Part 16 (1/2)

”And everybody mimics to a certain degree.”

”Yeah,” he says. ”Like Franklin and Ernest. They aren't really original musicians. They don't write music. They play covers. They just mimic their heroes.”

”Right.”

”But you,” he says, casting a dreamy-eyed look in my direction, ”you don't mimic anyone.”

”Sure, I do.”

”Who?”

”Well, it's not really a who. It's a what.”

”What, then?”

I know. Immediately I know. It comes to me, like a vision, but slower. It's a sound, a voice in my head. And what it says is, You are mimicking a musician. Because you aren't a musician. You are a teacher.

I don't say that out loud. Instead I turn to him and look at him and I wait. Because I know he will kiss me. And he does. And then things occur. The two of us confront each other.

We mimic lovers.

CLIVE GETS UP EARLY, just as it is getting light outside. He dresses while I am still dozing in bed. He doesn't say anything. No one mentions coffee.

I lean up on an elbow and watch him. He looks so young, standing there, ready to depart. He is grinning, as if he's gotten away with something. But he hasn't gotten away with anything at all. He has to contend with me now, with that connection, however slim, that we have forged. As he stares at me, I see his smile start to fade. He knows he's gotten more than he bargained for. And he knows, looking at me, that I've gotten less. He wants me to grin back and say something like, Wow. But seeing him want it makes me determined not to give it. This could be a character flaw, or it could be a woman's natural reaction when a man thinks he's done all the work.

”I guess there's a silver lining to everything,” he says. ”Even getting fired.”

The trouble with young men is that sooner or later, they say something young. And you can't retch or even make a face. It's not polite.

”You'll find another job.”

He says, ”Maybe you could talk to Franklin?”

I laugh. ”Oh. Was that some kind of down payment?”

He pretends to look hurt. ”No. What are you talking about? No, of course not.”

”It won't help,” I tell him.

”What?”

”Talking to him. He doesn't listen to me.”

”Okay. Whatever.”

He opens the door, and more sunlight spills in. I feel nervous.

And I hear myself say, ”When will I see you again?”

It's the death knell. It's a dirge.

He says, ”You have my number. It's on the roster at McCoy's.”

I want to say . . . what? Everything. I want to say, Come back here. You can't do this. Women don't chase men; men chase women. Don't run from the natural order of things.

I want to say, You can't do that to people. You can't do that to people of my gender. We invest, I want to say, in every physical transaction. What I've given you is worth more than a favor.

Except that in his mind, it isn't. And that's just a function of age. s.e.x is cheap when you're young. Disposable income. When you're older, it's a rare, mysterious metal.

He actually winks at me, then goes out and closes the door hard behind him.

I think of Hallie. I think of me saying, ”Get rid of it.”

As if our mistakes could be so neatly wiped away.

As if admitting we are wrong buys us anything.

IT WASN'T THE PREGNANCY that made Hallie go away. Not directly.

The pregnancy itself went away, and I wasn't sure how. She wouldn't tell me.

I waited until the end of the lesson to ask so it wouldn't look as if I were some kind of obsessed old maid living vicariously through her s.e.xual drama.

The lesson had gone well. She was playing with much more fire. She was concentrating and finding surprises and even smiling as she moved through the changes. I wondered if it was her secret, all along, that had been interfering with her music.

”So what are we going to do, Hallie?”

”Do about what?”

”What we talked about last time. Your problem.”

She stared at me with genuine confusion. Then her eyebrows went up.

”Oh, that.”

”Yes, that. I told you I'd help.”

She waved a hand. ”It's taken care of.”

”What do you mean?”

”I took care of it.”

”But how?”

”I know people. I have resources.”