2. The Recital — Part 2
I am serializing my collection Stories from The Last Basin currently available on Amazon. The stories are best read in the order of Table Contents:
The Recital
by John Anthony
Part 2
Yvonne and her sister chatted the whole way to Rose’s house. Patrick, exiled to the rear seat, felt himself drifting deeper and deeper into alien territory. Yvonne’s sister was planning her college tours and she and Yvonne droned endlessly about the pluses and minuses of all the places she was considering. They talked a little bit about the academics and a lot about the sororities. They were all on the East Coast and though Patrick had heard of most, he never really paid attention. The only place he knew he could afford was UCLA, and that was if he lived at home. Could he stand his mother for that long? That was going to take some work, and some divine intervention, which he didn’t count on. He couldn’t remember the last time he visited the confessional.
For Patrick, the drive seemed like an eternity although it was only a matter of minutes before they pulled up to what he recognized as a Tudor-style house, immaculately manicured and well-lit to show itself off. Rose’s parents had hired a parking service and Patrick’s door flew open at the same time as the others’ and a hand was presented to help him out. It was much fancier than what he offered at the restaurant.
Yvonne and her sister had already started on the footpath to the front door and Patrick had to hustle to catch up. “This place is something. What does Rose’s dad do?” he asked Yvonne.
“He’s in the business. He does deals.”
“Does deals? What does that mean?”
“Shush!” Yvonne ordered as they reached the door. They were met at the entrance by a professional greeter of some sort who perfunctorily pointed them towards a buffet and then towards a large living room where the recital was just re-starting after a short intermission. The wait staff had disappeared along with their platters of hors d’oeuvres, and the guests, composed of close friends and family Patrick assumed based on the wide age range, had set down their plates and grown quiet. Every seat was filled so the three of them stood at the far end of the room.
Patrick didn’t know how to put a name to it, but the interior furnishings felt as though they matched the exterior of the house. Later he might have called it Anglophile, but at the time he simply thought the dark leather and deeply stained paneling seemed out of place in this land of sunny winter days.
Rose entered the room wearing an evening gown of black satin with a small string of pearls and her untouched-by-the-sun dark brown hair pulled back into a tight ponytail. Patrick thought she looked beautiful and too perfect to ever touch (a presentation piece crossed his mind and he was momentarily saddened). She sat down on the piano stool, made a minor adjustment, took a moment to focus, then without hesitation nailed the famous trill and ascending Bb scale used in the opening theme to Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue. Patrick was familiar with the orchestrated version of the piece as it had long been incorporated into the American canon but watching the physicality required to play Gershwin’s masterpiece as a solo performance is what surprised Patrick. He assumed it required virtuoso skill to even attempt it, but as Patrick watched and listened, the performance at first felt to him as though Rose was engaged in a gladiatorial battle with this three legged predatory piano creature, seemingly out-matched in weight, size, and weaponry, but, with focused determination, wrestling to subdue the beast with two hands, ten fingers, and her right foot, her woman-child’s body taught as spring-steel leaning back for moments of rest then lurching forward again with an even more ferocious assault on the keys, but the battle wasn’t actually between Rose and the piano or Rose and Gershwin, and Patrick watching her hands strike the keys could see the real combat was within Rose herself. Her right hand defiantly objected to the rhythm her left hand tried to tyrannically impose upon it by layering a delicate melody on top of the right’s cut-time march, or her left hand skittered deep into the bass clef forcing her right hand to counterattack with a simultaneous and subversively, suggestively dissonant modal scale reaching high above the staff of the treble clef. This was the anarchy of the metropolis transposed into jazz and high art and just when Patrick felt as though the tension created by the grand American city of 1924 with too many people doing too many different things would cause the whole social edifice to crumble, a temporary truce would be called and both hands would join in a reflective return to the main theme, a short-lived reprieve as both left and right hands would return to skirmishes (a blue note here, a #7#9 chord there), just enough faints and jabs to recognize that soon the piece would broaden into open warfare once again.
Patrick thought it was beautifully exhausting and he wasn’t the least bit surprised that when she rose from the bench to accept the applause of the audience with a small smile on her lips, there were tiny beads of sweat on her brow, her breath was drawing deep, and her eyes resisted relinquishing the fierce competitiveness they harbored.
