Part 5
He described the Young Artists Initiative in plain language: free weekly instruction, transportation stipends, practice rooms available after school, loaned instruments, and paid teaching fellowships for local musicians. He credited the education department by name. He did not mention Evelyn until the end.
“This program,” he said, “owes its existence to a principle established here decades ago: that excellence means very little when access is reserved for people who already possess it.”
His gaze found Evelyn in the last row.
“We have not always honored that principle as well as we should.”
The room became attentive in a different way.
Alexander did not describe the lobby incident. He did not call it a misunderstanding. He said the museum would review its guest and donor policies, publish the findings, and accept responsibility for what those findings revealed.
Marian stood near the stage curtain, still as carved stone.
Evelyn watched the people around her decide whether to applaud. A few did. Others followed. The sound grew, but not triumphantly. It was uncertain applause, the kind that admitted discomfort while hoping to be credited for courage.
Sophie leaned close. “Are they clapping for you?”
“No.”
“For him?”
“Some are.”
“What are the rest doing?”
“Trying not to be the first person who stops.”
Sophie smiled despite herself.
After the remarks, a youth ensemble performed a movement from a Mozart divertimento. The violinist nearest the aisle was perhaps fourteen and had a habit of lifting her left shoulder during difficult passages. Evelyn noticed it in the first eight measures. By the end of the movement, she had to restrain herself from whispering advice to a child she had never met.
The music was competent, earnest, slightly rushed.
It hurt more than perfection would have.
Thomas had loved student performances. He claimed professionals knew too well how music was supposed to end. Young players still seemed surprised when they arrived there.
Evelyn felt Sophie’s head settle against her upper arm.
For five minutes, neither of them moved.
When the applause began, Sophie sat upright. “Did you like it?”
“Yes.”
“The second violin was behind.”
Evelyn turned slowly. “You heard that?”
Sophie shrugged. “A little.”
“Your mother used to say the same thing whenever she wanted me to suffer.”
“Was she right?”
“Usually.”
The audience began moving toward dinner. Alexander appeared at the end of the row.
“The hall is clear behind the stage,” he said. “We can go now.”
He led them through a side door and down a narrow corridor lined with framed programs. Evelyn’s younger face appeared repeatedly behind glass: Evelyn Moore Performs Rachmaninoff; An Evening with Evelyn Moore; Dedication Concert, Moore Performance Hall.
Sophie stopped at a photograph from 1992.
Evelyn stood beside Thomas on the stage. Her hair was dark, her dress was black, and she looked annoyed.
“You look mad,” Sophie said.
“I had just learned the flowers were lilies.”
“What’s wrong with lilies?”
“The smell gives me headaches.”
“Why didn’t you tell them?”
“I did. They forgot.”
Thomas, in the photograph, was laughing at something outside the frame.
Sophie touched the glass near his face. “Grandpa Tom?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t remember him.”
“He remembered you.”
“How old was I?”
“Two.”
“What did he call me?”
Evelyn’s throat tightened without warning. “Pocket.”
“Why?”
“You stole the watch from his pocket every time he held you.”
Sophie smiled at the photograph.
Alexander waited several paces ahead, looking at the floor.
The stage door opened onto darkness and the faint smell of wood, dust, and hot electrical equipment. Work lights glowed above the empty seats. At center stage stood the concert grand, its black lid raised, the polished surface reflecting a fragment of chandelier light from the open lobby doors.
Evelyn stopped in the wings.
The last time she had crossed that stage, Thomas’s closed casket had rested beneath the proscenium because the church could not hold the crowd. She had sat in the front row and listened to other pianists play music he loved. She had not played. People had called that understandable, as though grief were a weather delay.
Sophie walked two steps ahead, then returned for her hand.
“You said we could see it,” she whispered. “We don’t have to touch it.”
Evelyn looked at her granddaughter’s face. Laura’s chin. Thomas’s wary eyebrows. Her own habit of pressing her lips together when afraid.
“We can touch it.”
They crossed the stage slowly.
Evelyn removed her coat and draped it over the bench. She kept the envelope in her left hand until Sophie said, “You can put it there,” pointing to the flat edge beside the music desk.
“No.”
“You think someone will take it?”
“I think I have held it this long.”
She sat, placed the envelope on her lap, and lifted the keyboard cover with her free hand.
The keys were slightly cool.
Her fingers hovered.
Alexander stood in the wings, giving her distance. An assistant appeared behind him, began to speak, and was silenced by one look.
Evelyn played a single A.
The note traveled through the hall and returned thinner.
She adjusted the bench by half an inch. Some habits survived every injury.
Sophie stood beside her.
“Do you want to sit?” Evelyn asked.
“Can I?”
“You are unlikely to damage the bench.”
Sophie climbed up. Her black Mary Jane shoes did not reach the pedals.
Evelyn placed the envelope between them.
Still closed.
“Your mother hated scales,” she said.
“I hate fractions.”
“Those may be related.”
“What did she play?”
“Whatever required the least practice.”
Sophie touched middle C with one finger. “Was she good?”
“She could have been.”
“Were you mad?”
“Frequently.”
“Did she care?”
“Not enough.”
Sophie pressed another key. “Did you fight?”
“Yes.”
“Before she died?”
The question entered the empty hall and seemed to enlarge there.
Evelyn’s fingers curled against her skirt.
“We had disagreements.”
“That means yes.”
“It often does.”
May you like
“Was she mad at you when she died?”
Alexander shifted in the wings, perhaps intending to leave. Evelyn met his eyes and gave the smallest shake of her head. He stayed.
