3. Rochelle
3
ROCHELLE
I had only intended to be here an hour or so, but before I know it, the sun is going down. The Chopin Nocturne matches the beauty of the evening, and more people than usual stop and listen.
There are a few elderly people of various ethnicities, a young Hispanic couple holding hands, and a ridiculously good-looking white guy who looks a little stressed. He sits on one of the benches and smiles at me, his fingers moving over his knee. He must play, too.
I don't think much when I play. I am blissfully focused. That, and the comforting knowledge that Walken and Sigourney now have a key to my place, is enough to make the thought of my stepfather's letter go away.
When I'm done, an older Asian woman requests Schumann. Not my favorite composer of all time, but fortunately I have a few pieces in my repertoire. The Symphonic Etude isn't easy. My digital piano shakes and rocks under my hands.
About halfway through the piece, I'm vaguely aware of the hot, sandy-haired guy passing by and putting a tip in the jar. I glance up to say thanks, and he’s gone.
The lady who requested the piece applauds loudly as I finish and puts a five in my jar.
"Oh," she says, taking a second look at my cash. "That good-looking gentleman was generous."
I look at what she's pulling out, shocked to realize it’s a fifty-dollar bill she’s holding up.
"Looks like I'd better step it up." She digs out her wallet again, and I laugh, holding up a hand.
"No, no. You're very generous. I usually get people's unwanted pennies and dimes, so anything that's paper makes my day.”
She smiles and adds two more dollars. "You deserve it."
"Thank you. Better quit while I'm ahead."
The lady nods. "I've never had a problem in this park, but be safe heading home. Stay on the lit paths."
"Thank you," I say, genuinely touched. "And you, too."
As she walks away and I begin to pack up, my thoughts lose the meditative, relaxed quality the music had induced.
I want to push my stepfather's letter out of my mind, but it's too hard. Steve has demanded my physical address, and I refuse to share that information. So now he’s demanded I come to the house in person to collect the items that are, by all rights, mine.
He is selling the house. My mother's house.
The thought infuriates me and breaks my heart.
The letter harped on chastising me over the detail that I didn’t stay to watch the internment of my mother's ashes. As if that changes anything. As if it really proves I’m such a bad daughter he has a right to ignore my mother’s own will, which I know he’s hoping he’ll convince somebody is the truth.
I zip everything into the carrier bag and hoist it up over my shoulder, my music and tip money separated in my satchel.
I'm still thinking about Steve as I walk toward the street, not paying as much attention to my surroundings as I should.
An unexpected movement on my left makes me jump and scream a little. There's a scuffling noise from behind some bushes. I stop, unsure if it's a drunk or someone who's been hurt.
"Hello?" I ask with trepidation. "Are you okay?"
An obscenity comes from the darkness, and I get out my phone, about to call 911.
“Mostly fine. Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”
I move closer, hoping that it’s not a trap. Enough people are near enough so I can scream bloody murder if something happens.
The source of the noise steps out onto the path toward me at the same time. It’s the hot white guy who gave me a large tip. I don’t believe this.
But then I freeze, looking at his face. He didn’t look like this a few minutes ago.
One eye is horribly swollen. His nose is bleeding, and a cut over his cheek looks red and angry.
"Should I call an ambulance?" I feel a little guilty about noticing his chiseled face before taking inventory of the cuts on it.
He winces. "I don't think I need them. I mean, I can move everything. I don’t know what happened to the other guy. I kicked his ass and he ended up running off, but he did a real job on me first. Jumped me from behind and everything like a real creep."
He looks at me and tries to smile despite a swelling lip. "Hey, it's Schumann girl! Fancy seeing you here."
I smile back. "That's me. Thanks for the tip, by the way. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Well, good thing it bought me some help, right?”
“I’d have done that for free. But the service will be exceptional now.”
I take his arm, half joking and half not, as though I’m helping support his weight. He’s far too tall for that to really be possible, but he does seem to relax a little against me anyway.
I can’t help noticing that he smells like an orange grove, despite being covered in dirt.
"I wish I could say, 'You should see the other guy,'" he says through gritted teeth as we walk. "I mean, you should. All the marks I left on him might at least make him think twice about pulling his stunt on someone else. Even if it doesn’t, he’s gonna have a hard time blending in and finding a mark. But he’s long gone, so there’s no chance you’re going to see my work.”
