INFORMATION TO USERS
This manuscript has been reproduced from the microfilm master. UMI films the text directly from the original or copy submitted. Thus, some thesis and dissertation copies are in typewriter face, while others may be from any type of computer printer.
The quality of this reproduction is dependent upon the quality of the copy submitted. Broken or indistinct print, colored or poor quality illustrations and photographs, print bleedthrough, substandard margins, and improper alignment can adversely affect reproduction.
In the unlikely event that the author did not send UMI a complete manuscript and there are missing pages, these will be noted. Also, if unauthorized copyright material had to be removed, a note will indicate the deletion.
Oversize materials (e.g., maps, drawings, charts) are reproduced by sectioning the original, beginning at the upper left-hand comer and continuing from left to right in equal sections with small overlaps. Each original is also photographed in one exposure and is included in reduced form at the back of the book.
Photographs included in the original manuscript have been reproduced xerographically in this copy. Higher quality 6” x 9” black and white photographic prints are available for any photographs or illustrations appearing in this copy for an additional charge. Contact UMI directly to order. UMI A Bell & Howell Information Company 300 North Zeeb Road, Ann Arbor MI 48106-1346 USA 313/761-4700 800/521-0600
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Reproduced with with permission permission of the of copyright the copyright owner. owner.Further reproduction Further reproduction prohibited without prohibited permission. without permission. ARIEL’S MUSIC
by
Jennifer Brostrom
submitted to the
Faculty of the College of Arts and Sciences
of American University
in Partial Fulfillment of
the Requirements for the Degree of
Master of Fine Arts
in
Creative Writing
Chair: Keftiit Moyer
Richard McCann
J£an of the College of Arts and Sciences 3 o )/Hc Date
1998
American University
Washington, D C. 20016 THiS AJLi.aac±M UniyiiuilTY LLBBIBX
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. UMI Number: 139 0297
UMI Microform 1390297 Copyright 1998, by UMI Company. AH rights reserved.
This microform edition is protected against unauthorized copying under Title 17, United States Code.
UMI 300 North Zeeb Road Ann Arbor, MI 48103
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. ARIEL’S MUSIC
BY
Jennifer Brostrom
ABSTRACT
Ariel's Music is an original novel that portrays a young pianist’s struggle to
become a performer in the competitive world of classical music while she copes with life in
a family troubled by depression and divorce. Both a coming-of-age story and a “portrait of
the artist,” this work depicts Ariel Terraine’s search for identity amidst the social pressures
of a small-town Midwestern environment and the Zeitgeist of American culture during the
1970s and 1980s. The protagonist becomes troubled by the sense that classical music has
no value in a capitalist society in which success is a function of popularity. Ariel's Music
also emphasizes oppositions that pervade American culture: rural versus urban, masculine
versus feminine, intellect versus emotion, and utility versus aesthetics.
ii
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. TABLE OF CONTENTS
ABSTRACT ...... ii
Chapter
1. AUGUST, 1971...... 1
2. JUNE, 1974 ...... 5
3. AUGUST, 1974 ...... 9
4. SEPTEMBER, 1974 ...... 19
5 OCTOBER, 1974 ...... 32
6. NOVEMBER, 1974 ...... 42
7 DECEMBER, 1974 48
8. JUNE, 1975 ...... 58
9 JULY, 1975 ...... 61
10. SUMMER, 1975 ...... 64
11. AUGUST, 1975 ...... 75
12. SEPTEMBER, 1975 ...... 86
13. OCTOBER, 1975 ...... 100
14. DECEMBER, 1975 ...... 107
15. JULY, 1976 ...... 117
ui
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 16. SEPTEMBER, 1976 ...... 132
17. JUNE, 1977 ...... 144
18. AUGUST, 1977 ...... 176
19. SEPTEMBER, 1977 ...... 181
20 DECEMBER, 1977 ...... 184
21. NOVEMBER, 1979 ...... 201
22. DECEMBER, 1979...... 205
23. MARCH, 1980 ...... 211
24. APRIL, 1980 ...... 221
25. JANUARY, 1981 ...... 232
26. MARCH, 1984 ...... 256
27. APRIL, 1984 ...... 264
28. MAY, 1984 ...... 267
29. JUNE, 1984 ...... 287
30. SEPTEMBER, 1984 ...... 288
31. OCTOBER, 1984 ...... 298
32. DECEMBER, 1984 ...... 320
iv
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 1
AUGUST, 1971
The space under the piano was cool and shaded. Ariel lay on her back and stared
at the heavy beams of wood on the underside of the instrument, listening to her mother
play a song called “Claire de Lime .” The music sounded blurry and vast~a rocking lullaby
of a piece, like a small boat bobbing back and forth upon a gentle sea.
Ariel watched her mother’s bare toes pushing the brass pedals down and then
lifting up, pressing down, then popping up. The pedals were connected to thin poles that
went up into the piano. When her mother pushed them down, the music sounded
mysterious, filled with echoes. The waves of the music grew stronger, and Ariel saw dark
clouds passing over a bright moon. The boat was tossed about in the cold water, which
broke onto the deck and over her body. Finally the wooden boat shattered, and Ariel felt
herself being swept into the sea, farther and father away from shore. Something pulled her
down, underwater. To her surprise, she found that she could breathe there. The light was
different--the colors more luminous and iridescent. Now the music surrounded her
completely.
“Damn!” said her mother, suddenly stopping. “I keep missing that.”
1
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 2
Ariel wished that her mother hadn’t stopped playing. “I like that song,” she said
from under the piano.
“Maybe you’ll learn how to play it someday,” said her mother.
“I already know how to play it,” said Ariel, feeling that she truly did know how
She had heard her mother play the piece so many times, she recognized every passage.
“Don’t be a smart aleck,” her mother replied.
Ariel wondered why her mother called her a “smart aleck.” After all, creating
piano music was simply a matter of pushing the keys and bobbing your foot up and down
on the pedals. How difficult could it be?
“Why don’t you come up here and have a lesson, Ariel?”
Ariel crawled out from under the piano and climbed up on the bench. Her mother’s
light-brown hair was wrapped in giant rollers and covered with a gauzy scarf. She wore a
pink sundress and smelled like suntan lotion.
“First you learn to play with one hand at a time,” said her mother.
“I can play with two hands,” said Ariel, thinking of how she liked to stand at the
keyboard and make a range of colorful sounds with her fingers and elbows.
“That’s not real playing,” said her mother.
This comment surprised Ariel, for it had sounded real enough to her. Her mother
had never said “That’s not real coloring” when she scribbled all over the page with pink
and purple crayons.
Her mother explained how high tones go up on the right side of the keyboard and
low tones go down, to the left. This seemed obvious enough. She then explained how
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Ariel would have to learn to “read notes” if she was going to play “Claire de Lune”
someday.
“Notes measure time,” said her mother. “Sometimes the time of a sound is short
and sometimes it’s long.”
There were sixteenth notes, eighth notes, quarter notes, half notes, whole notes—
all jumbled about, measuring bits of time. Each pitch was named with a letter of the
alphabet, and you had to find the letter on the lines of the staff.
“Every Good Boy Does Fine,” said her mother. It was a trick for remembering the
note-names for each line.
The pages of music were covered with fat, black polka dots, and learning the notes
was clearly a long, tedious procedure, like putting together a giant jigsaw puzzle. Even
silence was measured; there were half rests and whole rests napping like little hats on the
lines of the staff It all seemed very complicated and unmusical as Ariel struggled to find
the first note to a song about ugly little Clementine, whose shoes were number nine and
who drowned in the foamy brine. Poor Clementine.
Once she deciphered the first note, however, Ariel discovered that she could figure
out the other intervals by listening rather than reading, since she had heard the melody
before.
“That’s very good, Ariel! “ said her mother. “You have a good ear ”
She was a good girl with a good ear. But how far away she was from “Claire de
Luiie”\
“But you’ll have to learn the rules—to read notes—if you want to play classical
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 4
music,” said her mother. “And you’ll have to practice every day. It takes extreme
discipline.”
Ariel sensed that, in some ways, pretending had been better than the reality of
playing the piano. Then again, it might be possible to recapture that feeling of being lost
at sea. She resolved to try to endure the tedium of the little polka-dot notes, at least for a
while.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 2
JUNE, 1974
Spying on the adults was extremely frustrating because nobody took turns
speaking. From her hiding place on the stairs, Ariel could hear only laughter punctuated by
a jumble of random phrases: “You look marvelous, Margo ! ” and “There goes my
waistline! ” and “No more drinks for you, Theo! ”
Then, in the midst of the bubbling words and the clinking of dessert dishes, Ariel
felt a surge of apprehension at the sound of her own name.
“Where’s Ariel? I was hoping to hear some music!”
It was the voice o f Professor Ume, who had a shiny head and thick glasses. He
was a very intelligent man, and being the focus of his attention was both gratifying and
disturbing.
Her mother’s smooth, dinner-party voice wafted up the stairs. “Ariel? Won’t you
come down and play something for us? Dr. Ume would very much like to hear you.”
The dinner party had formerly been “something just for adults,” from which she
had been banished. “No,” she replied.
“Please? Just one piece.”
She heard Professor Ume’s boisterous voice. “Just one very short piece!”
Ariel felt simultaneously honored and humiliated as she trudged downstairs and
5
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 6
peered shyly at the opulent table surrounded by adults.
Professor Ume gazed at her through his thick glasses with jovial curiosity. “What
might we be hearing from Ariel Terraine?” he asked.
“Bach.”
“Bach! Good Lord!” Professor Ume clapped his hands together in astonishment.
Was he making Jim o f her or was he truly impressed? “It’s called ‘Musette,’ in D
major,” Ariel explained.
“Christ, when I was eight years old I was just learning ‘Hot Cross Buns’!”
declared Professor Ume.
“It’s still a little rusty,” she said.
“It’s best with a little rust,” he replied.
As she climbed onto the piano bench, she discovered that her hands were suddenly-
shaking and sweaty, but she launched into the piece anyway. She felt self-conscious as her
fingers rushed and fumbled, missing notes here and there as her left hand churned out the
D octave that moved up and down like a see-saw, her right hand dancing beside it. The
piece reminded her of a little machine that spun around, faster and faster as the left hand
began to double the tune played by the right hand. Now that she was playing the piece in
front of this group of adults, it seemed that she had never really heard the melody before.
It was supposed to be a happy piece, but it suddenly sounded frantic.
Nevertheless, everyone clapped enthusiastically when she finished playing.
“I think that’s just wonderful!” exclaimed Professor Ume.
“That was horrible, ” said Ariel.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 7
Professor Ume’s wife piped up from her slumped position in a velvet chair. “We
can’t tell, hon’! It sounded beautiful to us!” Her glass tipped slightly as she spoke, and a
bit of her drink sloshed onto the carpet. “You see, we have two daughters who don t like
to play the piano.”
“It’s true,” said Dr. Ume, with a gesture o f helpless disgust. “We have that truly
marvelous piano—and they won’t play it!”
Ariel pictured the stubborn and lethargic Ume girls lying on the carpeted floor
beneath the piano, eating chocolates. They were very bad children.
Professor Ume leaned toward her and she peered into his round, flushed face.
“What do you think,” he said, “would make someone really want to play the piano?”
“I’m not sure,” Ariel replied, thinking that Professor Ume’s question was strangely
pointless.
“Do you think—say—brownies would? What if someone gave you some fudge
brownies or chocolate chip cookies every time you practiced? Do you think you would
want to play all the time?”
“Theodore, she doesn’t need brownies to play,” his wife interjected. “She plays
because she likes it!”
“I know she likes it,” said Professor Ume. “But just suppose for a moment that she
hated playing.” He turned back to Ariel. “What then would make you want to play9”
Ariel couldn’t imagine either hating or liking the piano with the intensity he was
suggesting. Every day at three o’clock, her mother set the timer on the kitchen stove for
twenty minutes, and during that time she practiced until the timer buzzed joyfully,
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 8
announcing that she was free. Her music book, called Twenty Lessons for the Advanced
Beginner, was filled with songs about soldiers, falling bridges, and little girls and boys
who spent their days carrying water to the well and eating plum pudding. The Bach
“Musette” was the culmination of the book, because it was a song about nothing in
particular.
“ I’m not sure,” she repeated.
“You know,” said Professor Ume, “when I was a boy, my parents made me take
piano lessons, but I always hated practicing, so I never really applied myself. Now, more
than anything, I wish I could play!”
Professors were always wishing that they could play the piano, which was just one
of the many reasons why they were not groovy. Ariel knew this because her own father
was a professor of math. Every day he jumped on his bicycle and pedaled to work at the
university, where students with long hair and blue jeans lounged in the sun. Her father
called them “kids” even though they seemed quite old. There were always “fiascos” going
on at the university, which sounded like ridiculous parties that made her father angry.
As the adults began to share reminiscences of short-lived childhood musical
careers, Ariel retreated from the dinner party to a chorus of scattered compliments. She
was filled with a strange sense of power combined with revulsion as she climbed the stairs.
For a moment, she longed to separate herself completely from the piano and from the
world of adults.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 3
AUGUST, 1974
Ariel’s mother was wearing a polyester maternity dress decorated with bright
purple flowers. She looked sweaty and tired as she leaned back and thrust her huge circus-
tent of a stomach forward. Her belly had recently grown so freakishly large that she could
no longer play the piano without it getting in the way.
Ariel wondered how her mother could stand not knowing exactly who or what was
inside her. For all she knew, the baby might be a monster with two heads. It could happen,
after all. Ariel had seen a documentary about thalidomide babies on television, so she
knew that nature was not to be trusted—that deformed children were bom all the time. In
fact, the more she thought about it, the more certain she became that her mother would
give birth to a two-headed baby girl.
The monster girl would have to have to wear special clothes with two neck-holes.
At night, her hair would get tangled between her two heads and then Ariel would have to
spend the morning helping her comb and style it into four ugly pigtails. Then the monster-
sister would want to come play with her. Ariel imagined herself plotting to get rid of the
monster-girl. She would trip her sister down the stairs. Down, down she would fall, with
loud bumping sounds and pathetic boo-hoos. Her crying would be extra-loud because she
had two heads. "I didn 7 mean to, " Ariel would protest to her mother "She just fell! ”
9
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 10
Then everyone would pretend to be sad, when in fact they were relieved, because they
hadn’t particularly enjoyed being around a girl with two heads anyway.
“Margo, you look wonderful /” It was her mother’s friend Sally, who had one of
the puffiest blond hairdos in the neighborhood.
Ariel was certain that Sally was lying, because her mother obviously looked
ridiculous.
Sally gazed at Ariel with bright eyes. “Aren’t you excited about the new baby0”
I guess.
“Do you want a little brother or a sister0”
“A sister.”
“You know, you might get a little brother.”
“I hope not.”
“I bet it would be lots of fun to have a little brother!”
“Maybe.”
“She’s not quite sure about this,” said Ariel’s mother.
“She’ll love having a little baby around!” declared Sally, who was perpetually
ecstatic. “So how are you feeling, Margo?”
“I’m feeling pretty tired, to be honest,” said Ariel’s mother.
“I bet,” said Sally.
“And huge,” said Ariel’s mother.
They both laughed.
“You’ll be thin as a rail again in no time, Margo!”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 11
“I don’t know about that."'
In a crack in the sidewalk, a stream of tiny red ants was moving toward the dead
body o f a ladybug and a few old potato chips. Step on a crack and break your mother 'v
hack.
“Come on, Ariel,” said her mother, tugging Ariel’s arm. “We have a lot to get
done.”
Because her mother’s stomach was embarrassing, Ariel walked several feet behind
her, hoping that others wouldn’t suspect that they were related. It bothered Ariel that the
entire world now knew that her mother had “fucked,” because her huge belly was like a
billboard announcing this fact to the world. Such an act seemed unlikely, even
impossible— particularly for her mother and father. It was nearly as unbelievable as the
perplexing Bible story she had learned in Sunday school that had something to do with
pushing a camel through the eye of a needle. Nevertheless, Ariel knew that it was a true
fact that everyone who had children had done it. Even her grandparents, the church
minister, the principal of her school, and her Sunday school teacher had “done it”!
As Ariel imagined the various adults she knew performing this outrageous act, she
began to perceive the world as a place inhabited by aliens, where the respectable adult
faces presented to children were only masks. If fucking was a true fact, why was it such a
secret?
“Ariel, stop walking so far behind me!”
She decided to test her mother. “Mommy, why do people wear clothes9”
“That’s a silly question, isn’t it?”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 12
“But today it’s too hot for clothes.” It was true; it was hot enough to fry an egg on
the sidewalk in the August sun, which was something Ariel had always wanted to try.
Her mother didn’t answer.
“It’s too hot for clothes today,” Ariel repeated.
Her mother ignored her as she searched her purse for something. She was wearing
large, dark sunglasses that resembled insect eyes. “Ariel, your mommy isn’t feeling well
today, so just be quiet for a while and stop asking me ridiculous questions.”
Why was the question so ridiculous? It was a completely logical question with a
sordid, unholy answer.
Ariel had seen her mother’s naked, pregnant belly, and it was even more shocking
than the sight of the balloon-stomach wearing a dress. Would people tell her mother she
looked wonderful if she was pregnant and naked in public? Probably not.
Depressed by her deformed, sickly, and secretly perverted mother and by the
monotony of tagging along on shopping errands, Ariel began to pretend that she was
simply spending the afternoon with a large, unfortunate acquaintance. Her real mother
was Cher, who had long, purple nails and a very flat stomach and who wore sequined
stretch pants, halter tops, and feathered head-dresses. Ariel couldn’t wait to leave her
unsophisticated and excessively large friend behind to spend the afternoon singing songs
and applying makeup with her groovy chick-mother.
* * *
Ariel’s mother paced the floor, rubbing her hands over her abdomen.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 13
“What are you waiting for, Margo? Let’s go,” said Ariel’s father.
“Just another minute, Ralph,” said her mother. “You know how I hate hospitals.”
“You don’t want to have it at home , do you9”
Her mother was larger than ever, but something about the way she clutched her
absurd stomach and bit her lip made her resemble a little girl. She sat on the floor and
rocked back and forth. Ariel wondered if her mother would have the baby at home or in
the car on the way to the hospital. They often showed that situation on television, and it
always ended with lots of crying and loud cheers.
“Can I go to Clarisse’s house now9” Ariel asked.
Her mother nodded without answering, her knuckles white as she gripped the arm
of the couch.
* * *
Ariel’s best friend, Clarisse, had gray-blue eyes the color o f a cloudy sky, and
straight blond hair that hung limply in her face. Her family was French, and slightly
abnormal. Their house was strangely bare, with hardwood floors and white walls
decorated with only a few black-and-white photographs. Stocked with sardines, pungent
cheeses, bitter chocolates, marzipan in little fruit shapes, and multiple bottles of wine, the
kitchen contained things that looked lovely but smelled funny—things that were
disappointing when you sank your teeth into them. Ariel vaguely pitied Clarisse for her
clean, empty house and its lack of decent snacks. On the other hand, there was always an
inspiring challenge involved in finding something fun to do at Clarisse’s.
Clarisse’s mother had dirty-blond hair that was violently teased so that it resembled
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 14
a large, furry hat. When she was angry, she switched to speaking in French. There was a
strange phrase she was always yelling which sounded like “Sa soofee, Clarisse ' ” which
meant that Clarisse was being bad, which seemed impossible, since Clarisse was so dainty
and quiet.
Ariel and Clarisse had been eavesdropping on Clarisse’s parents’ dinner party for
some time when Clarisse suddenly pulled off her halter top and dropped it on the stairs.
“What are you doing?” asked Ariel, observing the little pink nipples on Clarisse’s
chest. Clarisse called them “breast buttons” even though she had no breasts.
“I’ll be right back,” said Clarisse as she ran up the stairs. She returned a few
seconds later, completely nude and dragging a white sheet behind her. “Let’s do the
streaking game,” she said.
Ariel had to admit that it did seem like the most interesting thing to do at the
moment, so she also took off her clothes. Then they crouched on the stairway, listening to
the jumble of adult conversation below: "Oh goodness gracious, Jacqueline, thees ee:
superb! Lovely! Don 7 mind if I do! Eeek! You said you would not, you bad boy! You have
no idea, Fred, but the thing that fascinates me most about physics is this — ”
“On the count of three. . . . One, two, three! STREEEEAK!!’’
Gathered around their shoulders, the sheet billowed behind them like a sail as they
ran down the stairs, feeling the cold, hard floor beneath their bare feet. There was an
extraordinarily free feeling as they ran naked past the antique furniture and black-and-
white photographs.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 15
As they burst into the dining room, they were greeted by a cacophony of clattering
silverware and shattering glass. Clarisse slipped and fell to the floor with a thump, and
Ariel tripped over her, finding herself at the feet of an elderly man who stared at her with a
bemused expression. Rising above the confusion like a siren was the familiar shriek, "Sa
soofeeee !”
Then the voice of Clarisse’s father: “Sa soofee. Get upstairs now!”
The girls were giggling, but they were also hurt and surprised. They had seriously
misjudged their audience.
Following the punitive response to their performance, Ariel and Clarisse consoled
themselves by making a magic potion designed to make Ariel’s mother have a baby girl.
Rummaging through the medicine cabinet, they combined toothpaste, mouthwash,
shampoo, blood-red nail polish, shaving cream, and a few squirts of perfume in a glass.
They had intended to drink the mixture, but a flash of common sense hit them at the last
minute, and they wisely poured it down the drain instead.
“Do you think your mom has had her baby yet?” asked Clarisse.
“No,” said Ariel. “I think it takes a few days to have one.”
“Sometimes they have to cut open the mother’s stomach if she can’t squeeze it out
through the weenis,” said Clarisse.
“Weenis” was Clarisse’s word for vagina, and Ariel had also adopted the term. She
pictured the doctor slicing her mother’s stomach open with a butcher knife.
“They do not,” said Ariel.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 16
“They do,” insisted Clarisse. “That’s how my mom had me.”
This was interesting. No wonder Clarisse’s mother was so grumpy all the time.
“She never wears a bikini because she has a big ugly scar.”
“Yuck.”
The noise from the dinner party rose. It sounded like everyone was singing. Ariel
was grateful that there was no piano in Clarisse’s house—no chance of being coerced into
performing.
“Now you won’t be an only child anymore,” said Clarisse.
“So9”
Ariel knew that “only child” was a word adults spoke with pinched mouths and a
quiet voices. “I like being an only child. You get more attention that way.” She was
repeating something she had once heard an adult say.
“But if you have a little sister, you’ll have someone to play with,” said Clarisse.
This was true. Ariel pictured a little sister with limp blond hair and blue eyes, like a
miniature Clarisse. She would dress her up like a little doll. When they were older, they
would paint each other’s toenails.
“You’re so lucky,” said Clarisse.
“No, I’m not,” said Ariel, knowing that this was the polite response. “ Tow are.”
Sitting upon Clarisse’s bed, they pondered the many problems that complicated
their lives, such as the nearly intolerable grossness of the hundreds of yards of intestines
that were tangled inside their bodies like giant worms, and the disturbing impracticality of
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 17
their hearts, which would never stop beating until they died. What if your heart got tired,
or simply forgot to beat while you were sleeping? That must be the reason for saying, "If I
die before I wake , I pray the Lord my soul to take. "
There was also the problem of getting only a single chance to live a life that you
didn’t even choose. What if you were bored with yourself? You only got one turn in life,
and then you went to heaven, or maybe to hell if you were a criminal.
“Let’s say we have magic, like in ‘I Dream of Jeanie’ or ‘Mary Poppins’,” said
Clarisse.
At the stroke of midnight, Clarisse assumed the witch-name Kathryn, and Ariel
became Babe-Witch. Having now conquered life and death, they would enjoy multiple
lives extending into the infinite future. Furthermore, they would have the power to choose
each one of their reincarnated existences. A universe full of diverse lives and a wide
selection of hair colors and styles awaited them. They traveled throughout the world,
flying through the air on their umbrellas, which they rode upside down like little boats that
sailed upon the clouds.
* * *
“Does it hurt?” Ariel asked her mother. The baby looked like he was chomping
away a little too enthusiastically on her mother’s nipple.
“No.”
“What does it feel like?”
“Sort of like this.” Mrs. Terraine pinched Ariel’s arm gently a few times.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Ariel suddenly had a tiny little brother named Eustace, who was not a monster.
Her mother was always pulling out a breast to feed him, and cloth diapers were always
soaking in the toilet. Her grandmother kept taking numerous obscene pictures of her
mother breast-feeding and of the naked baby boy being given a bath.
Suck, suck, suck, went the greedy baby, sucking the life out of her mother. Her
mother’s naked breast had a blue vein running through it, and the nipple was large and
dark. It looked nothing like the snow-white orbs touched with delicate rose-buds that
Ariel had seen in paintings.
As Ariel watched the steady slurping of baby Eustace, she remembered a day when
she was very young, when she had traveled in a seat on the back of her mother’s bicycle.
Around and around went her mother’s feet upon the bicycle pedals as the world passed by
in a blur. Her mother had worn bright pink lipstick, the color of the giant peonies in the
garden. Upon her head was a silky blue scarf that pulled her mother’s hair away from her
face. Silly songs and fairy tales about kings and queens and princesses had floated into the
air from her mother’s pink flower-lips.
Now her mother was singing lullabies to baby Eustace about mocking birds and
little rabbits. She was drifting far away now; she was someone else’s mother.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 4
SEPTEMBER, 1974
Ariel and Clarisse sang very softly so that nobody would discover their secret
going-to-school song, which was the dirtiest song they could imagine. They were certain
that it would give their parents heart attacks if they ever heard it.
Penis, weenis, booty, butt on their way to school! Penis, weenis, booty, butt! May we use your tools?
As they sang, they passed by a series of meticulously mowed lawns lined with
symmetrical hedges and rows of pink petunias, followed by a sudden wilderness—an
unruly mass of waist-high grass and trees that almost completely obscured a rickety gray
house. At the front of the overgrown path was an enormous sculpture carved out of the
remains of a tree. It was disturbingly gnarled and contoured so that if you looked at it for
a minute, faces seemed to appear in the wood. Ariel usually closed her eyes and held her
breath whenever she passed by the spooky house alone, particularly at dusk. However,
being with Clarisse and singing the “Going to School” song made her feel brave.
But her skin grew cold when she saw a woman with tangled gray hair peering at
her through the branches of a tree. Something was squirming in her arms—an animal that
19
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 20
was unlike any pet Ariel had ever seen.
“That was an interesting song you were singing,” the woman said in a creaky
voice.
The girls stared at her, feeling both startled and ashamed. But the witch didn’t
seem to mind the song. Perhaps she liked it.
Ariel looked at the furry beast that was fidgeting desperately against the witch’s
firm grip. Was it a cat? No— it looked more like a giant rat. A demon?
“It’s an opossum,” said the witch, as if in answer to her question. “They’re
nocturnal animals. That means they like to go out at night.”
There was a silence as Ariel tried to think of something interesting to say about
opossums and found that she couldn’t come up with anything. She looked at Clarisse for
help, but Clarisse had grown equally shy and mute.
The witch pointed toward the monster-tree. “Do you like the sculpture0”
“It’s very' nice,” Clarisse said politely.
“Can you tell what it is?” the witch persisted.
The girls were speechless.
“A monster9” asked Clarisse in a small voice.
Ariel had to admire Clarisse for venturing this obviously ridiculous answer
“That’s interesting.” The witch chuckled like a rusty machine. “It’s actually
supposed to be two hands. You see, there are the fingers, and there’s a thumb.”
And then Ariel saw two great hands reaching out of the earth, taller than people.
“I call it ‘Friendship’,” said the witch. “Are you two girls on your way to school
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 21
now?”
“Yes, and we’d better hurry,” said Ariel, giving Clarisse a nudge.
“Hope you actually learn something today,” said the witch.
They didn’t know how to respond to this comment, so they turned and walked
away. Why did adults so often say things which made every intelligent thought
immediately flee your mind, leaving only a blank space?
* * *
That night Ariel awoke to the sound of the wind moving through the trees. A
storm was rising. There was the sing-song, creaking noise of the swings on the swing-set
rocking back and forth. The wallpaper roses that covered her room looked as if they were
moving. Ariel watched them shift and distort as faces began to appear: eyes watching her,
mouths opening and closing as they tried to speak but found no words.
"Don 7 let your imagination run away with you, ” her mother always said. "You 're
always scaring yourself. ”
Ariel resolved to stop scaring herself, but then she heard a faint scuffling sound
outside. The clinking of chains. A ghost. The roses on the walls were still trying to speak
when she heard the faint sound of a woman’s voice. "Stop! Come hack here!"
Ariel pulled the covers over her head, but still the noises grew louder. Even under
the blankets, she distinctly perceived scratching sounds followed by a hollow patter of
footsteps on the front porch. Ariel’s heart was beating as if she were running as fast as she
could. What would it be like to die?
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 22
Only days ago, she and Clarisse had claimed power over nature, over life and
death. How quickly that powerful feeling disappeared.
She heard her parents’ murmuring voices, then the sound of her father’s footsteps,
heading down the steps. So she hadn’t been imagining things after all.
“Put on a bathrobe, Ralph!” her mother yelled.
Ariel turned on the light and tiptoed into the hallway. From the top of the stairs,
she saw her father standing in his white underwear as he flipped on the light and pulled
open the front door. There was a shriek from outside.
“What’s going on?” demanded her father, hiding the lower half of his body behind
the door.
She heard the frail crying of Eustace. Ariel tiptoed downstairs and through the
half-opened door she saw the witch standing on the porch, with three possums straining
against their tangled leashes. The witch wore a green bathrobe and white tennis shoes, and
her white hair was wildly unkempt. The possum’s eyes shone like light bulbs. They tugged
on their leashes, tangling about the witch’s feet.
“I’m sorry we woke you up,” she was saying, “but one of them got loose and ran
under your porch. I think they were freaked out by your cat.”
“We thought someone was breaking in!” declared Ariel’s father.
The witch suddenly looked past Mr. Terraine and regarded Ariel. “Hello,” she
said, her voice gravelly but sweet.
“Hello,” said Ariel, feeling oddly pleased that the witch recognized her.
Ariel’s father looked disturbed by this exchange. “A bit late for a walk, isn’t it9” he
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. asked.
“They’re nocturnal animals,” said the witch, turning to leave. “That’s their nature ”
“I want you to be careful around that woman, understand0” said Ariel’s father,
closing the door. “She’s probably harmless, but she seems a little nuts.”
So the witch was a little nuts. She didn’t appear to have children, and it seemed
she spent her days carving away upon the big piece of wood in her front yard. At night she
walked her possums. It seemed a lonely, strange life, and yet, there was something
inexplicably appealing about it to Ariel.
* * *
The next day, there was a disagreement about a jumprope, the irritating sight of
Clarisse laughing with two other friends, and then the disturbing sensation that some
invisible force had seized control of Ariel’s arm as her fist collided with Clarisse’s soft
stomach. She was shocked at her own display of anger, and then she felt a cold wave of
fear when Clarisse began to cry.
Ariel realized that she had punched Clarisse in the stomach, when what she had
really wanted was to drag her away from the other girls, who were now staring at her with
contempt.
"Why 'dyou have to do that? ” they sneered. "God! You 're so mean! ”
It seemed pointless to apologize, for the damage had already been done. Instead,
she walked away from the playground, seeing nothing except the blur of hot tears that
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 24
surged as she began to run.
At home, Ariel tried to tell the cat about her problem, but he only squirmed and
refused to be held. As punishment, she tried to stuff him into the mailbox, but then she
saw that the old man who lived next door was staring at her, horrified, so she put Salem
down sheepishly and pretended not to notice the long scratches on her arm.
* * *
In the absence of Clarisse, Ariel squeezed her eyes shut and held her breath as she
walked past the witch’s house alone each morning.
“Where’s your friend?” the witch asked.
Ariel didn’t reply; she only kept walking, pretending that the nutty witch didn’t
exist.
She and Clarisse were now officially in a fight, on “no-speaking terms,” and
Clarisse had begun playing with the two rival girls— sisters named Rebecca and Agnes.
Rebecca was plump and jolly, and Agnes was very mature and already had a boyfriend.
Clarisse imagined the three of them laughing in Clarisse’s kitchen, surrounded by white
walls and eating from a can of sardines. When the sardines were gone, they would taste
some of the smelly cheeses in Clarisse’s refrigerator and declare how tasty they were.
Ariel discovered that losing a best friend made her see things differently. For
example, she perceived for the first time that school was retarded. She was particularly
bored with the oppressive shuffling of popsicle sticks from one group to another during
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 25
math: adding and subtracting and borrowing “bundles of tens,” “bundles of hundreds,”
“bundles of thousands,” “bundles of ten thousands,” and “bundles of hundred thousands.”
“And that would be way too many popsicles!” said the teacher cheerfully.
The other children giggled, and Ariel felt disgusted. It was all so pointless without
a best friend.
Her schoolwork suffered and one of her writing assignments was returned with an
unhappy face. "This is very sloppy handwriting! See me! ” It was never good when a
teacher said “See me.” The unhappy face looked as if it hated her. Everyone loathed her
because she was hateful and violent.
“Ariel, you’ll have to stay after school today and rewrite this assignment so I can
read it.”
So she would have to stay after with the kids who never finished their homework
and were trouble-makers during recess.
It was through her punishment, however, that Ariel found a new friend. Not a real
replacement for Clarisse— not a new best friend—but a friend whose newness would serve
as a counter-attack to the newness of Agnes and Rebecca.
Her name was Monica, and she had outrageously sloppy handwriting. She always
dressed in ragged jeans and tie-dyed t-shirts, she left her wavy, sun-bleached hair
uncombed, and she always played kickball and football with the boys at recess instead of
jumprope or jacks with the girls.
