CHAPTER FIVE
Claude Durand is indeed a sweetheart. He is a robust, portly man around Josephine’s age with a full white beard and round, wire-rimmed glasses that sit low on his nose. He does indeed remind one of Santa Claus, and he is not creepy at all. When he arrives at the house, he smiles warmly and kindly, just like that jolly old Christmas elf, and I am immediately fond of him.
His wife, Audrey, is not a sweetheart, nor is she darling. If Claude is Santa Claus, then Audrey is Jack Frost—or Jane Frost, I suppose—cold, aloof, and barren. She doesn’t smile when she greets me, nor does she smile when she greets anyone.
Meeting her teaches me one useful thing, though. Josephine most definitely did not despise her husband. There is a difference between the occasional irritation Josephine shows and the naked contempt with which Audrey regards Claude.
Claude seems not to notice it at all. He smiles as he tells me how the two of them met, and when he looks at her, his eyes shine with real love.
"I was a talent scout for the Houston Philharmonic Orchestra at the time," he says in a mellow Cajun baritone. I was auditioning cellists and I'd taken a break for lunch in the park. I came across the most beautiful creature I'd ever seen playing a harp on a bench. I remember I stood there for hours listening to her. Do you remember, dear?"
“How could I forget?” she says drily.
“I watched her, ignoring all of the increasingly panicked phone calls from the other scout traveling with me, and finally, she looked me up and down and said, ‘If you’re going to stand there all day, then you can at least introduce yourself to me.’ Well, I did, and a year later, we were married.”
He beams at her, and she makes the saddest attempt at a smile I've ever seen. Or rather, the angriest. Her lips stretch in something that resembles a crone's leer more than an expression of joy. "Married fifteen years next week," she says.
Her tone is flat and emotionless. It reminds me of my mother’s, and my skin crawls. I can’t help but wonder if Claude is in danger. Not a kind thought, I know, but remember, I have some experience with vindictive wives.
Etienne and the children enter the room, and several of the other guests offer greetings. Audrey’s eyes move to Etienne, and a wave of longing crosses her face. Etienne, it seems, has quite a way with women.
Neither Etienne nor Claude seem to notice Audrey’s reaction, even when she greets him with an embrace that lingers longer than it should. “It’s so good to see you, Etienne,” she says.
“It’s wonderful to see you both as well,” he replies.
Audrey flinches at the word both and casts a brief, sidelong look of hate at Claude. Claude is looking at Etienne and doesn’t see it. “You look wonderful,” he tells the younger man. “When are you going to do the Christian thing and find a young woman to settle down with?”
A horribly inappropriate question, but I get the impression that Claude is viewed as a dear uncle to the Lacroixs. Either way, Etienne handles the question beautifully, laughing politely, then saying, “But remember, Claude, Christ never married. In any case, I did find a young woman to settle down with, and she lives fondly in my memory every day.”
A touch of grief crosses Claude’s face. “Yes. I miss her too.”
“We all do,” Josephine says.
Audrey mutters something, but no one seems to hear it. That’s probably for the best.
The children scamper up, and Amelia throws her arms around Claude and Audrey. Gabriel grins at them and offers a bashful handshake. I'll give Audrey credit. She softens immediately once the children show up and even bends down to give Gabriel a kiss on the cheek. "Hey guys! I'm so glad your grandma let you stay up!"
“I always let them stay up,” Josephine protests. “Do I look like I have the energy to enforce a bedtime?”
“We always go to sleep by nine,” Amelia retorts. “It’s just that we don’t have lessons tomorrow.”
“Only because Mr. Franz and I intend to drink until we’re forced to impose on Miss Josephine’s hospitality tonight,” Mr. Gilroy says.
The two teachers approach the group arm in arm. Franz casts an affectionately irritated look at Gilroy. “ You will have two drinks and if you want anymore, it will wait until we’re home.”
Gilroy pats Franz’s hand. “Of course, dear, of course.”
Franz rolls his eyes. “I’ll make sure he behaves, Miss Josephine.”
A single note sounds from the piano. That one note is enough to silence the crowd and turn everyone’s attention to the instrument.
A brief arpeggio follows, and gasps fill the room as the attendees see Gabriel sitting on the bench with sheet music in front of him. Claude lifts an eyebrow to Josephine. “You didn’t tell me we were going to be blessed with a performance from your grandson, Miss Josephine.”
