Part 12 (1/2)

”Yes, it's true. I'm not actually a mandated reporter. But I am concerned. And I can't ignore that concern.”

”What's a mandated reporter?” Dorothy asked.

Earl ignored her. ”That she's losing interest in music. That's your concern.”

I leaned toward him. ”That she's experiencing some kind of extreme stress.”

A door opened abruptly, and Hallie came in, wearing a hoodie and pajama bottoms, her hair wet and combed back. She looked like an innocent girl. Not the dark, sullen creature who always stomped up the stairs.

”I can't study,” she said. ”It's too loud.”

Dorothy cast her eyes to the far wall.

Hallie froze when she saw me.

”What are you doing here?”

”Just checking in. I told you I might.”

”No, you didn't.”

”I wanted to update your parents . . . Mr. and Mrs. Edwards . . . on your progress.”

”Bulls.h.i.+t.”

”Hey, young lady,” Earl said.

”She's lying. She's telling you that I did something wrong.”

”Did you do something wrong?” he asked.

”No. But teachers don't ever come around with good news.”

I said, ”Hallie, this is really between the three of us, so if you could just go back to your room. We'll keep our voices down. It's nothing important.”

She gave me a hard look. ”Whatever she's telling you is something she's made up in her own mind.”

She slammed the door, and we listened to her familiar stomp going away.

The Edwardses were looking at me.

”Well, look, I'm not objective. I just want Hallie to continue on this path,” I said.

”You let us worry about her path,” Earl said.

Dorothy was looking away from him.

”Thanks for stopping by,” he said.

He walked me to the door. Dorothy didn't move.

When we got there, he put a hand on my shoulder, and the tightness moved through my stomach again.

”Do you have children, Miss Swain?”

”No. Just my students.”

”There aren't many people like you left in the world.”

I laughed. ”You mean crazy musicians? There are. Way too many.”

”I meant people who care,” he said. The sudden s.h.i.+ft in his tone confused me until I realized that because I was leaving, he no longer saw me as a threat. His defenses were down, and his true nature was emerging. He had been scared. That was where the demeanor came from. The unwillingness to reveal anything of himself.

Sometimes I forgot how much men had to hide.

”I do appreciate your interest in my daughter.”

Dorothy spoke up then, moving in our direction. The attention had been off her for long enough.

”We get the point, Earl.”

Earl said to me, ”What's your first name, again?”

”Pearl.”

”Earl with a P.”

He laughed at his own joke.

This was the final straw for Dorothy. She was standing right next to her husband now, her dark eyes bearing down on me.

”Good night, Miss Swain.”

I didn't know what was going on in this house. But whatever it was, a deal had been struck. There was a common agreement. Something so solid and oppressive that even Hallie was unwilling to betray it. There was no question of that. The only question left was how much of it was my business.

FRANKLIN DUCKS OUT early this Wednesday night, shortly after our best-lyricist discussion. He has a gig with his new friend Jenny. He tells me he's not really in her band, he's just sitting in tonight, playing for an adult birthday party in Bel Air, at the home of a movie director. He a.s.sures me that this is good for the Trailer Park Rogues, as he can make some connections. I say, ”Yeah, I know all about the connections you're trying to make.” The memory of Jenny is clear in my mind. She is young and still looks good in a tank top. Her vocal style is a trick. It's vibrato taken to an unholy level. It's a warble. It's a step away from yodeling. But Franklin is falling for it. And maybe I'm the fool for not realizing that I was being set up.

Franklin just shakes his head at me and says, ”Pearl, you know, a musical marriage is even harder than the real kind.”

I say, ”What would you know about either one?”

But he only chuckles and goes out. Ernest follows him, with his own battered Gibson in a beat-up case, saying he's going to try to hook up with this married woman he's pursuing, whose husband is a s.h.i.+thead lawyer who works all the time, leaving her lonely and vulnerable. ”Is she pretty?” I ask him. ”For a woman her age, she's a fox,” he says proudly, as if he's figured something out. Older women have some hidden value, and he alone has discovered it, like a guy who has discovered a new planet. I don't ask how old she is. I'm sure that she's several years younger than I am and that it never occurred to Ernest that I might be offended. Because it never occurred to Ernest that I'm capable of having an affair.

I say to his back, ”It's his money that's keeping her attractive. Pilates! Botox! It's expensive to look young when you're old!”

But the door slams halfway through my retort.

I wonder if I'm capable of having an affair.

And then I am left alone with Patrick, who is leaning against the far wall, without an instrument, smiling at me.