Monica lived in a large house in which the walls were covered with paintings and
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 26
numerous shelves of books and records. She led Ariel down to the basement, where an
enormous printing press sprawled in the dark. Monica explained that it belonged to her
father, who was a professor.
“My father’s also a professor,” said Ariel.
“So you’ve got one too, huh?” replied Monica. “What of?”
“Math, or something,” said Ariel. “What about yours0”
“Something about a dictionary.”
“Oh.”
“They think it’s so great being professors,” said Monica, leading Ariel into a small,
dark room that smelled of paint. “They think they know so much.”
There was something delightfully and pointlessly rebellious about this comment.
“Mine walks around in his underwear,” said Ariel.
The room was filled with plaster, rubber frog molds, and paints of all colors. The
girls spent several hours creating plaster frogs, which they painted with fluorescent colors.
“Do you have a best friend?” Monica asked as she dotted one of her frogs with
orange paint.
“Clarisse used to be my best friend— before we got in a fight.”
“She seems so dainty,” said Monica. “She’s always wearing those pleated skirts
and little marbles in her hair.”
Ariel reflected that she herself often wore pleated skirts and rubber bands adorned
with little plastic beads. “Do you think I'm dainty0” she asked. Monica obviously viewed
this as an undesirable characteristic.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 27
“Not as dainty as Clarisse. Just borderline dainty.”
It wasn’t so bad to be borderline dainty. After all, it meant that she was girlish, and
this was better than being as extremely tomboyish as Monica.
“Yesterday, when I was riding my bike,” said Monica, “I saw Clarisse sitting in her
front yard, talking to her cat in French.”
“That’s weird,” said Ariel, secretly wondering what Clarisse had been saying.
“You’re my best friend,” said Monica, suddenly.
Ariel knew she was supposed to say that Monica was also her own best friend, but
she felt that it would be a lie. “I guess you’re my second best friend,” she said. But who
was the first? There was nobody. So why was Monica second9
“I’m sick of this,” said Monica. “Let’s go make prank phone calls.”
Upstairs, Monica sat cross-legged on the living room couch as she flipped through
the telephone directory. “Who do you want to call9”
Ariel didn’t particularly want to call anyone. What was the fun of speaking to
people she didn’t even know? It sounded terrifying.
“I know,” said Monica, suddenly inspired. “Let’s call Clarisse!”
Ariel didn’t want to call Clarisse.
“Oh, come on! We’ll ask to speak to her cat.”
Monica dialed Clarisse’s number. “Ahloe! May I speak weeth zee keetie of zee
home9”
Ariel wondered who had answered the phone.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 28
Monica struggled to suppress her laughter. “I vould like to speak with zee keetie
kat of zee house!” she repeated, her eyes watering and her body contorting in giggles as
she slammed down the receiver.
“Who answered?”
“It was her father,” said Monica, sprawling upon the couch, rocking back and forth
in hysterical laughter. “He goes: ‘ Whoever zees ees—you had better not call zees house
again! ”’
For some reason, this was absurdly hilarious. Monica writhed on the floor, gasping
for air. Cracking up.
“Let’s go to the mall,” said Monica, jumping up from the couch.
Ariel had never met such a decisive girl. She and Clarisse usually spent about an
hour asking each other "What do you want to do? ” and replying “/ don 7 care. What do
you want to do?”
They rode double on Monica’s bike with Ariel teetering behind Monica on the
seat, clinging to her new friend’s sweaty t-shirt as she wove through traffic, skidded past
cars, and bounced over curbs.
“Careful!” warned Ariel, as Monica nonchalantly skirted the edge of a baby
carriage.
“It’s okay!” retorted Monica. “Stop worrying.”
Later, as they dismounted, Monica said, “You weren’t scared were you?”
“Sort of. Not too much.”
“Don’t be dainty,” said Monica.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 29
At the shopping mall the girls bought toy monsters made of rubber and wax that
could be molded into different shapes. Ariel’s monster consisted of a repulsive head
growing out of a large, three-toed foot. Its mouth hung open in a scream; three teeth
dangled from its gums. It was strangely pleasant, squishing its ugly face into different
grotesque expressions. Then they went to the candy store, where they bought Everlasting
Gobstoppers, which were the size of eyeballs and turned colors as you sucked on them for
hours. They bought five-yard tapes of grape bubble gum and blew balloon-sized bubbles
that coated their hair when they popped.
Monica wanted to try to ride double to Chicago, but Ariel finally said she had to
go home. She felt extremely ambivalent about Monica: It was both exhausting and
exhilarating, being her friend. She liked Monica’s attitude o f defiance and fearlessness, but
she had the nagging feeling that Monica was the wrong sort of girl. Furthermore, she had
the constant feeling when she was with Monica that she was going to be thrust into some
dangerous or potentially embarrassing activity.
* * *
With Monica officially established as her second-best friend, Ariel stopped wearing
plastic barrettes and rubber-bands decorated with plastic beads and began wearing jeans
with grass-stains and large t-shirts which she had tie-dyed and decorated in Monica’s
basement. She rarely washed her hair.
“You look like a slob,” said her mother.
“Slob” was a strange word if you repeated it to yourself a million times. She was a
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 30
slob, and she didn’t particularly mind being a slob. Nevertheless, she instinctively defended
herself.
“I am not a slob.”
“You look like one of those slobbish professors. You’ve been taking lessons from
your father.”
“I am not.” Why did parents always think ideas had to come from somewhere*7
Couldn’t a person decide to do something on her own*7
“Ariel, I’m sorry if you’re not getting enough attention these days, but I simply
don’t have time to do your hair every morning. If your father could learn to do some of
these things maybe I wouldn’t have to do everything. . . . Anyway, you’ll have to grow up
a little and help me out, okay*7”
Ariel wondered what her mother was talking about. It was true that her mother
was often busy with the new baby, but she couldn’t see what this had to do with her own
slovenly appearance.
“And another thing: you haven’t been practicing the piano enough lately,”
continued her mother.
Monica almost always managed to convince Ariel to abandon the piano for some
outdoor activity.
“You haven’t been practicing either,” said Ariel impulsively, remembering that in
the days before Eustace her mother used to play for at least an hour each day.
“Where have you picked up this smart mouth?” demanded her mother. “/ have a
newborn baby to take care of, Ariel! And it isn’t your job to question me.”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 31
Despite her mother’s objections, Ariel’s newfound slobbishness made her feel
brave. At school, she boldly sat at the same work table with Clarisse, Agnes and Rebecca,
daring them to acknowledge her presence. They watched her out of the comers of their
eyes, sensing that she was no longer afraid of them.
Finally, Ariel caught Clarisse’s eye, and instead of looking away, Clarisse
smiled—a shy, soft smile with gray eyes like a misty day.
"‘What are you reading?” asked Ariel.
“Dracula,” replied Clarisse, displaying the thick book proudly.
“Wow,” said Ariel, trying to sound impressed. She couldn’t have cared less what
Clarisse was reading.
Just as suddenly as it had begun, the spell was broken and no-speaking terms had
ended. Ariel and Clarisse were best friends. But what about Monica0
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 5
OCTOBER, 1974
Now stuck between two best friends, Ariel tried to encourage Clarisse and Monica
to like each other, but Monica always acted like an impatient puppy, while Clarisse
behaved like a nervous cat.
One Saturday afternoon the three girls got together to have a drawing contest at
Monica’s house. It was a penis-drawing contest, which Ariel won, because her little
brother’s undiapered penis was a familiar household sight. Monica and Clarisse drew
penises that resembled giant sausages with hard-boiled eggs attached.
“That looks so realistic,” said Monica, impressed by Ariel’s drawing.
“Oh my God, it does ,” said Clarisse.
“Have you ever seen a real one9” Monica asked Clarisse.
“Well, not a real one up close or anything. But I know what they look like from
statues and from my cat.”
“Is your cat neutered?” Monica knew all about things like neutering; she was very
smart that way.
“Yes,” said Clarisse, as she sketched a blue flower in the margin of her penis
artwork.
“Then that’s different, because I think they cut off the balls,” explained Monica.
32
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 33
“Yeah, but I drew balls anyway .” Clarisse sounded defensive.
“Ariel has a baby brother, so she knows how to draw a penis,” said Monica.
“You’re so lucky to have a brother, Ariel; I think that would be so cool.”
Clarisse glared at Monica. “Haveyow ever seen one?” she demanded, her gray eyes
icy.
“Last summer I saw a boy take a pee out in the open at the swimming pool. He
just pulled down his bathing suit and went— right in front of me—as if he was really proud
o f it!” Monica seemed oblivious to Clarisse’s irritation.
“He didn’t even try to hide?” asked Ariel.
“Nope.”
“God! ” Both Clarisse and Ariel were scandalized by this image.
“It seems like they think it’s so great having penises,” said Monica. “Do you ever
wonder what it feels like to have one9”
“Well, sort of,” said Ariel.
“Not really,” said Clarisse.
“I wonder if it gets in the way when they run.”
“I dunno.”
The conversation was veering into unfamiliar territory. Clarisse and Ariel had often
contemplated various sexual and excretory body functions, but their discussions were
predominantly giggly fantasies. A “penis” to them was a imaginary character who existed
in a cartoonish world with his friends weenis, boody, and butt. Rachel was talking about
real ones peeing all over creation.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 34
"Stay here, you guys,” said Monica, heading toward the bathroom. "I’m going to
try something.”
Clarisse rolled her eyes.
When Monica reappeared from the bathroom, there was an enormous bulge in the
crotch of her jeans. “Can you tell?” she asked mischievously.
Clarisse looked shocked, but Ariel was gasping with laughter.
"Hug me and see what it feels like,” Monica demanded.
"No, ” said Clarisse.
"Come on, you guys. Ariel, just try it, okay9”
Ariel was used to taking directions from Monica. She stood up and put her arms
around Monica’s broad shoulders and found that hugging her was ticklish and absurd and
pleasant all at once. She imagined that she was hugging a boy.
"Just try it, Clarisse,” begged Monica.
Clarisse refused.
"Let me see what it feels like,” said Ariel.
"Time for a crotch transfer,” said Monica.
The massive wad of toilet paper was transferred to Ariel’s crotch. It felt like
wearing a diaper and Ariel imagined that this was what it was like to be a boy.
There seemed to be nowhere else to go with this game, so they went outside to
have a water-balloon fight. Monica pursued both Ariel and Clarisse with a tight water
balloon in each hand. Clarisse would be the first to get hit; it always happened that way.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 35
Clarisse suddenly grabbed Ariel’s arm and gasped, “Come on! Let’s escape from
here!” There was a look of desperation in Clarisse’s eyes that made Ariel want to help
her—to escape.
As Clarisse and Monica raced through Monica’s front yard and sprinted down the
tree-lined street toward Clarisse’s house, they heard Monica calling after them: “Come
back, you guys! I promise I won’t hit you!”
Clarisse and Ariel only ran faster, filled with adrenalin and sadistic glee
“Some friends you are! ” There was bewilderment and anger in Monica’s voice.
They charged through Clarisse’s front yard and into her house, slamming the door
behind them and collapsing in a fit of giggles. Now they were inside Clarisse’s familiar
living room with its spare white walls, where everything was suddenly quiet and still. A
few blocks away, Monica was surrounded by penis drawings, toilet paper, and water
balloons. It was safe and predictable at Clarisse’s house.
“What were you doing?” asked Clarisse’s mother. “You’re all out of breath!”
“Monica was throwing water balloons at us,” said Clarisse.
“I don’t think you should play with her,” said Clarisse’s mother, shaking her blond
hairdo. “She’s much too rough!”
“Let’s not play with her anymore,” said Clarisse.
“Okay.” Ariel felt a wave of discomfort, realizing that abandoning Monica was
mean-spirited. But at the moment, it didn’t seem possible for all three of them to be
friends.
* * *
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 36
Ariel returned home to an empty house.
“Mom?”
There was no answer. Ariel wandered from the living room into the kitchen and
found a pot of something on the stove and a bunch of vegetables and pasta strewn about,
as if her mother had left suddenly in the middle of cooking dinner.
She left the kitchen and climbed the carpeted steps, feeling her heart beating faster.
What if a murderer had broken into the house? Perhaps he was waiting for her upstairs.
She knew all about Charles Manson, and it seemed entirely possible that someone like him
might be lurking about.
Her parents’ bedroom was empty, the bedspread and sheets mussed, a pile of her
father’s black socks on the floor beside the bed. Next to the rumpled bed was the bassinet
where Eustace slept—also empty. It was a tiny bed, not much more than a yard long,
surrounded by a frilly lace skirt that had been constructed from something her mother
called a “prom dress.” It looked like a bed made for a baby princess.
Ariel walked over to her mother’s dressing table, which contained a fascinating
collection of little jars and tubes—perfume, lipstick, eyeshadow, all in gold and silver
containers. Ariel knew that she wasn’t supposed to play with her mother’s makeup, but
she couldn’t resist the temptation, now that she found herself unsupervised in her mother’s
room. She opened one of the lipsticks and turned the bottom of the container to make it
swivel up like a magic crayon.
As she applied the deep plum lipstick to her lips, Ariel remembered a television
show she had once seen about a man who had been left completely alone in the world. He
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 37
had wandered from building to building, from house to house. He had every luxury
imaginable, but there was nobody alive for him to talk to. Ariel suddenly found the
uninterrupted silence of her parents’ bedroom unnerving. What if her parents never
returned?
She was startled by the metallic trill of the phone.
“Hello?”
It was her father. She noticed that he sounded funny, his voice strangely thick.
“We’re at the hospital,” he said. “It was an emergency.”
Emergencies meant bad news.
“It was Eustace.” Her father hesitated. “Ariel. ”
She had the horrifying sensation that her father might be crying.
“Your little brother died.”
* * *
Ariel sat in the small chapel of the church with her parents. The minister bowed his
head and began to pray aloud. “Father, we know that Eustace is in Heaven with you. We
pray, Lord, that his parents will be consoled in their time of grief.”
Covered with a flowery veil of white lilies and baby’s breath, the coffin was almost
as tiny as the bassinet in which Eustace used to sleep.
Ariel’s mother had large smudges of black mascara beneath her eyes, which she
kept dabbing. Tears made little rivers through the brown and pink makeup on her cheeks.
Her father looked weary and pale. He reached for her mother’s hand, but she pulled it
away.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 38
Death was the perfume of the white flowers, her mother’s tears, the red carpeting,
the pastor’s mellow, persistent voice. It all gave Ariel a claustrophobic feeling.
She knew that she was supposed to feel sad, but she had to admit that she felt no
grief. Instead, she felt merely uncomfortable. After all, Eustace hadn’t been around long
enough to miss the way you might miss a person who could talk and play. He had cried
and spit up and clutched her finger sweetly with his little hand. That was somewhat
poignant—the memory of his tiny red fingers gripping her own finger with surprising
strength.
He had died o f something called “Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.” For no reason
at all, he had apparently stopped breathing. The idea was very disconcerting; at any
moment, a person might slip into that world on the other side.
A flutist began to perform a song called “Pavane pour une Infante Definite ” by
Ravel, accompanied by the organ. The flute was clear and jewel-like— an icy, blue sound
that soared with a slow, deliberate melody. Ariel had the sense that the high-pitched,
plaintive notes were pulling at her skin. She entered a crystal world—a perpetually blue
sky, a ground covered in white flowers. There was a sense of time suspended, the familiar
feeling Ariel sometimes had at the end of each day as the sun began to set.
Ariel gradually perceived that the music was like a lullaby turned upside down.
Instead of soothing, it was subtly stirring and upsetting. The white flowers on the coffin
seemed to shimmer and move. Tears came to Ariel’s eyes and her mother put her arm
around her. Her mother didn’t know that they were not tears for Eustace; they were for
the silvery blue music—the bright light that was slowly waning.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 39
Ariel imagined white birds flying away, leaving only shadows. Now the music was
gone, leaving Ariel with a deep sense of loss, a feeling that she wanted to stay in the world
of that piece forever. The flute player was lucky, for she could go back to that world
whenever she wanted. Perhaps Eustace was lucky too.
* * *
Ariel lay awake in bed, listening to the familiar sound of the swing set creaking in
the wind. She squeezed her eyes shut, but she couldn’t sleep. She pictured a little ghost
child swinging back and forth in the dark.
A low growl arose from somewhere outside followed by a siren-like wailing
sound. Ariel pulled the covers over her head and curled her knees up to her chest. Then
there was the sound of a human voice, distinctly like a baby crying.
Now the ghost-baby was screaming. Ariel jumped out of bed and ran to her
parents’ room—something she hadn’t done for several years.
The light was on in her parents’ bedroom.
Ariel saw her mother standing at the window. She wore a tattered pink nightgown
that had a rip in one side, exposing her heavy breast.
“There’s a baby crying!” said Ariel, entering the room.
Her father squinted his eyes, trying to see in the sudden light. “It’s just a cat fight,”
he said.
Tears welled in her mother’s eyes. “It does sound like a baby— like Eustace.”
Every time her mother cried, Ariel felt as if a door were opening somewhere,
letting a cold gust of wind inside.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 40
“I’m going outside to throw a shoe at those damn cats,” said Mr. Terraine,
throwing off the covers and pulling on his pants.
“Don’t hit Salem,” said Ariel.
“It’s all my fault,” said her mother. Her face looked puffy and there were a few
streaks of gray in her hair that Ariel hadn’t remembered being there before.
“What’s your fault9” asked Ariel, morbidly curious.
“I killed your little brother.”
Ariel felt an prickling sensation at the back of her neck. Somehow she knew that
her mother’s words weren’t exactly true. Nevertheless, they were terrifying words. This
revelation was far worse than the wailing of the ghost baby on the swing set; it would have
been far safer to stay under the covers in her own bed.
“Don’t be ridiculous, Margo!” said her father. “You know they have no idea what
causes this syndrome.” He walked over to her mother and her mother turned away
“We can still have another child,” he said, quietly.
“Never,” said her mother. “The whole thing was a waste.”
It seemed to Ariel that her parents had forgotten that she was still in the room.
Part of her wanted to leave, but she was transfixed by this drama.
“It’s your fault too, Ralph,” said her mother.
“I feel bad enough without your guilt trips, Margo.”
“If you had gone to check on him when I asked—”
“When did you ask?”
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore.”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 41
“Like hell you don’t.”
Ariel’s father seemed to suddenly remembered that his daughter was in the room,
and he looked at her as if she were an intruder, a stranger. “Go to back to bed, Ariel.”
Ariel was happy to leave, afraid that she would be blamed next.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 6
NOVEMBER, 1974
“God is everywhere,” declared Ms. Botts, the Sunday school teacher. “Even
though you can’t see Him, you can be sure He’s right there with you at all times.”
If you thought about it for a while, this was an unsettling idea. It meant that God
was invisible— in your nostrils, in the bedroom closet, in the dark comers of the basement,
and in the catfood dish, all at once.
God and his people lived in the olden days, when there were entire cities inhabited
by people who were completely evil, and who therefore had to be killed. It wasn’t clear
exactly what their evil ways were, but they definitely involved ignoring God, who had
important things to say. As people continued to ignore God and amuse themselves with
evil, God began to feel that his entire creation was ugly and disappointing. It was as if he
had spent a long time coloring a picture that didn’t turn out at all the way he imagined it
would, and in a fit of frustration and rage, he decided to tear it up and begin anew.
Noah and his family, for example, were the only good people in a land filled with
evil and rudeness, so God decided to save them and erase the others. Even when the bad
people were nagged ceaselessly about the flood by Noah and his God-fearing family, they
stubbornly refused to listen and only laughed at the ridiculous ark which Noah and his kin
worked on night and day.
42
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 43
Along with Noah. God also wanted to avoid drowning the animals, who had
nothing to do with the evil ways and were also fun to watch. So Noah found a pair of each
species to be kept on the ark until the flood ended. The animals walked very politely on
board the ark two-by-two, and because they somehow knew that it was important to
cooperate, they did not fight amongst themselves. The unlucky animals that were left
behind to drown in the flood weren’t mentioned.
“Our craft activity today is to build our own ark,” said Ms. Botts.
The animals were to be created with pipe-cleaners, while Noah and his family were
to be crafted from clothespins, scraps of cloth, and some cotton for beards. Practically
every Sunday School project involved creating a bunch of old men from clothespins and
cotton balls.
After the pipe-cleaner animals and cotton-bearded old men had been made, Ms.
Botts taught everyone a game, which went like this:
Here is the church, here is the steeple, open the door and see all the people!
The church was two hands joined together in a closed fist, the steeple was two
index fingers pointing toward the sky, and the people were the wiggling fingers you saw
when you opened the fist. How surprising it was to see those squirmy little fingers that
looked just like people sitting in the sanctuary! Perhaps that was how people looked to
God when he peered down from Heaven to see what was going on.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 44
Who would he see? There were so many millions of people.
In the olden days, it seemed that people had been more substantial. For example,
the most important person had been Jesus, who "loved everyone—even criminals. ”
Jesus’s father was God, who had a long white beard and a long cloak, like a wizard. They
were very nice folk, God and Jesus. Jesus’s mother Mary was probably the nicest person
in the entire universe, not to mention being supematurally pretty and quiet.
As the other children left the classroom, Ms. Botts pulled Ariel aside and gave her
a big smile. Ariel noticed that her front teeth were coated with flecks of pink lipstick.
“How’s your mother doing, Ariel?”
“Fine.” Ariel’s mother had explained that the correct answer to that question was
always “fine.” The truth was that her mother had been crying every day for the past
month, but Ariel wasn’t about to tell the Sunday School teacher that.
“Good,” said Ms. Botts. “I’m glad.” Ms. Botts continued to smile searchingly at
Ariel, as if she were unsatisfied with Ariel’s response and wanted to ask more questions.
When Ariel said nothing more, she sighed and said, “You can go meet your parents now.”
Ariel looked for her parents in the church social hall, which was always mildly
depressing, since the center of attention was an assortment of small Dixie cups filled with
weak lemonade. You were supposed to mingle, but there was nobody to talk to except
church-adults. Clarisse was so lucky that her family never went to church.
Ariel found her parents talking to the minister, who wore a bushy beard and a long
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 45
robe, probably in an attempt to look more like Jesus and the other Bible folk. He stood
next to her mother with his arm around her, probably consoling her about Eustace. Ariel
was growing tired of all the sympathetic adult eyes staring at her family.
“Hello, little Ariel!” he said, peering down at her.
“Hello.” The floor was very nice to look at when a minister was speaking to you.
“She’s a little shy,” Ariel heard her mother say.
“I must give her a kiss—I cannot resist!”
The minister always said that. In one second, his beard would be touching her face.
Beneath the scratchy beard, he had wet lips which he puckered as he touched her cheek.
She was not supposed to pull away or say “yuck” when a minister kissed her. The minister
wanted to kiss her, so she must be kissed. She felt the scratchy hair, the wet Iemonade-
lips, the church breath. Icky.
Perhaps that was what a kiss from Jesus would be like. If so, Ariel did not
particularly want to go to heaven to be with Jesus and God, who might want to kiss her all
the live-long day. She imagined day after day of having nothing to do but kiss the earnestly
bearded Bible folk in heaven and reflected that she would much rather be a witch.
As they drove home, Ariel’s mother turned around to peer at her from the front
seat. “You should be friendlier,” she said. “You should be more outgoing and have more
personality. You were not at all friendly to Pastor Marvin.”
“I don’t like him!”
“He’s a wonderful preacher,” said her father from the driver’s seat. “You should
come to the service with us instead of Sunday School sometime to hear him preach.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 46
because you really might find it interesting.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“He’s been very nice to your mother and me since Eustace passed away ”
“So9”
“Someone needs a nap,” said her mother.
“I do not need a nap,” protested Ariel.
“You sound very grumpy,” her mother replied. “And you look morose.”
Her face had a “morose” look, which wasn’t nice for others. “You look more
morose than me,” she blurted. It seemed like a true enough statement.
Her mother reached behind the front seat in an attempt to smack Ariel, but Ariel
moved back into the comer, out of her mother’s reach. Her mother only managed to bump
into her father’s arm, making him swerve toward another car and slam on the brakes.
“What’s the idea , Margo?”
Her mother gazed out the window in silence.
Ariel pulled her knees into her chest, placing her feet on the vinyl car seat. She was
wearing black patent leather shoes and bobby socks edged in white lace. The shoes and
socks had seemed happy and feminine earlier that morning, but now they seemed
depressing and pointless. She did not mean to look morose; she was simply looking at
things. Why did everyone always want so badly for her to smile? When someone said
“Smile! ” it was the last thing you wanted to do. When her mother told her to “be
outgoing,” she only wanted to hide in a comer.
Ariel had an odd sense that from now on, she would be on her own in life Her
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 47
parents were sitting right in front of her—her father cursing the traffic, her mother gazing
at the passing buildings— but they suddenly struck her as strange, distant people.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 7
DECEMBER, 1974
Dear Santa:
For Christmas, I would like:
I. A Barbie Beauty Center. 2. A Malibu Barbie Camper. 3. An Fasy-Bake Oven.
Thanks! Love, Ariel
Throughout the year, Santa worked hard at getting fat while his little elves made
toys for children all over the world. On Christmas Eve, he delivered a gift to every single
child, which proved that he was magic. It was strange picturing Santa in the hot, dry
countries of the world, where dark-skinned children lived in small huts that had no
chimneys.
* * *
“Now, class,” said Ms. Botts as everyone gazed at a large run in her pantyhose,
“we need to plan our Christmas pageant, which will be performed for the whole
congregation at the Christmas Eve service. It will be a musical about the Christmas story,
and some of you will have solos to sing.”
The Christmas story went like this: God sent an angel to tell Mary that she was
48
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 49
going to have a baby. Why9 Because God wanted her to. He chose her to have His baby,
because she was the nicest, prettiest, kindest, sweetest, and purest girl in the entire world.
Sometimes Mary was called “the Virgin Mary,” which seemed to mean extra-specially
good. The most interesting and mysterious thing about Mary was the blue sheet that she
wore draped over her head.
Mary’s husband was Joseph, who, like all the other men in Bible times, had a beard
and wore sandals. Because he was very easy-going, he let Mary ride on the donkey while
he walked. This was nice, since they had to make an outrageously long journey just to pay
their taxes, and when they finally reached their destination, they were told that there was
no room for them at the inn. A dean people! Very mean, not to let the pregnant Virgin
Mary and Joseph and the donkey stay at the inn!
So Mary and Joseph stayed in the stables with the animals, which sounded much
more fun than the inn. After the baby was bom, Mary wrapped him in something called
“swaddling clothes” which sounded similar to diapers soaking in the toilet, but more holy.
All the animals gathered around to see the new baby because they knew that he was
special. They behaved very well that night, with no mooing, fidgeting, or bleating.
Throughout the entire experience, Mary was very quiet, thinking secret holy
thoughts.
“So we need to select our cast,” said Ms. Botts. “First, who would like to be
Mary9”
Every girl in the class shot up her hand, which wasn’t surprising, since it was the
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 50
only female role. Each of them knew that Mary was supposed to be pretty. Furthermore,
the girl who played the role would get to wear the blue sheet in public.
“Okay, it looks like we’ll have to have an audition for the part of Mary. Who
would like to be Joseph9”
Only one very fat boy named Norman raised his hand.
“Okay, we have a Joseph.”
* * *
Ariel’s mother struck a note on the piano. “Sing ‘Aah!”’
“Aah!”
“You’re a little flat.”
Ariel tried to lift the pitch up. “Aah!”
“That’s better. Always listen to yourself. And remember, it’s always better to be a
little sharp than a little flat.”
“Why9”
“I guess it’s harder for most people to hear sharp pitches. When you sing, think of
the sound as a beam of light that gets closer and closer to the exact center of the pitch.
Let’s try the scale again.”
Ariel sang the C major scale: “Do, re, mi fa, sol, la ti, do!”
“Drop your diaphragm and sing from your gut, not your throat. You sound all
wispy and little girlish.”
It was bad to sound wispy and little girlish. Her mother demonstrated, singing in a
full, round voice that sounded slightly flat when she reached the upper notes.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 51
Ariel tried again.
“Open your mouth wider,” said her mother.
“That’ll look stupid,” protested Ariel.
“Mumbling through the music might be fine for little songs with Clarisse, but it’s
not going to get you this part.”
“What’s Clarisse got to do with it?” Apparently her mother had heard one of their
inane, X-rated songs. How embarrassing!
“Just concentrate on what I’m telling you.”
Sometimes her mother could be so bossy. But at least bossiness was better than
moping about and weeping. And besides, her mother did seem to know what she was
talking about.
“Let’s try the song again.”
With her mother accompanying her on the piano, Ariel sang through her solo. Her
pitch was good, but her voice grew thin when she reached the highest notes.
“You can sing this,” said her mother. “Try to put some vibrato into it.”
“What’s vibrato?”
“It’s like a pulsing sound in your voice,” said her mother. “It’ll help sustain the
tone and give it more dimension.”
Ariel’s mother showed Ariel how to breathe, how to generate the waves of
vibration from her abdomen. Then she made Ariel stand in the closet and practice singing
with the door closed.
“I should be able to hear you from out here!” she heard her mother shout.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 52
The closet was filled with bags and wrapped presents. Perhaps one of the gifts
would be a Barbie Beauty Center. There were also a few stuffed animals and baby toys
pushed into the back of the closet. Why hadn’t her mother returned those0
As she projected her voice through the door, Ariel pretended that she was stuck in
a coffin, deep beneath the earth. If her mother didn’t hear her, she would die. Use vibrato ,
her mother had said. She used vibrato and projected her voice.
“I think you’ll get the part,” said her mother as she opened the closet door.
* * *
As Ariel entered the dark sanctuary to audition for the choir director and the
Sunday school teacher, she felt that she wanted the part very badly. It was a different sort
of wanting than the desire for toys or food; it was like a hot flame in her stomach. She was
nervous, but greater than her fear was her desire to become Mary She thought of how
her cat Salem stalked birds, crouching down in the grass, flattening himself like a snake,
creeping smoothly, never glancing away from his target until he pounced. She was stalking
Mary.
Mary’s solo was extremely high and strangely melancholy, without a conventional
beginning or end. It sounded more like a lament than a Protestant Christmas song, a chant
that wandered through a dissonant, minor melody, repeating and then fading without
resolution. It was a very difficult part for a child, but Ariel’s mother had helped to prepare
for the audition, teaching Ariel how to project and vibrate her voice so that it was strong
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 53
and clear instead of flat and childish.
As she began to sing, Ariel remembered her mother’s advice, and she felt the
roundness of her voice and the circle of silence around her that meant that her audience
was under her spell. When she finished she instinctively knew that she had conquered the
role even though there were three more Mary candidates to go. She listened to their
shaking, tuneless voices with a mixture of pity and euphoria.
When the choir director told her that she had won the part, the burning ceased and
she felt herself float upward. She had captured Mary.
* * *
On the morning of the Christmas Eve pageant, Ariel felt afraid of something, but
there was nothing to run away from. The flames of wanting were gone because she had
gotten what she wanted, and now she must bear the consequences bravely; she must sing
in front of the whole congregation.
A ball of ice filled her stomach. She felt no excitement at the blinking Christmas
tree lights, the colorful packages, and the snow on the ground, for Mary’s shadow
stretched over the day, making the hours slow and painful until the sun finally disappeared
and it was time to get ready for the performance.
The choir rehearsal room was filled with children in a motley assortment of animal
costumes: ragged sheep spotted with cotton balls, cats with eyeliner whiskers, an elephant
with a trunk made from pantyhose, and a sea monster made from brown and green
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 5 4
garbage bags. Boys ran around the room chasing each other while girls wearing sheep and
angel costumes were busy taping cotton balls and tinsel to each other. A boy wearing a
bathrobe with small pink flowers gazed at the ceiling while his mother rimmed his eyes
with dark eyeliner.
Ariel was wearing a white choir robe and the coveted blue sheet was pinned to her
head with bobbie pins, the top of which was adorned with a halo of gold tinsel. Wearing
the costume, she felt clean and somehow separated from the other children. She was
demure and bright, a pure star above the ordinary beasts. They would eventually die, but
she would live forever.
* * *
The baby Jesus was “Baby Wets-A Lot,” a plastic baby-girl doll with curly blond
hair, eyes that clicked open and shut, and pink lips that were frozen in a pucker. If you
gave the doll a drink from her bottle, the water would immediately squirt out of a sexless
hole between her plastic legs.
Ariel wished that fat Joseph would suddenly evaporate. She listened to him
breathing heavily next to her and felt that she disliked him very much. If only Mary could
be alone backstage instead of contaminated by this fat, sweaty boy! He had only one line
to say and no song to sing, so why did he have to be there?
Joseph eyed the Jesus-doll skeptically. “Don’t breast-feed it onstage.”
A more disgusting comment could not possibly have assaulted Mary’s ears on
Christmas Eve, but Ariel ignored him and gazed at the masses of people seated in the
audience. The lights went down, the stagelights came on, and artificial stars appeared in
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 55
the sky. Animals milled about, bleating and giggling onstage. Then the shepherds, who
were surrounded by cottonball-covered sheep-children, inquired. “What is that light I see
yonder9”
The sheep said “baah!” with a bit too much excitement. The wise men saw the star
and exclaimed, “What wondrous light!” They marched in their colorful bathrobes, carrying
gifts and singing in high, boyish voices: “We three kings o f orient are! ”
Then Mary walked into the spotlight and felt the world recede like a dark sea. She
knelt beside the manger and the animals gathered around her to sniff the baby, while
Joseph stood behind her pointlessly
Then came Mary’s solo— the strange, eerie song that was brief and haunting.
Sleep in peace My holy child\ Sleep in peace, my child: Too soon the day will come, my child. Too soon the day will come . . .
