The Lucy Variations Page 4

  Gus had on his school blazer and khakis, his curls damp from the shower. Her dad was in his charcoal fitted suit. Will’s wife, Aruna, wore her hair in a glossy black braid that trailed almost to her waist. Her dress was floatier and softer than anything in Lucy’s mother’s wardrobe, semi-boho. Will’s hand rested just below the tip of his wife’s braid, and Lucy tracked her eyes up his sweatered arm, to his neck, to the back of his head. He seemed so relaxed. That would end soon enough; he had no idea what he was in for, working here, with the Beck-Moreaus.

  Then he glanced over his shoulder that way you do, absently, when you think there might be something to see if you only look. His eyes, behind wire-rimmed glasses, met Lucy’s. She lifted her hand in a way meaning both Hello and also Interrupt Grandpa Bec Voutbid a k at your peril.

  He didn’t pick up on the second meaning.

  He turned all the way around, dropping his hand, and said – right as Grandpa Beck was going to announce exactly how much he’d paid for the baton – “Lucy.”

  Everyone else turned, too, all but Will and Gus holding martini glasses. Lucy’s dad’s face lit up, as if he hadn’t seen her in ages, and he came to her and kissed her cheek. “Hey, lovely.”

  “Lucy,” her grandfather said, in a volume that would have made more sense in a much bigger room – an auditorium, for instance – “I want you to meet Will R. Devi.”

  She extended her hand; Will shook it.

  He said her name again. Her full name. “Lucy Beck-Moreau.” Slowly. It meant something to him. “It’s a thrill.”

  If she hadn’t been so busy thinking about what to wear, she might have taken a moment to consider the obvious: Will Devi would know all about her. The party-crasher feeling disappeared, replaced with a crackle of excitement. Like how it used to be, her presence mattering.

  It didn’t feel bad.

  “Thank you. Nice to meet you, too.”

  “I’m Aruna,” his wife said. Her hand was warmer and smoother than Will’s. She had golden skin, perfectly shaped lips, perfectly shaped everything.

  Lucy’s mother excused herself to go check on the caterers, and Grandpa Beck blurted out, “Anyway, seventeen thousand dollars didn’t seem like too much to pay. This was twenty years ago, mind you. A lot of money at the time for that sort of thing.”

  Will laughed. “It still is.”

  Grandpa’s expression froze momentarily. Lucy caught her dad’s eye and suppressed a smile. No one had responded that way before, which meant Grandpa was off his script. Lucy mentally prompted him: You consider yourself a curator of sorts.

  “Well, I consider myself a curator of sorts. We wouldn’t want these things lost to history.” Then he stepped to the drinks tray. “Who’s ready for another?”

  Aruna went to him with her martini glass held out, and Lucy’s dad followed. Will, though, abandoned the other adults and said, “Hey, Gus, why don’t you come over and talk to Lucy and me?”

  He did, and Lucy could see from his body language and open expression that he already liked Will better than he’d ever liked Temnikova. “Will told Mom I should play more video games.”

  “He did not.” Lucy glanced at Will. “Did he?”

  “Yes, he did,” Will said. His smile, like everything else on his face, was crooked. “It’s actually good for the hands and for the brain, to take those kind of breaks.”

  “And after you told her that, you still have the job?”

  “It would seem.”

  One of the caterers came in to circulate a tray of hors d’oeuvres. “Vegan artichoke tarts,” he announced. Will took one, Lucy took two, and Gus shook his head.

  “So, Lucy.” Will turned his full attention to her. “I’m dying to ask. Do you still play?”

  She hesitated. Not because she didn’t know the answer, but because she hadn’t expected the question and [ quHe did, should have. “No.”

  “For fun, I mean,” he said, as if she hadn’t understood. “For yourself.”

  “No.”

  He still seemed confused, raising his brows at her. She shrugged and put an entire artichoke tart in her mouth. “This is good,” she said, after swallowing, before Will could ask anything else about piano. “Considering it has no butter or cheese or anything.” She held the other tart up to Gus’s mouth. “Here, try it.”

  He mashed his lips together.

  Will gave Gus a nudge. “Go ahead. It won’t poison you.”