The audience of friends and family called for an encore and Rose obliged with one of Bach’s short and difficult études. Then looking a bit relieved, walked away from the piano amid the final applause to mingle with the guests. Yvonne and Janet wandered off to speak with some friends leaving Patrick to fend for himself, which meant standing somewhat uncomfortably right where he was. He had come because he was curious to hear Rose play. Although he knew her, he had known more about her than who she really was, and now he was satisfied that what he knew about her was exactly who she was, and he started to think about leaving as he would have little to say to any of the guests, or Yvie, or Rose. Instead, he was offered a platter of appetizers and realizing he hadn’t had dinner, he took two. He ate the small bites from the small napkins quickly and was still chewing when a tall man approached him, dressed in a sharp and casual way, a kind of trick best pulled off, Patrick felt, by those with money and an intentional upbringing.
“I’m William Pelter, Rose’s father,” he said, extending his right hand. “And you are?” Patrick pointed to his mouth, accepted the handshake, and hurriedly tried to swallow. Mr. Pelter laughed. “I apologize. Take your time.”
“No. I’m sorry.” Patrick finally managed to say. “I’m Patrick Beckett. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise. And you’re a friend of Rose?”
“Acquaintance, I guess. I came with Yvonne and Janet,” Patrick said, then added, ”Rose invited me.”
“Yvonne and Janet are nice girls. Would you like something to drink? Water? Soda?”
“I’m good, thank you. I really enjoyed the recital.”
“You’re a music fan?”
“I played clarinet in the school orchestra but picked up guitar and never looked back. I play in a band with some friends.”
Mr. Pelter chuckled. “More popular with the young ladies, I suppose.” Patrick looked at him to try and figure out where he was going, but he seemed to be just making conversation, so he smiled back.
“Maybe,” Patrick said. “We practice hard, though, so I guess we earn that compensation a little bit.” Mr. Pelter chuckled again.
“Fair enough, but I wasn’t implying anything more,” he said. “What are your other interests?”
“School’s started, so there’s that. Spent the summer at the beach surfing and hanging out.”
“Practicing to become a beach bum, eh?”
“Not exactly. I kind of grew up on the beach. No practice needed,” Patrick said, and Mr. Pelter again laughed his easy laugh.
“I was just messing with you, Patrick.,” he said, smiling just as easily. “When I was your age, I spent my summers in the ocean as well, swimming and sailing off a little island called Martha’s Vineyard. It sometimes seems as though those were the best days of my life.”
“Really? These days seem pretty nice for you.”
“You’d be surprised,” Mr. Pelter said, but the conversation ended as Yvonne and Rose joined them. “Hi, Sweetheart,” Mr. Pelter said to Rose giving her a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “You played superbly, as always.” Rose blushed and gave her father a daughter’s hug, whispering, “I love you, Daddy.”
“And nice to see you, Yvie. I was just getting to know Patrick,” Mr. Pelter said.
“Short conversation then?” Yvonne asked.
“Impressive double entendre considering how thin the air is at your towering height,” Patrick said with a smile. Yvonne didn’t smile, and Mr. Pelter laughed once again. Laughing seemed very effortless for him, Patrick thought. His Ma never laughed, and he had no idea whether his father laughed or yelled or cried.
“Hi Patrick,” Rose said. She had freed her hair from the ponytail and now it flowed over her shoulders in a cascade a youthful exuberance, seemingly alive in its sheen and undulating body. It was hard for Patrick to believe a short while ago she was battling, if not for her life, then for her aspirations. Now she was a girl again, at least on the outside. “Thanks for coming,” she added.
“Thanks for having me. You were pretty amazing, tonight.”
“That’s sweet,” she said and thanked him again. It was an awkward exchange, and he understood the gulf between them had widened considerably since he had chosen to accept the invitation and materialize in her home, the party guest no one expected. Both Patrick and Mr. Pelter were working on what to say next while Yvonne started smiling and looked like she was enjoying being proved right when another adult arrived, in her heels almost as tall as Mr. Pelter, and surprisingly relaxed in a more formal evening dress. Patrick didn’t have to guess who she was.
“Hello,” she said, also extending her right hand to Patrick. “I’m Laura Pelter, Rose’s mother.” Patrick gently shook her hand.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Pelter. I’m Patrick Beckett.”
“The pleasure is likewise, I’m sure. Don’t run off,” she instructed him while turning to her husband. “William, be a dear and escort our Rose for a visit with your mother.” Then, turning to her daughter she said, “Your grandmother flew across the whole country just to see you tonight and you should show a little courtesy and spend some time with her.”