Ariel liked the fact that Mary sang such a sad song, and the feeling of her own
voice rising easily over the dark, silent audience. She felt a nameless power that surged
with the surprise of applause and then receded as she left the sanctuary and walked down
the dark church hallways. Children ran past her, dropping cotton balls and tearing off their
costumes. Adults smiled at her with appreciation: "What a lovely voice you have' ” People
who didn’t even know her saw her for the first time. And in their eyes, she saw
herself—the white choir robe, the blue sheet now askew on her head, a strange sensation
of transparency—and she wanted suddenly to hide.
Then she saw her mother, wearing a red dress that was adorned with a rhinestone-
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 56
studded Christmas-tree pin. It seemed that she hadn’t seen her mother smile in a long time,
and this was gratifying.
“You were wonderful,” gushed her mother.
Her mother’s spicy perfume and peony lipstick and rhinestone Christmas tree—the
essence of approval. Apparently she had managed to avoid looking morose onstage. Ariel
felt a sense that she existed more fully than she had before becoming Mary—the blue
sheet, the shining star.
* * *
Ariel tiptoed down the stairs to look at the Christmas tree. She liked the way the
multicolored lights were reflected in the bulb ornaments and foil-wrapped packages
beneath the tree.
She pulled back the drapes and saw that great, feathery flakes of snow were
tumbling from the sky. When it snowed at night, it always seemed possible that she might
see something magical flying through the air.
There were plenty of kids at school who declared flatly that Santa was not real,
and that any kid who still believed in him was “retarded.” Ariel and Clarisse were still
ambivalent but intensely hopeful about the question, and they had decided to stay up all
night to discover once and for all whether Santa was real.
The most persuasive argument in favor of Santa was the snack Ariel’s parents set
out for him. In the morning, the cookies and milk were always gone. Why would her
parents carry out such a charade if the whole thing was made up?
On the other hand, Santa’s handwriting looked suspiciously like Ariel’s mother’s,
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 5 7
and her mother had once explained that “Santa sometimes needs some help from your
mom and dad.” None of the television shows showed Santa asking for help from parents.
As Ariel gazed out at the snow-dusted street, she realized that she couldn’t
honestly expect to see a sleigh pulled by eight reindeer or a man in a jolly red suit. She
instead thought of a silvery apparition that would slip down the chimney and freeze the
entire household in a deep sleep. The wind rose, blowing the snow into small drifts, and
she imagined Mary wandering alone through the white, silent world, trailing her blue sheet
behind her as she searched for her lost child.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 8
JUNE. 1975
"Ariel, your father and I have some news for you.” Her mother’s tone was sweet
and uncertain, so Ariel suspected that it probably wouldn’t be good news.
“We’re going to be moving to Michigan.”
Ariel had read plenty of stories about little girls and boys who were uprooted from
their homes and sent to unfamiliar environments where they had no friends. She felt her
stomach turn over. “I don’t want to move,” she said.
“We don’t have a choice,” said her father. “Blame that traitor in my department
who wouldn’t support me for tenure.”
There had been a lot of talk recently about something called tenure, which seemed
to have something to do with the many fiascos at the math department of the university.
Her father had also taken several mysterious trips to Michigan “on business,” from which
he had returned looking weary and irritable.
“Don’t forget the fact that you didn’t publish as much as they expected, Ralph,”
said her mother.
“Margo, I’ve already explained that I didn’t reach the conclusions they expected.
The fact is, I published as much as I possibly could without making up outright lies and
publishing those.”
58
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 5 9
“I don’t want to move.” said Ariel, interrupting their argument.
“I don’t want to either, Ariel, but that’s just the way it is.” Her father pushed
himself back in his chair, as if trying to travel as far away as possible from the table.
“Don’t take it out on her. Ralph.”
“I’m not.”
“Ariel, your father has been lucky enough to find a new job at the University of
Michigan.”
“Lucky if it becomes something other than temporary,” said her father. “Otherwise
we’ll be moving again.”
Her mother gave her father a look of disapproval. “We’ll live in the country, near a
lovely small town called Saline. You’ll love playing outside there.”
“But I won’t have any friends there,” said Ariel.
“You’ll make lots of new friends. You’ll be very popular in no time.”
“Popular” was a giddy, bubbly word. How nice it would be to become a popular
girl with braces on her teeth and boobs and lots of dates. Perhaps her mother was right; in
her new life she would become a popular, groovy chick. Ariel envisioned herself walking
around the neighborhood wearing lipstick and high heels, surrounded by a group of
admiring, laughing girls and boys.
Although the image was reassuring, she knew it was too optimistic to be believed.
“But I’ll miss the friends I have here ” Didn’t her parents understand anything? They were
acting as if friends were like pieces of bubble gum that could be chewed up and easily
replaced. Maybe that was how friends were supposed to be; spit out an old friend, and get
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 60
a newer, better one.
* * *
Ariel began to practice being a person who had no friends so she would know
what to expect in Michigan. As she accompanied her mother on various shopping errands,
Ariel observed nameless people on the streets and in the grocery store from a great, lonely
distance: obese women pushing shopping carts, handicapped and deformed people, scruffy
children with dirty knees. This is what it will feel like. It will feel as though I don't exist.
As she watched the nonchalant blinking of red lights and green lights and the passing of
hundreds of strangers, she was overcome with a wave of sadness and foreboding.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 9
JULY, 1975
Ariel decided to give a going-away piano recital for all her friends and enemies.
The girls weren’t particularly interested in piano playing, but they seemed intrigued by the
word “recital.” In attendance were Clarisse, Monica, the two sisters Agnes and Rebecca,
and two other friends of only occasional importance— Gina and Stella. They each arrived
dressed in pleated skirts and knee socks, their hair curled and styled with barrettes. The
exception was Monica, who wore jeans with bleach stains and a t-shirt that advertised
“C oke”
Ariel opened her recital with the second movement of her Mozart G Major Sonata,
a very sensitive piece marked pianissimo. There was a thoughtful, singing melody in the
right hand, while the left hand maintained a typically steady accompaniment of broken
triads. Although it was in a major key, there was something sweetly melancholy about the
piece; something about it reminded Ariel of the way little music box songs are always both
sad and mechanical.
Everyone clapped politely when she finished, and Monica whistled. Then Ariel
played “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” very softly as Clarisse recited a report on dental
hygiene, which she had written for school. There were a few unexpected giggles from
Ariel’s mother, but Clarisse managed to maintain her concentration.
61
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 62
At Monica’s insistence, Ariel and Monica then performed a version of “Heart and
Soul.” Ariel outlined the repetitive chord progressions of the lower notes, while Monica
punched out the melody, hopping from note to note with the index fingers of both hands.
“Can you show me how to play that one0” yelled Agnes from the audience.
“Sh!” whispered Ariel’s mom. “They aren’t finished yet.”
Ariel wished that her mother wouldn’t reprimand the guests.
“Why don’t you play one of your sonatinas, Ariel?” suggested Ariel’s mother.
“We want to play this song!” Couldn’t her mother see that “Heart and Soul” was a
hit? The performance ended clumsily, and Monica took a clownish bow. Everyone stood
up and began to ask about cake.
“Wait! There’s just one more piece,” said Ariel. Her parents were right; kids did
have short attention spans.
“Can’t we have cake now0” asked Monica, hopefully.
“It’s a short song,” said Ariel apologetically, “and it’s called ‘Farewell’ ”
“I wish I could play like that,” said Clarisse after Ariel finished playing.
“My mom could teach you if we weren’t moving,” said Ariel.
“I wish you weren’t moving.” There were actually tears in Clarisse’s eyes.
Ariel had seen Clarisse cry over skinned knees and parental reprimands, but never
over a lost friend. She felt badly that she herself was nowhere near tears. There had been
something about playing “Farewell” that had placed the feeling of loss at a distance.
“I’ll miss you too,” said Ariel. “We’ll write lots of letters.”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 63
“Promise9”
Tears falling from gray eyes. No more stupid songs. “Promise.”
Dear Clarisse,
This is goodbye! I will never forget you. I will write you letters, I promise, and
write back, o.k. ? You '11 still be my best friend, o.k . 9 Love, Ariel
P. S. Best friends always, 'til the end o f my last life when the sun blows up.
Cross my heart, Hope to die. Stick a needle in mv eve.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 10
SUMMER, 1975
On the first morning in the new house, Ariel awoke very early and discovered that
she couid see her breath in the cold air, even though it was summer.
The house sat on a sandy, treeless lot that sloped downhill toward a swampy area,
which her parents called a “marsh.” Ariel gazed through the naked window and saw the
marsh covered in a blanket of fog that looked like a sleeping ghost. The rising mist and the
lonely calls of mourning doves made her think of witches, and this made her miss Clarisse.
Several other birds began to sing, and Ariel perceived that their songs were
different—somehow wilder and more complex than the robins and crows she had heard
every day in Illinois.
The new house was nothing like the Terraines’ old house, with its basement filled
with cobwebs and ghosts and attic cluttered with old-fashioned toys and clothes that had
been left behind by the previous owners. There was nothing in the new house except
clean, empty newness. The carpets were spotless and fluffy, the walls were like blank
pieces of white paper, and the curtainless windows were hollow eyes without eyebrows
that gazed blankly upon the marshy land just beyond in the back yard and the sandy lots
across the street.
While her parents were still asleep, Ariel got dressed and went outside to explore
64
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 6 5
the neighborhood, which was called a “subdivision.” All along the freshly paved road were
sandy lots, each of which contained a house in some stage of construction. Some of the
houses were completely finished, with bright paint and new shutters, while others were
nothing but empty frames, like wooden skeletons. The half-built houses in particular
seemed lonely, their white toilets and bathtubs exposed to the street without the dignity of
walls to hide them. Surrounded by yellow bulldozers and giant piles of sand and
completely devoid of grass and trees, all the houses appeared incomplete, like half-finished
drawings.
Now the sun was rising and there was a crescendo of the songs of birds, frogs, and
insects from the surrounding marsh—a loud, pulsing hum.
* * *
The piano, sheared of its legs, was turned on its side and hauled into the house
from the moving van on a dolly. Ariel’s father did the hauling while her mother shrieked at
him.
“I knew we should have hired movers!” she protested.
“I’ve got it, Margo. Just calm down!”
The piano teetered precariously on its perch, but her father managed to get it into
the living room, where it sat on its side like an enormous wooden harp. It was odd to see
the piano uprooted from its familiar surroundings; it had always seemed such a permanent
fixture. Ariel helped her mother screw the legs back on, and then everyone helped to
carefully turn the piano right-side-up.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 6 6
Her mother began to play a familiar, wistful, yellow-colored song that went "Try
to remember that kind o f September . . “ and found that the piano was extremely out of
tune.
"And the action is sluggish,” she said. "It was sitting out in the truck too long.”
"What’s ‘the action’9” asked Ariel.
"It’s the movement of the hammers hitting the strings inside the piano. When it
gets too humid the moisture slows things down.”
Her mother started to play again, fumbled, and then closed the keyboard lid. She
rubbed her hands together and shook her head, as if worried. Her hands were covered
with spots and bulging blue veins, and her nails were ragged. Ariel hoped that playing the
piano wasn’t the cause of veins, freckles, and age spots, or she herself might have to quit,
since all the television commercials explained that it was important for a woman to have
lovely hands.
“Do you think my fingers are long9” asked Ariel, holding her hand up to her
mother’s.
"Your fingers are short and squat, like mine,” said her mother.
Rats! “But aren’t piano players supposed to have long fingers9”
“I managed fairly well with short ones. You can go pretty far with the strength and
flexibility you develop in your palms, even if you don’t have long fingers.” Her mother
examined her own hands. “I need a manicure. What kind of slump have I gotten into9!”
Ariel wasn’t sure if her mother actually expected a response. It was true that her
hands looked ugly, but it would certainly be impolite to say so. And what did she mean
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 6 7
about ‘being in a slump’”7
“You’re not in a slump,’’ said Ariel.
“I am,” said her mother. “I look horrible— I’ve gained weight, and I can’t play for
beans!” She started to cry.
Ariel wondered where her father had gone. If he were here, he would say,
“Aforgo, you 're being absurd. You look just fine! ”
Ariel’s mother blew her nose. “Are you going to practice now”7”
“I want to go down to that pond—”
“If you’re not going to practice, then you can help me with some chores.”
“I’m going to practice,” said Ariel.
Her mother left and Ariel began to play her scales. She liked the minor scales best,
since they had an eerie, haunting quality, like the sound of a faraway land where people
wore golden sandals. She moved through one octave in each key, and then she opened the
top of the piano and looked inside as she stood up and played. There were the felt-covered
hammers bobbing up and down happily. They didn’t look sluggish, but her mother
probably knew the piano better than she did.
Ariel held the sustain pedal down with her foot, folded down the music stand, and
then stood up as she reached inside the piano and moved her hand over the top of the
inner strings. She liked this sound: the atmosphere in the room changed, as if there were
spirits rising from the body of the piano. Then she struck the lowest note on the keyboard.
It was the approach of a dark force. The cat, who was lying in a sunspot on the carpet,
flattened his ears and looked annoyed.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 6 8
She experimented with the voices of various demons, and when she stopped this
game there was a wake of silence and then the sound of a distant lawnmower from
somewhere down the street against the drone of an airplane in the sky. For some reason,
the sound of the lawnmower and the plane were the loneliest sounds she had ever heard. It
was better to be playing the piano, to play some simple tune like the birds outside who
sang throughout the day without a thought in their heads. Then it was impossible to feel
lonely; it was almost as if she ceased to exist.
* * *
Ariel’s new Sunday school was taught by a weird young couple. The woman
always wore baggy dresses that looked as if they had been left to mold in an attic for
several years. She had brown hair that was very long, but not at all pretty. Ariel wondered
if Jesus had ever washed his hair. It always looked very clean and shiny in the Sunday
school pictures.
“I used to be dead, until I found Jesus,” declared the Sunday-school teacher.
“You were dead?” asked one of the children.
“I was physically alive, but I was also dead.”
How could she have been alive and dead at the same time ? Everyone stared at
her. The idea gave Ariel a shivery feeling. It was definitely the most interesting statement
she had ever heard in church. She pictured the Sunday school teacher taking some ice
cream out of the freezer and eating it. She was a dead person eating ice cream. She had a
dead person’s pale, white face and a church woman’s long, frizzy hair.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 6 9
Her husband also had long hair. He always wore jeans, which didn’t seem fair to
Ariel, who was always forced to wear a dress to church.
“The church is like a body,” he said. “Like, in the body, stuff wouldn’t work if it
was all blood and no muscles, right? Or all brain and no liver, right0 Or all—anyway, you
get the picture.” He scratched his beard and smiled at his wife.
They were not a groovy couple.
“Every one of you children has some special talent that contributes to the body of
Christ which makes up the church.”
Ariel wondered which part of the “body of Christ” she was. She quickly decided
that she must be part of the brain, since there were many stupid children who would serve
very well as toes, or kidneys, or buttocks. She pictured the earth as the large, bloated body
of Jesus, floating through space, lonely and in pain, his frizzy church-hair drifting through
the galaxy.
* * *
A family moved into a large house across the street from the Terraines and
immediately began to seed and water their sandy yard in a frantic attempt to grow grass.
Through the window, Ariel watched two chubby boys who got yelled at frequently by
their paunchy father and a very tall girl who was always carrying grocery bags and large
boxes from the car into the house.
It wasn’t long before the large girl showed up at Ariel’s door. She was strikingly
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 70
ugly: tall, with heavy, awkward limbs and straight, stringy hair that hung in a limp bob.
Her large nose was adorned with a well-centered and very red pimple and she was wearing
red shorts that looked uncomfortably tight around her fleshy thighs.
She and Ariel immediately became best friends. Ariel reasoned that if a large,
homely girt showed up on your doorstep in a subdivision, you should be happy to claim
her as a best friend.
The girls grinned shyly and a bit foolishly at each other as they introduced
themselves. The large girl’s name was Tammy.
“So you just moved in, huh0” said Ariel, stating the obvious.
“Yeah. . . How long have you lived here?”
“About a month, I guess.” Had it really been that long? Time had lost its meaning
in the static world of the subdivision. Each day was exactly like the next.
Tammy was eleven-going-on-twelve and would be entering the seventh grade
when school started, but for some reason she didn’t appear to mind spending time with a
girl who was only nine-going-on-ten. Ariel thought that Tammy was very nice and not the
least bit snobbish. Besides, Tammy’s bedroom was purple with plush, violet carpeting,
lavender walls, and a lilac bedspread. She owned bras (which she wore!) and makeup
(which she didn’t wear), and she subscribed to noneducational, groovy magazines called
Teen and Tiger Beat.
The girls began to spend long, aimless afternoons in Tammy’s air-conditioned
house. Sprawled on their stomachs on Tammy’s purple carpet, they flipped through
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 71
magazines, drank Coke, and ate Doritos. At four o’clock, they watched “Gilligan’s Island”
followed by “The Monkees,” and “The Brady Bunch” on the television in Tammy’s
bedroom. Ariel felt that she had never known such comfort and security as the paradise of
Tammy’s placid friendship.
But it wasn’t long before a moving van appeared in front of yet another new house
and a plump, middle-aged woman and her daughter appeared on Ariel’s doorstep—an
omen of change.
“Hi! We’re your new neighbors from across the street!” declared the woman, who
was very short and stocky with a broad, square smile. “My name is Mrs. Skosky and this
is my daughter, Dana. Is your mom here?”
Ariel smiled cautiously at the new girl, who was tan and very thin. Something
about her sun-bleached blond hair made Ariel feel shy and self-conscious.
Mrs. Terraine appeared and when she saw Mrs. Skosky she began touching her
hair nervously as if wishing desperately for a comb. After she and Mrs. Skosky introduced
themselves, they immediately began talking about the tribulations of growing a lawn,
which apparently was a source of bonding between subdivision adults.
“Yours is looking so goodr said Mrs. Skosky.
“Well, thank you. It’s been very dry lately, you know.”
“I know! We keep seeding and seeding, but I don’t see anything coming up?'
Meanwhile, Dana looked at Ariel curiously. “What grade are you going into?” she
asked.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 72
“Fifth.” The number had sounded so impressive before she had moved. Now it
sounded ordinary and unimportant.
“I’m going into sixth.”
“Do you like school?” asked Ariel, not knowing what else to say.
“No.”
Ariel was shocked. You were supposed to tell people that you like school because
learning is good and reading is fun.
“Do you?"' asked Dana.
“I don’t know,” said Ariel.
* * *
“Let’s go do our hair,” said Dana.
Dana’s room had yellow walls decorated with posters of glamorous-looking
people with fluffy, sexy hair that resembled Dana’s. In the middle of the room there was a
large bed with a frilly yellow spread covered with pillows and stuffed animals, and she had
a dresser with an enormous mirror attached.
Ariel recoiled at the sight of her pathetic little-girl reflection next to Dana’s
sophisticated, foxy reflection in the mirror.
“I love your hair,” said .Ariel, sycophantically. “How do you get it to do that?”
“It’s feathered,” said Dana.
Ariel found this term odd, but then she saw that Dana’s hair did in fact resemble
feathery wings framing her face.
“Do you want to see how I style it?”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 73
Dana combed through her hair, then rolled each of her hair-wings around a
steaming-hot curling iron. She seared the hair on both sides, then combed her wings
tenderly, then squirted them generously with hairspray.
“See0 It looks just like Farrah Fawcett’s!”
Ariel was obviously supposed to know who Farrah was, so she didn’t ask for an
explanation. “I wonder if my hair could do that,” said Ariel.
Dana eyed Ariel’s hair skeptically. “You don’t really have a hairstyle, do you.”
Ariel suddenly felt intensely ashamed, realizing that Dana had spoken a horrible
truth. Her chin-length hair was a light chestnut brown and straight— the same color as her
mother’s hair. She had no style at all. How had she let herself live this way0
“We can try feathering your hair,” said Dana, “but I don’t think it will work.”
Dana held the curling iron in a lock of Ariel’s hair for several minutes in an attempt
to singe some semblance of style into it. When she removed the curling iron and squirted it
with hairspray, it merely flipped up at the ends in a decidedly un-feathery, anti-Farrah
Fawcett manner.
“I think you would have to get it cut differently. “ She unplugged the curling iron.
“Do you like Shaun Cassidy?”
Another piece of information Ariel was supposed to know, but didn’t. “Yes,” she
said, assuming that she was supposed to like him.
“He’s such a fox,” said Dana. She took out an album with foxy Shaun Cassidy’s
jean-clad picture on the cover and placed the record on her record player. It was a song
called “Fox on the Run,” about a cute girl who was on the run because all the boys were
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 74
chasing her.
Dana explained that she herself was a fox. Consequently, she had many boyfriends.
How little Ariel had known of the world, having never been aware of the foxes!
“Do you want to see some pictures of my boyfriends?” Dana showed Ariel her
yearbooks from every grade of her former elementary school, where she had had almost
eleven different boyfriends. “And he was one, and him . . and him for a while . . . and that
one, he was a real fox, . . . and that one, we played spin-the-bottle,
As Dana spoke, Ariel felt herself slipping down a mountain, off the edge of a cliff,
falling, falling, then plunging into cold water. Beneath the ocean, it was quiet and free, and
there she would become a mermaid who was liberated from the human world.
She swam beneath the sea, away from Dana’s house. It was beginning to rain, and
she looked at the dark clouds, wishing that the wind would lift her up like a tom petal and
blow her back to her lost friend, Clarisse.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 11
AUGUST, 1975
Ariel felt as if she were in the basement of hell. She was lying between Dana and
Tammy, each of whom was slathered in baby oil.
“No sunscreen!” declared Dana. “The best way to get tan fast /”
Even with her eyes closed, Ariel found the brightness of the sun painful. She was
sweating beneath a ball of fire. Baking. She willed the sun to fiy her skin to a red crisp.
Dana sat up and poked her legs with a finger, as if testing a cake to see if it was
done.
“I’m getting some,” she said. “If it leaves a white spot where you poke it, that’s
how you know you’re getting some.”
Ariel and Tammy sat up and poked their legs to see if they were getting some.
Tammy looked large and hot in her cut-oflf shorts and black bikini top, which had an actual
cup size. Ariel wore a glittery green one-piece bathing suit that had seemed very
glamorous at the beginning of the summer but now looked frumpy and uncool next to
Dana’s yellow bikini.
Dana pressed her thigh against Ariel’s leg. “I’m darker,” she said.
Next to Dana’s slim dark leg, Ariel’s flesh appeared white, freckled, and soft. She
felt like a puddle of lard melting in the sun. The only thing that made her feel better was
75
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 76
glancing over at Tammy, who looked decided white and flabby.
“This heat is killing me,” said Tammy.
“We must suffer for beauty,” said Dana.
“Why should we?” asked Tammy. “I’d rather sit inside with the air conditioning.”
"I'd rather have a tan,” replied Dana, with a tone of contempt. “My mom sits in the
air-conditioning all day, and I sure don’t want to look like her”
“I think your mom’s nice,” said Tammy, glumly.
“She’s nice, but she’s a dog.”
“I’m getting a drink of water,” said Tammy, heaving herself up from her beach
blanket and clumsily rearranging her shorts around her upper thighs.
“She really should lose some weight,” whispered Dana as Tammy made her way
through the sliding glass door that led from the deck into Dana’s living room.
“So should I,” said Ariel.
“You’re skinny,” said Dana.
Ariel’s spirit lifted. She felt suddenly forgiven and redeemed; it seemed that she
had never experienced a more worthwhile compliment. "You 're skinny, " Dana had said.
Blond, tan, perfect Dana.
“I think my mom has a suit like the one you’re wearing,” Dana added.
After enduring another hour of excruciating heat, Dana decided that she and Ariel
had accomplished enough sunbathing for the afternoon. Inside, they found Mrs. Skosky
watching a soap opera with Tammy. Both were drinking Cokes and reaching into a bag of
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 77
chips that sat between them, their eyes glued to the television set.
“My, you girls are getting nice tans,” said Mrs. Skosky, without looking away
from the television. “Oh, I hate this guy!” she announced. “He is so nasty!”
Ariel reflected that Dana’s mom was so cool, and so nice. Why couldn’t her own
mother frost her hair, watch the soaps, play bridge, and encourage her daughter to lie out
in the sun? Her own mother forced her to turn down the volume during television
commercials. She played uncool songs on the piano, and sometimes sang in a loud,
operatic voice as she played. Sometimes she affected a strange accent in order to get
Ariel’s attention. "If yo ' not listnen' toyo' northen mothah, then ah!just have to heyo'
southen mothah! Git here a n ' do this now! ” That was crazy talk.
Dana seemed annoyed to see Tammy on the couch with her mother. “Let’s go over
to your house, Ariel,” she said. “There’s nothing going on here.”
Tammy jumped up to join them.
“You can stay and watch the rest of the soap opera,” said Dana.
Tammy looked confused. “I’m coming with you guys,” she said.
“Whatever,” said Dana.
At home, Ariel found a note on the kitchen table from her mother explaining that
she had gone to run some errands and would be back at 4:00.
“Let’s try on your mom’s clothes,” said Dana, excitedly.
“We’re not supposed to, but—”
“Your mom won’t be home for a while.”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 78
Ariel’s mother owned numerous evening gowns from what seemed a distant
previous life. She had once lived in a world filled with proms, dates, formal dances, and
numerous boyfriends. Occasionally, when Ariel’s mother was mad at her father, she would
say, “I could have married Chester Farthington, you know.”
The dresses, hats, and makeup owned by Ariel’s mother were the source of Dana’s
fascination and envy, which had made them seem even more valuable.
It was always dim and cool in Ariel’s parents’ bedroom.
“It’s kind of spooky in here,” said Dana.
There was a large four-poster bed in the middle of the room and a brass-rubbing
from the medieval tomb of a knight and his lady on one of the walls.
Dana wore a red sequined gown that bunched around her feet and a velvet hat with
a net that covered her face.
Tammy had already tried on two dresses, the waists of which were too small, and
was struggling to zip the back of a blue taffeta dress.
“No way!” blurted Dana. “You can’t fit into her mom's dress9”
“It almost fits,” protested Tammy.
“My mom is pretty small,” explained Ariel. Sometimes Dana could be so bitchy.
Tammy left the zipper halfway undone and added a plumed hat with a large brim
to her outfit. Ariel decided to take the risk of wearing one of her mother’s favorite old
dresses—a white, shimmering gown with gold sequined trim around the plunging neckline.
“We look like hookers,” said Dana, giggling. “Let’s go outside and see if we can
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 7 9
find those guys who just moved in.”
There were two gangly boys with shaggy hair and sunburned shoulders who had
recently moved into the neighborhood. They seemed decidedly unfriendly and were often
seen throwing rocks at snakes and digging for crayfish in the pond. Why Dana would want
to intentionally seek them out was a mystery to Ariel. She wished Dana and Tammy would
leave her alone so she could practice the piano.
“There they are!” said Dana. She had spotted the two boys climbing onto the
rafters of one of the half-built houses. Around the construction site were giant piles of
sand and two bulldozers. One of the boys stood up and began to make his way carefully
across the roofless top of the building.
“That one’s kind of foxy,” said Dana. She gathered the trailing hem of her dress in
one hand and headed toward the boys.
“Wait!” said Tammy. “We look too dumb.”
The shorter boy had noticed them and was pointing, drawing the attention of the
taller boy, whom Dana had called foxy. They both stared as the girls approached, Dana
giggly and confident, Ariel and Tammy trailing behind reluctantly.
The boys came down from the rafters gracefully, by leaning over the side of the
structure on their stomachs, flipping their feet over their heads, and dropping to their feet.
“Want a date?” yelled Dana.
The boys approached warily. Ariel was suddenly intensely aware of the white
material billowing about her chest and dragging in the sand around her feet.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 8 0
As the boys drew closer, Ariel saw that the '‘foxy’' guy was indeed foxy, with
sunkissed strawberry blond hair and a mischievous but slightly sensual expression on his
tanned face. His sidekick was more boyish, significantly shorter and covered from head to
toe with large orange freckles.
“What are you guys supposed to be9” asked the cute guy.
“Charlie’s Angels!” declared Dana. It was her favorite television show, since she
idolized Farrah Fawcett.
“I thought Charlie’s Angels weren’t supposed to be ugly,” said the freckled boy.
Tammy laughed nervously and Ariel felt her face burning, but Dana seemed
unfazed by this comment.
“You look more like hookers than like ‘Charlie’s Angels,’ said the cute guy.’”
It was funny how everyone in the subdivision was so familiar with hookers.
Dana burst into a fit of giggles which concluded with the goose-like declaration,
“Nuh!” It was an exclamation Dana often used which lent a light-hearted, absurd quality’
to Dana’s conversation.
Both of the boys were staring at Dana, watching her as if she were some new
species they had never before encountered. Ariel suddenly felt completely invisible and
wished that she could simply turn around and go home. But she was stuck—frozen like a
statue who had no capacity for words or movement. She wracked her brain for something
to say, but there was absolutely nothing in her previous life experience to draw upon in
this exchange.
“What the hell does ‘Nuh!’ mean?” demanded the freckled boy.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 81
Ariel felt that he deserved some credit for asking this question. She herself had
often wondered.
“I dunno,” said Dana, giggling pleasantly.
“It’s kind of like ‘No’.” said Ariel, attempting to help Dana.
Suddenly the boys were looking at Ariel. “Which angel are vow supposed to be9”
asked the foxy guy.
“I don’t remember any of them with freckles and peach colored lips,” said the
freckled boy.”
’’You should talk,” said Ariel. It was an inane comeback, but at least it was
something.
“And what about >’ow.9” he continued, pointing at Tammy. “I don’t remember any
fat ones.”
Tammy only smiled nervously
“Do you guys want to play ‘King of the Hill’9” asked the foxy guy
“Okay,” said Dana. She immediately sprinted toward one of the tallest piles of
sand, tripping and stumbling over her dress as she struggled to climb to the top
“Fuck!” yelled the freckled boy.
The boys tore off after her, racing madly up the pile of sand to prevent her from
reaching the top.
Tammy took off after the three of them, running with an awkward, waddling gait.
Ariel was painfully aware that her mother’s dresses were flashing in the sun before her
eyes. She had no choice but to follow them.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 82
“Queen of the Hill!” shouted Dana, dancing around at the top of the sandpile. Her
victory dance only lasted a split second before the boys pushed her down.
Ariel climbed to the top of the sandpile just in time to see Dana’s fiery red sequins
flashing through the grains of sand as she tumbled down the hill. The boys jumped down
after Dana, and at the bottom of the hill, the freckled boy held her down while the foxy
one dumped a handful of sand down her dress.
“Stop!” screamed Dana, still laughing.
Ariel began to head down the hill toward them, but then the freckled boy
abandoned Dana and scrambled toward the top of the hill. As he groped his way toward
her, Ariel grabbed his arm. He was fairly light, and she found that with her piano-playing
strength, she could toss him back down the hill.
“Ow!” he yelled, when he landed near the bottom of the hill. “What’s your fucking
problem?”
“What’s yours0” said Ariel. She had never heard herself utter so many distinctly
retarded comebacks.
“You pussy,” said the foxy guy to his sidekick.
“Fuck you,” said Freckles.
“Does anyone know what time it is9” Ariel had a sudden panicky feeling that it
might be past four o’clock.
Everyone looked at her blankly.
“We’ve got to get the dresses back to my house.”
“Can’t we stay a little longer?” pleaded Dana.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 83
“Why don’t you just take off the dress and stay here?” said the foxy guy,
flirtatiously.
Dana was so lucky !
As the three girls made their way back down the subdivision road, they
encountered Mrs. Terraine, who was returning from the grocery store in the station
wagon. Ariel could tell that her mother was glaring at her through the windshield. She
slammed on the brakes and leaned out the window.
“I want you girls to take those dresses off immediately.”
Ariel dreaded her mother’s anger, but she also felt surprisingly relieved. She almost
hoped that she would be grounded, for this would provide her with an excuse to avoid
more “King o f the Hill” games under the hot sun.
* * *
“I don’t think Dana’s a good influence for you,” said Ariel’s mother after Tammy
and Dana had gone home.
“She’s a very good influence for me,” protested Ariel. “She’s very mature for her
age.”
“I think she’s very immature for her age.”
“You don’t even know her,” said Ariel. In the bathroom light, Ariel’s face was a
collage of dark mascara, sunburned skin, and garish orange lipstick. She felt that she
looked better than usual— like a tragic young hooker. “Dana’s had lots of boyfriends,”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 84
she added, knowing that her mother admired and respected the concept of boyfriends.
“Believe me, having boyfriends is easy,” said her mother. “All you have to do is
flirt.” As she spoke, Mrs. Terraine examined the faint wrinkles around her eyes and mouth.
“I don’t know how to flirt,” said Ariel.
“You just have to smile and giggle and act dumb, that’s all. Just toss all dignity
aside; it always worked for me.”
“I never feel like acting that way,” said Ariel.
“You can’t always go by how you f e e l ” said her mother. “You’ll never get
anywhere that way.” Her mother applied some dark blue eyeliner to her lashline, stretching
the comer of her eye to make the skin a smooth surface. She examined her face critically.
“Do I look old9”
Ariel wanted to say “yes” just to hurt her mother’s feelings, but instead she settled
on, “I guess not.”
Her mother sighed. “These wrinkles—ugh! If I ever get too old and ugly, just
shoot me, okay? Just hire someone and blow me away.”
This was a disturbing comment, and something about it made Ariel want to
challenge her mother. “Then do the same for me,” she countered. “If I get too ugly and
morose, just take a shotgun and kill me.”
“Fine. We’ll kill each other.”
* * *
She was playing the piano in a sunlit room —Beethoven's "Moonlight Sonata. ”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 85
The music was both dark and luminous at once the octaves in the left hand moved
downward as the triads outlined in the right hand progressed through quiet, sensitive
changes. Each time a chord changed, Ariel felt a touch upon the back o f her neck that
sent a faint rush o fpleasure down her spine. The hair on her scalp and arms stood on
end.