  “I don’t—” Lucy shoved the tart into his open mouth. He bugged out his eyes, making Lucy and Will laugh. “It is good,” Gus said, when he could speak.

  “See?” Will said. “You should listen to your sister.” He winked at her. She wished she’d worn the polka dots after all.

  “A toast.” Grandpa Beck clinked his butter knife against his wine glass, smug, happy, and a little red-faced. After the martinis, they’d finished off two bottles of wine throughout the meal, and the caterers had just brought out another. Lucy was pretty sure that she, Will, and Gus were the only sober ones at the table.

  “To Will,” her grandfather said. “And to Gustav…”

  Lucy held up her water goblet and grinned at Gus. She still thought her parents should have let him meet Will before they made a decision, but it seemed likely to work out great. He deserved to be as happy as he looked right now, always.

  “…To their hard work and the many successes to come.”

  “Hear, hear,” Lucy’s mother said. Her dad had barely gotten in a word the whole night but now managed to say, “Cheers,” without being interrupted.

  They all touched glasses and drank, then Will said, “May I make another?”

  “Please.” Grandpa Beck held up the bottle of wine. “Anyone need a topper?”

  Aruna reached her glass across the table with a smile. She truly was stunning; Lucy’d noticed her dad and grandfather and even Gus sneaking glances all night. Everything she said came off witty and charming and smart, and her voice had a low, soothing quality. She touched Will’s hand a lot.

  It reminded Lucy of Grandma Beck and how she always touched whoever she was talking to. Lightly, and with a calmness. Not clutching or intense. Lucy missed that.

  Will raised his glass of water, and everyone got quiet, waiting for him to speak. Lucy tried to anticipate the kind of thing he’d say. Something funny? Sappy?

  He caught her eyes and seemed to lose focus for a second.

  “Go ahead, Devi,” Grandpa Beck said. “This is a ‘drink now’ vintage.”

  Will laughed and nodded at him. “It’s really a privilege to be working with this family. I’ve admired…well, everyone knows what a talented gene pool you’ve got. You’ve already made such a great contribution with your art. And so, here’s to that. And to art. To music. To the joy of creation, and the wonder of beauty in all its forms.”

  A collective pause stilled them. He was so…sincere. Could he, could anyone, really mean that? She watched him, wondering.

  The moment snapped in two when Grandpa Beck stood up – his way of ordering everyone from the table – and said, “To the piano. I can’t think of a finer moment to hear what’s in store for us.”

  The piano.

  There were better pianos out there, but this one had a story all its own. The baton was an anecdote; this was a tale. Of war and tragedy and overseas travel. Lucy tuned out while Grandpa Beck recited it to Will and Aruna. She already had the key facts etched into her soul:

  Fully restored Hagspiel baby grand.

  Made in Dresden in 1890, by Gustav Hagspiel – one of the two people Gus was named after. Him and Mahler, the composer.

  Bought by Grandpa Beck’s uncle Kristoff in 1912.

  Kristoff was killed in World War I, in the Battle of the Marne. No one in the family knew what to do with the piano; Kristoff had been the only one who played. They almost sold it before their move to America, when Lucy’s great-grandmother could see where Hitler was taking the country. They decided to ship it, as a way to honour and remember Kristoff,
who should have been with them.

  It came on an ocean liner, separated from the family by six months, and arrived without a scratch.

  Grandpa Beck, as the only child, inherited it the same year Lucy’s mother was born, and determined that she would play.

  “And did you?” Aruna asked Lucy’s mother.

  “For a time,” she answered.

  All eyes in the room were on the piano. Maybe Aruna and Will were imagining its wartime journey in a below-decks crate. Lucy thought about her mom and the picture on her mom’s nightstand of Lucy, as a baby, sitting in her lap at the keys of this thing that had been a presence, a force in her life as long as she could remember.

  She mostly avoided this room now. The smell of old sheet music, and the particular view from the piano bench, brought on a combination of nostalgia for her former self and memories of the despair before she quit, those years between the Himmelman and Prague. This room had been the site of her personal high, high, highs and low, low, lows, not to mention Temnikova’s death. And Great-Uncle Kristoff’s Hagspiel was there for all of it.

