Chapter Seventeen
Seventeen
Joseph
January 2002
The children and grandchildren spend the morning scouring for samples and souvenirs at Faneuil Hall and Quincy Market, while Evelyn and I slip away before her rehearsal with the Boston Symphony Orchestra to visit our first apartment, the little one-bedroom in the South End. We take the orange line from State Street, Evelyn tucked in a plastic seat by the train doors while I grip the metal bar above her, and exit the crowded T at Mass Ave., a few blocks away from where we once lived. We meander along the sidewalk that is the strangest type of familiar, like a dream confused with a memory, or a memory confused with a dream, past things we recognized, like Wally’s Café, a brand-new jazz club when this was our neighborhood—now half a century old—and things we don’t, like a Shell gas station and a Dunkin’ Donuts.
We turn off Tremont and our brownstone building is still there, as I remember it. The stone steps led to a heavy oak door, which opened to a dingy hallway, our apartment the first on the left. The iron fire escape that climbed up the side of the brick, the curved windows and little arched entryways that signaled below-grade apartments for rent. A thin mattress and table flush against the wall, the lodging house overflowing with families and young couples with little to their name. The years Evelyn and I spent mostly alone, newlyweds wrapped up in each other, cocooning from the grief we never could outrun.
Everything else has changed, though. The market across the street where we used to buy our milk is now a liquor store, bars on the windows. The sidewalk is cracked and crumbled in spots. There is a bike rack out front, a rusted frame with missing tires chained against it. The building is the same, but it is as though it has been picked up and transported to a new time. Which, I guess, it has. The street as I remember it doesn’t exist anymore, although it’s hard to believe something so alive in my memory can really be gone.
We sit together outside the apartment, our thighs and shoulders huddled close on a bench I don’t recall. It is too cold to stay long, the wind whipping through Evelyn’s hair. How intoxicating her chestnut curls had been then, how I buried myself in them as the morning sun crept through the blinds and I’d breathe her in, weakened by the softness of her naked form. She held me on top of her, ran her fingertips over my back and told me she felt safe under the weight of my body. Hours spent beneath the covers, nothing between our skin and the sheets but air warmed by our electricity. I recall Evelyn hauling groceries up the steep entryway, her foot stuck in the threshold to prop it open and her key tucked between her lips as she wriggled through. She insisted she was fine when I offered help but did not fight me, sweeping her hair out of her face, as I laughed, grabbed the overflowing paper bags and followed her inside.
I remember all these things as we huddle outside the apartment. We don’t speak at first, but despite the cold it is the warmest of silences, each of us suspended in the past, offering thanks to a place that was once our refuge. She smiles for the briefest moment, and I wonder which day she has stumbled upon, wish I could turn back the clock, start there once more, relive this whole life with her.
She shifts uncomfortably on the bench, her brow furrowed, her contented smile replaced by a melancholy stillness. “What’s wrong?” I ask.
She shrugs. “Today, the symphony... I should be so excited but... I don’t know.”
“What?”
“Once it’s over, then what?” Her voice is small and fearful, like a child’s.
“Then...” I pause, knowing what she means, that there comes a point when the days behind us far exceed what lies ahead, when all there is left to chase is memories. “It’s about enjoying every day we have left.”
She grows quiet.
“Are you nervous?”
“Now or never, right?” she jokes, and it feels forced. She spreads her gloved fingers in front of her and regards them like suspicious strangers. The doctors said the idea she could play at such a high level as her symptoms progressed was unlikely, verging on impossible. She practiced alone all week, and Jane came over last night to squeeze in one last private rehearsal. I lingered in the living room pretending to read, and my heart sank at each stretch of silence, signaling a mistake, confusion, momentary defeat. Then the music picked up, and I held my breath like watching a flickering heart monitor, listening for an outburst. They will rehearse with the BSO later this afternoon, and I pray that for today, her hands are her own.
Evelyn leans her head against my shoulder, watching people flow around us and each other, the city pulled by a tide all its own. I wonder what our life would have looked like if we had stayed here, if in another world this would be a farewell performance honoring a lifetime of achievement, instead of a consolation prize squeaked out before her final lap. A shadow of the real dream. If we never had children, if she saw the world, I wonder if she would’ve stopped missing home, if that life could ever have been enough.
I ask, “Do you remember when you moved here, after Tommy died?”
She murmurs her agreement.