Beneath her feet were the brass pedals o f the piano, and under those was the
white surface o f the moon. The music moved to a major key, and she saw that she was
surrounded by the yellow roses and sunshine o f a girl's bedroom. A bright red bird flew
through the window; it looked something like a cardinal, but more rare and tropical. The
light played upon its feathers as if they were rhinestones or jewels as it sang a persistent,
maddening song: "Duh, Duh, Duh!”
"Shut up, ” said Ariel.
"As deaf as sand, ” said the bird.
It should be silent on the moon. Then she saw that it was not the moon beneath
her feet but mere, ordinary sand. The yellow roses were simply tractors and bulldozers
and other practical machines. The piano sank deeper into the ground and the bird burst
through a glass window andflew away.
"She's dead, ” said a voice from outside.
Ariel ran to the broken window and tried to say something, but only a frail
whisper came from her throat. "Goodbye!" she was trying to yell.
Through the window, there was only darkness and a steady roar, like the sound o f
an empty ocean.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 12
SEPTEMBER, 1975
The bus stop was located half a mile from Ariel’s house, where the pavement of
the subdivision road ended and marshland began. The morning air was foggy and damp as
she made her way groggily down the street. It was only 6:30 in the morning.
Ariel felt a sense of dread when she saw Dana and Tammy standing with the two
guys from the “King of the Hill” game, who had turned out to be named Dennis and Ted.
During the last days of summer, Ariel had avoided the four of them, explaining that
she had to practice the piano or help her parents with chores instead of playing outside at
the construction site or lying in the sun. Sometimes, as she had practiced the piano during
hot afternoons, she had heard their distant laughter and shrieking through the window and
had felt a sense of regret at hiding from them. Now she had to face the painful truth that
she had failed to make friends with the kids on her street and that her only hope for a
social life was at school.
There were also two little girls who appeared to be first-graders. They clutched
their Snoopy lunch boxes silently and looked scared about the prospect of school as they
waited for the bus.
Ariel received a cold glance from Dana. There was a distinct atmosphere of tension
in the air.
86
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 87
“Hello,” said Ariel in a small voice.
Dana gave her a tight-lipped “Hi,” then turned to compliment Ted on his shirt.
There was a brief, wan smile from Tammy, who appeared to be wearing some of
the makeup that Ariel remembered seeing in her bedroom.
A bond seemed to have formed between Dana and Tammy despite Dana’s
disapproval of Tammy’s looks. This was disturbing, but at least they weren’t being overtly
rude.
But now Dana was observing Ariel suspiciously. “What did you do to your hair9”
“Nothing.” Ariel felt her face growing hot. The truth was that she had been
determined to face her new classmates at school with a hairstyle. Using the curling iron
which she had recently convinced her mother to purchase, she had singed two sausage
curls on either side of her face. These were cemented in place with a sticky shellac of her
mother’s hairspray. Her curls were so successfully glued together, they didn’t even move
as she walked. The back of her hair, however, was as boring and straight as ever.
“I don’t know if that’s a very practical style for you,” her mother had said, and
Ariel had viewed this as a compliment.
“Damn, those things don’t move,” said freckled Dennis, poking one of the curls
with his finger. “What did you use on there— glue?”
It was true, in a manner of speaking; the answer was “yes.” Why could she think of
nothing to say? Why couldn’t she defend herself, or at least make a joke of the whole
thing? She saw that there were muskrat dams in the marshy water on the other side of the
street. How lucky the muskrats were, living in their hidden, closed environments that were
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 88
safely concealed underwater. She imagined that their dams contained cozy little rooms,
like old-fashioned parlors with pianos.
Now everything was turning golden under the rising sun, and the late-summer air
smelled humid and flowery. Why was there something so moving about the sunrise0 She
perceived a major chord played on violins and violas that began faintly and crescendoed
steadily. Then she thought of Mozart, whom she always associated with the sun, whom
she liked to think of as more an angel than a composer—a magical child. The light was
warm and pink-gold over the cattails, muskrat dams, and tamarack trees. "See? Now there
are the basses and cellos , ” said Mozart.
“Here comes the bus!” yelled one of the little girls.
Everyone forgot about Ariel’s hair as they got in line. “No cuts, Skosky!” said
Ted, pushing Dana out of the way.
It was obvious that Ted and Dana would soon become boyfriend and girlfriend.
The rural bus ride to school was an hour long. They moved past fields and woods,
past remote farmhouses and other new subdivisions that featured large, treeless houses
surrounded by dirt. The last stop was a trailer park, where a group of tough-looking kids
climbed onto the bus. Throughout the ride, Ariel imagined that Mozart sat next to her and
held her hand.
* ft ft
Because her fifth-grade teacher was named Mrs. Ostrich, Ariel had pictured a tall,
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 89
awkward woman with a large nose and a tendency to wear hats with plumes. People often
had misleading names, however, and, as it turned out, Mrs. Ostrich looked nothing like a
large bird.
Mrs. Ostrich was short and fat. She wore polyester pantsuits in solid colors with a
preference for red and orange, and shoes with stumpy little heels. Her hair was swept up in
an outdated beehive hairdo, perhaps in an effort to make herself appear taller. Peach
lipstick clung to her lips like a sticky glaze of orange marmalade, and it had a strangely
hypnotizing effect when she leaned close to speak to you.
“Quiet down, class!”
She was always saying that, but nobody listened, so she began counting, which
meant that she was subtracting minutes from recess time. For every second someone
continued to talk, a minute would be taken away from recess time.
“Shhhhh!” said everyone hysterically. “Shut up! Do you want to make us lose
recess?”
This simply prolonged the counting.
“I’m countiiiiing!”
Finally everyone was quiet.
“Okay, class. You’ve lost five minutes of recess. Get out your math notebooks; we
have a lot to cover.”
Mrs. Ostrich loved teaching long division, because she was very good at it. She
divided backwards and forwards—large numbers by small numbers, and small numbers by
large numbers. Her favorite problems were the ones with remainders that trailed all over
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 90
the blackboard like long, chalky snakes.
Ariel hated remainders because all those leftovers were senseless and ugly. How
was it possible to divide a large number into a smaller one?
“It's illogical! ” she had complained to her father, who was a lover of logic.
“It's perfectly logical! ” he had replied. “And here's a much easier way to figure
it out. ”
But the her father’s “easier way” made even less sense than Mrs. Ostrich’s
laborious method. Perhaps her father wasn’t as smart as he acted. Ariel decided that she
would have to fend for herself in solving math problems. She discovered that if she
followed the complicated rules precisely and secretly counted on her fingers beneath the
desk, she could sometimes get the right answer. It was all a game that seemed to have no
point.
After math it was time for gym class with Mr. McNutt, who was one of the few
people Ariel knew who looked satisfyingly like his name sounded. His frizzy red hair
curled around his ears, he wore thick glasses and polyester shorts that fit snugly over his
large, muscular butt and thighs, and he had a whistle around his neck, which he blew
frequently.
“When I blow this whistle,” he explained, “it means, ‘Whoa! Stop right where you
are!’ ”
It sounded just like the whistle at recess, which meant, “Get your hands o ff that
kid! ” or “Get o ff the equipment and go inside! ”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 91
Every game had some intricate system for counting points and multiple reasons for
being accused of “foul!” How did the kids know all the rules9 It seemed to Ariel that her
own parents had neglected to teach her so many basic, essential life skills.
Because she didn’t know the rules, Ariel spent much of gym class attempting to
calculate where the ball was least likely to go and then placing herself in that spot. If a ball
came in her direction, she made what she hoped looked like an intense effort to throw or
kick it. She always missed, which was her intent, because she had no idea what she would
do with a ball once it was in her possession.
“Bombardment” was Ariel’s favorite game because the rules were simple: one
team whipped rubber balls at the other team, who tried to avoid getting hit. It reminded
her of Monica’s games with water balloons Nothing was expected of her in
“Bombardment” except cringing and self-preservation.
It was in the midst of an onslaught of red rubber balls and the shrill blasts of Mr.
McNutt’s whistle that Ariel noticed a girl named Stacey who met her glance and smiled
ruefully. She was waif-like, with shiny brown hair, pale skin, and olive eyes— pretty in an
unusual way. It seemed that she might be considered a great beauty in a more
sophisticated future, but was merely fragile and odd-looking in the rural Midwestern
present. Something about Stacey’s eyes reminded Ariel of her lost friend, Clarisse.
“I hate gym,” said Stacey.
“Me too,” agreed Ariel. “I hate it so much!”
It was funny how you could sometimes recognize a best friend right away.
♦ * *
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 9 2
Stacey lived on a farm about a mile away from Ariel’s house. Her father raised
sheep and com.
“Do you want to ride bikes?” asked Stacey.
“Okay.”
Stacey dragged two old Schwinn bicycles from a shed. After discovering that one
of them had a very flat tire, the girls decided to ride double. Stacey was lighter than Ariel,
so Ariel did the pedaling while Stacey balanced herself on the handle bars. As she moved
down the dirt driveway that circled the bam, Ariel remembered riding on the back of
Monica’s bike and felt an odd surge of nostalgia.
The sheep were all clustered together, grazing at the foot of a hill. Seized by a
sudden impulse, Ariel plunged the bike downhill, bumping faster and faster down the hard,
grassy ground as Stacey shrieked and struggled to keep herself balanced on the
handlebars. The sheep looked confused, then panic-stricken. They crashed into one
another as they bleated and scattered across the field. Some of their bleats were high and
wobbly and others were deep, angry bellows.
“Oh, my God!” screamed Stacey.
There was something satisfying about seeing the panic and confusion that rippled
through the flock of sheep. It was one of the most satisfying games of all time.
“Hey!”
They were startled by a deep, male voice. Bracing herself for a reprimand, Ariel
turned to face a short man with a ruddy complexion who was walking quickly down the
hill.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 93
“That’s my father,” said Stacey. “What’s the matter?” she screamed in an
impatient tone.
“Say,” said Stacey’s father, who was panting slightly. “You girls probably
shouldn’t do that because, you know, one of the sheep might get scared and have a heart
attack.” He spoke with a pleasant, stuttery voice that made it impossible to be afraid of
him.
“Sorry,” said Ariel, expecting Stacey to blame the escapade on her.
“A heart attack ?” Stacey sounded as if she didn’t believe her father.
“Sure! Now, wouldn’t you have a heart attack if someone tried to run you over
with a truck?”
“It’s not the same thing,” said Stacey.
“To the sheep it is,” said her father.
“How do you know9”
Ariel was surprised to hear Stacey contradicting her father so persistently. Her
own parents would call this “talking back.”
“Well, it’s not like I—”
Stacey cut her father off. “You know how sheep think9”
Stacey’s father laughed and Ariel felt vaguely sorry for him for some reason. “I
know when they’re scared,” he said. “You can play around them; just don’t tease them.”
“But that’s the fun!” said Stacey. “Teasing them!”
Stacey’s house smelled like freshly baked bread combined with a sharp, briny
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 94
aroma.
“My mom made pretzels this afternoon,” explained Stacey.
Stacey’s mother appeared, carrying a plate piled high with hot pretzels. She was a
short, stocky woman with long white hair that was gathered in a neat bun at the nape of
her neck. She looked more like a grandmother out of a storybook than a mother.
“This is Ariel,” said Stacey, grabbing two pretzels and handing one to Ariel.
“Say, that’s an interesting name,” said Stacey’s mother. She moved with nervous,
bird-like motions that made her seem smaller than she actually was.
Ariel bit into a pretzel and found that the flavor was amazing—like tangy butter
and bits of salt that burst and then melted in her mouth.
“So you’re new in school?” asked Stacey’s mother.
Ariel explained that her family had moved into the subdivision over the summer.
“I was wondering, you know, if they had to drain that land down there, what with
the marsh and all.” Stacey’s mother spoke with the same fumbling, friendly inflection as
her husband. “Say, do you get any flooding in your basement9”
“Mom, I’m sure Ariel didn’t come over to answer a million questions about her
basement.”
“What does your dad do?” asked Stacey’s mother.
“Mom!”
“He teaches math.”
“Say, that sounds difficult. Now, Stacey here doesn’t like math much, do you
Stacey?”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 95
“We’re going upstairs, Mom.”
“Okay. Say, Ariel, it’s nice for Stacey to have a friend come over, you know. We
don’t get so many young folks out here—”
“They’re not called ‘young folks’!” declared Stacey.
Ariel noticed a Baldwin upright piano as Stacey led her through the living room.
“Do you play9” she asked.
“A little. I’m learning clarinet.”
“Oh, say! Stacey!” called Stacey’s mother from the kitchen. “Why don’t you play
Ariel that clarinet piece you learned— ”
“She doesn’t want to hear that!” screeched Stacey.
It was both shocking and comical, this shrewish side of Stacey, who was so quiet
and demure in school.
“I’d like to hear it,” said Ariel.
As Stacey opened her clarinet case and began to screw the parts together, Ariel
flipped open the keyboard and softly began to play a sonatina by Kuhlau.
“That shounds good!” said Stacey, who had a reed in her mouth.
Stacey’s mother appeared. “Say, it’s so nice to hear the old piano being played.
Now Stacey took lessons once—oh, good, Stacey; you’re going to play.”
Stacey rolled her eyes and begrudgingly performed a song called “Let’s Join the
Band.” With the exception of a few hideous squeaks and the laborious nature of the
composition, she sounded pretty good.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 96
“I can’t believe you’ve only been playing for two years,” said Ariel, politely.
“That was terrible,” said Stacey.
Stacey’s mother placed some music on the piano. “Could you play that, Ariel'7”
It was a fairly easy song called “Somewhere in Time,” but Ariel suddenly had a
panicky feeling, knowing that she was terrible at sight-reading. Most of her repertoire had
been learned by first hearing her mother play a piece, then figuring out only the small
details from the written score. Playing by sight was still a tedious, difficult procedure, and
whenever someone plopped some music in front of Ariel, expecting her to be able to play
it immediately, she felt herself to be a fraudulent disappointment as she plodded haltingly
through the black field of notes spread out before her—an unfamiliar and hostile
landscape. Suddenly all of her previous playing seemed artificial, as if she had learned by
cheating somehow.
There were so many independent variables written on the page: key signature, time
signature, accidentals, dynamics, notes, notes, notes. “I’m sorry,” she told Stacey’s
mother. “I’m not very good at sight reading.”
“Couldn’t you just—”
“She doesn’t want to, Mom,” said Stacey.
Ariel felt guilty as she followed Stacey upstairs. What good was spending all this
time playing the piano if she couldn’t take requests?
“Open your eyes,” Ariel commanded. She contemplated the pink eyeshadow she
had just applied to Stacey’s eyelids.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 97
Stacey’s green eyes gazed at her imploringly.
“You look like you have pink-eye,” said Ariel.
“Thanks a lot!”
“Well, you’re not finished yet.” Ariel applied violet shadow followed by eyeliner
and mascara and felt a wave of jealousy as she perceived the undeniably beautiful face that
was emerging from beneath the heavy makeup. In the dim evening light Stacey resembled
one of the models in Seventeen magazine.
Ariel was also wearing elaborate makeup, but hers made her resemble an angry
fairy. Her face sparkled in several shades of blue and green, her eyebrows were two
diagonal slashes like heavy black antennae, and her hair was braided in several places and
adorned with a bright red ribbon. She knew that she did not look at all like Farrah Fawcett
and that she would be the laughing stock of fifth-grade boys all over the world if they
could see her now. Stacey, on the other hand, was actually starting to look pretty.
There was something she wanted to ask Stacey. She knew that the question would
sound rude, but she decided to go ahead and risk asking it. “Your parents seem kind of
old,” she said. “ I mean, older than most peoples’ parents.”
Stacey explained that at one time her parents had had two sons, both of whom had
died in a car accident. Stacey’s mother had given birth to Stacey after their deaths, when
she was already in her forties.
It was hard to picture Stacey’s parents with two teenaged sons. They somehow
seemed too small and cute. Ariel couldn’t help but think that Stacey should be nicer to her
parents, since they had been through so much grief.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 98
“My parents drive me crazy sometimes,” said Stacey. “They’re always so worried
that something’s going to happen to me.” She picked up a hand mirror and examined her
exotic reflection. “Once my mother came into my room because she had a dream that I
spontaneously combusted.”
Ariel pictured Stacey’s mom running into her daughter’s bedroom. She shook
Stacey awake, and Stacey yelled at her
“I wonder if that ever really happens,” said Ariel.
“I heard there was this slumber party in New York or something where one of the
girls just started on fire for no reason. So everyone was throwing buckets of water on her,
but the flames were too hot. Then she exploded from the inside out.”
She explodedfrom the inside out.
“There was nothing left but her clothes, filled with ashes and some guts.”
Ariel pictured the girl’s sneakers and Calvin Klein blue jeans filled with black and
white ashes and piles of intestines.
“Let’s do a seance,” said Ariel.
Stacey found a candle, which she lit and placed between them. “If my mom sees
me with matches, she’ll start screaming about how I’m going to bum the house down.”
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, they grasped each others’ hands and chanted the
name of one of Stacey’s dead brothers: ‘Kevin, Kevin, Kevin, Kevin, Kevin. ”
They were intensely aware of the sounds of the house, the vague mumbling of
Stacey’s parents through the vent, the sudden low gusts of wind rustling through the trees
outside, the sharp creaking noises of the old house. They were all messages from Kevin,
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 9 9
signs from the dead.
“Let’s turn the light on,” said Stacey, who was feeling too jittery to continue the
game. “We can hypnotize each other instead.”
They had both heard stories of slumber parties at which all the talk of human
infestation by spiders and the potentially heinous experience of getting your period
culminated with a successful attempt to hypnotize and levitate one of the girls. “We all
had no more than one finger under her back , and we lifted her up from the ground—like
she weighed nothing! ”
Stacey was lying on the floor with her fragile arms straight and stiff at her sides.
Her hair surrounded her face like a dark halo, her lips were deep violet, her eyelids were
lined heavily with black eyeliner, like the eyes of Cleopatra.
Ariel began to chant in a hypnotic whisper:
Light as a feather Light as a feather S tiff as a board Stiff as a board Light as a feather Light as a feather S tiff as a board Stiff as a board
As she continued chanting, Ariel saw a girl’s weightless body levitate and drift
through the open window into the cold night. Like a dead princess, the girl floated
serenely past the moon, over the fields, and into the misty marsh, where the witches flew
down from the trees to claim her.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 13
OCTOBER, 1975
Ariel was playing a piece for her mother—the Bach Prelude No. 1 in C Major from
“The Well-Tempered Clavichord.” She liked this composition because the left hand, which
was the weaker of her two hands, didn’t have to do much work. Instead, it established the
chord changes in the bass clef with a couple notes per measure, like a mellow string bass.
There was no melody to speak of in the right hand—just steadily moving triads that subtly
progressed through various chords and shifting tones.
“You’re playing too fast,” interrupted her mother. “It sounds a little sloppy.”
Recently, Ariel had grown to resent her mother’s criticisms. After all, her mother
wasn’t a professional pianist. How much did she actually know9
“It’s marked ‘Allegro’,” protested Ariel.
“But the notes in your right hand are uneven.”
“I played this for Stacey and her mom yesterday, and they thought it sounded
great.”
Her mother stood up. “Ariel, I can see that you’re having trouble believing that
your mother has anything valuable to say these days.”
“It’s not that—”
“I think it might be better for you to start studying with someone else.”
100
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 101
Ariel had assumed that she would always study with her mother. Through a series
of progressively grumpy lessons, she would learn all the pieces in her mother’s repertoire,
and once she had surpassed her mother’s abilities, she would be done with piano lessons
for good.
“It’s very important to study with someone you respect,” said her mother. “I’d
hate to see you throw away your abilities out of spite toward me.”
“But I respect you,” said Ariel, lamely. Her mother always had a way of making
her feel resentful, then immediately guilty. She wondered who the new teacher would be
and felt suddenly scared as she pictured a sharp-nosed elderly lady who would slap her
wrists with a ruler when she used improper technique.
* * *
Ariel’s new piano teacher lived in the nearby city of Ann Arbor. Her house was
tiny, with a doormat that said “Shalom” and an enormous orange cat which sat very still,
purring and watching Ariel through narrowed eyes.
“That’s the General,” said Mrs. Schwartz, opening the door. “He guards the house
for us.”
“That’s a huge cat!” said Ariel, not knowing what else to say. What was the
proper thing to say to a piano teacher?
“Come in!”
There was something automatically soothing about Mrs. Schwartz’s demeanor.
She had tender brown eyes with very long lashes, her thin lips were coated with frosty
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 102
pink lipstick, and her short brown hair would have been declared a “non-hairstyle” by
Dana. She wore black polyester and pants, and Ariel noticed that her hips were much
wider than her delicate shoulders.
Ariel entered a cozy living room that was dominated by a grand piano and the
lingering smells o f various cooked meals.
“You can play some scales to warm up, if you like.”
Scales were nerve-racking because they were simply notes up and down the
keyboard in exact sequences that pitilessly exposed mistakes. Mrs. Schwartz sat next to
her in a chair as she progressed through a series of major scales. As she played, she
noticed that Mrs. Schwartz’s piano had a very warm tone that sounded somehow better
than her piano at home.
“Try to relax,” said Mrs. Schwartz. “You’re tensing up a bit. What music have you
been working on?”
Ariel played the first movement of the Bach C Major Prelude, which her mother
had criticized.
“It seems that you’ve come a long way working with your mother; she’s taught
you quite well,” said Mrs. Schwartz. “But what we need to examine is the color of the
music. You wouldn’t create a painting that was all one color—all rose, all blue, or all
yellow—would you?”
Ariel shook her head no while continuing to stare at the keys. What did color have
to do with sound?
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 103
“Music is like a painting, with some colors muted and others bright. Let’s try the
piece again—a bit slower this time—and think about contrast .”
Ariel began again, but this time Mrs. Schwartz stopped her several times, saying
“Shhh , pianissimo, quiet, ” and “Crescendo here!" As Ariel played, she saw that each of
the chords was a different color, like shadows moving across a canvas of gold, deepening
to red, then burgundy. There were shapes that suddenly opened to the sunlight, but then
closed again, before she could see them clearly. As she thought of something beyond the
notes, focusing instead on color; the phrases took a more definite shape and the steady
rhythm became more even.
“Now that’s music!” declared Mrs. Schwartz. “You see, one of the challenges in
repetitive pieces like this one—where the same pattern happens over and over—is to hear
the melody a new way each time.” She stood up. “I’ll be right back, Ariel; I’d like to show
you something.”
She returned with an art book which she flipped open to a series of pastel images
of a haystack.
“These are by the impressionist painter Monet,” she said.
Ariel wondered what “impressionist” meant, but she didn’t want to ask.
“Do they all look the same to you?” asked Mrs. Schwartz.
“No.” They were all images of the same haystack, but each was in a different
color.
“But they’re all the same subject, aren’t they? The same stack of hay?”
“Yes.”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 104
“That’s because he painted it at different times of the day. He saw that the way
light and time affects the same object makes it look completely different.” She closed the
book and put it on the floor, where the orange cat promptly curled up on it.
“It’s the same way with music, where the notes are only one element. The shades
of dynamics, the use of time—these are the other ingredients we have to make it
interesting. Does that make sense'7”
Ariel nodded her head, thinking of haystacks sitting silently under the moving sun.
“The next time you play, try to think of a picture. It will help you communicate
something.”
“But how do you know whether you’re imagining the wrong picture for the
piece?” Ariel asked. She suspected that her own images of mermaids, witches, muskrats,
and angels were not the pictures that Bach had in mind.
Mrs. Schwartz suddenly seemed to look at her with more respect, as if she were a
thinking person rather than a mere little girl. “That’s a very smart question,” she said.
“One that musicians spend a lot of time arguing about.”
“Really*7”
“To some degree—and my husband would probably disagree with me on this—I
think it’s your right to create your own picture. For me, that’s what performing music is
all about. It’s like being an actress. The playwright writes the sentences, but each of them
could mean different things depending on how you say them. And that’s the fun of it.”
Then she eyed Ariel’s chipped pink nail polish. “You really must cut your nails,
you know, because they’re clicking.”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 105
Mrs. Schwartz had lithe hands with long fingers that could cover well over an
octave on the keyboard. That was how a pianist’s hands should be—long and thin. But a
pianist could not have long nails like Cher, which was a bummer. How sad, never to have
long nails!
"‘Excuse me a moment,” said Mrs. Schwartz. “I have to check on a roast in the
oven.”
While she was in the kitchen, Mrs. Schwartz’s daughter and husband returned
noisily from what appeared to have been some ffolicksome activity. The daughter
appeared to be about seven-years-old with stringy yellow hair. Mr. Schwartz was a thin,
awkward man with a scraggly beard who wore horn-rimmed glasses and baggy corduroy
pants.
“We were at the park!” yelled the girl.
Mrs. Schwartz emerged from the kitchen, apparently happy to see her strange
family.
“You know,” said Mr. Schwartz to Mrs. Schwartz, “it’s fun having a kid!”
What a bizarre thing for a father to say! It sounded as if he were trying out
fatherhood just for the afternoon.
Mrs. Schwartz explained to Ariel that her husband was an accomplished
professional pianist who taught piano at the University of Michigan and also gave
concerts. As Ariel’s lesson continued, Mr. Schwartz strolled through the living room
frequently, whistling portions of the Clementi sonatina she was playing. How easy and
light the notes were, coming from his mouth, and how difficult they were, coming from
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 106
her own fingers!
At the end of the lesson, Mrs. Schwartz explained that she would like to enter
Ariel in a Bach competition for children, if Ariel was interested. The word “competition”
sounded very dramatic and mature, so Ariel said yes, she would like to participate. Mrs.
Schwartz then told her to purchase a book of “Bach Inventions,” which sounded very
scientific indeed, as well as a music book called “Songs Without Words,” by Mendelssohn.
“Mendelssohn” was a nice name, because it sounded like music, and “Songs Without
Words” was an intriguing title, because it sounded like it contained an alluring and
mysterious secret. How exciting piano music was! Ariel couldn’t wait to show her mother
Mrs. Schwartz’s musical shopping list.
As she waited for her mother to pick her up, Ariel felt that she should make some
attempt at conversation with Mrs. Schwartz, but the usual oppressive shyness had
descended upon her and she could think of nothing interesting to say. How much nicer it
was to listen to Mrs. Schwartz’s soothing voice guiding her through the music than it was
to speak.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 14
DECEMBER, 1975
Ariel was always thinking—both consciously and unconsciously—of the
Inventions she would play in the Bach competition for young pianists. Now she was quiet
in class and Mrs. Ostrich no longer had to say, "Be quiet!" and "Get back to your
assigned seat! ” Her fingers were constantly moving over notebooks and under her desk,
sketching the intervals and patterns that gave the world a perfect order as Mrs. Ostrich
scribbled long division problems on the blackboard. Feathered bangs, long division, Mrs.
Ostrich, and the boys on the school bus could all be filtered through the intricate
conversations of the inventions, which were etched into her brain like invisible spider
webs.
On the cover of her textbook called Math in the World of Today, Ariel’s fingers
explored the bright voices of the B-flat Major Invention. "Two voices are speaking, ” Mrs.
Schwartz had said. "It's like a conversation. ”
The musical voices spoke of intervals and patterns, of joyful mathematical things.
People were always saying that music was like math, but this was not exactly so, because
math had no color; it was only numbers trailing across the blackboard and upon dittoed
hand-outs and from the mouths of the boys on the school bus who rated the girls on a
scale of one to ten. "There must be color in your music, ” said Mrs. Schwartz, “because
107
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 108
you 're not a machine , and neither was Bach. "
* * *
On the morning o f the competition, Ariel awoke from a fitful sleep to the
discovery that time had been altered so that the world crept slowly and painfully toward
the moment when she would perform. Ordinary objects took on a new significance in
Bach’s shadow, which loomed over the day. Her breath appeared like a cloud of smoke
and she felt dizzy as she made her way to the shower. The water was cold, then hot. The
shampoo smelled like a strawberry popsicle. She wanted her hair to be extra-specially
clean, and she tapped the patterns of the inventions on her scalp as she shampooed.
She blow-dried and curled her hair and applied strawberry "‘Kissing Potion” lip-
gloss and a touch of lavender eye-shadow to match her lavender dress. “It’s important to
dress nicely,” her mother had said, “because it makes a visual impression on the judges.”
Outside it was a cold, icy morning lit by the clean, crisp light of Bach. A bright red
cardinal sang in groups o f triplets that descended chromatically, blending with the hard
sound of her mother walking across the icy driveway toward the car in her high
heels—click, click, click.
Ariel was nervous. Her mother also seemed anxious as they drove through the
snowy countryside and into town, passing houses filled with people like Dana and Tammy
and Stacey who would wake up to have a normal day—people who would eat breakfast
and then watch cartoons. How lucky they were in their normal universe, while she existed
in an alternate world controlled by Bach, where everything was intensely vivid and painful.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 109
“You look very pretty,” said her mother, peering at Ariel from the driver’s seat.
Her mother’s bright pink lipstick and heavy perfume reminded Ariel of an angry
rose. “I hope you play well,” she said.
“I hope so too,” Ariel replied, thinking that her mother’s statement was vaguely
upsetting for some reason. The day had a weighty feeling of significance.
Ariel was led backstage to sit with the other children who were waiting to
perform. She was number eleven, which seemed like a lucky number. She had once heard
that odd numbers were lucky.
With the exception of one foxy girl with long blond hair, the other children looked
slightly younger than Ariel because they had not bothered to curl their hair with a curling
iron or to apply lavender eye-shadow. Several girls were actually wearing babyish knee
socks and the boys looked nothing short of infantile. They were children who played
Bach— quiet, timid, intelligent children who could be easily destroyed. Ariel made a
mental note to keep the Bach competition a secret from the kids on the school bus, who
would surely ridicule her if they knew about it.
Listening to a fugue that was plodding along steadily but monotonously, Ariel felt
a rush of fear and adrenaline combined with a burning desire to conquer.
Most of the kids were wearing big mittens in an effort to monitor the temperature
of their hands before playing. Ariel knew that her own hands would either be hot and
sweaty, slipping all over the keys, or cold and stiff—unable to move quickly enough
through the fast passages. She put on her mittens and removed them several times before
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 110
finally settling on warming her hands against her neck. She worried about what the action
of the piano might be like.
“That’s part of the frustration of being a pianist,” Mrs. Schwartz had said. “Unless
you’re famous or something, you just have to show up and take what you get.”
Several of the piano students had their music books open to their pieces and were
tapping out finger patterns on the page. It was clear that nobody was giving full attention
to the performance that was currently progressing onstage; they were too absorbed with
the task of having to perform their own pieces from memory.
The music onstage ended and was followed by a rush of applause. A painfully thin
boy with ill-fitting clothes and damp hair slicked over in a side part exited the stage. He
appeared to be pleased with himself as the children waiting backstage greeted him with
nervous smiles.
“That was good,” whispered the blond, foxy girl. She bounced her knee up and
down. “God, I’m nervous.”
As she heard her name called— Cheryl Stone— the foxy girl stood up shakily. Ariel
noticed that she wore a pink cashmere sweater and that her long hair was frozen in
sophisticated waves. It was both reassuring and threatening to see such an attractive girl at
the Bach competition.
“Good luck,” said the damp-haired boy.
There was a moment of silence, and then Cheryl’s music began. Ariel felt a knot of
dread as she recognized one of the pieces she herself would be playing—the Bach
Invention No. 14 in B-Flat Major. The tempo sounded faster than Ariel had been playing
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. it, which was also unnerving.
But as the piece progressed, Ariel decided that Cheryl’s interpretation was
unexpressive and rushed. It sounded like what Mrs. Schwartz sometimes called “horse
race playing.” “Most kids play as if they can’t wait to get off the stage,” said Mrs.
Schwartz. “It makes a difference when someone takes the time to actually play music.”
Cheryl Stone’s music stumbled into the wrong key and Ariel felt a simultaneous
feeling of horror and pleasure. Then there was a sudden gaping silence onstage.
None of the performers waiting backstage dared to look at each other for fear their
faces would betray too much sympathetic fear or mean-spirited rejoicing. Cheryl had
completely lost her place. It was scary enough to play the piano as a room full of people
scrutinized you, but to suddenly sit in front of them with nothing at all to produce—to be
suddenly silenced—nobody deserved that.
The music began again, continued for a couple measures, then halted because
Cheryl kept throwing herself off with a wrong move in the left hand. There were rustling
sounds from the audience. Ariel wondered if Cheryl would try to start over from the
beginning. No, that would be too risky.
Finally, someone provided her with the score and she picked up where she had
gotten lost and found her way to the end of the piece.
The most traumatic part of the situation was that she still had another invention to
perform, but Cheryl bravely launched into the Bach Invention No. 8 in F Major, which
also happened to be one of Ariel’s pieces.
Ariel noticed that the kids backstage seemed more relaxed following Cheryl’s
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 112
trauma. It was as if her embarrassment had freed everyone else, giving them permission to
be imperfect. “Sometimes you have to make a mistake in performance—to miss that
note—before you can relax and really play well.” Mrs. Schwartz had said.
“Let someone else make the mistakes , " Ariel thought.
She was next. She was amazed to find that she was actually excited to get out on
the stage and play.
The audience clapped politely for Cheryl as she left the stage, rolling her eyes in
disgust at her performance. “I can’t believe I did that!” she whispered loudly. Cheryl
began to explain to everyone how her mom and her teacher were going to kill her as Ariel
heard her name and number announced from the stage.
“Performer number eleven— Ariel Terraine— will play the Bach Invention in B-
Flat Major, followed by the Invention in F Major.”
As if from a distance, she perceived her body walking onto the stage, where the
black and white keys were waiting for her. It was a full-grand piano. Since both the
Terraines and Mrs. Schwartz owned baby grands, this piano seemed more official and
imposing than any keyboard she had ever encountered before. It stretched across the
stage, slick and black. The ivory keys were stark white under the stage lights, free of
chipped keys and cracks.
