by Jillian Marie

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“You’ll do fine. Why so nervous?” Dr. Parkinson asked as we stood there backstage just before the concert.

I was nervous all right, just not for the reason he thought. The prank calls continued until we had our number changed, then whoever it was decided to step things up. Our mailbox began being flooded with CD’s of Beethoven, then the notes started.

First they said simply, ‘Good Luck,’ but as the week wore on the sender gave himself away as he added, ‘Kayla’. So finally I knew who had been harassing me this past week…Dr. Wyler. Somehow that knowledge did nothing to calm my fears.

When that first note showed up I had given in and contacted the campus police, who asked that I keep them in the loop should anything else show up. While not really doing much to ease my fears, at least I felt like I had done something toward the end of bringing an end to the harassment.

Of course, Dr. Parkinson knew nothing of all that, so as far as he was concerned I was merely nervous about the impending performance. I decided it was best to simply let him continue to believe that, so when I replied to his question I merely said, “I always get a bit of nerves just before I go on. I’ll be fine,” I tried to reassure him.

The concert began and as I stood alone backstage waiting for my cue to enter, my mind swirled. I thought of the notes and the audacity of their author. I thought of my clothing; the bra and panties, camisole, and the beautiful blouse that so looked like one Beethoven himself might have worn on stage. Yes, it was rather flamboyant, but I was a soloist after all; an artist of whom a certain amount of flamboyance and eccentricity was expected. At least that’s what I was telling myself. Unfortunately, the pleasant thoughts couldn’t drown out the awful and were eventually brushed aside so Dr Wyler once again dominated my thoughts.

When the time came for my performance the lights backstage flashed twice to let me know when to enter. I was greeted by an ovation that was completely unexpected…in a good way. I took a bow and then turned to sit at the piano.

As I looked down at the keyboard I spied a small note lying there. That note said ‘Good Luck, Kayla.’

I blanched momentarily before regaining my composure, then I discreetly picked up the note and stuffed it into one of my jacket pockets as I took my seat behind the keyboard. I closed my eyes to clear all non-musical thoughts from my mind before turning to Dr. Parkinson to signal him I was ready to begin.

As I started to play all the emotions that had been swirling around inside of me poured through my fingers into the piano…all the love, hate, fear…was there in each note. In a most uncharacteristic turn, I was actually able to ignore all the little mistakes I made, allowing me to focus completely on making my performance as expressive as possible. This felt like a huge step in my development as I thought back to performances where I couldn’t even remember playing. It seemed I was maturing as an artist and that fact made me proud of myself.

All was not well with the world, however. Whenever I would least expect it, the memories of Dr. Wyler and everything that had happened between us kept flooding back. I did manage to keep my composure and continued to play to the best of my ability, but underneath the confidant outer me those memories waited for their opportunity to jump up and take hold of me.

I also found myself rehashing everything that had been going on with Cindy of late. All the inner conflict, the questioning, and doubts ran unchecked through my mind.

When we first had our difficulties, I truly believed I couldn’t live without Cindy. The knowledge that such was not the case didn’t really do anything to make me feel better. To the contrary, it added worrying about our future together to the growing list of things keeping my conscious mind occupied so my subconscious could have free reign over my fingers.

I managed to persevere in the face of all that, and as my performance neared its end I couldn’t help but feel more than satisfied with what the audience was hearing. As I played the final notes of the concerto, I felt myself begin to wilt from the emotional drain I’d just put myself through. I started gulping air like as if I’d been held underwater and with each breath felt the tiniest bit of my strength begin to return.

Apparently the audience agreed with my assessment, as they cheered enthusiastically once the piece was over. It felt wonderful to receive such effusive acknowledgement for my performance and with each passing second I could feel myself being reinvigorated by the applause. I actually had to make two curtain calls before the crowd allowed the orchestra to move on to their closing selection, the Firebird.

Once I was safely ensconced backstage, the stage manager came up to me with a number of notes offering congratulations from various members of the faculty, as well as a solitary rose, which he said had been delivered backstage during my performance. I took it warily, wondering who it could be from but hoping it was from Cindy.

Unfortunately, when I looked at the attached note it quelled any thoughts of it being anything as pleasant as that. To my horror, the note said, ‘Congratulations, Kayla’. I threw the rose into the first trashcan I could find and made my way to the exit as quickly as I could.

As I paced up and down the hallway that bordered the concert hall, I wracked my brain trying to figure out if there was anything I might have said or done which could have inadvertently encouraged the old perv. Try as I might, I could come up with nothing. One positive to my trip to the hall was I finally had managed to calm my nerves and by the time the orchestra was concluding the Stravinsky, I had managed to regain some semblance of control over my emotions so I re-entered the backstage area.

I congratulated each member of the ensemble as they came past me while leaving the stage area and when Dr. Parkinson came up to me the first thing we did was offer each other our hands in celebration of a job well done.

“I’m really looking forward to the rest of the performances we have scheduled together, Kyle,” he said as we shook hands.

“So am I, sir,” I replied. “It was a lot of fun working with you this week.”

“Well, I hope you still think that way by the end of the semester,” he chuckled.