“Yes, Mother,” Rose answered.
Mr. Pelter shook hands with Patrick, “It’s been a pleasure. I’m sure we’ll get a chance to speak again.”
With a round of see-you-laters, Mr. Pelter put his arm around his daughter as they walked away, he pulled her close and kissed her on the top of her head. The affection the two of them had for each other was hard for Patrick to miss. Yvonne trailed behind them. Patrick was left with Rose’s mother, who had re-focused on him.
“Patrick was it?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Oh, don’t be so formal. I hardly feel like a ‘ma’am’. How is it you know my Rose?”
“Through Yvonne. I guess Rose and I are more of acquaintances.”
“Of course! Yvonne.” Mrs. Pelter said in exaggerated revelation. “They were in grammar school together. Now Yvonne is in University High School. Tempus fugit, as they say.”
“As they say,” Patrick agreed, pretending he knew what she meant. Luckily, Mrs. Pelter changed the subject.
“Please let me show you the house,” she said, grabbing Patrick’s hand and leading him away. It was an overly familiar gesture; Patrick’s own mother never took his hand, at least not in his memory. Oh well, he thought, and he let her lead him without resistance.
“You’ve seen the formal living room. That’s a Steinway medium grand piano, by the way. Perfectly in-between a baby and a concert. We ordered it to fit the room.”
“Yes, I know the difference. I was in orchestra.”
“Why that’s wonderful!” she said again with her exaggerated revelation voice. “What instrument do you play?”
“When I was in orchestra, I played the clarinet. I play guitar now.”
“That’s a very popular thing these days.”
“I guess.”
“Do you like the furnishings, the interior design?”
“Sure. Everything is sort of a matching shade of brown.”
“Conway & Conway did all the work. Had all the major pieces acquired and shipped from the U.K. The paneling was hand-built on-site. It took the tradesmen weeks to get the stain just right. You have a sharp eye,” she said, giving him a knowing look. “Conway & Conway have been number one since the Hoover administration. Of course, they only have offices in New York and Boston. Oh, and London, obviously, so your parents might not be familiar with them. Do they have a favorite firm?”
“They do. Sears & Roebuck,” he answered as naturally as possible, and Mrs. Pelter laughed out loud. She had a nice laugh, he thought, and a pretty smile, the same smile as Rose.
“A musician and comedian,” she said. “That’s a winning combination. You must be very clever.”
“I try,” Patrick said. She led him into the room where the buffet was set up. Here it was only slightly brighter, with wainscoting below a dark green paint. Large portraits hung on the walls; Patrick was pretty sure none of them were current family members, not from the settings, and not from the dress.
“This is the formal dining room. The table was carved from an English oak hewn sometime in the Sixteenth Century. It seats fourteen. The chairs are made from the wood of the same tree.”
“I guess that was a lucky tree,” Patrick said. Mrs. Pelter looked at him quizzically. “Lucky,” Patrick continued, “because my understanding is most of those old oaks were hewn in order to be made into ships and boats and they ended up rotting at the bottom of ocean. Back when Britannia ruled the waves, and all that.” Mrs. Pelter stared at him for a moment and then broke into a smile. “I read a lot,” he added in explanation.
“A scholar of history as well. You are very clever. I knew I was right.” She wasn’t exactly making Patrick feel right though, not that she had been even a little bit rude. “Of course, we don’t normally eat here. We have a lovely little breakfast nook off the kitchen. Let me show you!”
“This is very nice of you, Mrs. Pelter, but I really don’t want to take you away from all your guests, and Grandma, and Rose.”
“Nonsense. This is my pleasure.” And she led the way into the kitchen, which was a hive of activity. It was catering central, with waitstaff returning used napkins, flatware, platters, plates, and glasses and exiting with refills of canapés and freshly uncorked wine. Others were doing dishes while still others were prepping and cooking. It was a very big kitchen and Patrick couldn’t keep from saying exactly that.
“It has to be. We entertain often,” Mrs. Pelter said, pronouncing the t.
“I often wonder why people don’t say soften,” Patrick said pronouncing the t in both words, then worried he had spoken out of place, offending her perhaps.