"Take your time before you begin playing, ” Mrs. Schwartz had warned her. "Fix
the height o f the seat first and then listen for the music. ”
Cheryl had left the seat in a position that was too low. As Ariel turned the knobs to
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 113
adjust it to a higher position, she felt that an eternity of unpleasant silence was passing.
Creak, creak, creak. She reached for the pedal under her foot, wiped her palms on her
skirt, and listened for the first measure of music.
The first invention always reminded her of a celebration. She heard the turn of
32nd notes in the right hand, then echoed in the left hand, then inverted, then repeated,
repeated, repeated.
The piano was the best she had ever played. It seemed that there was no frustrating
boundary between her hands and the music; the keys were like water under her fingers,
and the tone was rich and warm. The color was crimson, then suddenly quiet and
white— the cardinal against the snow, brightly singing. The music ended simply with a
return to B flat, where it had begun.
She then began the F Major Invention, which she always found more difficult. The
piece opened with a pattern that hopped up the F major arpeggio with the right hand,
followed by an echo of this statement in the left hand as the right-hand descended a scale
of sixteenth notes. The roles were then switched as the right hand played the left hand’s
part and vice versa. Hopping and running, skipping and running, like happy rabbits at play.
The challenge was to keep those sixteenth notes sounding light and effortless while also
managing to keep the unvarying rhythmic pattern interesting.
Ariel left the stage knowing that she had played as well as she ever had in practice
sessions—possibly better. She smiled shyly at the other students but purposefully avoided
Cheryl Stone’s eyes.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 114
Each of the performances that followed were accomplished but slightly awkward
or mechanical. Ariel felt buoyant and hopeful. Was it possible that she might win her first
competition?
The last performer was a small Asian girl named Matilda Lee, who looked as if she
were only eight years old. One o f her knee socks was slipping down her calf as she walked
onstage and prepared to play the Bach C Minor Prelude and Fugue from the Well-
Tempered Clavier.
A barrage of sixteenth notes burst from the stage, like machine-gun fire. It was the
essence of precision, efficiency, and perfection; her fingers moved so easily and quickly,
they didn’t seem human. The music reminded Ariel of a film she had once seen in school in
which parts had moved down an assembly line as robots worked on them.
But it was also beautiful. It seemed that this music was supposed to be
mechanical—about the notes themselves, the instrument itself with its little felt-covered
hammers that moved so quickly inside a box of wood and wire, like a tiny factory.
Everything was sensible and rational, and there were bursts of light here and there, along
with silvery steam and rising smoke.
Ariel had the sense that she was not witnessing the performance of a little girl, but
a performance that suggested another world entirely. It seemed an interpretation that Bach
himself might have liked. Matilda was so far out of everyone’s league that it was
practically impossible to feel jealous.
A thick wall of applause greeted the conclusion of the music.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 115
“She’s getting a standing ovation,” said a boy who had a view of the stage from his
seat.
So there was the gap between playing music and playing notes, but then there was
another chasm—that between being good and being great.
“I guess we know who won,” said Cheryl.
Cheryl’s mother wore a brown fur coat and had frosted hair with dark roots. Her
expression was grim as she helped Cheryl into her coat. Meanwhile, Matilda Lee and a
tiny beaming Asian woman who was undoubtedly Matilda’s mother were receiving praise
from Matilda’s fierce-looking piano teacher.
Standing behind Matilda was a lumbering, awkward boy of eleven or twelve who
resembled Matilda and her mother only in his Asian features. He was comparatively tall
and fat—larger than both Matilda and her mother put together. He breathed through his
mouth with his tongue resting slightly over his lower lip. “She played nice!” the boy
bellowed suddenly, interrupting the piano teacher.
Matilda’s mother hushed him severely. Then Matilda turned around and took his
hand and he smiled.
Ariel was so fascinated with this scene, she hardly noticed when her mother and
Mrs. Schwartz approached.
“Ariel! We’ve been trying to get your attention!” declared her mother.
“Sorry.”
Ariel saw that her mother’s eyes were red, as if she had shed some tears during the
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 116
competition. How embarrassing!
“You played better than I’ve ever heard you,” said her mother.
Hugs from her mother, an embrace from Mrs. Shwartz.
“You spoke without words, Ariel,” said Mrs. Schwartz. “I felt that you were really
communicating this time.”
This, at least, was gratifying. Still, it would have been nice to actually win.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 15
JULY, 1976
Tick, tick, went the clock on the kitchen wall. It was two o’clock in the afternoon
and other lucky girls were outside getting tans while Ariel and Stacey were trapped inside
Ada Mae’s hot, silent kitchen, having a 4-H club meeting.
Having been in 4-H for several years, Stacey had already learned to sew
complicated patterns for dresses and pants. She could also bake pies, cakes, quick breads,
and hot pretzels. Ariel had previously thought that Stacey’s club sounded fun, but now
that she had joined the group she found herself hungry and bored at the meetings.
Ada Mae Harwood was eighty years old, with white hair and pale skin that was
surprisingly soft and unwrinkled. Her hands were large and strong, with knuckles swollen
by arthritis, and she was deformed by a large hump on her back as a result of osteoporosis.
At every 4-H meeting, she said: "Now remember girls -drinkyour milk, so you don 7 end
up with a crooked back like mine. " As she demonstrated cooking skills, she always moved
slowly and carefully about her kitchen, in which everything was perpetually clean and kept
in its proper place.
The members of Ada Mae’s 4-H club were Ariel, Stacey, and three sisters named
June, Jill, and Beth, who lived on a nearby farm. The sisters were large, ugly girls with
heavy arms and legs and short haircuts. They had each inherited upturned noses and
117
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 118
protruding front teeth, but they nevertheless seemed oddly content with their lives. They
belonged to two 4-H clubs—one for raising livestock, and Ada Mae’s club for food
preparation and sewing— and they were used to sitting placidly through detailed lectures
on greasing pans, checking cakes with toothpicks, and measuring ingredients accurately.
Each Saturday, the five girls met in Ada Mae’s kitchen to evaluate their weekly
cooking assignments of a quick bread, a pie, or some type of fruit preserve. They sat in a
circle around the array of freshly baked food and ran the meetings according to something
Ada Mae called “parliamentary procedure,” which made the gatherings extra long and
tedious. Stacey had been voted both president and treasurer, which made little sense, since
she rarely said a word at meetings. Furthermore, the club had no money, since they paid
no dues.
Long silences followed Ada Mae’s inquiries into the “president’s report,” the
“treasurer’s report,” and “old agenda items.” Finally, Ada Mae turned her attention to the
achingly delicious food on the table, which had been baked by the girls as practice entries
for the Saline County Fair.
Ada Mae cut a dainty sliver from Stacey’s loaf of rhubarb bread and inspected it as
if she were a biologist examining a tissue sample. She then cut the sliver into even smaller
pieces and popped one of the crumbs into her mouth to analyze the taste. She chewed and
chewed, testing the quality of the tidbit. Finally, she swallowed.
“Tasty.” And then, “A little dry. You might add a smidge more butter.”
The remaining crumbs were placed on the napkin and passed around the circle.
Each girl tasted a tiny bite, with a perfunctory “Mmmm! ’'
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 119
Ada Mae tasted Ariel’s zucchini-chocolate cake. It was an unusual recipe that was
supposed to be extra moist.
“It’s a little too moist,” said Ada Mae. “But tasty.”
“How can something be too moist?” asked Ariel.
Stacy laughed but the other girls remained serious.
“A cake is a balancing act,” replied Ada Mae, “and if it tastes too heavy on the
butter and milk, your guests will think it hasn’t been cooked long enough.”
Ariel knew that none of her friends would consider the cake too moist. In fact, she
and Stacey had developed the bad habit of eating the moist top layer off cakes that were in
the process of baking in the oven. There were so many arbitrary adult rules about what
was supposed to be “good.”
How inviting the food smelled! Banana bread, and rhubarb bread, and peach pie!
The steady ticking of the clock reminded Ariel that outside, the sun was tanning the
slender thighs of foxy teenaged girls drenched in coconut oil who had no need for cooking
skills. How slowly Ada Mae moved, oblivious to the afternoon trickling away like a tipped
pot of molasses.
“The lesson for today will be about making boiled eggs,” said Ada Mae.
Ariel caught Stacey’s eye and they mirrored each other’s exasperation. Boiled eggs!
The sweet goodness of quick bread and pie was abandoned, and the girls gathered
around Ada Mae at the stove.
“You don’t want the yolk too runny or too hard, and you especially don’t want it
to turn green. It’s very difficult to avoid getting any green on your yolk,” said Ada Mae as
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 120
she presided over an eternity of carefully monitored boiling and simmering. Finally, a
perfect hard-boiled egg was extracted from the bubbling pot, cooled, and broken open to
reveal a smooth, slippery egg-white, which Ada Mae pierced like a surgeon to reveal a
yolk as yellow and perfect as the hot sun in the sky.
The girls contemplated the boiled egg in silence, and Ariel wondered if they would
ever escape from Ada Mae’s kitchen, which seemed to harbor a silence so strange and
perpetual that by the end of the meeting, it seemed that her voice no longer worked. Time
itself slowed to paralyzing stillness. The spell could only be broken through parliamentary
procedure, but everyone was too shy or embarrassed to say, "I move that we adjourn. ”
There was a long silence.
Exasperated, Ariel blurted out the embarrassing statement, “I move that we
adjourn.”
A nervous hush filled the room. Someone had to second the motion before they
could leave.
After what seemed a very long time, Stacey ventured, “I move we second— I
mean, I second the motion.”
“All in favor say ‘aye’ ,” said Ada Mae.
"Aye!! ”
It was one of those sultry summer days that seemed disconnected from the rest of
time in its slowness. The air was hot and humid, permeated with the late-summer buzz of
cicadas as Ariel and Stacey walked down the dirt road that led away from Ada Mae’s
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 121
house.
“I’m thinking of quitting 4-H,” said Ariel.
“You can’t!” protested Stacey. “I don’t want to hang out with those sisters and
Ada Mae by myself.”
“So why don’t you quit?”
“My mom is friends with Ada Mae, and it would hurt Ada Mae’s feelings too
much.”
“At least she likes your stuff,” said Ariel. “Mine is always ‘a little too moist,’ or ‘a
little too eggy.’ “
Ariel began to sing the “Ada Mae” song, which she and Stacey had composed after
a particularly boring meeting.
Ada Mae laid an egg, boiled it up, and called it Pegg;
stuck that egg up her butt~ It became a coconut:
served that egg in a bowl with some jam and dinner rolls;
took that egg to the Oueen, where its piss came out pea-green!
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 122
In the past the girls had broken into laughter at the song, but now it just seemed
dumb. The summer was wearing thin, growing old.
“Sometimes summer is so depressing,” said Ariel. “It’s like you want it to come,
but then you get too much of it, and it makes you sick.”
“It’s because we don’t do anything,” said Stacey.
The girls had spent the summer swimming in a muddy pond and lying on a raft that
drifted amidst the algae in the sun. Sometimes they went berry picking and made a variety
of pies and preserves for 4-H club, after which they went on short-lived crash diets. They
were both deeply tan and slightly heavier than they had been at the beginning of the
summer.
Mrs. Schwartz had been out of town all summer, and without the motivation of her
piano lessons, Ariel found herself playing the piano only sporadically. Although Mrs.
Schwartz had given her a list of new repertoire to practice during the summer, she had
only learned two of the pieces.
Impatient with Ariel’s lethargy, Mrs. Terraine had threatened to make her perform
in the annual talent contest at the Saline County Fair. “You obviously need some type of
performance to motivate you,” she had said.
Ariel had protested vehemently at the suggestion of the talent contest, imagining
people like Dana Skosky laughing at her from the audience, but now she wondered if it
might be a good idea after all. She realized that she missed the regimentation and structure
associated with an impending performance.
* * *
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 123
“You go ahead and find the talent contest,” said Ariel’s mother. “I’ll park the car
and meet you after the show.”
Through the car window, Ariel surveyed the rides moving against the blue sky and
felt a wave of nausea.
“Are you sure you don’t want to wear the red dress?” asked her mother. “I
brought it just in case.”
Mrs. Terraine had offered to let Ariel wear the red sequined dress which Dana had
once dragged through the sand, but Ariel had refused, knowing that the dress would
attract a lot of unwanted attention and speculation.
“I think that dress would be fun for a fair,” said her mother.
“Then why don’t you wear it0”
“Ariel, you shouldn’t be in such a negative frame of mind before a performance.”
This was the sort of comment that made Ariel feel even more negative and
resentful. The truth was, she was mad at herself for deciding to attempt this performance
at the fair, but she longed to blame someone else for her predicament. “You 're the one
who—”
“Good luck!” said her mother, interrupting her with aggressive good cheer. “And
have fun playing!”
“Don’t count on it,” said Ariel, slamming the door shut. As she trudged off in
search of the talent show, she wondered why she was feeling so extremely bitchy.
One of the most popular rides at the Saline County Fair was the “Salt n’ Pepper
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 124
Shaker,” which consisted of metal boxes attached to the ends of two long poles that
rotated slowly as the boxes spun around and around, backwards and forwards and upside
down in the air. Inside the boxes there were people, and sooner or later, someone would
puke. It was rumored that once, one of the “shakers” came unhinged and flew across the
fairground, smashing onto the parking lot. It was later forced open to reveal the splattered
brains of two unlucky kids. Nevertheless, the “Salt n’ Pepper Shakers” were still at the fair
and kids continued to line up in the hot sun for the ride.
Ariel passed the Salt n’ Pepper Shakers, the ferris wheel filled with couples
wobbling high above the fairground in their suspended seats, the “Jumpin’ Bean,” which
was a huge, plastic bubble filled with children and rubber balls bouncing up and down on a
giant air mattress, and the livestock buildings where the air was heavy with the pungent
odors of sheep, hogs, and rabbits.
As she proceeded past the rides, animals, and sticky children, Ariel perceived
clearly that entering the talent show had been a mistake. She felt the familiar anticipation
and dread of her performance, but instead of also feeling a burning desire to win, she felt
queasy and disoriented.
Finally, she reached a large, dusty arena surrounded by bleachers, where the
tractor pull had been held earlier that day. She scanned the empty circle for a stage or a
piano, but there was only dust.
Some young baton twirlers were preparing to perform with the help of a very fat
woman who was applying blue eyeshadow and squirts of hairspray to a series of girls.
Watching them frolic in their sequined leotards and white vinyl boots, Ariel
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 125
reflected that baton twirlers were very lucky; they were allowed to wear makeup— to
transform themselvs—simply because they were spinning a metal stick. Their faces were
uniformly doll-like, adorned unimaginatively with powder-blue eyeshadow, pink lipstick
and pink rouge. Each head of long dark-blond hair was frozen into an upswept hairdo with
a few stray tumbling ringlets. When they weren’t being squirted with hairspray, the girls
were methodically spinning, tossing, dropping, and chasing their batons.
“Don’t they look cute!” Sitting on the bleachers and waiting for something to
happen in the dusty ring below, a group of spectators admired the twirlers.
A semi truck pulled into the arena, and a group of men rolled a battered upright
piano onto the open bed of the truck. Ariel had a nightmarish sense of unreality as it
became clear that the talent show would take place on an eighteen-wheeler.
Ariel heard her name called by a nervous woman with a shrill voice “Are-ee-e/‘? ’’
and she raised her hand. She was given a number and told to sit on the ground at the edge
of the ring.
Groups of unsympathetic, voyeuristic people drifted from the rides and livestock
shows into the bleachers, peering curiously at the truck and the assortment of baton
twirlers and children gathered below. Anticipating the pleasure of watching others make
spectacles of themselves, they were surrounded by the security of girlfriends and
boyfriends, cokes and cotton candy. The air filled with their curious murmuring and the
electric twanging and buzzing of an electric guitar being tuned.
Sitting next to Ariel was a girl who resembled a country rag-doll. Her brown hair
hung in two fat braids and she wore a dirndl skirt with knee socks. There was something
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 126
comforting and nonthreatening about her juvenile demeanor, which contrasted with the
hysteria of the baton twirlers sparkling and tossing and dropping all over the place.
“What are you going to play0” the girl with the braids asked shyly, eyeing the
music Ariel was holding.
“It’s called “Romanian Dances.” Ariel opened her music to reveal the satisfyingly
complex notation of Bartok.
“Wow. You must be good,” said the girl, observing the small black notes.
Ariel noticed that the girl was also holding some music. “What are you playing?”
she asked.
“‘The Entertainer’,” said the girl, opening her music book to reveal a simplified
edition with large, fat, polka-dot notes.
Ariel noted with a bit of satisfaction that she was just a beginner and, therefore,
not a threat. Besides, “The Entertainer” was a silly piece.
The talent show was ready to begin, but people in the audience were still talking
amongst themselves and whistling at the baton twirlers. Nevertheless, the first act was
abruptly thrust onto the bed of the truck.
A thin teenaged boy began to sing and accompany himself on his guitar, which was
absurdly out of tune. It was difficult to hear his voice over the extreme volume of his
amplifier, and he seemed to sing nothing but the refrain of his song: “Rollin ’ down a
rivah! ”
The audience talked throughout his performance, although they clapped
enthusiastically when he was finished.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 127
The baton twirlers were up next. They had apparently decided not to do their
routine on the stage, probably because of the difficulty of jumping down from the truck to
retrieve dropped batons. Instead, they twirled and spun in the dirt in front of the truck,
doing splits and cartwheels, tossing and dropping their batons while maintaining wide,
tense smiles. Every time a baton hit the ground, an enormous cloud of dust rose into the
air and the audience groaned a disappointed “/fvntwHw.' ”
When they finished the routine, the girls returned to the large bosom of the doting
woman with the hairspray. “You guys did great!” she cooed, giving each of them a hug.
A tall, willowy girl wearing a shiny red leotard decorated with fringe and sequins
made her way up to the stage. She danced to a scratchy record, turning round-off
cartwheels, throwing high kicks, and bouncing about the creaking stage, tossing her
gorgeous blond hair like the star of a shampoo commercial: "It's a livin' thing! What a
terrible thing to lose! ”
Ariel found the dance at once ridiculous and captivating. It ended abruptly as the
girl violently plunged herself into the splits.
It was Ariel’s turn. She approached the weathered piano and sat down on the
wooden bench. It was too low, but that couldn’t be helped, since the seat wasn’t
adjustable. Her back was facing the audience, and she heard the restless waves of their
voices behind her. She felt no sense of understanding between herself and the audience;
she knew that they didn’t recognize the traumatic significance of the fact that she was
sitting on the bed of an eighteen-wheeler, about to play Bartok on a piano that looked as
though it had been sitting in someone’s garage for several years.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 128
As she began to play, she was deeply disturbed by the boinging of some keys and
the failure of others to make any sound at all. Ghastly! The warped, melancholy dance
lifted up off the truck and blew away, scattering over the carnival and the surrounding
fields. There were no walls and no ceiling to contain the music—no echoes— only the
dissipation of music into the dust and the open sky. She had the sense that distracted
voices in the audience were growing even louder as she played. When it finally ended,
everyone clapped politely.
“That was good!” said Braids nervously, clutching her music. She was next.
“That piano is awful!” Ariel complained.
“Really?”
Braids stumbled up the steps and onto the stage, and launched into “The
Entertainer,” which had a greater capacity to withstand tunelessness than Ariel’s
Romanian dance. To Ariel’s annoyance. Braids was actually granted a few moments of
something akin to the attention of the audience, as they recognized the familiar tune
boinging clumsily along.
She ended on a strange chord containing several wrong notes and then bowed,
apparently pleased with herself.
The winners were announced. The twirlers won first place, the dancer with the red
leotard won second, third prize went to the solo with electric guitar, and honorable
mentions were given to the two piano players.
An intense buzz of excitement signaled that the “Miss Saline” pageant would be
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 129
next. Teenaged girls with long dresses and boobs and upswept hair began to gather around
the truck in the dusty arena.
Not wanting to see her mother, Ariel turned away and wandered among the rides
that were now lit by multicolored electric lights. Boyfriends and girlfriends strolled
serenely through the fairgrounds, swinging their hips nonchalantly, their plastic combs
emerging pertly from the back pockets of their jeans. Farm kids wearing cowboy boots
were getting ready to show their livestock.
Ariel entered the crafts building, where the winners o f the baking contests were
displayed. There in the center of a long table covered with pies and cakes was Stacey’s
rhubarb pie, adorned with a purple ribbon! Stacey was obviously better adapted to her
environment.
Ariel derived an inexplicable comfort from thinking o f the inanity of the “Ada Mae
Song”:
Ada Mae Laid an egg. . .
“Ariel, I’ve been looking all over for you! I was almost ready to notify security!”
“I’m sorry,” said Ariel, turning to face her mother’s flashing eyes and not feeling
particularly sorry.
“What’s the matter with you?”
“This whole thing was a fiasco!” said Ariel, raising her voice.
An old lady who had been surveying the prize cakes looked at Ariel with a
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 130
disappointed expression.
“Really, Ariel. It wasn’t a fiasco. You sound like your father.” Her mother turned
and began to walk away.
“But I sounded horrible!” said Ariel, struggling to catch up with her mother as she
made her way past the cacophony of screeches from the fowl house. She wanted
something from her mother, but she wasn’t sure what it was.
“You can’t expect to have a great performance every time, Ariel. The piano was
out of tune and it was hard to hear you. Get over it and stop taking yourself so seriously.”
Ariel was distracted by a glimpse of Dana walking hand-in-hand with Ted. She
hoped that they hadn’t attended the talent show.
Rationally, she knew that her mother was right. It was only a silly county fair, after
all. On the other hand, she knew that these were the people she lived with—the people she
saw on the school bus every day, at the grocery store, her next-door neighbors. And to
them, she was invisible. Her one talent, the thing that she felt made her valuable in the
world, had been completely ignored. Useless. This, she felt, was not so trivial.
Her mother turned to face her. “Do you know what my job was before I met your
father?”
“A secretary at the university,” said Ariel.
“But before that I was a church organist in some nothing small town in Illinois.”
Ariel knew that her mother had studied organ in college, but she had never actually
heard her mother play the organ. It was an instrument connected with architecture—with
buildings. Without a job playing in a church, it was very difficult to get access to a pipe
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 131
organ.
“I knew that most of those people weren’t listening to me each Sunday,” she
continued. “I played great stuff, but the pastor only cared if I showed up on time. But
there was this one little old lady who always came up to me after the service and thanked
me. It turned out that she actually knew the repertoire and had once been an organist
herself. So you never know who might be out there, listening.”
It was supposed to be a heart-warming, comforting tale, but to Ariel it was only
mildly disappointing. How could the validation of one person—especially an old
lady—ever be enough9
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 16
SEPTEMBER, 1976
Because his name was Mr. Turl, Ariel had expected her sixth-grade teacher to
resemble a turtle. Surprisingly enough, he did. His rounded shoulders and short neck were
emphasized by the tight turtle-neck sweaters he wore each day, and his lusterless brown
hair hung greasily around his ears and acne-scarred face. He kept a large easychair in the
classroom, which he used for occasional naps.
Mr. Turl had several favorite sentences, which he repeated as frequently as
possible. The first was: “We’re like a family here. We spend more time together here in
class than you do with your parents. So while you’re in class. I’m your parent.”
This was not the least bit comforting.
“This classroom is like a nation,” was another of Mr. Turl’s frequent
announcements. “We all have to be good citizens!”
Each week, Mr. Turl awarded a prize called “Citizen of the Week” to the student
who had been the least disruptive in class and the most helpful in handing out dittos and
taking the attendance record to the principal’s office.
When Mr. Turl was upset, things got scary. First, he would warn the class: "Don 7
back me into a comer! Don 7 do it! ‘Cause if you do, I 'II come out swingin'! ” Then, after
a frightened silence had settled, he would admit, “I don’t want to be here any more than
132
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 133
you do.”
Ariel had just written an urgent message to Stacey, who sat on the opposite side of
the circle in which the desks were arranged.
Your hair looks good today. I hate this assignment. Did you see Jane's new
pants? Tight!! I can't wait for Friday—we '11 eat pizza and have a blast!
Passing the note to Stacey was difficult, because the center of the room was an
open space which was impossible to cross without being noticed by Mr. Turl, who was
sitting in his overstuffed chair reading a novel. The rest of the class was scribbling away on
a math assignment which was also a “connect-the-dots” picture. If you got the right
answers to the math problems, you would also end up with the correct picture. Ariel’s
completed connect-the-dots picture did not look like any recognizable object, which meant
that several of her answers were wrong, and the boy sitting next to her was no help, since
he was rudely covering his work with his arm. Feeling that it was of vital importance that
she communicate with Stacey at that very second, she folded the note into an awkward
paper airplane and impulsively threw it in Stacey’s direction. It rose in the air, glided
toward Stacey, then turned downward and crashed upon the floor, where it lay helplessly
crumpled, like a wounded bird.
Without a word, Mr. Turl walked into the center of the room and picked up the
note as if it were the most pathetic object he had ever touched. He then told Ariel to go
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 134
out into the hall. She had never been sent out in the hall by a teacher. At that moment, she
was an actual trouble-maker.
“Oooo, Ariel’s in trou-ble!” taunted the boys who were usually the ones out in the
hall.
Mr. Turl followed her into the hall and then looked down at her sternly as she
backed into a metal locker.
“I’m not gonna read this,” he said, shaking the note, which was crumpled in his
fist. “I don’t want to read this. I really don’t care what it says.”
Why didn't he want to read it? She was relieved that he didn’t want to because of
the statement about Jane’s new pants being tight, but how could he resist9 If she had been
in his position, she would have been burning with curiosity.
“I’m not gonna read it, but I will tell you, Ariel, that I’m disappointed, because
you’ve always been a good classroom citizen. I will not allow this behavior on my time. If
I catch you doing this again, you’ll go straight to the office. Understand9”
Ariel nodded gravely. It was a very solemn occasion, being a trouble-maker for the
first time.
Mr. Turl told her to return to her desk, but he didn’t give her back the note.
Perhaps he would read it later, in secret. What was so bad about passing notes9 Really, all
you were doing was writing an idea on a piece of paper. It wasn’t disturbing anyone else’s
w'ork; you were simply writing secret thoughts that the teacher couldn’t see.
"Not on my time, ” he had said.
* * *
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 135
After Mr. Turl’s warning, Ariel ceased passing notes in class, and instead amused
herself during class time with a large tortoise-shell comb and an assortment of flavored lip
glosses called “Kissing Potions” that smelled of strawberry, peppermint, and bubble gum.
Supposedly they would taste great to the boy who kissed you. So far, a boy on the
schoolbus had only teased her, saying, “You look like you have melted butter all over your
lips.” Mr. Turl made no comment on her new habits.
Ariel also made a study of watching the clock on the wall and was pleased to
discover that it did in fact move, and that she could see it move if she stared at the minute
hand for a very long time. She also discovered that the unthinkable was true— the clock
sometimes moved backwards.
Yet, through some mysterious process, it eventually became three o'clock. Then
the school-bell trilled like a giant metal alarm as everyone burst from behind their desks
and rushed toward the door as Mr. Turl yelled, “Walk! Don 7 run! ”
Ariel watched the minute hand jump forward euphorically, then slowly slide
backwards until it was even earlier than when she first began watching the clock. At that
moment, it was 2:15 p.m. and the world was spinning even though everything appeared to
be standing still. Ariel remembered that Clarisse had once claimed that if you sat frozen
like a statue and closed your eyes, you could sometimes feel the earth turning. What was
Clarisse was doing at that very moment—2:15 p.m.? She tried to send a telepathic
message to Clarisse.
As if from a great distance, she heard Mr. Turl announce that they were going to
do “a new classroom unit” that he had never attempted before.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 136
“We’re going to do it because I think it’s im p o rta n t he said, ominously.
The unit was called “Family Living,” which evoked images of her mother wearing
her tattered pink bathrobe.
“Family Living” turned out to be a euphemism for sex education. The truth was
revealed when Mr. Turl waved a drawing of a uterus and ovaries before a talkative boy
named Derek and asked, “Do you know what this is?”
Derek shook his head no. Ariel and Stacey recognized it immediately and stared at
each other in disbelief and disgust.
“It’s the female reproductive system,” said Mr. Turl, proudly.
Ariel reflected that he never would have flashed a male reproductive diagram at a
girl, because it was a rule of the world that penises were never shown in public. She
remembered flipping through the pages of a Playboy magazine with Clarisse in search of a
naked penis, and not finding a single one— only pages upon pages of ecstatic breasts and
vaginas. What was so secret about the penises that required them to be hidden while naked
women were shown all the time in movies and magazines9
The girls were sent down to Mrs. Cornwell’s classroom, and the boys remained
with Mr. Turl, presumably to discuss the female reproductive system in private. The girls
gave each other exasperated looks. “Why are they doing this now? As if we don't biow
anything! As if everyone here hasn't read Are You There, God? It’s Me, Margaret. ”
Everyone had read Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret, because it was a book
about getting your period. In real life, nobody looked forward to getting her period as
much as the girls in the story. All of Ariel’s girlfriends at school knew that getting your
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 137
period was either a sadistic joke on the part of Mother Nature, or a punishment for Eve’s
sin of eating an apple after God had specifically asked her not to. It had not been so very
much for him to ask, but she had nevertheless fallen to the tempting speech of the wily
serpent, betraying the Lord. "Thou shalt bring forth children in pain , ” the Lord said.
Mrs. Cornwell was a middle-aged woman who probably didn’t get her period
anymore. She very calmly explained the hormonal cycle that leads to “the sloughing off of
blood and tissue” and then asked if there were any questions.
Someone asked about birth control and she replied that it would be illegal for her
to talk about that. “ Any other questions?”
Several other girls raised their hands.
“Is it true that you bloat up like a big water balloon before you get it9”
“Well, there may be a bit of water retention.”
“But what if you want to wear tight jeans?”
“You might want to wear looser clothes on those days.”
“What if you’re on a date or something, and you just, like, get it9”
“I wouldn’t worry about that.”
“Why not9”
“Any other questions?”
“Is it true that you might go insane and kill someone when you get it9”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Will it make the sheep go crazy?” whispered Ariel to Stacey, who started giggling
uncontrollably.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 138
"‘Ladies, let’s be mature about this. You’re all young women here.”
Feeling irritated with Mrs. Cornwell and unafraid in the room full of girls, Ariel
raised her hand. “Maybe this sounds weird,” she said, “but don’t you think it’s possible
that this whole thing really is a curse?”
Mrs. Cornwell looked concerned. “Absolutely not. There may have been a time
when uneducated people used to think that, but now we know that this cycle is part of the
miracle of life.”
How predictable. The old “Miracle of Life” explanation. Ariel wanted Mrs.
Cornwell to admit the unfairness, rather than the miracle, of life. “But what if you don’t
want a baby9”
“Well, you might someday. Then you’ll think differently about it.”
This was still unsatisfactory. “But don’t you think that every single month is a little
extreme?” Ariel persisted. “I mean, how many babies does a person need?”
There were giggles and murmurs of agreement throughout the room, and Mrs.
Cornwell lost all patience with the discussion.
“Look, this is not a homework assignment that you can bargain with me about.
These are the facts of life, and the facts of life aren’t always pretty!”
There. She had admitted it.
“Things will be much better if you have a positive attitude. Believe me, it’s really
no big deal.”
Ariel did not want to have a positive attitude. She wanted to prosecute God,
Nature, Mrs. Cornwell, and Mr. Turl all at once.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 139
“Come pick up your pamphlets,” said Mrs. Cornwell, dismissing the class and
distributing pink brochures that had been produced by several feminine protection
companies. The pamphlets were decorated with cartoon pictures of teenaged girls who
were happily riding bikes, taking showers, and powdering their noses. "Stay perky’! ”
"Take plenty o f showers—a girl needs them! ” "Smile, sister! It's not so had! ” said the
cartoon girls. Then they spoke energetically about feeling “fresher,” “more active,” “free,”
and yet, safely “protected.” It was like being a baby again. The weaker sex. How unfair it
was!
* * *
Ariel was practicing a piece by Debussy that Mrs. Schwartz had assigned, “ La
Fille aux Cheveux de Lin. "
“You know how I always tell you to create a picture to go with your pieces0 Well,
Debussy gave each o f his compositions a picture,” Mrs. Schwartz had said. “They’re like
paintings made of time.”
Paintings made of time. Ariel found that she had never before played a piece that
provided her with such a tangible, yet dream-like image. She loved the way the opening
theme drifted languorously in the accompanied right hand, almost as if unsure whether to
go on. "Slightly Asian in the use o f whole-tone progressions and the pentatonic scale, ”
Mrs. Schwartz had said.
The girl wandered lazily through a field of wheat as the sunlight played upon her
hair. Time moved in waves; there was no past or future. She lingered, having nowhere to
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 140
go. Someone was watching her, freezing the picture—the light.
* * *
“This afternoon, we’re going to play the ‘What If game,” announced Mr Turl.
“Let’s say you’re all traveling in Antarctica. There’s ice everywhere. There’s nothing
around anywhere—no telephones, no restaurants, no cars—nothing. You all fall into a
deep crevice between two glaciers. You’re trapped!”
Mr. Turl paced around the room as he spoke. “And let’s say that I’m an explorer
in the area, just going about my studies of polar bears, when I notice that this entire class
of kids—you guys— has fallen into a deep crevice and can’t get out. Luckily, I have some
supplies, and a small helicopter. The problem is, the helicopter is only big enough for one
person. There’s no way I can fly all of you back to safety. My radio isn’t working, so I
can’t call for help. Besides, there wouldn’t be enough time, because the temperature is
dropping fast and the glaciers are beginning to drift together, threatening to crush all of
you!” He paused dramatically. “It becomes clear that only one person can be saved, so I
decide to rescue the person who will be of greatest benefit to mankind in the future.”