“Hopefully they’ll find him. I can’t believe this is still happening these days. And to someone as…”
I almost say, ‘as buff as you,’ and then, ‘as tall, strong, and handsome,’ but I restrain myself.
"Can you make it to the bathrooms?" I ask. "We can get that bleeding to slow and give you some time. And we can call the police."
"I'll do that when I get home."
"Did they take your phone?"
"My phone wasn't as nice as his and the screen was cracked. He took one look and said, ‘Nah, not worth it.’" He grins playfully.
We go into a large all-gender bathroom. He leans against the sink and sighs, looking at me out of his non-swollen eye.
Even through the blood, his smile is charming. He watches me prop open the door before I work on him.
"Smart," he says.
"A girl's gotta look out for herself." Even with someone as hot as him.
I pull paper towels from the dispenser and press them onto his cut. Holding his head in my hands, I grab a moment to observe his handsome features. He has sandy-colored hair and soft brown eyes that could pull a girl in for days.
"This is what I get for focusing on my dumb family drama instead of my surroundings.”
"You too, huh?" I say. We are close together, and I whiff the old-fashioned scent he must be wearing, like ginger and leather. It's soothing.
"They want to make all of my decisions about my life, so it goes the way they want it. And I won’t do it. So they try to control me by pretending it’s all just pragmatic concerns. They think I don’t know what I’m doing with my life.”
"Do you?"
"Do I what?"
"Know what you're doing with your life?"
He nods. "Absolutely.”
"But they don't like it?"
He nods again.
I shrug, trying not to look dismissive. Your parents care about you too much, and I’m supposed to feel bad? I wish I still had my mother around to nag me about my life.
“What?” He must detect the skepticism in my eyes.
“What, what?”
“You seem to have some thoughts about it.”
I shake my head, trying not to look into his handsome face.
"Come on," he says. "Out with it."
I shrug and step back. "It just seems like kind of a nice problem to have in a way.”
I brace myself for him to get angry, but he stops to look at me, to hear me. I pause, not knowing if he’ll say something. Then I fill the silence.
“I lost my mom when I was a teenager. But she married a jackass, my stepdad. I would have given anything for her to be concerned about my well-being. I don’t know. Maybe it doesn’t work like that.”
I droop my head, then look up to see him listening eagerly. “And now he’s playing games with her estate. He’s threatening to throw out her belongings. Like Grandpa Leonard’s piano, which is the most valuable thing to me in the world.”
"Your playing is wonderful. I hope you get the piano. You know what’s crazy… um. You know, I don’t even know your name. I’m Frederick.”
“Rochelle. Nice to meet you.”
“You, too. So, you know what’s crazy, Rochelle?”
“What?”
“Your situation isn’t that different from mine if you can believe it. My mom says she’ll cut me out of the will if I don’t live my life according to her wishes. I get so sick of it.”
“Wow. So what are you doing to do?”
“Nothing different. I don’t care. It’s money, and I have more than enough. But with your problem, it’s even worse, because the piano holds so much sentimental value. My mom gets more upset about her threats than I do, actually. ‘The shame of cutting my son out of the will!’”
“That’s kind of funny.”
“It is, isn’t it?”
He stands up straight and stretches his arms a little. "My head's way better. Do you live close to here? Especially since you're lugging that instrument."
"Just a few blocks north, on Adam Clayton Powell. Very close."
"Allow me," he says, stooping to grab the keyboard and wincing slightly as he lifts it.
I hold out a hand to stop him and he smiles. I can't help but notice how charming he is carrying my instrument. Despite the slight wince in his eye, I’m glad he was the patron who got mugged tonight and not the old lady who requested Schumann. He’s a hell of a lot easier on the eyes than she was, even with blood on his face.
"Absolutely not. Chivalry will not die under my watch. And I'd love to contribute more cash to the noble cause of being a working musician in thanks for your help if you'll allow."
"How? Didn't you lose your wallet?
He pauses and then laughs. "No, I told you. I scared the guy off."
"Thank you, anyway, but I think you’ve been through enough for tonight," I say as we leave the bathroom. "To ask for more money just feels like extortion at this point. By the way, I noticed your fingers moving when I was playing. Do you play, too?"
"I was forced to as a child, so, no. Not since I've been able to make my own choices. But I'm glad I did, since it lets me appreciate just how talented you are."
I can't help but feel shy hearing his compliments and seeing his smile.
"Come on, I'll walk you home," he says. "Don’t want you running into any bad guys in the park."