“And now you’re teasing me. You are the charmer.” Mrs. Pelter’s smile was still bright. “Here is our cute little breakfast nook.” It was as large as the whole first floor of his family’s apartment, Patrick calculated. “If only it weren’t so dark you would be able to see our beautiful yard. It’s just wonderful to sit here in the mornings with coffee and watch the birds fly in and out of the trees. It’s so green.”
“You miss New England, don’t you?”
“I do, and not just the countryside; there’s so much more there. Friends, culture — everything is more refined. People just seem to know where they fit in. Here, let me show you this.” And she led Patrick to a door. Do you know what this is?” Patrick shook his head.
“It’s the service entrance! Isn’t that quaint? A door just for the service staff?”
“I guess so.”
“And appropriately it is the door you’ll be using to leave my house. If I wasn’t such a lady, I’d quite literally kick you right through it. Of the many reasons I spend the money to send Rose to Marymount High School, is so that she doesn’t get distracted by little boys like you, with your hair and dressing like second-string members of the Manson family.” Mrs. Pelter paused to smile. “Have a very pleasant evening.” She opened the door and Patrick stepped into the night.
* * * * *
As he walked down the driveway toward the street he felt his face burning with humiliation. He didn’t know exactly where he was; Westwood wasn’t laid out on a grid like Santa Monica. He wasn’t even sure which way to walk. When he reached the end of the drive, he was surprised to see Rose’s father standing there, his Mercedes running and a valet holding an open door.
“Thanks for having me over, Mr. Pelter,” Patrick said.
“I knew we’d have another chance to talk. I’m sorry about the circumstances.”
“It’s cool. Would you point me towards Santa Monica?”
“Let me drive you home.”
“You sure?”
“The car’s waiting. Go on. Get in,” Mr. Pelter said, and walked around to the driver’s side, where the valet closed the door for him. Patrick climbed into the passenger seat and buckled his seat belt.
“Where are we going?”
“26th and Santa Monica Boulevard is perfect. You can make a U-turn and head straight back. Or go up past the Nuart Theater to the 405. It’s a short walk for me from there.”
“Santa Monica is a good school district. And it’s not exactly an inexpensive place to live. Sounds like your parents are just trying to give you and your siblings . . . you have siblings?” Mr. Pelter asked glancing at Patrick and Patrick nodded thinking of Erin. “A better life for you and your siblings.”
“Probably,” Patrick answered. Then, “It’s not really what you think. I’m not even sure you could imagine. I’ve tried to do it myself and for my sister, but my sister doesn’t give a shit and nothing I’ve done seems to have made me any more welcome at your house.”
“I’m sorry I made an assumption. I can be pretty dense at times.”
“No. I’m the one that’s dense. I knew I didn’t belong there. I was about to leave, but then you walked up. Otherwise, I would never have had to meet your wife.”
“Don’t let her bother you too much. There’s always a bigger fish waiting to make a meal of you.” They drove in silence for a while.
“Rose is very talented. That piece she played tonight sounded beautiful and I know how technically challenging it was,” Patrick said.
“Yes, you’re right, Rosie is talented and focused, and she worked very hard to learn Rhapsody in Blue, but there’s a cost; she’s never going to have the chance to learn the things people like us experience as kids.” People like us, Patrick thought. Was Mr. Pelter being patronizing or simply careless? “I love Rose more than anything else in life, but a mother’s love is unequaled in a lot of ways, not all of them healthy.”
“I don’t remember my father and my ma — yes — you could say her love is unequaled. At least she stuck with me and my sister.”
“Was that good or bad?”
“I wouldn’t know, but if I had to guess, it was better than the alternative.”
“I’m sorry, Patrick.”
“No! No . . . don’t fucking be sorry. I don’t need that. I’ll be fine.” Patrick immediately felt awful. “I’m the one that’s sorry. I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.”
“Don’t let it bother you. I wish I could tell you to call me and let off some steam anytime but, well, you know . . .”
“Yeah, I know.”
It didn’t take long to reach their destination and Mr. Pelter pulled to the curb. Patrick thanked Mr. Pelter and shook his hand. He stepped out of the car and walked home slowly. Rose had a real father, not some mythical creature that had somehow cursed his family. He wished he had more time to speak with Mr. Pelter, but maybe it was fine as it was. He decided he would make sure he would never see Rose, or Yvie, or Shannon ever again; what he thought had been a good idea just seemed stupid. All he wanted to do now was get home and crawl into bed with that Kesey book he was reading. The title, he thought to himself, was just perfect.
End.