“I was so afraid. I thought I’d never see you again.” Even now if I close my eyes I can feel the flutter in my stomach, suitcase in hand, as she crossed the street to where I stood, waiting for her to notice me.
“Why are you bringing that up?” She faces me, hesitant. “I thought you wanted to remember happy times...relive our best memories.”
I thread her fingers with mine, stroke her knuckle with my thumb. “I want to remember everything we shared, this entire life.” I pause, trying to articulate my thoughts, the feelings surfacing on this pilgrimage, wistful for those two young kids, their life just beginning. “The best way I can think to say goodbye is to revisit it all...falling in love, having our children, the grandchildren, all of it...even the days we were lost. It’s not only the happiest days, though they’re a part of it.” Her lower lip begins to tremble. “But it was also the hardest days. The days I was lost, the days I thought I’d lose you. When everything fell apart but you were all I needed.” A tear falls down her cheek, her hand clasped in mine, a hold so tender I never want to let go. “Those are the days I loved you most.”
Evelyn
Symphony Hall is brightly lit and cozy with the chatter of smartly dressed patrons. I peek out from backstage as they file in, the only evidence of the bitter January night settling in outside is the half-moon windows above the marble statues, blackened by the evening sky. Glistening chandeliers flatter the ornate ceiling, shaped like upside-down Christmas trees, their bulbs like glowing stars. My body thrums with anticipation, everything crisp and clear. The hum of the filling seats, the scores propped up on music stands onstage, waiting. The risk of this high-wire act surging through me, the sheer undertaking, so easy to slip, so far to fall.
We’ve been here for hours, watching the other pianists and awaiting directions, but only had one chance to rehearse. The conductor showed us our marks, where we enter, where to stand for our bows. I was too anxious to take any of it in. Even the run-through of our performance was a blur. It went okay, not perfect, a few missteps that glared red in my mind. Jane assured me no one noticed, and I’m grateful not only to not be alone, but to have her beside me. My eldest, my first baby, who offered her arm as we entered stage left, who painted my lips and sprayed my hair backstage. Who would be talented enough to perform alone, if she chose. I am the one who needs to share the notes with her, a score designed for two. I need Jane to carry the performance if I stumble. Without her, the risk of failure, of humiliation, the overwhelming regret, is too high. Without her, this dream is out of reach.
“Looks like a full house,” she says, peering out behind me. “You ready?”
“We’re about to find out.” I inhale, and breathe out slowly.
“Listen.” Jane grabs my hands, pulls them to her chest. “I know you’re nervous. I’m nervous. But this is it, the real thing, your dream finally coming true. Don’t waste tonight being nervous. Enjoy it. It’s amazing, and I’m so proud of you, and so proud to call you my mom—” her eyes well as she says it “—and I’m here with you, okay?”
I throw my arms around her, indebted to this incredible daughter of mine, this grown woman who stands beside me now, reminding me how far we’ve come. “Whew, okay.” I dab at my eyes. “Let’s have some fun.”
I had heard our concerto for the first time when Joseph took me to the symphony, and I was struck by Mozart’s dual arrangement. There was something joyful about it, soothing but playful, like someone bouncing through a lifetime of memories. A feeling of having truly lived: the grand opening, the drama and the hints of melancholy, the reflective, graceful finale.
A perfect farewell.
Joseph
As we take our seats, front and center in the audience, I notice the solitary golden plaque honoring Beethoven, the only artist deemed worthy of a carving. I had forgotten all about it until Evelyn repeated the story this morning to the grandchildren, a fun fact they could pocket and take with them as they entered the hall for the first time. The organ pipes are the only thing I remember, seeing them again I am still in awe of their magnitude, a mere mortal before the throne of the gods.
Onstage, two Steinway grand pianos gleam—stretched versions of the baby grand we have at home. There are two empty stools at the keys, and my stomach tightens with pride and nerves knowing Jane and Evelyn will soon be seated there. Evelyn has only gotten through a full practice once at home without pausing, without mistake. Her tremor has worsened, her joints tight and swollen, her patience and wrists so thin. Will she be able to see me here, right in front of her, sending her all of my strength, or will she be blinded by the spotlights?
The chatter has grown to a lively buzz as empty seats fill around us. Because of Marcus’s connections to the Boston Globe , we are seated in the very first rows. I crane my neck at the growing crowd and check my watch—eight minutes until showtime. Jane and Evelyn have been backstage since the afternoon rehearsal. Violet and Connor, Rain and Tony, sit on either side of me, alongside the rest of the grandkids and Thomas and Ann.