Ariel sensed the inevitable approach of an unpleasant classroom activity.
“Now, what I want each of you to think about is this,” said Mr. Turl. “If I can only
save one individual, why should I save yon? How can you convince us that it’s important
that yoz/ 're the one who gets to live? We’ll go around the room, and you’ll try to convince
me.” He placed his hands on his hips and surveyed the room, trying to decide which
student to call on first. “Derek—let’s begin with you.”
“Okay, let’s say I have a gun, and I’ll kill your ass if you don’t take me in your
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 141
helicopter.” Derek’s trouble-making friends started laughing and Mr. Turl folded his arms
across his chest, which was his “backed into a comer” pose.
“Go ahead and kill me, Derek. You’ll still be stuck down there in the pit. Think,
people— I’m a humanitarian. I want to save the person who will be of greatest benefit to
the future of the human race.” He looked around the room as if he wished that he could
leave everyone down in the pit. “And by the way,” he said, turning to Derek, “you have a
detention, as well as an icy death, for your choice of language.”
“But—”
Mr. Turl ignored Derek and continued his game with the next student. “Next! Why
should 1 save you, Cathy9”
Cathy looked uncomfortable, as if she wasn’t at all sure how to answer. “Urn,
because I have a lot of money and I’ll give you my fortune if you save me,” she ventured.
“You guys still aren’t getting it,” barked Mr. Turl. “Next!”
“Because I’m great doctor, and I’m going to save many lives.”
“Okay, good. Next.”
“Because . . . Oh, I don’t know! . . Um . . Pass.”
“Give me a reason.”
“Okay, because I’m going to find a cure for cancer.”
Sniggers followed this statement.
“Next.”
“Because I’m going to be a nurse and help people.”
“Next.”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 142
“Because I’m going to work in foreign countries and save a lot of starving
people.”
“Next.”
“Because I’m a flight attendant, and I make traveling more fun and, you know,
comfortable for people.”
Giggles followed this statement.
It was almost Ariel’s turn. She couldn’t say “because I’m a musician,” because
there was no reason to save a musician; musicians were obviously expendable. If she said,
“Because I’m a pianist,” Mr. Turl would say, “Nope!” so instead she said, “Because I’m a
lawyer who protects innocent people from injustice.” That apparently sounded impressive
enough, because Mr. Turl said, “Okay. Next,” and then continued to make his way around
the room.
“Because I'm a teacher for little kids who are insane and have handicaps atid
cancer. ”
"Next. ”
"I m a scientist who's finding cures for diseases and stuff. "
"Next. ”
After each person had spoken, Mr. Turl said, “Okay, class. So you see that you all
have many convincing reasons why you should be the one who gets to live. Now we vote.
But here’s the catch. You can 7 vote for yourself ”’
The result was a three-way tie between two disease-curing doctors and the teacher
of insane, cancer-ridden, deformed children—none of whom had yet begun to demonstrate
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 143
signs of their future roles in life. None of their true selves were worthy of being saved;
they would all perish in the crevice between the massive blocks of ice.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 17
JUNE, 1977
‘T’m so glad you’ve decided to go to music camp this summer,” said Mrs.
Schwartz. “I think you’ll really enjoy it.”
Mrs. Schwartz had arranged for Ariel to study with her husband, who would be
teaching at Interlochen Arts Academy during the summer months. Ariel was nervous
about the prospect of studying with Professor Schwartz, who struck her as an eccentric
intellectual figure who probably wouldn’t share his wife’s easy-going ways.
“My husband and I have very different teaching methods,” said Mrs. Schwartz,
“and we do disagree about certain things, but I think it’ll be good for you to get some new
ideas—a new perspective on your playing.”
Ariel wondered what it was that Mr. and Mrs. Schwartz disagreed about. Perhaps
they yelled at each other and hurled sheet music across the room, arguing about the
correct way to teach piano students.
“You've got to crack the whip on those kids! ” she imagined Professor Schwartz
saying to his wife.
* * *
“You will wear your uniform at all times, except when you’re here, at the cabin,”
said the camp counselor. She was a tall, big-boned woman who was dressed in corduroy
144
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 145
knickers that looked even more uncomfortable in the summer heat than the navy-blue
skirts and yellow knee-socks that the girls were required to wear at music camp. “You will
wear your uniform at meals, at lessons, at concerts—anything that takes you off this
immediate campsite. If you’ll follow me now, I’ll give you a tour of the camp.”
Ariel noticed that a few of the girls had a more sophisticated demeanor than the
girls she knew in Saline, but it was difficult to say what contributed to this aura of
maturity. Perhaps it was the expertise with which their mascara was applied, or maybe it
was the way their uniforms had a more sleek, high-quality appearance than her own. As
she observed the girl with sun-bleached blond hair who walked in front of her, Ariel
realized that it was an attitude of nonchalance—the sense that they had seen this all
before. To them, being away from home was no big deal.
On the other hand, there was also a motley assortment of girls of various sizes,
shapes and complexions who looked decidedly nerdy. A few of them carried their sheet
music with them, clutching it to their chests like protective shields as they walked through
the camp. They seemed worried that someone might demand an impromptu performance
at any moment.
“This spot here,” said the counselor, stopping at a fork in the path, “is called
Harmony Junction. This is where you can say goodnight to the boys after the dances and
social activities we sometimes have. This is the one spot on the campus where you can
make out with your sweetheart—under supervision, of course. On the rest of the campus,
there is to be absolutely no ‘P D A’. Do you know what that means? It means ‘public
display of affection’ .”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 146
“Awwwww!” said a few of the girls, perfunctorily. One of them was the blond girl
who looked distinctly familiar. As their eyes met, the girl gave Ariel a tight, ambiguous
smile that was almost a grimace.
Then Ariel remembered the Bach competition. It was Cheryl, who had lost her
place in the music. Was it possible that she was still angry about that experience9
“You guys don’t have it bad,” said the counselor. “We counselors have to stick it
out for the whole summer without gettin’ some!”
Adults were always concerned with “gettin’ some,” and their constant enticements,
reminders, and admonishments about it were irritating. Typical. She was not supposed to
have “P D A.” at camp, the getting of which seemed highly implausible in the first place,
but the counselor had seemed to suggest that it would be abnormal not to have “P D A.”
The girls were shown the practice rooms, the dining hall, the dance studio, two
concert halls, and numerous practice rooms. It was all “within the wooded beauty of
northern Michigan,” just as the brochure had promised. Sophisticated, international-
looking girls strolled about the campus wearing their uniforms, their exact age and camp
division identifiable by the color of their socks. The boys wore navy-blue pants and light-
blue shirts, and most of them had a skinny, unpopular appearance that did not bode well
for “Harmony Junction.”
After the tour, the girls were taken to the cafeteria for a supper of hotdogs and red
Jell-O, then sent back to the cabins to finish unpacking or to practice in the practice
rooms, and at ten o’clock, they were sent to bed. It had been an abnormally long day, as if
time had slowed in the midst of the tall pine trees and the absence of cars and television.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 147
The counselor explained that there would be a serenade each night. “Each cabin
will have a turn providing the music for our division, but tonight the counselors will
serenade you.”
Ariel had managed to claim a top bunk. Her sleeping bag smelled faintly mildewy
and she felt a gentle breeze through the screened window. She listened to the rustling and
squeaking and giggling of girls attempting to get comfortable in their rusty bunk beds, and
the steady chirping of crickets. From a distance, she heard three women break into song.
How lovely their voices were, so simple and clear in perfect harmony.
* * #
Ariel was awakened by the loud complaints of crows, and then the bright pain of a
trumpet blasting “Reveille.”
I t’s time to get up It's time to get up It s time to get up...
The fast, light notes were followed by the groans of thirteen girls who jumped out
of bed and began searching for a clean pair of yellow socks. The crows complained loudly
from the treetops as the girls pulled on their uniforms—yellow socks, light-blue blouses,
dark-blue skirts. A few of the more fashion-conscious girls brushed their hair, but they
only had ten minutes to get ready for breakfast, so showers and curling irons were out of
the question.
The girls exhaled clouds of cold fog as they ran through the forest toward the
dining hall, which was surrounded by the sour odor of garbage. Inside, grim cafeteria
women wearing hair nets methodically dolloped cream-of-wheat and oatmeal into bowls.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 148
After receiving their cereal and toast, the girls sat together at a long table, eating
and picking at their food in silence. Ariel sat next to Cheryl, who sipped a cup of coffee in
a very adult fashion, ignoring the food on her tray. Ariel saw that Cheryl was very tan and
that her blue eyes were emphasized with dark-blue eyeliner. How had she managed to
apply eyeliner amidst the commotion of getting dressed in a cabin with only one mirror for
thirteen girls? It was very impressive.
“I think I remember you from the Bach competition,” said Ariel.
“I thought you looked familiar,” said Cheryl, who was searching Ariel’s face as if
seeing her for the first time. “Oh my God—you’re the one who played the same pieces as
me!”
“Really?” Ariel decided that it would be best to act as if she had forgotten what
had happened.
“My performance bit the big one,” said Cheryl.
“I thought you sounded good,” lied Ariel.
“If you don’t mind total silence.”
A few other girls were listening with interest, so Cheryl told the story of her
memory slip at the Bach competition. “My mom was so mad at me after that,” said
Cheryl. “She was like, ‘This is what I’m paying for? Blah, blah, blah.’ ”
“It wasn’t your fault,” said a pretty Asian girl named Sally who had had extreme
difficulty dragging herself out of bed that morning.
Cheryl suddenly turned to whisper in Ariel’s ear. “I forgot there’s someone else
here from the Bach competition.”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 149
“Who?” asked Ariel, wondering why they were whispering.
Cheryl stuck a bite of oatmeal in her mouth, made a sour expression, and nodded
her head toward the end of the table.
Sitting next to Sally was a girl who was so petite and quiet she was easy to
overlook. Her blouse seemed to be a couple sizes too large for her and her slightly greasy
hair was pulled back in a low ponytail. She watched the others with a tense, hopeful smile,
but said nothing. How had Ariel not seen her before? It was as if she had suddenly
materialized at the table. Matilda Lee— the brilliant little machine.
“We both take lessons from Mrs. Tartinovitch,” whispered Cheryl. “Matilda is
totally her favorite student.”
Ariel had once heard Mrs. Schwartz mention Mrs. Tartinovitch’s name as an
example of an extremely strict piano teacher whose students were required to practice at
least four hours a day.
Ariel asked Cheryl if the rumors about Tartinovitch were true, and Cheryl
confirmed them. “I’m scared to death of her,” she said, “but she is a great teacher.”
“Is Matilda scared of her9” whispered Ariel.
“Who knows? Matilda is in her own little genius world.”
There was a tone of bitterness and contempt in the way Cheryl said “little genius
world.” Ariel looked at Matilda sitting next to pretty Sally and saw that away from the
piano she was so dismissable, so small and unattractive. Weak. It was amazing that she
could explode into such brilliance at the keyboard. For some reason, this quality had the
effect of making Ariel feel a momentary surge of hatred toward her.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 150
Meanwhile, a plump girl named Josephine had begun to arrange her uneaten food
in a sculpture. There was something odd but appealing about the girl. Her dark-brown
hair was cut in a straight bob with heavy bangs that concealed her eyes, her freckled skin
was unusually white, and her yellow socks were balled around her ankles. Other girls
began to contribute their left-overs to the art project, and as she built her unstable tower
of milk cartons, dry crusts of bread, globs of porridge, jam, butter, milk, and catsup, she
quietly sang a mysteriously familiar and absurd little song that made every girl want to be
her friend:
Fish-heads, fish-heads , Roly poly fish heads!. . .
They exited the cafeteria and headed back toward the campsite, and Ariel saw
Matilda Lee approaching Sally, whose shiny black hair swung back and forth as she
walked.
“She’s so skinny,” said Cheryl, referring to Sally’s long legs.
Matilda suddenly stuck both of her hands into one of Sally’s jacket pockets. “Is
cold,” said Matilda, giggling.
“Get away from me!” spit Sally, pushing Matilda away. “Just because my mom
makes me be nice to you at home, doesn’t mean you get to hang on me!”
Matilda fell a step behind her, walking glumly and looking more confused than
ashamed.
Ariel felt a mixture o f pity and satisfaction at this bizarre exchange. Poor Matilda.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 151
Then again, her actions were so inappropriate and innocently dippy, she deserved to be
humiliated. Walking safely next to Cheryl, Ariel felt herself to be in a position of social
power for the first time in ages.
In a low voice, Cheryl explained that Matilda and her family had come to America
from Korea just a few years ago. Matilda had started piano lessons because her “friend”
Sally also played. Matilda proved to be a natural talent—a near genius—and she had only
been playing for three years so far.
This seemed nearly impossible to believe. How could playing the piano come that
easily and quickly to a person? And why should this waifish, inept girl possess such a gift?
Cheryl went on to explain that Matilda’s family was “kind of poor,” and that she
had a retarded older brother who was often sick. Whenever Matilda wasn’t practicing or
doing her homework, she helped take care of her “idiot brother.”
Ariel remembered seeing the large, awkward boy at the Bach competition. “How
much does Matilda practice9” asked Ariel.
“I’ve always wondered that myself,” said Cheryl. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t
we9”
* * *
Daily music theory classes were a requirement for all piano students at Interlochen
Fine Arts camp, and all the girls hated the classes because they felt very strongly that their
teacher, Mr. Dick Zintada, was cheesy. The fact that Mr. Zintada made an attempt to be a
very nice, jovial teacher only intensified the girls’ hatred, which was made more
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 152
smouldering and poisonous through its pointlessness. Hating him became a hobby. They
lamented his irritating qualities as they begrudgingly made their way down the wooded
paths toward theory class. They lampooned his cheesiness at meals in the cafeteria. They
whispered about the disgusting fact of his existence at night from their sleeping bags.
“He’s so puke-worthy,” said Josephine.
Everything that Mr. Zintada said was viewed as incriminating.
“Now at this point,” he was saying as he scribbled a chord progression on the
black board, “you’re going to modulate.”
Ariel looked at Josephine, who raised an eyebrow. Ariel observed his buttocks,
which were very round. They shook slightly as he wrote. They were cheesy, theory-laden
buttocks, and it was his fault that being a musician was icky.
As if understanding intervals and chord progressions wasn’t enough, Mr Zintada
expected his students to compose music for a grade.
“What does he expect?” the girls fumed. “Doesn’t he realize we’re performers, not
composers? As if I can come up with anything!”
In contrast, the two boys in the class seemed reasonably enthusiastic and confident
about theory and composing. In fact, one of them, named Stephen, was already working
on a fugue. Josephine described Stephen as “a mathematical genius and a twerp.”
“Okay,” said Mr. Zintada, turning to face his ten students, all seated at electric
pianos. “Let’s go around the room and play the themes you’ve prepared for today.”
They were supposed to have completed the beginning of a composition in ABA
form.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 153
“Stephen? Mind if we start with you9”
“Sure,” said Stephen. He adjusted his glasses and straightened his staff-paper
notebook. His theme was written very neatly in pencil on the lines of the staff. He
hesitated a moment, and then began his pleasant, rational melody, stating it clearly in the
right hand, echoing it in the left hand, turning it backwards and forwards and upside down.
It was all very neat and clever and everyone was impressed, including Mr. Zintada.
“Well! How about that!” exclaimed Mr. Zintada, looking around the room with a
broad smile and raised eyebrows.
Ariel observed that his lips were very pink and his eyebrows were very red.
“I don’t know if A/r. Bach went to summer camp and composed a fugue!”
This was supposed to be a joke, but nobody laughed.
“Well, this is just the beginning,” said Stephen.
“I know, son,” said Mr. Zintada. “But it’s really an excellent start.”
Having finished with Stephen’s composition, Mr. Zintada turned to the next
student. “Cheryl? May we have the pleasure of your theme?”
“Okay, I guess,” said Cheryl, doubtfully. She tucked her long hair behind her ears
and began to play a simple, charming melody.
Everyone in the room was astonished. With the exception of a change of key and
the rearrangement of a few notes, it was a Clementi sonatina—one that virtually every
piano student had heard at some point.
Mr. Zintada stroked his mustache as she played. “That was lovely, Cheryl,” he said
when she had finished. “In fact it should be published. In fact,” he said, looking around the
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 154
room in anticipation, “it has been published. Class, does anyone recognize this theme0”
“It’s Clementi Sonatina, Opus thirty-six, Number six, in D,” said Stephen.
“Exactly.” Mr. Zintada sat down next to Cheryl, pushing her out of the way, and
began to play quickly the distinctly recognizable piece.
“Well I've never heard it before,” said Cheryl, who was surprisingly
unembarrassed, given the circumstances.
“That’s a bit hard to believe,” said Mr. Zintada.
“Really! I never have!”
“For the next class, please bring in a new theme—something original.” He turned
to the next person. “Okay, next victim! Matilda!”
“Mine is also fugue,” said Matilda.
Cheryl turned toward Ariel and rolled her eyes.
“Wow, we really have an appreciation for the baroque era in this class,” said Mr.
Zintada, chuckling. “Most students don’t try fiigal structures because they’re so difficult.
Instead of one melody, we’ve got three or four variations to deal with—all going at the
same time.”
Everyone stared at Matilda, daring her to outshine Stephen. Stephen himself
betrayed no emotion, only looking curious.
Matilda began to play. Her composition was strangely delicate, filled with lots of
ornamentation and sudden bursts of fast scales. Something about it reminded Ariel of lace.
There was a steady pattern that departed here and there into a sudden flower or bell, and
something about the key sounded odd. It was quite different from her pistons-and-smoke
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 155
performance at the Bach competition.
“Very interesting,”declared Mr. Zintada. “Did you notice, class, the modal
elements in her playing? It reminded me a bit of Bartok in that way.”
“Yes,” said Matilda. “Bartok I like.”
“A composer worth emulating, Matilda,” said Mr. Zintada. “And I appreciate the
originality of your work.”
Matilda beamed at Mr. Zintada. Didn’t she know how to keep her pride to herself7
She smiled at Stephen and he looked away.
“Next victim! Josephine!” He said her name richly, with an equal emphasis on each
syllable.
Looking flushed, Josephine struggled to suppress a burst of laughter while
attempting to prop up five ragged sheets of paper that were covered in large, sloppy notes
written with several different colors of ink.
“That’s quite a long theme,” said Mr. Zintada.
“It kind of jumps back and forth between these pages.”
“I see. Well, let’s hear it!”
Josephine exhaled a loud sigh and waited for what seemed a very long time before
she began to play. All the girls leaned forward, fascinated, because nobody had yet heard
Josephine’s theme. In fact, Josephine herself had not yet played through the entire
theme— she had been spending most of her practice hours making up rambunctious,
showy variations on “Chopsticks” and “Heart and Soul” while everyone else had been
repeating their uninspired compositions over and over. Suddenly serious, she plunged into
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 156
an enormous chord with a crash.
Her theme—which was so varied and disjointed it could only loosely be called a
theme—was filled with gigantic chords, fast-moving scales, trills, and even glissandos, the
last of which she performed exceedingly well as a result of practicing her “Chopsticks”
variations. By the second page of music, however, it became clear that the piece was far
too difficult for her to play, at least without having practiced it first. She stopped after
every few measures, squinting fiercely at the notation in front of her. Finally, she stopped
completely and put her head down on the keyboard.
“This is a very emotional performance,” said Mr. Zintada. “You can stop here,
Josephine. You’ve attempted some ambitious work, although I’m not sure if it all fits
together in one piece. I think you should narrow your focus and pick out something fairly
simple that you can work with and, for our purposes, that you can play. Let’s move on to
the next person. Ariel?”
Ariel’s theme was written in A minor. This was her favorite key because it was
both melancholy and simple, without any flats or sharps in the key signature. She was
certain that her idea was all wrong, because it didn’t sound like a composition; it sounded
more like a song—a clear, unfettered melody in the right hand accompanied by a simple
obbligato in the left hand. In her mind, its simplicity seemed a graver error than the two
fiascos that had just preceded her. Several of the girls in her cabin had liked the piece very
much, however. “It’s kind of haunting,” Cheryl had said.
When she finished playing, Ariel was surprised and slightly disturbed to see Mr.
Zintada’s face smiling with cheesy excitement.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 157
“I like that! It’s really quite a lovely melody—kind of plaintive and folksong-ish.
But also a little like Mozart. Didn’t you enjoy that0” he said, turning to the class and
nodding with eyebrows raised. “Good job, Ariel. I’ll be very interested to see what you do
with the “B” section of this piece, where you modulate. Have you started thinking about
that section at all?”
“A little. I have part of it written down.”
“And how are you modulating?”
“I was thinking of the parallel major.”
“That could work. Or, in this case, there might be some more interesting things
you could do, not just with the modulation to a new key, but with the chords themselves,
adding dissonance and such. Why don’t you stay after class, and we’ll take a look at it0”
“Okay,” she said, unenthusiastically. She felt disturbed, as if he had asked if she
wouldn’t mind undressing in front o f the class. As Mr. Zintada moved on to the next
student, Josephine gave her a look of sympathetic revulsion. Ariel wished that he had
hated her piece; it would have been so much easier. Now she would be receiving special
attention from Dick Zintada, which was the last thing she wanted. It would be a big joke
among the other girls.
* * *
Each afternoon between twelve and two o’clock was “quiet time” at camp. Inside
the cabin, several of the girls were lying on their bunk beds, writing letters, napping, or
reading. Most wore only their underwear, since it was so stagnant and hot in the cabin.
“I feel so gross!” complained Cheryl, who was wearing a sophisticated lacy-pink
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 158
bra and matching panties. "And I can’t believe I’m getting fat! Look at this!” She pinched
a layer of loose skin around her middle and wiggled it. “Disgusting. I’m starting a diet
now"
“You look good,” said Ariel, who was secretly thinking that Cheryl could stand to
lose a couple pounds. “I’d like to lose ten pounds myself.”
“If you lost ten pounds, you’d be too skinny,” said Cheryl. This was the hoped-for
response, although Ariel suspected that it wasn’t fully true.
Someone was practicing the Chopin Fantasie-Impromptu in one of the practice
rooms behind the cabin. Many piano students considered this to be one of the most
stunningly gorgeous pieces in the repertoire, and everyone dreamed of sitting down at the
piano and blowing away her friends and relatives with this music, which evoked a wind
swept seaside cliff. Ariel herself had been struggling to learn the composition during the
past few weeks.
The music from the practice rooms was distant and interspersed with the blasts of
someone practicing scales on a trumpet, but Ariel could still hear the perfect mastery of
Chopin’s difficult eight-against-six phrases and the smooth rippling of sixteenth notes, like
gusts of weightless wind. As the music rose and fell, her body actually felt cooler.
“Shit,” said Cheryl. “That has to be Matilda.”
Meanwhile, Josephine had found that from her top bunk, she could look down into
the shower stall on the other side of a thin wall next to her bed. From this position she
could tease whoever was taking a shower at that moment. “Hey, baby!” she yelled to
Sally, who was at the shower.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 159
“Cut it outV yelled Sally.
“You must be really bored,” said Cheryl.
“I am,” said Josephine.
“I’m going out to practice,” said Ariel. The strains of Chopin had reminded her of
how intensely she herself wanted to play the piece.
The practice rooms were located in a sandy area behind the cabin— a strip of little
brick cells with cement floors, each containing an upright piano. The pianos were
mediocre, but it was a pleasant practicing environment, being surrounded by the forest, the
sounds of birds and bits of music wafting from other practice rooms. With the window of
her practice room open, Ariel felt as if she were simultaneously outside and inside. She
realized that she had never had the opportunity to play her instrument in the fresh air. For
the first time, she didn’t mind spending as much as eight hours a day playing the piano.
From a nearby practice room, Ariel heard Matilda practicing one of the most
difficult passages of the Fantasie Impromptu—a lengthy chromatic scale followed by a
progression of quick octave intervals. It was like a climax and a sudden fall all at once that
always made Ariel feel as if a shot of adrenaline had been injected in her spine when she
heard it.
But Matilda suddenly stumbled on one of the octaves and stopped. She began to
work with one hand, repeating the passage over and over. Then she launched into a series
of technical exercises. Perhaps Matilda did have to work at her craft, after all.
Ariel knew that her own tendency during practice sessions was to play through
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 160
entire pieces from beginning to end or to focus on the most exciting sections, rather than
targeting tedious problems for extended periods of time. “Some people practice for eight
hours and make no progress, and others can practice for fifteen minutes and make vast
improvement, ” Mrs. Schwartz had said.
Ariel resolved to begin attacking her weaknesses more ruthlessly, but she couldn’t
bring herself to play the Fantasie Impromptu with Matilda in a nearby room. Instead, she
took out her own composition for theory class and began to experiment with possibilities
for the next section of the piece.
Mr. Zintada had suggested various jazz chords to use against an inversion of the
original melody. As he had experimented with chord progressions, he had seemed
increasingly absorbed in his work, as if he wished that he could take the sheet music from
Ariel and complete the piece on his own. “Ah, my heart, ” he had said at one point, as he
ended a cadence with a poignantly dissonant chord.
“But it won’t be totally original if I use your chords,” Ariel had protested.
“You think / made up these chords?” he replied. “It’s the new pattern you make
with them that will be original.”
The practice rooms had filled with students, drowning Matilda’s rigorous training
with raucous discord. Just as Ariel felt brave enough to practice the Fantasie Impromptu,
Josephine burst into the practice room.
“I can’t do it!” Josephine announced.
“Do what?”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 161
“My friggin’ composition. I just can’t. Listen to this.” Josephine pushed Ariel aside
and began to play her piece.
Josephine had made a few revisions, but it was still monstrously and gloriously bad
in terms of structure. There was a burst of wild energy, a shred of melody here and there,
a crazy quilt of music, much like Josephine herself. The odd thing was, it sounded good,
as long as you didn’t listen too critically.
“If you played that for people who don’t know anything about theory, they would
probably think you were great,” said Ariel.
“Eet eez zee musique fantastique!” said Josephine. “I am zee protege—zee
genius!” Josephine often interrupted conversations by breaking into various accents or a
stream of absurd commentary.
She began to play a new variation on “Chopsticks,” and the piano shook slightly as
she pounded out the notes.
Cheryl appeared at the practice-room window and announced that she was
thinking of quitting the piano.
“Come on, y’all,” said Josephine. “Let’s play them sticks. Them’ll put a purdy
smile on y’all’s faces, li’l girls!”
“You are so insane!” said Cheryl, joining her at the piano.
Through the open window, Ariel saw Matilda walking away, her hands over her
ears.
* * *
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 162
Dear Stacey,
How are you? Sorry I haven't written in awhile. Camp is okay, but it's very hot
here, and we have to wear our uniforms every day. Have you been going to 4-H
meetings? Has Ada Mae done the "boiledegg" lesson again? My legs are white and
hairy and covered with mosquito bites. Ugh! You must be tan by now!
Write back! Love, Ariel XXOO
Dear Mom and Dad,
How are you '} I'm fine. I'm enjoying myself here, and learning a lot. I 've been
practicing 5-8 hours a day! Right now I'm learning the Chopin Fantasie Impromptu, and
can already play it almost all the way through!
I hope you are all having a pleasant summer! Love, Ariel XXOO
P. S. If at all possible, please send another pair of yellow socks!
* * *
Professor Schwartz lived a life of serious musical thoughts and activities, and, as a
result, his body was shaped strangely, as if deformed by years of sitting at the piano. He
walked with a loping gait, leaning back slightly, toes and knees pointing outward, his
baggy corduroy pants always belted snugly a bit above his waist. Ariel wondered how
Mrs. Schwartz could have been attracted enough to marry him. Perhaps she enjoyed the
summer weeks when he was away, teaching at music camp.
When Ariel arrived for her lesson, she usually found Professor Schwartz playing
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 163
something by Beethoven. He often leaned back as he played, with eyes closed and
eyebrows raised as his long fingers blasted through the fast, intricate passages with ease.
He did not glance up as Ariel entered the room, and she felt embarrassed and
awkward, waiting for him to finish. Finally the piece ended, and he turned around on the
piano bench to look at her. He always seemed slightly surprised—or perhaps he was
annoyed—to find her there.
“That was really nice,” she said.
He looked at her.
“It sounded difficult.” That was definitely the wrong thing to say. What would
have been the right thing? Something about theory, perhaps? Something about modulating
chords? She was distracted by the memory of Josephine’s joke: “Modulating is a natural
process that every musician goes through. ”
“So. How is Mr. Chopin?” He was staring at her as if she were retarded.
“Okay.”
“Let’s hear it.”
He wanted her to play very precisely, cleanly, and minimally, which made her feel
as though she couldn’t play at all. As she began to play, she felt herself hesitate, suddenly
fearful that her reading of the score was littered with inaccuracies and oversights. She
never played through an entire piece at her lesson, since Professor Schwartz always
stopped her in order to focus intensively on the technique or interpretation o f a single
passage. She played three measures and then he stopped her as she stumbled.
“I could play it before, when I was practicing,” she said, knowing that this was the
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 164
most pathetically unoriginal statement a piano student could make.
‘'I bet you could,” he said, sounding as if he really believed her. "‘But what good is
that if you can’t play it now? So maybe you’re a bit nervous. But what is it exactly that
happens that makes you miss that passage when you get nervous? What exactly is your
hand doing there9”
He made her play extremely slowly, observing the position of her wrists and arms
as she struck each note. It sounded dull and babyish compared with the dramatic but
slightly sloppy interpretation of her previous performance.
“It’s more difficult this way,” she said.
“It might be more difficult now, but the point is to make it easier in the long run.
What if you were a swimmer and I told you that if you do laps with one hand tied behind
your back at each practice, that in a few months you would be able to swim faster than
you ever had before? I bet you’d do it.”
“Yeah.” She snort-giggled, and then wished that she had remained silent.
“I want you to practice this slowly, to really break down each element of the piece
and look at your hand position. It’s only when you dissect the music that you find out
whether you can really play it.”
She tried again, observing the position of her wrists and hands. Professor Schwartz
was adamant about “a straight line from the forearm to the fingers,” and he often accused
her of “unnecessary motions.”
“Playing the piano is easy compared to other instruments,” he often said. “Hell,
you’re just sitting at the table! Talk to a violinist or a bassoon player if you want to hear
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 165
about something difficult.”
For some reason, Professor Schwartz’s rational comments about how '■‘‘easy” piano
playing was often gave Ariel the disheartening sense that music was in fact a very alien
pursuit—something strange and pointlessly difficult.
“But why is this piece so much easier for some people— and not for others0” she
asked in a small voice. She immediately regretted the question.
“Maybe because those elusive, lucky ‘other people’ relax when they hit those fast
passages instead of tensing up,” he replied. “Maybe they keep their shoulders and elbows
and hands all in an efficient line with the keys, rather than pointlessly moving around in
other directions.”
Ariel must have looked hurt because he added, “I’m not saying that you do all
those things, Ariel. I’m just saying that a lot of kids your age— when they get to a piece
like this one— they get so worked up, they ruin it. They think it’s so passionate and
beautiful, they start thinking of lost boyfriends and how their parents are mean to them,
and it just sounds sloppy.”
He crossed his legs and Ariel noticed that his legs were so thin that even in this
position, his feet both touched the ground at the same time. Keep an efficient line. Dissect
the music. Purge the sloppiness.
“Have you ever heard Matilda Lee play this piece?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Ariel.
“Just between you and me, she’s probably one of the best piano students I’ve
heard around here,” he said.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 166
“She’s great,” said Ariel, feeling her deflated ego slide to the floor.
“She’s also one of the few kids her age who can make this piece sound easy. How
do you think she does it?”
There was a moment of awkward silence. Did he actually expect her to answer the
question? Apparently he did.
“Well,” said Ariel, “I think she dissects the music when she practices.”
“That’s a good point,” said Professor Schwartz. “But I also sense that she doesn’t
try too hard; she doesn’t push it too much when she plays. I don’t know what she thinks
about when she’s playing, but I suspect it’s the sort of thing that / think about—the
structure of the piece, the pattern of the notes—this big mathematical puzzle, like an
intriguing game. If I can figure it out, I get control over the music, rather than vice versa.
“You mean instead of thinking of a—a picture0 Or a story0” said Ariel. She
suddenly felt that she missed Mrs. Schwartz.
“Pictures and stories make us react viscerally,” said Professor Schwartz. “But
classical music is carefully structured— highly rational in terms of form. I think it’s
important to understand those elements. I also know that you’ll be most successful if you
start thinking in terms of them.”
So this was one of the differences between Professor and Mrs. Schwartz.
Professor Schwartz looked at her for a moment, perhaps perceiving her unease. “I
realize my wife teaches differently,” he said, “but it’s good to learn things from different
perspectives.”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 167
As Ariel left the studio, Professor Schwartz began to play a Beethoven sonata.
Beethoven was a genius.
“A titanic genius, " Schwartz had said, as if he were speaking of something far too
special to explain further. He said it as if he’d known Beethoven as a personal
aquaintance.
What did a genius look like9 Surely there were none alive anymore; they lived in
foreign countries, in a serious, black-and-white world where they cultivated their genius
day and night and rarely had time for baths. Beethoven’s genius was unfathomable, like
the depths of the ocean, where bizarre creatures lived in dark sea-caves. Even more
impressive, he was a genius who became deaf. "Stone deaf, " people always said, as if
plain deaf weren’t enough. How awful for him to become stone deaf when he was a
musician and a genius! Yet he continued to compose. Mozart was another genius, even as
a child .
In reference to Mozart, Professor Schwartz had simply said, "They killed him. ”
He didn’t say who “they” were, or why they would have wanted to kill him.
It was beginning to rain— a cold, chilly drizzle—but Ariel didn’t want to return to
the cabin filled with girls who would be writing homesick letters, shampooing yellow
socks in the sink, and making jokes about Mr. Zintada. Instead, she walked to the Melody
Snack Bar and bought some french fries, which she ate while sitting on a bench in the
drizzling rain.
