6. Viola
Viola
Sarah and I trudged toward Mrs. Newman’s house.
Humid air clung to my throat. Lists and timetables tangled in my mind, blurring the park into smudged greens and grays.
My escape pressed at the edges of everything, tugging me forward.
Sarah’s upcoming party would be the last event before I slipped away.
“Yoo-hoo, Viola, anyone home in that head of yours?” She waved a hand in front of my face.
I swatted it playfully away.
“Are you really going to do it?”
“Of course. Every detail is seen to. My escape plan is in motion.” At least I sounded confident. I took a few steps before realizing she hadn’t moved.
Her face pinched. “Viola, there are situations beyond your planning—beyond anyone’s planning.” She shook her head, several locks of white-blonde hair escaping her bun. “I’m anxious for you.”
“I know my limitations. Truly. I can’t control the weather, my father, or society. Can’t even control George. I know some things are beyond me, but I can do this. I can manage on my own.”
Sarah smiled faintly. “On your own, you say? What about your two cats?”
I bit my cheeks to hide a grin. “Of course. How could I forget Pickles and Prince Fluffybuns?”
“You have names picked out for your future cats?” she asked, ambling forward.
“I have a list.”
“I think you might be taking this planning thing a bit too far.”
“Impossible.”
“You’re the only person I’ve ever met with a manifesto. I had to look up the word when you first said it. What fourteen-year-old says manifesto?”
“It’s an excellent word.”
Her face opened into a warm smile. “Remind me of the latest version.”
I cleared my throat and placed a hand over my heart.
“I, Viola VanMartin, will avoid the trials of love and marriage. I will turn my energy instead to industrious activities, charitable works, and the bonds of friendship.” I swept my hand in a dramatic flourish.
“I will be master of my destiny in my own country home, where I will live as a proud spinster with two adorable cats.” I bobbed a curtsy.
Sarah laughed. “Indeed. Grandiose and overconfident as usual.”
We climbed Mrs. Newman’s front steps, and I clung to my grand words as if I could force destiny into the proper shape. The gilded knob turned beneath my hand, and a bell pealed inside. The door opened at once. We were expected for tea and ushered straight to the parlor.
Mrs. Newman fluttered about with floating white hair and pale blue eyes. Her wrinkled hands tipped the pot, the same motion she’d performed my whole life. Steam rose from our cups, curling like memory.
“My darling girls, you must tell me of your recital. Sorry to have missed it, but my knees failed me that day. Old age turns molehills into mountains.”
Sarah said, “Well, Viola was magnificent as usual, and Franny was irritated to be second best on piano. Frank Connor noticed her distress and swooped in. Whispered sweet nothings until Franny forgot all about Viola.”
I sighed. “I doubt they will thank me when they announce their engagement.”
Mrs. Newman tittered. “Now I have heard everything. Our Viola—a society matchmaker.”
I grinned over the rim of my teacup. “And I’m working on a suitor for Sarah. Mrs. Grantham’s nephew is already half in love with her.”
“Not true.” Sarah’s face flushed. “We’ve barely traded two words.”
“But he couldn’t look away, and tomorrow he’ll hear you sing. Then he’ll be helpless under your spell.”
Mrs. Newman said, “Ah, there’s nothing like the attentions of a fine young man.”
Her face took on a familiar gleam as she urged me to the upright piano. Her favorite piece waited, propped open. My fingers moved over the keys, adding to the echo of music that never fully faded from her house.
She hummed along and swayed in her chair. The last chord drifted away. “Beautiful, my girl.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Turning into a veritable fountain these days. If only Mr. Newman and Charles Jr. could’ve heard you play.”
Her gaze lifted to the two portraits—father and son in Union blue.
A tale told so often it whispered from the walls.
Valor and sacrifice. She said, “Your playing carries me back. Laughter, tears, the quiet before dawn.” A wistful laugh shook her shoulders.
“My knees still fit for dancing. Our first waltz… Another blink, and we’ll be together again. ”
Her joy and grief pressed together. I wasn’t sure if I envied her or feared becoming her.
Guilt prickled when it came time to leave. I hadn’t shared my escape plan and was unsure when I would next come to tea. I said, “Now, do try not to get into too much trouble.”
Her eyes crinkled at the words of goodbye I’d used ever since I’d echoed them back to her when I was eight. She cupped my face, and I covered her hand with mine, pressing bird-bones and paper-thin skin against my cheek.
I kicked along the gravel as we walked home. “Every visit, her sadness is worse, and my music only reminds her of what she’s lost.”
Sarah linked her arm with mine. “She’s lonely. Not broken. Your playing heals more than it hurts.”
Silence stretched as we neared home.
“Why not at least tell George?” Sarah asked. “Let him know your plan.”
“Oh, I will. But not until it’s too late for him to stop me. What’s the saying? Forgiveness is won with less trouble than permission.” I waggled my finger sternly. “Remember, you’re sworn to secrecy. Absolute secrecy!”
Sarah groaned. “Fine. But you must remember I’m not happy about it. Not one bit.”
I forced a confident smile. But dissonance strained—unresolved and trembling.