New England academic look she found so thrilling. His hair was black with curly wisps of gray. His face showed its first lines. He must be forty, at least. Emboldened and excited, she looked in his eyes, at their bright darkness looking back at her, and she felt a sudden sharpness that ebbed, leaving a warm trickling. “There’s no label for it, just, more.”
“What department did you say you were in?” Charles interjected.
“French,” Michael and Justina answered together.
“Ah, la France!” Charles intoned. “Keeper of the flame of rationality. And crummy poetry.”
Michael stepped closer to Justina. “What do they make you teach this semester?”
Charles held up his empty glass and said, “I’ll just”” Anybody need a refill?”
“We’re all set,” said Michael over his shoulder, walking away with Justina.
“Did you really scare away that Georgia girl?” she asked, not looking at him.
“Moi?”
She stopped and propped her hands on her hips.
“She was engaged. She went home to be married, and””” He took a sip of his wine.
“And?”
“She never came back.”
“Maybe she was afraid, to come back, as a married woman.”
“I don’t know why she may be afraid. Why do you look at me like that?”
“Because,” she said, “because Diane said I should be careful around you.”
“I don’t know why she said that. Unless you’re not married?”
“No.”
“Or engaged?”
She tried to keep a smile from spreading her lips. “Unh-unh.”
“Then maybe she’s right.”
Justina looked away and frowned.
“Tell me about all your plans for the semester,” he started over. “All new courses, or things you’ve done in the past?”
“A conversation course, a survey course, and”” Oh!” She looked around. “That reminds me, I need to find Richelieu and beg for a French One.”
“You want to teach freshmen?”
“I love that they know nothing. And I’m their first taste of French.”
His eyes ran down her figure again as she craned her neck around, his face bore no masking smile this time. The color of honey she was, sweet balm to a singer’s throat.
“I’ll, um, I see him over there,” she said.
She was running off. “Justina!” She turned back to him. What should he say? “Nice to meet you.” She smiled and hurried away. “˜Nice to meet you,’ he thought, son of a dog!
Charles came up to his side and together they watched Justina go across the foyer into another room and up to a group of men which included Richelieu. “I love the fall!” sighed Charles.
“Ssssst!” hissed Michael, his eyes on her.
“If I were you, Mitch, I’d sit down at that piano and start belting out Jacques Brel with everything I got.”
“Ay, Dios! I don’t know nothing of Jacques Brel!”
Justina stood waiting for an opportunity to speak to her department chief. She saw Michael watching her. Let’s review: did he say anything significant, really? She smiled to him. He slapped a grin over his look of under-educated chagrin. No, nothing significant, but still, something.
“All the French chicks are crazy about Brel,” Charles went on.
“She’s not French, she’s Illinoisian.”
“Self-styled French, then. Close enough.”
Michael made the rounds, glad to see his music colleagues, but now there was a heightened wit in his conversation, and he knew its inspiration was not anticipation of the coming semester’s work. He caught several glimpses of the honey-girl who was likewise making the rounds of the literature-loving set. He was pretty sure she looked for him a couple of times, and at least twice her eyes found his. This was fun. And to think she lived here, like him. I bet I could touch my fingers around her waist. I bet she has beautiful breasts.
Justina had to remind herself that the people she was meeting at the party were peers. There would be no mistaking her interest for brown-nosing. Her mind hop-scotched from one idea to the next: translating an obscure Old French romance, rethinking the Enlightenment, comparing Romanticism to late twentieth sentimentalism. She would write to the biggest hotshots in her field and shoot the breeze with them. Everything shed light on everything else. And she was linked to it all. And that dark man over there is out of this world sexy.
Read more about Perfect Pitch and Amy Lapwing HERE.
Copyright 2008 Amy Lapwing. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.
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