The teachers at camp were talented musicians, but they were not geniuses, even
though they were very musical and very strange. She herself was not even close to
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 168
understanding the geniuses, and she did not want to understand them, because that would
mean that she was peculiar, unpopular, and a dog. She assumed that most of the genius-
composers had been dogs, although her music history teacher said that Franz Liszt was
supposed to have been “very popular with the ladies,” and therefore must have been a fox.
But Liszt had lived in the days when women wore tall gray wigs and men wore long pony
tails and ringlets. Not a single person was foxy then. Foxes were modern people, like the
girls who swapped spit at Harmony Junction and who strolled contentedly through
fairgrounds with feathered bangs artfully sprayed, hands placed nonchalantly upon their
boyfriends’ butts.
There were three worlds: the bountiful kingdom inhabited by foxes, the rarefied,
dim cloister of geniuses, and the flat, practical world of normal, ordinary people. Ariel felt
that she was not fully a part of any one of them. If only she could have been part of the
world of witches, who could travel between the worlds!
As it began to rain harder, she had a sudden memory of her childhood—something
about the excitement of a stormy night, a game of flying through the air. She watched the
wet branches whispering and shaking above her and wished that the wind would lift her up
like a tom petal or a dead leaf and blow her across the land to some other world.
* * *
Josephine and several other girls, including Cheryl and Sally, were gathered on
Josephine’s top bunk, peering down into the shower.
“I’m going to drop this in, love! Because I’m sick to death of your bloody rock
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 169
and roll!” Josephine was speaking in an English accent. “Your poor father and I have been
driven batty!”
She waved some sheet music over the shower, threatening to let it fall.
“No! No drop music!” It was the hysterical voice of Matilda Lee.
“I told you, young lady, this devil’s music will not be tolerated in this household!”
“Is not rock and roll!”
Cheryl saw Ariel and gestured for her to join them on the bed. As Ariel climbed up
to Josephine’s bunk, the bed creaked and she had an image of all of them suddenly
crashing to the floor in a heap. Ariel peered down into the narrow, mildewy shower stall
and saw Matilda’s naked body under a steady trickle of water.
“Your father and I have been patient for some time, young lady,” said Josephine.
“But now you’ve gone too far ”
Unlike most of the girls, Matilda was extremely private and never let anyone see
her naked, which was clearly part of the fun of the game. Ariel saw that Matilda had small,
dark breast-buds and a shock of pubic hair—evidence of a sexuality that seemed
incongruous with her stick-like limbs and visible ribs. Something about the sight of
Matilda’s body filled Ariel with a wave of revulsion. At the same time, Matilda’s
determination to hide herself made it all the more fun to expose her.
It seemed that Matilda couldn’t decide whether to face the girls in hopes of
catching the falling music, or to turn away from them to hide herself from their leering
eyes. She apparently didn’t think of turning off the shower—or perhaps the water made
her feel safer.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 170
“She won’t leave the shower because someone took her towel and she’s too
scared to walk out here naked,” said Cheryl.
Ariel remembered a time when she had put her cat into the lazy Susan in the
kitchen and closed it so he couldn’t get out. She had listened to him stumbling around the
cans and boxes of cereal, meowing, until her mother had reprimanded her, saying, "You 're
being cruel! He doesn 7 understand! ”
It was cruel to torment Matilda, so why was it so disturbingly fun9
Feeling guilty, Sally finally returned Matilda’s towel. Matilda emerged from the
shower crying openly.
Josephine handed her the sheet music.”It was just a joke, Matilda,” said Josephine.
“We’ve been doing it to everyone, and I never would have dropped your music in the
water.”
Matilda clutched the music against her towel. “You. . . Stupid girls!"
Josephine bit her lip in an effort to restrain herself from laughing. It was exactly the
sort of outburst that she would enjoy imitating later.
“Lighten up!” said Cheryl.
Matilda turned away and everyone remained silent for the next hour, only
whispering to each other here and there about how Matilda “couldn’t take a joke.”
* *
Dear Ariel,
Thanks for your letter! I was so happy to get it—everything is so boring here in
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 171
Saline! I was the only person at the last 4-H meeting, but Ada Mae still used
parliamentary procedure. She repeated the lesson on dry ingredients.
/ 've been trying to lay out in the sun every day, but I get so bored and sweaty that
I give up after a few minutes and go watch soap operas. I m hooked on “One Life to
Live. " Today I got so bored, I tried to dress up the dog, but she bit me!
Write back! Love, Stacey
* * *
Dr. Bogooki lectured in a rambling manner, incorporating personal reminiscences
into his breezy overview of the entire history of piano music. He sat at a grand piano as he
spoke, often stopping to play some examples of the composers he mentioned.
Occasionally he became so absorbed in his playing, he seemed to forget about the lecture
and the class became an impromptu recital.
“I remember a marvelous piano I played once in Germany.” He faced the class
from the piano bench with legs spread apart and surprisingly colorful argyle socks peeking
expressively from beneath his trousers. “ What Bach wouldn t have given to play this one,
I said to myself. Then my wife looked at me, and she said, ‘George, if you had that piano
in America, I would never see you again!’ And, class, I think she might have been right!”
On Ariel’s right side was Cheryl, who was peering into a small compact and
applying lipstick, and on her left was Josephine, who was sketching a caricature of Dr.
Bogooki. In the picture, there were rays of light beaming from his socks like twin halos.
“And I have to ask myself,” continued Dr. Bogooki, gazing at the ceiling, “what
would Socrates say about my passion for the piano? What would the ancient Greeks think
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 172
of musicians who spend eight hours a day practicing in a little room9” He surveyed the
room, waiting for an answer. “Does anyone have any idea?”
The thin whine of a mosquito was his only answer He paused, slapped his thigh
where the bug had landed, and flicked the dead insect to the floor.
There were giggles.
“You see,” he continued, “Plato believed that a perfect balance was needed
between physical life and mental life. For example, he said that those who simply pursue
athletics become violent and uncivilized.”
As Dr. Bogooki crossed his legs, Ariel watched his argyle socks intently and found
that they were strangely mesmerizing.
“And if you’ve ever watched a hockey game or the eleven o’clock news, class, you
know how true this can be. On the other hand, Plato would not have been an advocate of
virtuosos. He thought that the people who expose themselves to too much music become
soft and feeble.”
Ariel felt Josephine nudge her sharply with her elbow. She pointed to her
notebook, where she had written, “You can say that again!” with an arrow pointing
toward Stephen and Matilda, who were sitting directly in front of them. The back of
Stephen’s neck looked fragile and pale, and a tuft of his unwashed hair was sticking up
childishly.
Professor Bogooki stood up and began to rummage through one of the messy
stacks of music and books that were on top of the piano. “Ah, here we are. Plato’s
Republic.” He began to read: “ "And he who mingles music with gymnastic in the fairest
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 173
proportions, and best attempers them to the soul, may be rightly called the true musician
and harmonist in a far higher setise than the tuner o f the strings. ’ ” He glanced out the
window as he spoke to the class. “This is something that might sound very strange to us,
class, because we don’t associate ‘working on our souls’ with practicing scales and
pounding out chords. But to Socrates, practicing the instrument is only a small part of
becoming a true musician.”
Ariel was intrigued but perplexed by this piece of information; she reflected that
Dr. Bogooki’s lectures often seemed at once irrelevant and significant.
“It’s the development of the body, the mind, and most importantly—the soul that
makes the true musician,” he said. He continued reading: “ "And therefore . . . musical
training is a more potent instrument than any other, because rhythm and harmony find
their way into the inward places o f the soul, on which they mightily fasten, imparting
grace, and making the soul o f him who is rightly educated gracefid, or o f him who is ill-
educated ungracefiil; and also because he who has received this true education of the
inner being will most shrewdly perceive omissions or faults in art and nature. ' And listen
to this, class, Plato tells us that ‘when modes o f music change, the fundamental laws o f
the State ahvays change with them. ”’
Dr. Bogooki closed the book and gazed out the window, where squirrels could be
seen leaping through the tree branches. “Well, I’ll tell you something, class. I don’t know
if music is powerful enough to change the laws of the state, but I do know that we live in
one of the first times in history when there are no dances which everyone dances
together— young and old together—dances for which everyone knows the steps. It’s hard
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 174
for me to say what will become of a civilization without dances. . . .”
His voice trailed off, and for a moment, he seemed to forget about the class
completely. He looked up at the ceiling as if the answer to his question might be written
on one of the roofbeams. Then he pulled a handkerchief from his shirt pocket, wiped his
forehead, and turned around on his bench to face the piano. He abruptly launched into a
Beethoven sonata, which he banged out loudly, the whole body of the piano shaking as he
played.
Ariel wondered why music professors were so strange and mysterious. What in the
world was he talking about? Everyone knew that dances were just for fun and had nothing
whatsoever to do with laws of the state.
* * *
Dear Stacey,
Thanks fo r writing! I only have a few more Jays at camp. It feels like I 've been
gone for ages.
My left eye is swollen half-shut because I woke up this morning with a mosquito
bite on my eyelid. I hope it's a mosquito bite! My counselor thought it might be a spider
bite! Sick! I would have to kill myself if a spider was sucking on my eye during the night.
You '11 be relieved to know that I'm writing to you with freshly shaved legs. We
went swimming yesterday, and beforehand, everyone in the cabin had a leg-shaving
party. I '11 see you soon! Love, Ariel
* * *
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 175
On their last night at Interlochen, the girls gathered around a campfire and cried.
There was something moving about the orange flames, the remote setting in the woods,
the faces of her friends together in the firelight. Would they ever see each other again?
Ariel knew from past experience that people often didn’t stay in touch. People connected
for a time, then moved on through their separate lives. It was best not to become too
attached.
“I’ll miss you guys so much!” said Cheryl, who was sobbing openly.
“So will I,” said Ariel, who was only discreetly teary-eyed.
“I always hated it here, and I miss television— but I’ll miss you guys too!” declared
Sally.
Matilda remained silent, keeping to herself and delicately eating a s’more.
“I hope that you girls have all learned from your experiences this summer,” said
that camp counselor, “and that each one of you has grown as a musician and a young
woman. Just remember that all you really need in life, you have right here at camp: music,
food, fresh air, and friendship.”
Matilda spit something on the ground.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 18
AUGUST, 1977
Back home in Saline, Ariel found that television and radio seemed either alien or
absurd and idiotic. She had always resented her parents’ puritanical tendencies with regard
to pop music, but now she herself found that all the songs on the radio were too repetitive
and off-pitch to hold her interest anyway.
Each morning she awoke in her cheerful bedroom, surrounded by yellow wallpaper
roses; she had the luxury of space, comfort, and privacy, but she found that she missed
being surrounded by friends. After a few lethargic days had passed, she also missed the
regimentation of the 6:30 A.M. awakening followed by breakfast, cabin inspection, theory
class, lessons, practice, Dr. Bogooki, then more practicing. She missed the feeling she had
experienced while falling asleep each night—a sense of unquestioned purpose and a feeling
of connectedness. She missed the sounds of owls and frogs from the forest, the distant
human voices of the evening serenade, the steady breathing of others around her, like
siblings she had never had.
Then again, at home she had the benefit of her familiar piano— the dark wood and
slightly stiff action of her baby grand, which was far superior to the spinet practice pianos
at camp.
Since Ariel’s father was on a planning retreat with other members of his university
176
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 177
department, so the house was particularly quiet with just Ariel and her mother at home. In
the evenings, the two of them sometimes took four-mile walks around a block of country
fields.
Ariel felt that she had a heightened awareness of everything these days—the
various shades of the crops as the sky became a swirling confection of strawberry and
lavender, the calls of the pheasants and red-winged black birds, the occasional sight of a
heron standing awkwardly in the marsh at the side of the road.
She also noticed that her mother seemed sad—more pensive and melancholy than
usual.
“I missed you when you were at camp,” said her mother. “Your father isn’t much
company these days.”
Ariel didn’t know how to respond to this. There was an empty space
somewhere—the memory of a hole opening up, leading to a great void.
“I don’t think he cares about me,” said her mother.
“I’m sure he does.”
“No—he pretty much does whatever he can to avoid me these days.”
Her father was a very distant person, but this was because he was so busy. Or was
it? Something began to shift in Ariel’s mind. She began to see her father as a man
unrelated to herself—her mother’s husband. She felt a wave of empathy for her mother.
“I probably shouldn’t be talking to you like this,” said her mother apologetically.
“It’s just that I don’t have any friends around here.”
For some reason, this statement was more disconcerting to Ariel than the
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 178
revelation of an unhappy marriage. Mothers weren’t supposed to be concerned about
having friends. Was it possible that adulthood was simply a lonely extension of
adolescence?
“Anyway, I’m very proud of you, Ariel. It gives me some sense of hope to hear
you playing the piano so well.”
This also made Ariel feel queasy. They walked past a meadow covered with purple
clover and small daisies. A small sign in the ground declared, “Sold!”
“You certainly play better than I do these days,” her mother continued.
“Well, that comes from practicing eight hours a day,” said Ariel.
“Have you decided to go into music as a career?”
It was a question that Ariel had discussed occasionally with Cheryl and Josephine
at music camp. Cheryl had been very troubled about the question of whether she would
“major in music” at college, since most of her friends were planning to be pre-med or pre
law students. Josephine, on the other hand, knew that she either wanted to play piano “in a
seedy bar” or to get into musical theater. "Those are the only people who could deal with
someone like me, ” she had said, and Ariel and Cheryl had envied her self-knowledge and
brave certainty about the future.
Ariel viewed classical musicians as serious, dusty, and largely unpopular folk. They
were loved by elderly people and church people and were routinely ignored by popular,
powerful, foxy people. They did not have boyfriends or long, red nails, and they spent
hours upon hours in practice rooms while the multifarious outside world blew past them.
They reminded her of her father, who was perpetually working alone in his study,
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 179
surrounded by endless shelves and stacks of books. Nobody understood exactly what he
did, but he was writing about numbers and strange ideas that had been developed years
ago, in some faraway comer of the world, involving drab people who thought about God
and other serious things. Her father’s books were filled with ideas that appealed to
unsmiling, shadowy men who lived far away from the monotonous hum of lawn mowers
on summer afternoons and the reality of lip-gloss, long division, boyfriends, hairstyles, and
4-H clubs—ghosts who lingered in her father’s study because they had no other place to
haunt. Ariel knew that if she became a pianist she would be destined to be like her father,
to live among ghosts and irrelevant ideas. Yet she was drawn to the ghosts; their sad,
lonely voices whispered to her during her hours alone at the piano.
“I don’t know if I’m good enough to be a professional musician,” said Ariel.
“Oh, I think you could be good enough at the rate you’re progressing,” said Mrs.
Terraine. “Just think how exciting it would be. We could travel to different countries and
wear evening gowns to your performances.”
Ariel liked the glamorous image her mother had suggested, but she recoiled from
the idea of having her mother as a life-long sidekick. “What do you mean ‘we’0” she
demanded.
Her mother walked with small, quick steps, her hips moving from side to side.
“What? You wouldn’t bring your mother? Every performer needs a stage-mother! I realize
you might be embarrassed to be seen with me, but if I get too old and fat someday, you
could just hire someone to get rid of me.”
Not this again! Her mother had gone nuts. She was as crazy as Josephine, but
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 180
scary instead of fun.
“Can you slow down a little0”
“I’m just trying to get some exercise—to tighten up this jiggling in my thighs.” She
looked at Ariel. “You’re looking so good after camp.”
Ariel resented the comparison.
“So anyway,” continued her mother, “I guess I’m just thinking of—of what I’m
going to do with the rest of my life.”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 19
SEPTEMBER, 1977
Show us whatcha can do. Big Blue! Show us whatcha can do! (clap!) Show us whatcha can do. Big Blue' Show us whatcha can do!
We 're gonna shaaaaaake your body (clap!) and rock! Your mind! We 're gonna keep on bein' (clap! clap!) SO FINE!!
Big Blue was the football team, and they would show Saline Junior High School
what they could do—and what they could do was win\ The cheerleaders would cheer
them on to their win wearing short skirts, bobby socks, and pompons
"It takes charisma andflawless hygiene to be a successful cheerleader, ” said the
book on cheerleading that Ariel had checked out from the library. The book warned her
not to wear too much makeup and powder when trying out for cheerleading, since this
"might cake and appear unnatural while cheering. . . . Aim for a healthy, fresh-as-a-
daisy glow! ”
Ariel studied the book carefully and learned the “Big Blue” cheer, but on the
afternoon of tryouts for the cheerleading squad, she had avoided the gym and gone home
to play the piano instead.
181
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 182
Now the girls who made the cheerleading squad were always chanting under their
breath, tapping their toes, and silently clapping at their desks. As she stared at the
perplexing numbers and shapes on her math quiz, Ariel listened to the whispering voice of
one of the cheerleaders behind her:
“ Whoosh! My boosh! We 're pumpin' up the juice! Whoosh! My boosh! We 're pumpin ’ up the juice' ”
This was the most mysterious of the cheerleaders’ chants. What on earth did it
mean? As she continued to stare at the x’s and y’s that were dancing around various
triangles on the page, Ariel thought of her father, who was good at math. How odd that he
was good at math when she wasn’t! "It's completely logical! ” he always said as he
demonstrated some trick solution to an equation. But his tricks of logic seemed to make
things yet more difficult and illogical. With math, it was best to have easy rules to follow,
even though the rules themselves often seemed arbitrary.
Ariel re-read the story problem about the woman who needed to buy several
pounds of pork chops for the football team. How many pounds should she buy fo r the
burly men? Her father would know how to set up the problem. He always used an
equation that was completely different from the one set up in the textbook, but he always
got the right answer. He considered himself to be a “musician of math” but he didn’t play
an instrument, although he had played the tuba briefly as a boy. "I don 7 think he cares
about me, ” her mother had said. Her father was a distant, remote person.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 183
“Show us whatcha can do. Big Blue . . . “ As she tried to re-read the story
problem for the fourth time, Ariel pictured her school, which was shaped like a square
with a courtyard at the center. Kids walked through the hallways, around and around the
school, looking at each other and being looked at. Then the bell rang, the locker doors
slammed with metallic crashes, and the kids scattered into their classrooms. Then the
doors closed and the hall became very quiet. If you were still in the hall when it was quiet,
you were in the wrong place. Inside the rooms, kids were dissecting dead starfish that
stunk of formaldehyde and enormous earthworms that were pinned to dissecting trays
with discolored hearts and intestines exposed. Some of the kids were speaking in a
monotone, struggling to read from index cards upon which they had taken notes about
abortion, child abuse, or pollution. They were against these things. Some were chanting
under their breath "Show us whatcha can do. Big Blue!" Then the bell rang again, the
kids burst into the hallway, the girls rushed to the girls’ bathroom to crowd in front of the
mirror, where they sprung to life, reapplying cover-up over the blemishes and dark circles
that had mysteriously appeared during the past hour, spritzing their carefully curled bangs
with large cans of aerosol hair spray. "Oh, I look so tired! This zit! Ugh! Your hair looks
so good! No it doesn't, I hate it! My eyelashes are clumped together. I use a needle when
that happens. Damn, I feel fat! Whoosh! I'm definitely getting a nose job someday. I m
getting an eye job. I want my eyes to be smaller. Flip, comb, flip, comb, squirt, squirt,
pat, pat, pucker, pat, whoosh! ”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 20
DECEMBER, 1977
Ariel was playing Beethoven’s “ Pathetiqtie” Sonata for Mrs. Schwartz. The first
movement, “ Gra\’e , ” opened with a dark C minor chord, like sharp thunder followed by
momentary silence. There was a classic, almost cliched, image of a stormy night, a
building storm embellished with lightning, then a hysterical chase through a haunted
house.
“Ariel, stop,” said Mrs. Schwartz. “You sound very tense and you’re rushing.”
She felt tense. Lately, each time she played this piece she felt the muscles in her
forearms and neck tightening in knots. To make matters worse, one of the nerves that ran
between her neck and right shoulder tended to pulse with a bright, pinching pain whenever
she stopped playing. It often tormented her in school as she bent over her desk to write.
“Musicians can really injure themselves if they’re not careful.” Mrs. Schwartz
looked very serious. Her complexion had taken on a gray hue in the living-room light, and
there was something else about her that seemed suddenly aged. Ariel searched her
teacher’s face and saw that Mrs. Schwartz’s scalp could be seen faintly through the top of
her thinning brown hair.
Ariel felt a sudden pain in her stomach—a feeling she associated with her mother.
It was the foreshadowing of a deep fear—a fear that had to be squashed before it took
184
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 185
over her body in the form of panic. Why should she feel that way around Mrs. Schwartz,
who was one of the most calm and intelligent people she knew9 So what if Mrs. Schwartz
didn’t look so hot today9
Mrs. Schwartz was describing pianist-friends of hers who had developed severe
carpal tunnel syndrome, “whose careers were ruined after it became impossible for them to
play.” Others developed pinched nerves that bothered them throughout their lives.
“As you know, Ariel, playing an instrument is a highly physical activity. Your
posture—the position of your back and arms—it’s all very important for your health, not
just your playing. It’s odd; I’ve never seen you so extremely tense.”
Ariel tried the piece again, willing her shoulders not to rise up toward her ears,
begging her hands to remain unclenched during the blast of 32nd- and 64th-note scales,
but it was no use; Mrs. Schwartz stopped her again.
“I think this is in some ways a very comic piece, Ariel. It’s melodramatic and
overblown, so it needs a certain lightness. You might want to think of it as a drama acted
out on-stage.”
Ariel imagined herself running across the stage, surrounded by the shimmering roll
of artificial thunder.
“My husband often tells his students to think of Beethoven sonatas as orchestral
scores rather than piano pieces,” continued Mrs. Schwartz. “Pretend you’re the director
down in the orchestra pit. How would this score be arranged?”
Ariel tried to imagine herself down in the pit. Part of her mind was still distracted
by that sense of impending panic, which had dulled to a constant high-pitched buzz in her
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 186
head. Something she mustn 7 think about.
“Ariel*7”
“W ell. . .” She had nothing to say.
“Are you losing interest in playing the piano*7” The question was not critical, but it
was startlingly direct.
Ariel was taken aback; she was used to teachers who considered her interest in a
subject to be irrelevant. “No,” she answered, suddenly worried that she had inadvertently
ruined her relationship with Mrs. Schwartz.
“I only ask because some students develop other interests at your age. Even if
they’re talented, many of them want to quit, but their parents won’t let them.”
“It’s not that,” said Ariel. She mustn’t quit. Then everything would fall apart
completely.
“I’m glad, Ariel, because I do think you have a lot of talent. But I wouldn’t want
you to play out of mere duty. Some people end up feeling at war with the piano.”
Ariel nodded. At war with the piano. She pictured herself pounding the keys with
her fists and stripping out the insides of the piano with wire cutters.
“But I need to talk to you about another matter, Ariel.” Mrs. Schwartz closed the
collection of Beethoven sonatas and folded her hands on her lap. “I have to take some
extended time off from teaching. The truth is that I’m not well. I have cancer—and my
strength is very limited right now.”
The buzz growing louder in her ears and then a prickling sensation through her
entire body. Block it. Not that feeling again. Her entire body felt nauseated.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 187
“I’m afraid I’d have to cancel too many lessons and that I wouldn’t have enough
energy to sit through the competitions and everything.”
The humming sensation growing into a ringing sound.
U TI 1 ^ m sorry. . 'I')
Ariel suddenly realized that there was a hot sensation in her eyes—a tear rolling
down her own cheek.
Mrs. Schwartz handed her a tissue, looking surprised and concerned. After all,
Ariel had never shown much emotion during her lessons. She rarely smiled or laughed, and
she certainly never cried or even admitted that she felt nervous. She was always polite and
attentive, but Mrs. Schwartz could have had no way of knowing how important her
lessons were to her.
“Don’t worry, Ariel. I feel that I’m going to beat this thing. I’ve been using some
of the techniques I’ve learned as a musician. You now how I told you to imagine yourself
walking onto the stage, to visualize the whole successful performance from beginning to
end? Well that’s what I’m doing—trying to imagine my body healing itself, trying to see
myself as a well person.”
Ariel smiled weakly. How much she wanted to say, '7 ’// miss seeing you. ” But she
couldn’t say it. The piano lessons, so routine, now revealed themselves to be the
foundation of her emotional stability. She felt something akin to homesickness.
They heard the sound of loud squeaking brakes outside.
“That must be your mom,” said Mrs. Schwartz with a small smile. She handed
Ariel a piece of paper. “A list of new teachers. Any one of them should be excellent, but
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 188
you and your mom might want to meet with a few of them to see what you think.”
Outside, the brown station wagon was waiting for her. It had rained on top of
snow, and now this was freezing. She saw that a tree in Mrs. Schwartz’s front yard was
coated in a layer of ice.
“Stay in touch, Ariel.” A last, tired smile. A last fragile hug.
Suddenly outside in the cold air, Ariel somehow made her way through the slushy,
salt-crusted sidewalk toward the car, where she was surprised to see her father instead of
her mother. Again, that vague, panicky feeling.
“Where’s Mom?”
“She was taking a nap and didn’t want to get up,” said her father.
There were houses and trees, houses and trees, all the same size.
“Your mother seems very down—depressed about something, but I can’t figure
out what it is.”
They passed a group of kids who were throwing ice balls at each other, and Ariel
remembered the days when she and Stacey used to build large snow-forts in the white
fields. Stacey wouldn’t be interested in childish games like that anymore; now she had a
boyfriend who was reasonably cute, although he had the derogatory classification of
“farmer” at school.
She didn’t want to hear her father talk about her mother’s frame of mind; it made
her think of things she wanted to forget, like a day when she had been rummaging through
her mother’s things in the bathroom medicine cabinet, which contained several shelves
cluttered with an assortment of makeup in a rainbow of colors— a treasure chest filled
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 189
with little shiny containers. There were old bottles and tubes which her mother had never
bothered to throw away—“Moon Drops” foundation, bottles of “Holiday Magic” powder,
containers of false eyelashes, tubes of beige lipstick, each of which evoked memories of
childhood. Each tube and compact was a little container of hope—glistening silver and
charcoal eyeshadows, tubes of dark-red and peony-pink lipstick evoking memories of
genies, witches, and secret potions.
In one makeup bag, amidst a bunch of lipsticks, tampons, and little multi-colored
diet pills, there was an index card that bore her mother’s neat handwriting with black
eyeliner.
"/ will kill myself before Christmas. ”
The round letters and small, rounded words were so rational, yet the sentence they
made together was insane. The word “kill” was a tiny, mean word. Ariel had thought of
her mother sharpening the eye pencil, then carefully shaping each letter. Thai blue-and-
white world on the other side. She had quickly closed the makeup bag, turned off the light
and left the bathroom.
“Maybe you could try to talk to her, Ariel,” her father was saying. “You’re very
close to each other these days.”
She thought she heard a hint of resentment in her father’s voice.
“Why don’t you talk to her9” asked Ariel.
Her father slammed on the brakes as a car cut in front of him. “What a jerk!”
Perhaps her father would have an accident on the way home, and then this whole
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 190
thing would finally come to an end. But what exactly was “this whole thing9” What was
real?
“I don’t know why she won’t speak to me these days,” said her father.
Gray sky, leafless trees, gray soup of snow, constant rush of traffic. There were no
words to tell her father the truth.
* * *
Ariel entered her parents’ bedroom, where her mother was asleep. Her mother’s
mouth was part-way open. Her hair appeared darker than usual in the dim light, and she
wore no makeup except crimson lipstick, stark against her pale skin. Her tattered
nightgown revealed the bones of her ribcage through her chest.
“Mom9” A dumb lump of a word.
No answer.
The walls of the room were painted a deep shade of blue, like a clear night sky.
Next to the medieval brass-rubbing were two oil paintings of angels. Everything about the
angels—their wings, the folds of their gowns— seemed heavy. One played a harp; one
played a lute. Frozen and silent. Was her mother even breathing?
“Mom.”
A shallow rise of the ribcage, but still no answer.
Ariel had a feeling of foreboding, half-remembering a day long ago when
something had turned out badly. Slowly, as if in a familiar dream in which she waded
through deep water, she moved through time. She had to tell her father something. Down,
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 191
down the stairs.
In the basement, her father’s desk was surrounded by heavy stacks of books and
papers. Heavy, dusty knowledge.
“Mom won’t wake up.” Was she actually speaking? Did the words mean anything0
“Maybe we should let her sleep.” A red pencil moving across papers. There were
numbers and symbols on the pages—equations that meant something to other people. An
opaque, alien language.
“ She said she was going to kill herself.” That bright, shrill word—kill. It got
everyone’s attention.
Now her father saw her—the flash of his eyes, seeing. There was fear and anger all
at once behind his eyes.
Now her father was walking up the stairs, as if afraid of what he would find.
The water was diminishing, and Ariel was now walking on land. The piano. There
were always the same number of keys on the keyboard; the intervals were always the same
between major and minor chords.
Her father carried her mother down the stairs, and she saw that her mother’s body
was light and waif-like. A breakable doll.
Through the window, Ariel watched the station wagon pull out of the driveway
with her mother crumpled in the front seat. She sat at the piano and began to play the
Chopin Nocturne in D-Flat Minor, thinking of how her mother had played the organ in
church as a young girl, studied music in college as a young woman, and then gotten
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 192
married. Ariel had often heard people comment that her mother was very pretty—even
beautiful. The maintenance of beauty had been her mother’s job. Wearing attractive
clothes and makeup, serving nice meals, and playing lovely piano music had been her
mother’s occupation. Her mother was insane. Perhaps she would die.
In the old days, her mother had played the organ in church or performed piano
music during the dinner parties she hosted. But now her mother rarely played. '7 have no
friends here, " she had said. What if her mother died? No, she would not think of that.
Ariel felt a wave of sympathy for her mother as her hands brushed over the
luminous notes that filled the room like falling pearls, but when the music ended, she
resolved not to think of her mother. She felt that she must embrace dispassionate logic, or
she too would drown in her own emotions.
* * *
“She had taken to many sleeping pills, but not enough to actually kill herself,” her
father explained after he returned from the hospital without her mother. “They think that
she might have a chemical imbalance, though, so they want to keep her under observation
for a couple days and do some tests.”
Ariel didn’t like the sound of the term “chemical imbalance.” She thought of all the
tubes and smelly substances in the chemistry lab at school. It was all so ugly and
uncontrollable. Besides, anything biological could be hereditary.
Her father was observing her. She was sitting on the piano bench, leaning against
the keyboard, her source of safety. There was an awkward silence and she realized that
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 193
she and her father no longer knew how to speak to each other.
She remembered placing the piece of paper in her mother’s makeup bag and
zipping it shut, needing to silence it as quickly as possible in order to erase the message.
How could she explain to her father that it had seemed more terrible to speak of it than to
ignore it?
“Your mother is very close to you, Ariel. Maybe she was asking for help.”
She did not want to help. She did not want to answer her father’s questions. Did
he think she was going to apologize? Well, she wouldn’t. Forget it. Forget both of them.
Her mother could just go ahead and die if she couldn’t handle being alive.
“Don’t you have anything to say, Ariel?”
Yes. She had a question. “Do you think I’ll end up like her9” Her voice shook
slightly, and she found this irritating, for she wanted her father to see her as cold and
emotionless.
“I think you’re probably much more logical than she is.”
From her father, this was a high compliment.
“In fact, you’re probably more like me, which could be a problem for you.”
Interesting. Not flattering, but still, better to be a remote person than a chemically
unbalanced one.
Her father returned to his study, and for a moment, Ariel contemplated calling
Mrs. Schwartz. But what would she say? Mrs. Schwartz had her own, more serious
problems with trying to stay alive. She didn’t need to hear about Ariel’s mother.
Ariel regarded the stacks of music piled on top o f and around the piano and felt
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 194
completely alone. For the first time, she had no teacher—nobody who cared whether or
not she continued to play the piano. This was how it would be forever if her mother died.
No matter what, she had to keep her mind working correctly—to prevent it from
wandering down that self-indulgent, voluptuous, irritatingly feminine path which her
mother had taken. It was important that she survive, and in order to do so, she would
obviously have to be better than human. She remembered Matilda Lee—the perfection
that soared just a bit above the audience, skimming just out of reach and leaving everyone
behind.
Ariel took out the list of new piano teachers which Mrs. Schwartz had given her
and found that she was attracted to the most masculine, fierce-sounding names on the list.
Sally Fleury? No way. Professor Phish? Nope.
Professor Homwaller. She liked the loud, powerful sound of the name. This was
the teacher who would save her.
* * *
Her father was on the verge o f discovering Heaven through a microscope. They
spoke another language in Heaven—one that didn 't use words. They spoke with small
notes and symbols upon a cloud.
She attd Clarisse were skipping down a sunny sidewalk , back through time. There
was the witch's garden and the sculpture o f giant hands.
"I call it friendship, ” said the witch.
The witch's garden was filled with white flowers and baby's breath. “The flowers
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 195
o f loneliness , ” she said.
The flowers took root in the carpeted floor o f her bedroom, they grew through the
sidewalk cracks, between the cracks in the ivory keys. They covered the piatto like ivy and
their white blossoms were larger than sunflowers, spreading a suffocating perfume.
One o f the blossoms broke from its stem and crumbled in her hand like dust.
Poison.
Her parents were asleep in their blue bedroom. She heard that music again—the
upside-down lullaby that stopped time. Ravel. Things unraveling. Flowers sprouted from
the bodies o f her parents, emerging as pointed pods which broke open to reveal fil l
petals. Dark leaves and creeping tendrils seeping from under the bedclothes and tangling
around their eyes and mouths, stifling words, stifling breath. Thoms everywhere—thorns
and white flowers covering the bed, the walls, cascading through open windows and
covering the world.
