Part 8 (1/2)
”Why not?”
”She loves them more than me. She'll kick me out.”
”She can't do that. She won't. Besides, I've talked to her. She's quite fond of you.” I wasn't sure this was true, but I hoped it was.
She has recognized ”it,” I wanted to tell her. She knows there's gold in the hills.
Hallie looked away from me. ”The family is all in place,” she said. ”They're a unit. They have church and everything. I'm an intrusion. Is that the right word?”
”I guess,” I said.
”If I'm trouble, they'll make me leave. I have nowhere else to go.”
”They can't hurt you. It's not allowed.”
”No one is hurting me,” she said in a high, desperate tone.
Then she looked up at me with her sad, dark eyes, a look that was not so unlike Franklin's worried gaze. ”They'll make me stop playing music. I can't stop playing music. I can't.”
This was a far cry from her original incantation: ”You can't make me play. I won't let you.” I couldn't decide if this was progress or regression or something in the middle, like guidance.
”No one can take music away from you,” I said in my inst.i.tutional teacher's voice.
And then she looked at me with a maturity I did not recognize in myself, let alone in my students. Her face was pale and as still as granite.
”Of course they can take it away,” she said. ”They want to and they will. You know that. You know it's always a breath away from being gone.”
”No, Hallie, I don't know that. You have an ability. An understanding. No one can take that away. And this is unrelated to music. This is about you being hurt.”
”I'm not being hurt,” she said.
She swiveled her body away from me in her folding chair. She held the violin next to her chest as if it were a baby that needed comforting.
I said, ”Look, I'm a teacher. I'm a mandated reporter.”
”I don't know what that means.”
”It means that if I see someone being hurt, I'm obligated to tell.”
She lifted her head. ”Tell who?”
”People who care about things like this.”
She laughed. ”Who the h.e.l.l are those people?”
I was stretching the truth a little because I was only a music teacher. We weren't officially mandated reporters like public school teachers. But I suspected that if I went to some kind of authority, they would listen.
I said, ”Hallie, the world isn't as indifferent as it seems. There are people who care about children.”
Her eyes grew sad when I said this.
”I'm not a child,” she told me, as if telling me she weren't a person.
”You are.”
”Let's not talk about it anymore, okay? If you're someone who turns people in to authorities, I don't think I can come here anymore. Because you sold yourself to me as someone who doesn't believe in authority.”
”I did? How did I do that?”
”You're a music teacher. That's not about authority. What we do in here, it's just about music.”
”Music can't make you safe.”
”Of course it can,” she said. She lifted her violin to her chin. ”Let's keep going.”
We finished the lesson. I said nothing to Dorothy. The next week, the bruises had faded, and then there was nothing but alabaster skin. Her wrists grew strong, her bowing excelled, and I allowed myself to be lulled by the music, the eternal Pied Piper, until nothing else mattered but the sound of notes and chords and tones, drifting on the air like smoke from the chimney of the Vatican.
7.
IT'S ON A FRIDAY EVENING, when I'm in charge of locking up the store, that I figure out the real reason Franklin wants to fire Clive.
My last student is late, so I'm half an hour behind, and it being a Friday, I'm eager to get out. Not because I have any special plans-it's been a while since I've taken any orchestra or session work, and much longer since I've had any kind of social life to attend to. I'm just tired of being at McCoy's, and I'm feeling a little cranky after a conversation I had with my ex-husband earlier in the day. He called me at the store to give me some good news and some bad news. He said, ”Stephanie's pregnant, and I'm not sure I can keep paying for your car.”
I let a cold moment of silence go past before I said, ”Where's the good news?”
”Stephanie's pregnant,” he repeats.
”And who is that good news for?”
”Pearl, don't do this. You knew we were trying.”
”I knew Stephanie was trying. You said you weren't interested. Or did I dream that?”
”Well, it's too late now, and I'll get happy about it eventually.”
”Are you going to marry her?”
”Maybe. I don't know. The point is, I have to start saving money.”
”How far along is she?”
”Two months,” he says.
I stop myself from saying the very mean thing. It's early yet. Anything can happen. Clearly he has forgotten both of my miscarriages, one at ten weeks, one at fourteen. Maybe Stephanie's uterus is stronger than mine. Maybe he loves her more than he ever loved me. But I can't think about that. I have to focus on the possibility that she will encounter some kind of misfortune, that she won't just move in and take over my life and do all the things I couldn't do, such as keeping him interested. I'm pretty sure it's okay for me to want bad things to happen to her. But if I want bad things to happen to her unborn child, that might be crossing a line. I try to stop just short of being a bad person. It's harder than it sounds.
So instead of the very mean thing, I said the sort of mean thing: ”Will Stephanie have to give up her work in telemarketing?”