Etienne frowns at Amelia, who beams gleefully at her grandmother. When she sees her grandmother’s shocked eyes and thin, bloodless lips, her smile fades into a look of confusion that quickly transforms to irritation. “This will be good,” she says, “You’ll see. Gabriel found a new piece.”
“ What new piece?” Etienne demands.
Gabriel himself answers that question when he starts to play. I’ve already spoken a little about how his playing affects me, so I won’t belabor the point except to say that it becomes immediately clear that I am not the only one so affected. The room stands in awe of the melody that pours forth from the old piano. Claude and most of the room are enraptured. Even Audrey appears entranced. Etienne and Josephine appear more terrified than charmed, but they stand stock still, seemingly unable to move or react in any way to the music. It is as though Gabriel has placed the room under a spell.
As for me, the awe and joy I feel the first time he plays fills me for the first few measures, but as the piece progresses, those emotions alter. The piece itself begins as a beautiful, romantic overture, more classical than jazz. After a minute or so, the tempo increases, becoming jaunty and playful. Gradually, this playfulness becomes mischievous as the melody leads the ear toward familiar phrases only to switch directions seemingly out of nowhere, taunting the listener with its approach to a conclusion but refusing to reach that conclusion.
This mischievousness becomes irreverent, and the music itself takes a darker tone. Now, it is no longer playful but biting and sarcastic. It mocks us for being unable to follow or understand it, and this is when my joy turns slowly to fright.
As the next movement begins, that fright takes a visceral turn when a flash of memory fills my mind. I no longer see Gabriel in front of me but Annie. We’re no longer in the Lacroix home but in our high school in Boston. Annie is seventeen years old and performing in our school’s talent show. Her performance—I recall now—began like Gabriel’s, gentle, sweet and light-hearted. As it progresses, though, it becomes aggressive, almost violent.
Ad Gabriel’s piece crosses that threshold from sarcasm to violence, the sound of the piano fades, replaced by the sound of Annie’s saxophone. The notes are wild, frenzied, and slowly lose all pretense of composition and phrasing, becoming an assault of sound that drowns out all others, subdues all thought, forces itself on one’s mind until it overwhelms us and pushes us to the brink of insanity.
Eventually, the notes are no longer even notes but discordant shrieks, the snarls of some otherworldly monster rather than the voice of a woodwind. Annie gyrates on stage, and at first I can’t tell if she is controlling the music or controlled by it.
Then she looks down at me. Her eyes are filled with hate, and I understand suddenly and completely that this is her curse to me. She is pouring every ounce of her disdain and hurt into this song and wishing that it would drown me, suffocate me, pull me under until I can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t feel anything but her hate.
I close my eyes, press my hands to my ears and open my mouth to scream.
“Claude? Claude!”
That isn’t my voice.
I open my eyes. I’m no longer in our high school. I’m back at the Lacroix house, and I’m looking up at Gabriel’s shocked face. I follow his eyes and see Claude Durand stumbling backwards, his hand clutched to his breast. Audrey has her hand on his shoulder, her eyes wild with terror. It’s her voice I hear, calling her husband’s name.
Claude opens his mouth and breathes something, but I can’t hear what he says. Then his eyes roll back in his head. He stumbles backwards and falls onto one of the tables. The table collapses under his weight, and the guests cry out with fear and concern.
Audrey drops to his side and grabs his face, tilting the sightless, lolling eyes up to hers. "Claude! Claude ! Oh my God, No !”
Etienne is the first among us to recover. He pulls his phone from his pocket and quickly dials nine-one-one. His hands are trembling. Josephine mutters something under her breath, staring at Claude’s body, and even as Etienne calls for an ambulance, I know that it is his body and no longer him. He is gone, felled by what appears to be a heart attack.
“It was just supposed to be fun,” Amelia whispers. “We were just showing off how good of a piano player Gabriel is.”
I blink and remember the children. Amelia’s face is ashen, and her lips are nearly as pale as Claude’s. I quickly gather her into my arms and call to Gabriel. “Gabriel! Come with me now.”
Gabriel rushes towards me, but Josephine catches him, gripping his arms and pulling him close to her face. Her lips are pulled back from her teeth, and she hisses like a harpy, "What did you do? What did you do ?”
Before I can react, Etienne pulls her arms off of him and says, “Enough, mother! Stop it!”
I step forward and grab Gabriel. “Come on. Let’s go.”
As I lead the children from the parlor, I hear Etienne speaking with emergency services while Audrey weeps and continues to scream her husband’s name.