We then parted company as he was swept away in a sea of students. Once they had cleared out of the way I headed back into the hall, where I ran into Cindy and Sarah. One of them seemed thrilled to see me. Unfortunately, it wasn’t Cindy.

Sarah spoke first, “Great performance, Kyle!”

“Thanks.”

Cindy halfheartedly added, “It was lovely, Kyle.”

The chill emanating from her was a bit intimidating, but trying to ignore it I responded, “Thanks guys.”

I made an attempt to give Cindy a hug, but found it greeted with complete indifference. In as low a voice as would allow conversation in the noisy hallway I asked, “What’s wrong?”

She looked at me blankly for a split second before plastering a completely fake smile on her face and replying, “Nothing.”

Deciding not to press the issue any further at that moment, I suggested, “Why don’t we get out of here?”

Sarah, trying her hardest to help me responded, “Sure. It is rather boisterous here at the moment.”

She and I took Cindy’s arms and led her toward the exit. Not a word was said all the way out of the building, or the several blocks we walked to our apartment building.

Unable to control my emotions any longer, I asked, “Okay, so what’s wrong?”

“Not here,” was the only response I got from Cindy. Sarah gave me the most sympathetic look I had ever seen and we continued leading Cindy into the building and back to our apartment.

Once in our living room, Cindy began, “I don’t know if I can take this anymore.”

“Take what?” I asked, immediately receiving an icy stare from Cindy.

When she finally responded, she said, “Any of it. The dressing up, the crap with that pervert, the feeling like no matter what I do, I’ll never be anything more than second in your life. Any of it.”

Stunned, I stared blankly back at her. Sensing that I was floundering, Sarah jumped in, “Have you tried to talk about any of this?”

“Of course I have, but he won’t hear it.”

Angered I jumped in, “That’s not true. I always listen. You may not always like my response, but…”

“I don’t know that that’s helping,” Sarah butted in. Feeling chastised, I shifted my focus from Cindy to Sarah and back.

Starting to cry Cindy said, “I just feel like you don’t care about my feelings. You don’t take time to think about me at all. You just make decisions based on what you want and ignore what I might want.”

Quietly I asked, “Is that how you really feel?”

In between sniffled she responded, “Yes, it is.”

Feeling completely defeated, I slumped down into a chair and stared blankly in Cindy’s general direction.

Sarah started to leave and when I noticed her moving toward the door I said, “Please don’t go.”

This added to Cindy’s fire as she spat, “Why not Kyle? Why don’t you want her to leave? Maybe she’s the one you really want?”

I felt like I’d just been slugged in the gut by the heavyweight champ. Sarah saw this and started toward me before stopping and saying, “I don’t want to come between you two. I’ll go.” Without another word from anyone, Sarah left our apartment, leaving behind a deafening silence.

Cindy went into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. I took this as meaning I wasn’t welcome in the bed, so I stripped down to my panties, found a blanket, and lay down on the couch.

I don’t know how long I laid there unable to sleep, but I must have rehashed the evening’s exchange at least a million times before finally drifting off. Unfortunately, it didn’t stop there.

What little sleep I did get was peppered with dreams of yet more confrontations with Dr. Wyler. I would wake up from one and no sooner had I fallen back to sleep than another would start. By the time I’d given up on the idea of sleeping any longer, both the couch and blanket were soaked with perspiration.

When I decided it wasn’t worth dealing with yet another nightmare, I went into the bedroom as quietly as I could to get some clothes, trying along the way not to wake Cindy. That mission successful, I went back out to the living room and dressed before thumbing through the sheet music books on my selves in search of something to take my mind off of everything.

“This looks like just the thing,” I said to myself as I selected the book. Taking it to the keyboard, I turned it on and slipped the oh so familiar headphones over my ears, then opened the book and began sight reading JS Bach’s Two Part Inventions.

Playing them had a numbing effect on me, as by the end I was feeling much calmer than before. I continued on by going through the Three Part Inventions as well, though admittedly with somewhat less success sight-reading as they’re quite a bit more difficult.

I was deep into my own space when Cindy came into the living room, dressed and carrying her suitcase. I don’t know how long she was there before I noticed, but I stopped playing and removed the headphones as soon as I did.

“Typical,” she said, a disgusted look crossing her face. She turned to leave, with me jumping to my feet to follow.

Near the door, she stopped to face me and said, “I’ll be back later for the rest of my things.”

She took the engagement ring off her finger and gently placed it in my hand. As she opened the door and left I heard a tearful, “Sorry.” She pulled the door closed behind her, leaving me there staring at the ring in my hand.

I don’t remember much of what happened after that. I eventually wound up sitting on the couch still staring at the ring in my hand, though I have no idea how or when I got there. Strangely, I really wasn’t as distraught as I would have thought. I was mostly just numb.

I don’t know what time it was when I finally came out of my semi-catatonic state, but when I did I wandered into the kitchen where I saw a note from Cindy stuck to the refrigerator. She must have put it there while I was off in my own little world earlier.

Kyle,

Believe me when I say I really do love you, but I need to be more important to someone I love than you can let me be. I’m sorry I couldn’t be who you needed me to be.