  Will said, “I’d love to try it out.”

  Grandpa Beck gestured to the bench. “That’s what we’re here for.”

  Will and Gus sat at the piano. Aruna had settled onto the small love seat, and Lucy joined her. Grandpa Beck took the wing-back chair, of course, which meant Lucy’s parents had to stand. Martin had followed behind them with a trayful of glasses and a bottle of brandy tucked under his arm.

  Aruna leaned into Lucy and put her lips close enough to her ear that Lucy felt her breath. “When it’s time for us to go, just give me the elbow, and I’ll get Will out of here. Once he’s at the piano, he loses track of things like time and space and social niceties.”

  “Don’t worry, my mom never loses track of social niceties,” Lucy muttered.

  “What are we going to play?” Will asked Gus.

  Gus looked blank. Usually he was told, not asked.

  Will hit a few notes. “Oh, this is nice. I feel the history.” He launched into some Gershwin, one of Lucy’s grandmother’s favourite modern composers.

  How did he know? But then, Gershwin was only one of the most well-known composers of the twentieth century; Will choosing him was coincidence. She stole a glance at Grandpa Beck to see if he was thinking about Grandma, too, but his face showed nothing.

  So she watched Will.

  His left leg moved up and down with the gentle tapping of his heel. His fingers, confident, glided across the keys. They had less arch to them than Grace Chang’s but more flexibility than Temnikova’s and produced rich dynamics. He was good. Better than good.

  “Gus,” he said, while playing, “do you know this?”

  “Sort of. Not really.” Gus had scooted over to the far right edge of the bench.

  “Play what you were working on with Madame Temnikova for the showcase,” Grandpa Beck said.

  Will grimaced, then smiled, at Gus. Only Lucy and Aruna could see. “Nah. Work starts Tuesday. Let’s just have fun.”

  Lucy waited for her grandpa to make a pronouncement about what Gus should be playing and when. He stayed silent, though, and so did everyone else. Will had cast a spell on them.

  “Okay, Gus,” he said. “How about we improvise a little?”

  He abandoned Gershwin and started to play a bass line that was not classical or jazz. More blues, or rock.

  Gus kept his hands on his thighs. “I don’t…”

  “Yes you do.” Will didn’t stop. “Go ahead.”

  Lucy’s breath became shallow. She felt as nervous as if it were her sitting there instead of Gus, asked to be spontaneous in front of Grandpa, the king of calculation. And yet, the whole situation excited her. When was the last time she felt anything but some combination of boredom and suffocation here in the house? Will had energy. It filled the room.

  “Come on, Gustav,” he said, “jump in.”

  “Go ahead, kiddo,” her father said, tapping his toe and looking dangerously close to dancing. “Ça passe ou ça casse! ”

  Roughly: sink or swim. The French came out when he was tipsy.

  Lucy’s leg twitched. She didn’t want this moment to wither away. She wanted it to bloom. And she wanted to hear her little brother blow their minds, like she knew he could. “Have some fun, Gus,” she urged.

  He turned to her, and she grinned. Show them, she thought.

  He did. At first his notes didn’t exactly go with what Will played, but then he picked it up. Lucy exhaled and leaned back against the love-seat cushion. If Will was the person he seemed to be, then things could be different for Gus. Maybe the chokehold could come off and—

  “Lucy,” Will said, loud and sudden, startling her out of her thoughts. “Now you!” He gestured with his head for her to get up.

  Me?

  She wedged her hands under her thighs. Gus stopped playing and scooted off the bench to make room, his eyes alight. He actually thought she was going to do it.

  “No, thank you,” she said, keeping her voice steady.

  Will’s bass line continued.

  Aruna nudged her. What right did Aruna have to nudge her? They’d just met. Lucy shook her head. “No.” No, no, and hell no.

  [gn= They&rsquShe’d just said to Will in the parlour that she didn’t play any more. Not for “fun”. Not for “herself”. And most definitely not in front of them.

  She got up, staying turned away from her grandfather. She imagined him saying, Didn’t you hear that our Lucy is a quitter?