I spot Marcus in the aisle, dapper in a knit suit jacket and tie, and wave him over. As he reaches our row, I stand and extend my hand. “So glad you could make it.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” he says with a grin, taking his seat. Evelyn had to convince Jane it was wrong not to include him after all he had done. Although the way she hid her smile as she acquiesced, the way Marcus’s neck swivels as he searches the stage for her to appear, tells more of the story.
“I hope you’ll join us for dinner after. It’s the least we can do to thank you for everything you did, for making this happen. It means the world to us, truly, we can’t thank you enough.”
“I would love that,” he agrees, as a hush falls over the audience and the orchestra files onstage, instruments in hand.
The conductor waves his baton and the delicate music whispers to us. A man in a tuxedo strides onstage and bellows, “Welcome everyone, to a very special night here at the BSO, a one-of-a-kind celebration of local talent, incredible musicians with roots right in our own backyard. I would be remiss not to begin with a big thank-you to the Boston Globe for their sponsorship of tonight’s performance.” He stops for applause, highlighting upcoming shows and ways to give back for more events such as this, then continues, “Please give a warm welcome to our first guests of the night. A mother-daughter pair from Connecticut. Both women moved to Boston in their late teens and fell in love with our city, so please help them feel right back at home here tonight.” The crowd erupts into cheers. “Without further ado, here to play a rare piano duet, Mozart’s Piano Concerto number ten, Evelyn and Jane Myers!”
I sit forward in my seat, barely breathing. Evelyn and Jane emerge in black dresses, mirroring the rest of the musicians. Evelyn holds on to Jane’s arm, although whether out of necessity or nerves it is hard to say. She is so small, frail, next to Jane, who towers over her. My stomach clenches. They take their seats on the piano benches, smooth their skirts and wait for their cue. The music starts gently then picks up pace, the violinists in rhythm as one. My heart leaps, anxious for them to begin, barely hearing the music that preludes their accompaniment.
Then, Jane lifts her fingers to the keys and Evelyn follows, both in perfect sync with the instruments, with each other, their pianos distinct yet part of something bigger. The orchestra fades away and their solos ring clear through the rafters, filling the air with the sweetest vibrations. I’ve listened in on their practices at home as I washed dishes or skimmed the newspaper, but seeing them here, it is as if I am hearing it for the very first time. Evelyn is swept up in the music as the symphony swells around her and I am in awe of something I never fully understood until this moment. My eyes fill with tears, my fear falls away. Violet squeezes my hand, her cheeks wet. If there are other instruments or people onstage, I can’t see them, Jane and Evelyn float above the scene, their fingers dancing with precision to the music below. It is hard to believe after all these years, Evelyn is playing with the Boston Symphony Orchestra. My wife, my love, her dreams scribbled in ink, her eyes always on the clouds. She is my symphony.
They finish the song in a rush of grandeur and my vision swims. Jane and Evelyn embrace, and they walk to the edge of the stage, right above us, to take their bows. My throat is thick with pride; years ago it was hard to imagine them ever sharing a room again, never mind a stage. A relationship we once thought irreparable, mended. Evelyn is vibrant, awash in the spotlight, and Jane beams beside her. Evelyn looks to the audience, and when she searches and meets my gaze, my chest is a bursting flame. She lifts her chin to the glow of the spotlights as though warming it in the sun, her smile luminous, and the crowd roars in applause. I take care to absorb every detail, to never lose the feeling radiating from her, and to hold on to the feeling of standing before her, of being the man she chose.
Evelyn
The symphony aglow in stage lights, the orchestra swelling around me and Jane in the center, its beating heart. I soar outside my body, leave behind my trembling hands and foggy mind, each note and chord ringing perfectly in my ears, the entire hall fills with music I weave myself into. This is more than I could imagine, more than all the lists and all the dreams and the biplane and the sunrises and the trips and everything I thought would make me whole. I am both the loom and the shuttle, the string and the weaver and the tapestry itself, an ethereal, glimmering celestial tapestry of stars, its beautiful song tuning out the fear and the pain, until I could burst into a spectrum of light—and this, this is how it truly feels to fly.
And there, waiting for me on the ground when it is over, when Jane and I take our bows, is our entire family in the first rows, shiny and clapping and cheering, and my eyes fall on Joseph and suddenly I know it had been real, and he had been witness to it all, to the life we shared together, and to this very night when I finally touched the sky.