I hope you can find some happiness.

Love,
Cindy

I re-read that note at least a hundred times before I managed to tear myself away from it. When I did I felt myself being drawn toward the keyboard. Still numb, I found my way back to my music library and selected a book at random. Without even looking to see what it was, I sat back at my keyboard, opened the book, and started playing.

As strains of Debussy filled my ears and heart, the tears began to trickle down my cheeks. Each note seemed to tug at a different part of me, until I felt almost as if I were being torn apart from the inside. How I managed to read the sheet music in that state I don’t know, but somehow I did.

The tears continued as I played my way through the entire book, until I was nearly falling asleep while playing. I succumbed to the call of my bed, but not before I changed into my nightie. I slept a dreamless sleep for the first time in weeks, but awoke feeling anything but refreshed.

When I arose, my first order of business was coffee. On my way to the kitchen to tend to that pressing need I spotted something strange by the front door. Upon further investigation, it turned out to be a small bust of Beethoven with the head broken off from the shoulders. I had no idea how it got there.

At that moment I was consumed by fear and anger, directed at the only person I could think of who would do such a thing…Dr. Wyler. I called the campus police to report this latest development, then called my only friend in the world…Sarah.

The phone rang several times before she answered, “Hello?”

“Sarah, it’s Kyle.”

My distress must have been evident in my voice, because she responded, “What’s wrong?”

I sighed deeply and said, “Where do I begin? Cindy moved out yesterday, and then this…”

She cut me off, “She what? What happened?”

“If I knew the answer to that one, things might be different. But that’s not all. When I got up this morning, I found a broken statue in my entryway. It’s a bust of Beethoven with the head broken off. It has to be him.”

“What have you done?”

“I called the campus police. They should be here in a few minutes, so I’d best get changed before they arrive.”

“I’ll be over in five minutes.” The line clicked, followed by silence.

I quickly ran to the bedroom and changed out of my nightie and into a t-shirt and jeans. Just as I was buttoning my fly there was a knock on my door.

When I opened it, two officers stood there waiting for me. “Sir, you called?” said the taller of the two.

“Yes. It’s about an ongoing investigation. This morning I found this lying here,” indicating the broken statue. “I don’t know how it wound up here, because it wasn’t there when I went to bed.”

Just then Sarah came through the door, walking straight to me and grabbing me in a hug that surprised me. When she released me, she asked, “Are you all right?”

“Officer, this is my friend Sarah.”

“Ma’am,” the shorter one greeted her.

“Good morning, officer,” she responded. She then turned her attention back to me and asked, “Did you tell them about the note?”

“What note?” asked the taller officer.

I gave her a perturbed look which I hoped conveyed the fact that I really didn’t intend to tell them before returning to the officer and saying, “A couple of nights ago I was appearing with the orchestra and when I went out on stage there was this note.” I retrieved the note from my jacket pocket and grudgingly handed it over.

He looked at it for a moment before handing it to his companion and asking, “Kayla? So this note wasn’t even intended for you?”

“Actually, it was. That’s what Dr. Wyler has always called me, for some reason.”

They both smirked before placing the note in an evidence bag. The shorter officer added, “We probably won’t be able to get anything useful from it, but it can’t hurt to check.”

As they turned to leave the taller officer added, “If we do come up with anything, we’ll let you know. If anything more turns up, please give me a call.” He handed me a business card, then they left my apartment.

We watched as the door was pulled closed behind them before I said to Sarah, “Thanks for coming over.”

“You don’t have to thank me. You should know that by now.”

“Yeah, well thanks anyway.” We went into the living room and took a seat on the couch. A silence settled over us, but oddly it wasn’t uncomfortable at all.

She finally broke the quiet asking, “So what happened with Cindy?”

I looked at her thoughtfully for a moment before responding, “You know, maybe this is just how things were supposed to happen between us. A couple of months ago I thought I couldn’t live without her in my life, but now…” I let the unfinished thought hang in the air to ferment.

Sarah put her arm around my shoulder to provide me some comfort, not saying a word. That simple act did more to make me feel better than any words possibly could have. I felt myself melt into her and as I did so all the stresses, which had been tearing at me melted away as well.

Once I’d managed to calm down I whispered, “Sarah?”

“Hmm?” she softly replied.

“Thanks.”

She softly rubbed my arm in reply. After a moment she said, “There’s nothing to thank me for.”

Eventually, she began to softly giggle. I asked, “What?”

“This is so Will and Grace.”

I joined in and after a while we were both laughing heartily, the problems that had so plagued me a mere moments before forgotten, at least temporarily.

Ludwig von Beethoven, Concerto No.4 in G Major, Opus 58
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Igor Stravinsky, Firebird Suite (1919) — Real Audio Format
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Johan Sebastian Bach, 15 Two Part Inventions, BWV 772-786
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Johan Sebastian Bach, 15 Three Part Inventions (Sinfonias), BWV 787-801
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Claude Debussy, 2 Arabesques (1891)
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Claude Debussy, Preludes, livre 1
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Claude Debussy, Preludes, livre 2
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Notes:

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To Be Continued...