  On her way out of the room, her father reached to gently hold her arm. “Stay, Luce.” She freed herself. Why couldn’t he be sweet to her like this without the help of excess wine?

  Will stopped playing. Lucy’s mother said quietly, “Our guests.”

  Lucy took a deep breath and turned to face the room. “I’m sorry. I don’t feel well. Goodnight.” It sounded so fake. She didn’t wait for them to reply.

  In the hall she bumped into Martin, who’d been standing in the shadows and li

  stening to the whole thing, she guessed. She brushed by him and climbed the two and a half flights of stairs to her room. And, too far away for them to hear, slammed her door.

  “What made you choose Alice Munro?” Mr. Charles asked. They were having their one-on-one meeting about the semester project, Lucy in the chair next to him at his desk while the rest of the class met in their critique groups.

  “Um.” Because you like her? “She seems direct. The people in the stories seem…real.”

  Mr. Charles brightened. “I studied her in grad school, you know.”

  “Oh. Really?”

  “So I can point you to some good resources if you hit a wall. Otherwise I’ll stay out of it.” It wasn’t his best hair day. He’d either just gotten it cut or needed to. Lucy wanted to smooth down a piece of ashy blond that tweaked out to the side, over his ear. “Have you decided how you’ll choose which five stories to write about?” he asked. “Because you could do a broad selection spanning decades, or you could hone in on a particular collection or time period.”

  Lucy studied his wrists, which were crossed and resting on his knee. She imagined him with a pen in one hand, reading her paper after she turned it in. She imagined him as a college student, hunched over a dorm desk, his dog at his feet. Then she pictured herself doing the same. Maybe English could be her new thing. What would it take for that to count with her mom? A PhD then tenure at an Ivy League school, probably. That should take only, what, twenty years?

  “Well, I’ve started writing some stuff,” she said. “But I don’t totally have it narrowed down to five. What do you think?”

  He answered, but Lucy didn’t have her usual intense ability to concentrate on him. She kept reliving the night before, that hopeful expression on Will’s face when he tried to get her to play. No one had mentioned it that morning, except Gus, who’d only said, “Will is neat,” over their hurried cereal.

  Lucy’d made an mm noise throug
h her food and avoided his eyes.

  “…the scope of a career,” Mr. Charles was saying. “Taking, maybe, her first published story and comparing it to her most recent. That’s one way. Up to you.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  He swivelled in his c ^th=hair, away from her. “Whichever way you go, I’m sure you’ll do a good job.”

  “You are?” Lucy asked, snapping her attention back to him.

  “Of course,” he said. “You’re not worried, are you?”

  “It’s my first really in-depth paper since coming back to school. In a normal class, I mean, without a tutor.”

  “Lucy.” His eyes scrunched in this way he had of smiling without actually smiling. “You’re very bright. And your insights in class are always on point and thoughtful. I can’t wait to see what you do with Munro, and if you need help, I’m here for you.”

  Her chest warmed, and she put Will and piano out of her mind. It could be a depressing thing to believe, at sixteen, that your best years were behind you. The promise Mr. Charles saw in her gave her a little hope.

  “Thanks, Mr. Charles.”

  “And thank you for the pumpkin bread on Friday. Sorry I ate it before giving you a chance to win your bet.”

  She grinned at him. “I knew you would.”

  By the next afternoon, her mood had continued to improve.

  Mr. Charles loaned her a thick collection of Munro stories, and when she flipped through it in class she saw his pencilled notes and underlines and a couple of Post-its with comments specifically for her.

  During PE she won a tennis game against Soon-Yi Pak. Soon-Yi totally smashed her in the overall match, but still. During the match she caught a glimpse of her own flexing quad as she waited for a serve, and felt powerful. A guy whose name she didn’t know said, “Nice play,” when he passed her in the hall.

  Reyna didn’t bring up the divorce even once at lunch, and Carson ate with them, which was always fun.

  And when she walked through the back door of her house, into the kitchen, the room was full of sunlight and Martin was pulling a tray of brownies out of the oven.

  “You’re the perfect mother,” Lucy told Martin, and gave him a kiss on the cheek.