* * *
The Debussy Arabesque # 1 was patterned around a repeating motif of triplets,
evoking rounded shapes suspended in air—a dancer’s curved arms, the extension of a
leg— everything poised above the earth, then suddenly tumbling lightly down into flowers,
lily pads, water. The music floated, then fell, like a snowfall upon a stage o f ballerinas. It
was an exotic, feminine piece, more about color and movement than structure— a piece
Ariel’s mother had often played.
“That sounds lovely,” said her mother.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 196
Ariel turned to see her mother’s violet eyes. She looked thinner than ever in her
pink sweatsuit. Mothers were supposed to be heavier than their daughters, not fragile little
girls
"Are you feeling better?” Ariel asked. As if her mother were recovering from a
case of the flu.
"Ariel, I’ve been very sick.”
Obviously. Did her mother think she hadn’t noticed? Ariel stared at her own hands
upon the keys. White keys, black keys, fingers— everything where it should be.
"They wanted to keep me in the hospital longer, but I said no,” said her mother
“But I’ll still go to a—a psychiatrist.”
"Are you sure you don’t need to be in the hospital9” asked Ariel. Why was she
being so cold? This was her own mother, and she had missed her. It was when she met her
mother’s eyes that she recoiled, sensing some deep need—a child’s fear.
"Aren’t you glad to see me?”
“Yes,” said Ariel. “It’s just that I’m under a lot of stress with school and
everything.”
“When I was in the hospital I had a dream about you. I saw you on the stage,
playing the piano so beautifully . . .”
Her mother’s dream and her dream had become one. Dangerous.
“Mrs. Schwartz has cancer,” said Ariel. There was something mildly satisfying
about this declaration—the suggestion that there were other people with more compelling
problems than her mother’s.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 197
Her mother’s mouth grew tight; her eyes fierce and moist. “What0”
“She told me that she has cancer. She’s stopped teaching.”
Her mother proceeded to ask questions—none of which Ariel could
answer—about what kind o f cancer it was and what kind o f treatment Mrs. Schwartz was
getting.
“How terrible for her,” said her mother.
Ariel felt a little better, having told her mother about Mrs. Schwartz. She realized
that she had been viewing Mrs. Schwartz as dead, which wasn’t the case at all. Perhaps
she really would recover.
* * *
Professor Homwaller’s studio was extremely spare. The room was filled with two
slick grand pianos that stood upon white carpeting. There was also a white couch and a
jade ashtray filled with cigarette butts. It was odd that there were no volumes of music
lying about—so unlike Mrs. Schwartz’s house, where the piano was always cluttered with
stacks of music, the floor was always littered with her daughter’s toys, and a pot roast was
often cooking in the oven. It was clear that in Professor Homwaller’s studio music would
be the only focus. No distractions, no excuses.
Professor Homwaller herself was extremely imposing. She appeared to be well
over six feet tall with broad shoulders. Her hair was wiry and short, with a dry, course
texture and functional shape that defied the term “hairstyle.” She was very slender,
however, and her long legs were distinctly feminine in their high-heeled pumps.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 198
She shook Ariel’s hand firmly and looked her over, scrutinizing her face with her
intensely penetrating gray eyes. They were not unkind eyes, but they radiated an icy,
fearless sparkle, like the eyes of a great queen. Her cheeks were soft and fleshy, and her
makeup sat upon her face in unnatural shades of blue and fuschia, reminding Ariel for a
moment of the Barbie Beauty Center she had once owned.
Professor Homwaller sat on the couch and crossed her legs. She told Ariel to take
a seat at the piano. ’‘Do you have your list?” she asked.
Ariel presented the long list of all the significant compositions she had learned
since beginning piano lessons. Homwaller asked her a series of questions about how old
she had been when she started studying piano, how many hours per day she practiced, and
what Mrs. Schwartz’s teaching methods had been like. Finally, she asked Ariel to play
something.
“Thank you,” said Professor Homwaller, when Ariel had finished playing the
Debussy Arabesque. “That was very expressive.”
Homwaller walked over to the piano and stood behind Ariel. “How much time do
you spend on technique each day9”
“Um, not too much,” Ariel admitted. She always used scales as a perfunctory
warm-up but usually proceeded directly to the music.
“Because I can tell that your ability to play some of these passages is a product of
extensive repetition rather than real technical training.”
Ariel had to agree that this was probably true. But technical exercises were always
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 199
such a bore.
“I think it’s a mistake for an otherwise talented musician to think of technique as a
lower-order concern,” said Homwaller. “In some ways, it’s everything.”
Homwaller showed Ariel how to do arpeggios that used all five fingers by
including a sixth or seventh interval of the scale along with the basic root triad. As she
followed Homwaller’s example on the keyboard, Ariel found that her fourth fingers on
each hand were far weaker than she had imagined.
“You should be spending at least half an hour or more on these each day. And
remember not to push the speed too much at first; the purpose is to warm up and
strengthen the muscles and tendons. What you’ve been doing is like a sprinter competing
in a race without warming up first.”
Ariel sensed that she was in the hands of a highly directive trainer. There was
something extremely athletic about her approach to the piano.
Homwaller handed her a copy of Czerny’s The Art o f Finger Dexterity , which was
filled with exercises like “The Passing Under of the Thumb,” “Clearness in Rapidity,” and
“Light Motion in Quiet Staccato.”
“I know these can seem dry, but I think you’ll be grateful that you put in the time,”
said Professor Homwaller. She lit a cigarette and crossed her legs. “I assume you’re
planning to go into music as a career.”
Why did Homwaller assume that? The word “career” still suggested a totality of
being—a level of commitment, endurance, and sacrifice that Ariel wasn’t entirely prepared
to make. “Well—”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 200
“The reason I ask,” said Homwaller, “is that most people don’t come to me for
lessons unless they’re already in college or extremely serious.”
Ariel nodded her head, hoping to convey a sense of seriousness.
“Good,” said Homwaller. “There are several competitions coming up that I’d like
you to prepare for. At the next lesson we’ll plan your repertoire for the next few years.”
The next few years.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 21
NOVEMBER, 1979
In high school, Ariel learned that the world was composed of protons, neutrons,
and electrons. At any moment, the world could explode because of nuclear weapons.
There were mysterious things going on in other countries—dangerous things that could
upset somebody and start a war. It was a very precarious world in which scientists and
politicians wielded all the power.
Ariel also learned that she and her classmates were living in Very Competitive
Times. “Decide what you want to do now,” said her teachers, “so that you’ll be prepared
for the competitive job market of the future.” Everything in life had to do with the job
market.
There was a poster in one of her classrooms that announced: "Ifyou don 7 know
where you ’re going, you '11 probably end up somewhere else. " Ariel stared at it each day.
trying to comprehend its significance as her English teacher diagrammed sentences on the
blackboard. Where was “somewhere else”? It must be a bad place. But she did not know
where she was going, so she would probably be going there.
* * *
Ariel’s bond of friendship with Stacey had been greatly weakened by Ariel’s
201
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 202
commitment to music and Stacey’s new boyfriend. They were still friends, but there was a
new formality about the relationship, a need to make small talk, that had never been there
in the past. Ariel remembered reading somewhere that you have a real friend when you
both enjoy each other’s company without feeling the need to say a word.
“Still playing the piano9” asked Stacey.
“You know it,” said Ariel.
They were sitting outside on the bleachers at the last high-school football game of
the season.
“You must be amazing by now,” said Stacey.
“Well, I’ve definitely improved,” said Ariel. How could she describe how much
different it was to play the piano now than when she had first met Stacey9 She felt as if she
had moved to an invisible country that nobody else could see. “Are you still playing the
clarinet9”
“No,” said Stacey, laughing. “I couldn’t stand being in marching band! My mom
still bugs me about quitting, though.”
Ariel remembered Stacey’s short, friendly parents and felt suddenly happier. “Does
your mom still make pretzels9”
“I keep telling her not to since I’m getting so fat, but she does anyway.”
Stacey looked as petite as ever. Her Calvin Klein jeans fit her exactly the way they
were supposed to—two straight, twiggy, nearly hipless legs coated in skin-tight, dark-blue
denim.
Ariel was wearing a pair of Gloria Vanderbilt jeans, which, she felt, didn’t look
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 203
nearly as good as Stacey’s. Her butt was getting bigger and she felt sure that this was
somehow her mother’s fault.
“How’s Steve9” asked Ariel. Steve was Stacey’s boyfriend.
“Oh, he’s fine,” said Stacey. “My parents are hoping I’m going to marry him, and
then we’ll take over the farm, but I don’t know. I’m afraid I’ll end up just like them.”
What a different life Stacey led. Part of Ariel longed to tell Stacey about her
mother’s nervous breakdown, about Mrs. Schwartz and Professor Homwaller, about what
it felt like to play the Chopin Fantasie Impromptu—but it was all impossible to explain.
She realized that she had reached a point in her life at which most of her time— most of
her consciousness—was inexplicable to her peers.
The air was cold. A steady rush of drumbeats as the marching band entered the
field wearing their plumed hats and white boots. The slightly syncopated rhythm stressed
every other downbeat as the musicians simultaneously high-stepped and gazed up at the
sky. The homs sounded flat in the cold air, but the drummer was good and that was all
that mattered. In the front row were awkward flag girls dressed in short skirts, turning
their heavy flag poles in their white-gloved hands.
Down below, Ariel saw Dana Skosky in her cheerleading uniform, her bangs as
perfectly feathered as ever, her body bouncing to the beat of the music.
* * *
Dear Diary,
Mom's been a lot more normal these days, but I sometimes fear that she will go
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 204
crazy again. For example, today she was driving on the wrong side o f the road. When I
called her attention to this, she said she had a lot o f things on her mind, but she wouldn 't
say what they were.
Another thing is, she’s always complaining about being old. She s been saying
she's old since her twenties. I tell her she's not old. Then she asks me if I think she's fat. I
say, “1 7n fatter than you, ” and then she says, “ Why don't we go on a diet together } "
Then I start crying (babyish, I know) and she says that I'm not really fat, just five pounds
or so overweight, attd that she just wants me to feel good about myself and to get a
boyfriend.
Then she starts talking about how Dad is lame and doesn 't pay attention to her
attd is always in the basement looking at his mildewy math books. (He's so boring!) At
this point, I agree with her that he is causing marital difficulties.
I must ignore my family andfocus only on music.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 22
DECEMBER, 1979
As Ariel waited backstage at the Bach competition, she surveyed the group of
teenaged musicians and saw that she recognized several of them from previous events.
They all knew each other by name and shared polite but distinctly competitive
relationships. She hoped for a moment that she might see Cheryl or Josephine, but she was
disappointed. How she missed their rebellious humor!
One of the girls gave Ariel a snide glance, which Ariel ignored. There was always
someone like that, but she was rarely an outstanding player. It was the cheerful ones—the
kids with demure, friendly smiles and the carefree attitudes— who were always ready to
blow everyone away onstage.
By now, Ariel was used to the pressure—the fluorescent lights overhead, the brisk
sound of a performance in progress on the stage, the heightened awareness of time moving
forward, pushing her toward the moment when she would sit at the piano before the
audience and the faceless judges. The audience would be moderate in size but
overwhelming in critical attentiveness. Everyone present had heard these pieces before;
everyone knew when you hit a wrong note or rushed through a passage.
For Ariel, stage fright was an unpleasantly heightened awareness of being
alive— heart beating, blood pulsing through arteries and veins, hands cold, hot, clammy.
205
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 2 0 6
Too much depended on the nervous system and the hands. The success of her
performance depended on whether her anxiety remained at a manageable level or grew out
of control.
All around her were kids with their musical scores open on their laps. They closed
their eyes, drummed their fingers and tried to block out their surroundings.
"Ifyou Jon't know what you 're doing by now, staring at the music at the last
minute isn 't going to help, ” Homwaller had said.
Nevertheless, there was something mildly stabilizing about opening the Bach
French Suite in G Major and seeing the Allemande covered with Homwaller’s comments
scribbled in pencil: "steady, ” "release all voices at the same time, " "on beat, ” "don't
rush. ”
"What is a score? ” Mrs. Schwartz had once asked. "It's a group of ideas, a set of
directions—many o f them written by someone other than the composer. Only the
performer can turn it into music. It's up to you to make the notes mean something. ”
Out of the comer of her eye, Ariel saw a petite, spectacled girl enter the backstage
room and take a seat. She had short hair and hom-rimmed glasses, and she wore a little-
girlish dress with a lace collar. For a moment, Ariel almost failed to recognize her with the
new haircut. It was Matilda Lee.
“Matilda!” Ariel whispered.
Ariel saw that Matilda was wearing enormous thermal mittens on her hands. Her
posture was frozen— stiff as a statue and looking straight ahead with a sightless, trance
like expression. Something about her haircut and glasses made her look like a cross
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 207
between an old lady and a little girl.
“Matilda!”
“Oh, hello!” Noticing Ariel, Matilda suddenly broke into a tense smile.
“What are you playing?” asked Ariel.
“The Bach French Suite in G Major,” said Matilda.
Damn! “No way!” whispered Ariel. “That’s the same piece I’m playing!”
“You like it*7”
This was such a Matilda question. As if the composition were a piece of pie that
Ariel had selected for a snack. “Yes, I like it,” said Ariel. “Are you nervous9” This
question was a standard element of small talk at competitions.
“No— not nervous,” said Matilda, honestly. “Good luck for you.”
The polite answer to Ariel’s question about nervousness would have been either “/
feel like I'm going to ptike " or “/ 'm shitting bricks ” —even if it wasn’t true. But perhaps
Matilda never got nervous. For her, a performance was probably a safe and predictable
social exchange compared with public showering and cafeteria meals.
At any rate, the competition might as well have been all over. Matilda would steal
the day as usual. Ariel found this realization disappointing, but it also had the surprising
effect of alleviating her nerves. “ The most important thing is to have fun out there, ” Mrs.
Schwartz always said. How she missed Mrs. Schwartz.
The French Suites combined elements of folk dances with the more classical voice
leading of choral church music. Each of the dances was episodic, whimsical, sometimes
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 2 0 8
radically different from the others in tone and mood.
As Ariel began to play, she found that the piano was excellent— the kind of
instrument that made her feel as if the keys, hammers, and strings were fluid extensions of
her body. She felt connected to the music—in complete control. The tone of the piano
allowed each voice to project easily, and she had the pleasurable sense of the different
instruments that might play the piece: the piano became a flute, a cello, a violin.
Following the sensitive elegance of the Allemande, Ariel broke into the Courante
which consisted of a series of fast-moving scales and joyfully bouncing staccato notes that
tossed back and forth between the right and left hands.
Then the Sarabande—that slow, intricate, ornamental movement. Bach’s version
was not a mere surface formality, however; it was filled with suppressed longing. It was a
ritual of rigidity and tension, always balanced like a careful dancer whose posture was
perfectly straight. There was a sudden touch of hands, a burst of fluid movement, then a
return to the first pose. The mood was straight-laced and sad, but always hopeful.
As she continued through each movement of the suite, Ariel had the wonderfully
satisfying sense of full concentration that she sometimes had while practicing but rarely
achieved during a performance. For once, there was no oppressive awareness of being
watched.
The last movement was the euphoric Gigue—an unceasing presto barrage o f 16th-
note triplets. It was a joyful jig, a jaunty rustic celebration. The first voice began with
small leaps into the air, like the kicking up o f heels. Then the second voice spoke as an
echo, then the third—a sense of juggling began as the same melody repeatedly surfaced on
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 209
top. To Ariel, the piece was both playful and emotional: the intensity increased throughout
the piece, poco a poco crescendo , then suddenly piano , then breaking into forte —finally
free.
* * *
Matilda won the competition.
“Perfection always wins over uniqueness and originality,” said Homwaller after the
results had been announced. “You simply couldn’t argue with Matilda’s interpretation.”
Rather than evoking the flute and the cello, Matilda’s rendition of the G Major
French Suite had suggested the rhythmic, plucked-stringed mechanism of a harpsichord.
Her Allemande was slightly more stately and less lyrical than Ariel’s, while Matilda’s
Gigue shot out the notes with steady, tap-dance-like evenness. Once again, she was the
brilliant human machine.
“She plays so unbelievably cleanly,” said Ariel’s mother. “Maybe you used a little
too much pedal, Ariel.”
After the competition, Ariel had found her mother and Professor Homwaller
absorbed in conversation. Homwaller laughed loudly, with great guffaws, at something
her mother had said.
It was nice to see her mother having fun for a change, but there was also
something bizarre about the sight of her mother and her piano teacher yucking it up like
kids at such a serious event.
“Brava!” exclaimed Homwaller with a dramatic gesture of applause when she saw
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 210
Ariel.
Both women praised Ariel’s performance, but as they walked through the parking
lot outside, Homwaller turned most of her attention to Ariel’s mother, asking her a series
of questions about her musical training as an organist and pianist.
“I think you should get back into it,” said Homwaller. “It’s never too late, you
know.”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 23
MARCH, 1980
“You are mostly space,” said Ariel’s chemistry teacher. It was one of her favorite
things to say. “The chair you’re sitting on is also mostly space.”
Ariel knew that at one time, people had believed that the planets were perfect
crystal spheres that orbited around the earth. As they turned, heavenly music sounded.
How lovely that universe must have been! It was a delusion, of course; the truth was that
the universe was composed o f masses of fire and gas and rock floating through cold, silent
space. It was composed of protons, neutrons, and electrons, which, like most of the things
one learned about in school, were invisible. Everything in the universe was made of
invisible atoms moving around in space. For example, flowers, concrete, cats, gall
bladders, brain tissue, and the planet Jupiter were all composed of atoms.
Ariel wished that she could compress the atoms in her body in order to sneak
under the classroom door and out into the hallway. She saw herself slipping under the
door and into an alternate world like Alice in Wonderland , where daffodils and poppies
and white roses towered above her.
Over the weekend, her father had moved out of the house. She had helped him
carry boxes of books and clothes from the house to a U-Haul van parked in the gravel
211
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 212
driveway. It had been a damp, gray Saturday afternoon plagued by a tedious drizzle that
wavered between rain and ice. Ariel and her father had loaded his belongings in silence
while her mother helped with a few items. Her mother had seemed calm, helpful— as if her
husband was merely packing for a trip. Her father, however, tossed things into the truck
with violent, reckless gestures that betrayed his anger.
“Goodbye, Ariel.” Again, it was as if he didn’t quite recognize her.
Now she felt nothing except profound disappointment at the continuing
progression of the mundane world. She observed reality distantly, as if through a glass
wall—the teachers writing equations on blackboards, the march of high-heeled shoes
down the hallways, the giggling cheerleaders, the volley ball being tossed back and forth
over the net, the flirting and teasing on the back of the school bus. She didn’t feel like
telling anybody that her parents were separated; people were supposed to discover the
truth in subtle, aesthetically pleasing ways.
When divorces happened on television shows like “The Love Boat,” the mother
always sat down with the child and, very timidly and full of regret, she would explain:
"Your father and I won't he living together anymore , honey. But believe me, baby, it has
nothing to do with you. ”
"But don't you love Pa anymore 7 ”
“Darling , sometimes these things just happen. Sometimes. . . * sniff* . . . people
fall out o f love. ”
"But all I want is for all o f us to be together! ” The girl would then burst into
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 2 1 3
sloppy tears and run from the room, slamming the door behind her.
The television girl subsequently received a lot of sympathy and attention that was
more appealing than having boring parents who stayed together. She was taken on exotic
cruises and given random gifts of jewelry, clothes, and stuffed animals in a futile attempt
to cheer her up. But of course, nothing ever made her feel better as she spent her days
lounging by the pool in her bikini and sunglasses, listening to sad songs. She was only
happy again when her parents got back together.
But that was television The truth was that it was better to have peace than
togetherness. The truth was an infinitely expanding universe in which everything drifted
apart.
* * *
Ariel walked aimlessly past the manicured lots of the subdivision until she reached
the dirt road that divided her new neighborhood from a cornfield. The air was chilly under
a slate-gray sky. It seemed that there had been nothing but gray skies for months; would
they never see the sun again? She heard witches whispering through the dried husks in the
field and she began to run through the rows of dead cornstalks, faster and faster, until she
reached the forest.
Beneath the creaking branches and dried leaves, the glass wall in her mind
shattered. She leaned against the thick trunk of an oak and listened to the rise and fall of
the wind through the branches. The sighing of the trees was comforting. Something about
it reminded her of Mendelssohn’s “Song Without Words,” more tender than human
voices.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 214
* * *
Dear Diary,
Dad has moved out. Mom calls it a "separation ” hut it seems just like a divorce
to me. It's much quieter here without Mom and Dadfighting about chaos theory and
compost piles and crap. Then again. Mom has been crying a lot and is already worrying
about how she '11 meet a man at her age.
Mom has also been on this annoying diet. Mow every time I take something out o f
the refrigerator, she asks me if I "really want to be eating that right now. ” I tell her,
"Yes, I do. " Then she says, "I don't think you 're really hungry. ” A nd I say, “Yes, I am. "
We 're supposed to be on this diet together (I know, bad idea), but I ve gained a couple
pounds, and she seems to have lost weight.
I m learning my first piano concerto—the Mozart ( ’ Major. At my lessons
Homwaller accompanies me with the orchestral part on the second piano, and it's an
amazing feeling—almost like being inside the sound while I m playing. Sometimes I think
I've missed something by playing a solo instrument.
* * *
The church sanctuary where Ariel’s mother had taken a job playing the organ
resembled a high-school auditorium, since there were no stained-glass windows or visible
organ pipes. The floor sloped downward toward the pulpit so that no matter where you
sat, you were sure to get an unobstructed view of the preacher.
“Hello, young lady!” Rev. Pringle smiled flirtatiously to Ariel, who had
accompanied her mother to help turn pages during the church service. He had abundant
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 215
white hair that swept back from his forehead and curled around his shoulders. He often
wore a bemused smile, as if he secretly thought that the whole idea of church were a big
joke.
“Are you gonna help your ma play?” he asked.
“I’ll turn pages.”
“I thought maybe you’d do the feet and your ma would do the hands!” It was
supposed to be a joke, but it wasn’t very funny. As the Reverend looked from Ariel to her
mother, waiting for their appreciative feminine laughter, he reminded Ariel of an enormous
pigeon she had once seen which had fluffed up its feathers and strutted back and forth,
trying to capture the attention of a smaller female pigeon which had quite sensibly turned
her back and continued pecking methodically at the ground. Her mother was less sensible
than the female pigeon, and she started giggling.
“Oh, that would be quite a feat, Reverend Pringle!” her mother said.
“It would be a feat of the feet,” said Reverend Pringle, doubly proud of himself.
Mrs. Terraine couldn’t manage a giggle for this comment and merely grimaced and
nodded her head. “Oh, yes indeedy,” she said.
“Now that’s something folks would come to church to see!” As the Reverend
laughed, his tight red shirt stretched over his round belly until one of the loose buttons
popped off and rolled somewhere under the organ. Either he didn’t notice the lost button,
or he was proud of the fuzzy navel that now peered from the small open window in his
shirt.
Ariel’s mother must have noticed the belly button, because she suddenly looked
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 216
away from Reverend Pringle and began frantically shuffling music.
Sensing that he was losing his audience, the Reverend announced, “Well, I better
let the musicians rehearse!”
“Thanks, Reverend Pringle!” Ariel’s mother liked even the most pompous and
ridiculous church ministers.
“He’s such an idiot,” said Ariel, as she watched the white hairdo move through the
sanctuary and out the door.
“Try to be charitable,” said Mrs. Terraine, “and be grateful that I even have this
job. I can’t imagine where you became so cynical.”
“Why wouldn 't I be cynical!”
“I have to warm up, Ariel. I don’t have time to get into it with you.”
Her mother was always claiming that she didn’t have time to “get into it,” but she
never identified exactly what “it” was. Perhaps “it” was the realm of the logical facts that
she didn’t want to face, the many arguments that she would lose if she were brave enough
to get into them.
Bach reverberated through the sanctuary as her mother began to play. .Ariel was
impressed with her mother’s organ technique, her fingers moving swiftly upon two
different keyboards at once, while she simultaneously pushed and pulled the organ stops
and shuffled her feet over the flat row of long wooden pedals on the floor.
Congregation members began to drift into the pews. Ariel surveyed the gathering
of young mothers, feathered bangs molded stiffly with hairspray, clean-cut fathers, young
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 217
girls in ruffly dresses, patent-leather shoes, and lace-edged socks, and little boys wearing
little jackets and clip-on ties. The Bach organ prelude trembled through the walls and the
floor of the building, making their movements seem distant and soundless from where
Ariel sat. Here and there, an old lady appeared to be listening to the music, but the rest
were fussing over their children, chatting amongst themselves, and flipping through the
church bulletin.
Ariel began to think about the strange role held by church musicians like her
mother. They were integral to keeping the ritual of the service running, but they didn’t
necessarily have to believe in the content of the hymns or the sermon. They simply had to
follow their cues and pay attention to the various composers in front of them, as if they
were in a recital or a talent show. On the other hand, it must have been nice in the old days
for a composer like Bach to believe that God was actually listening to his compositions.
Even if the congregation didn’t appreciate or understand the piece, he must have felt that
the music still mattered deeply. Now God was just a concept; the giant ear in the sky had
vanished long ago. Now the desire for fame and recognition had replaced the desire for
God. Now everything was about pleasing other people, and other people were often quite
stupid.
Dressed in his long white robe. Reverend Pringle assumed his position at the pulpit
and raised up his hands dramatically. “May the peace of the Lord be with you!”
"And also with you , ” answered the congregation, their voices in ragged unison.
“Give thanks in the name of Jesus!”
"It is right to do so. Praise his holy name. ”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 218
“You may be seated,” said Reverend Pringle.
Everyone sat down.
“We have a lot of things coming up in our church, these days,” said Reverend
Pringle, slipping into his Sunday-morning announcement voice. “We have a bake sale, and
a Jesus walkathon, and a retreat to Wabeeshee Lake, just to name a few.
A series of nice elderly ladies tottered up to the pulpit to talk about church
activities, and Ariel was lulled by the monotony of their shaky voices, but just as her head
began to slump forward into sleep, the organ blasted the introduction to a simple melody
that would repeat over and over agaia “Christ the Lord has ris 'n today! Aaalehiuiah! ”
Standing behind the organ and singing the words, Ariel felt light-headed, as if she
were standing in the hot sun of the desert. The hymns were always in a major key, always
in 4/4 time, always filled with quarter notes marching steadily down a straight path,
accompanied by positive, joyful words that rhymed predictably. They avoided minor keys,
dissonance, syncopation—everything that might have been interesting. She tried to
empathize with the many church ladies who perceived some form of beauty within church
hymns, but it was no use; she was unmoved by the notes that stretched out before her like
an endless trail of bootprints in the sand.
Finally they reached the ending of the song, and she sat down gratefully.
It was time for Reverend Pringle’s mini-sermon for the children, which gave him
an opportunity to show off his ability to do different voices.
Reverend Pringle invited all the children “to come forward.” Most of them walked
to the front of the sanctuary and gathered eagerly around the Reverend as they had been
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 219
told, but several of them began to cry when their parents pushed them out of their seats
toward the white-haired, microphone-holding man. A few others left their pews and
toddled aimlessly down the aisles, talking to themselves about some engrossing subject as
their mothers glared at them from their seats.
Reverend Pringle held up two hand-puppets—a turtle and a duck—who just
happened to be talking about Jesus.
“Where’ve you been, Mr. Duck?” asked the turtle.
Reverend Pringle sputtered as he made the duck-puppet speak with a Donald Duck
voice. “I’ve been flying all over de world telling de people and udder ducksh about
Zheezhus!” said the religious duck.
As the turtle and the duck continued their conversation, Ariel reflected that in less
than a week, she would be performing in the concerto competition. She tried to imagine
herself playing through the entire piece successfully before an audience—visualizing the
piano, the stage, each measure of the music.
Reverend Pringle slipped back into his regular voice. “And I want all you children
to remember that just like Mr. Turtle and Mr. Duck, here, you all have a friend in Jesus,
too!”
The organ burst into another hymn, and Reverend Pringle’s voice rang out over
the rest of the congregation as he sang, since he was still holding his microphone. He
resisted the meter of the hymn, letting his voice pause and linger excessively over certain
passages and then rushing through others. The congregation floundered, uncertain
whether they should follow his soaring voice or the standard tempo of the hymn set by the
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 220
organ.
Ariel’s mother frowned. Everyone was in a different place at once.
“I wish he wouldn’t do that!” she whispered to Ariel as she struggled to catch up
with Reverend Pringle.
For once, she and her mother were in agreement. “I think he’s pretending that he’s
one of those television preachers who can sing,” said Ariel. He certainly looked the part
with his imposing white hair.
“Those who have not committed their lives to God are in fact the enemies of
God!” declared Reverend Pringle. “The things in your life that you hold more important
than God are in fact your true gods. But those who are Christians—who have dedicated
their lives to serving God—are God’s friends.”
Ariel reflected that the piano must be her real God—it came before everything.
“Now that’s a very big honor, being a friend of God,” said Rev. Pringle. “The
name of Jesus is a name we can all drop with pride. So I bid you all, stick with a winner,
since you have a winner in God. Stick with a winner, and claim your inheritance!”
She wondered what her inheritance would be. At any rate, she probably wouldn’t
be getting it, since the piano was more important to her than Jesus. Her piano competition
was only a week away.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 24
APRIL, 1980
Ariel’s accompanist for the concerto competition was one of Professor
Homwaller’s graduate students—a flamboyant-looking young man named Thom Darrows
who had feathered blond hair and often wore seventies-style shirts with large collars. He
looked artificially suntanned, as if he had just visited a tanning salon, and his bubbly,
friendly demeanor appealed to Ariel even though he made her feel shy.
Ariel found Thom’s rendition of the accompaniment vibrant and accurate in terms
of rhythm, although he missed many notes. “It sounds great!” he said after they had run
through the first movement together in Homwaller’s studio. “And I can’t believe you
didn’t miss a single entrance.”
Homwaller had asked Ariel to leam the second piano part as well as her own, so
she knew the piece from every angle.
“You’re way ahead of where I was at your age,” said Thom.
This comment was encouraging. Ariel then asked whether Thom had always
known that he wanted to go into music as a career. The questions was still churning in her
mind: what should she do with her life? Just how committed to the piano was she?
“Actually, I always wanted to be a dancer, but I just didn’t have what it takes,”
said Thom. “There was too much physical pain for me.”
221
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 222
So playing the piano had only been his second choice.
“Now you’re ruining your neck and shoulders instead of your knees and hips,” said
Homwaller from the couch.
“You know my posture is impeccable, Patty,” replied Thom.
Ariel noticed how different Thom’s relationship with Homwaller was than her
own; they were playful, combative, and slightly flirtatious with each other. Thom had
reduced Homwaller to Patty. Ariel wondered why she could never work up the nerve to
carry on this sort of banter with Homwaller.
“I think almost everyone has some glamorous dream that they almost reach. But
then, you don’t quite make it,” said Thom. “So you take the next best thing. Don’t you
think so, Patty9”
“Don’t listen to him, Ariel. Some of us are doing exactly our first choice.”
“Piano was your glamorous dream, Patty9”
“Absolutely,” said Homwaller.
“Being a professor9”
“At one of the top conservatories in the country—yes,” said Homwaller.
“Teaching former ballet students and disco instructors.”
“That’s how lucky I am.”
“As long as you’re happy, Patty,” said Thom. “That’s all that matters to me.” He
turned to Ariel and stage whispered, “Just don’t ask her about her personal life.”
Ariel smiled nervously. There was something delightful to her about this exchange,
but she had no idea how to be a part of it.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 223
“That’s enough,” said Homwaller.
As they played through the second movement of the concerto, Ariel was pleased
that Homwaller interrupted to give more suggestions and corrections to Thom than to her
But then she realized that Thom was practically sight-reading the score; he had only
picked it up a day ago.
* * *
The concerto competition was held in Hill Auditorium—one of the best
performance settings in Michigan.
From the balcony, Ariel stood amidst the red velvet seats and looked down at the
stage from a dizzying height. The walls around the stage were rounded so that the entire
room appeared spherical—like being inside a globe.
“Nearly perfect acoustics here,” said Thom.
It was without a doubt the most imposing environment she had ever performed in.
“God, I’m so nervous,” said Ariel’s mother.
Why did her mother always get nervous? It wasn’t as if she had to go out onstage
and play the piano.
“Mothers always get nervous,” said Thom. “That’s why I don’t let mine come to
my performances.” He winked at Ariel.
Standing backstage with Thom, Ariel felt her heart beating against the painful
movement of time.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 224
“ It’s going to be an amazing feeling when you get out there and play,” said Thom.
“This place is a real treat "
She was grateful for Thom’s presence. Although she was excruciatingly nervous,
something about knowing that she wouldn’t be completely alone onstage was keeping her
from panicking.
“I love this concerto we’re playing, by the way,” he whispered. “I can’t wait to get
out there! Do you feel that way9”
“Yes,” she said. Saying it made her believe it a little. She sensed that Thom’s real
talent came from the fact that he genuinely loved to play. Even as an accompanist, he was
actually impatient to get out on the stage and perform.
Her hands felt clammy as she watched the bright footlights and listened to the
sound o f her name being announced on the stage. Now her legs were moving,
remembering how to walk, carrying her toward the piano. Time was suddenly moving
more slowly. The challenge was to keep her mind in the present moment.
At the piano, she listened to Thom’s second-piano part moving through the
orchestral exposition. Each theme of the piece introduced itself and fell away, then a
sudden silence, like a raised curtain.
Her entrance to the music was so simple, almost reminiscent of one of the first
songs in a student lesson book. The melody essentially outlined the C major triad, moving
only tentatively away from C—but not too far—always returning. Then there was a long
trill that went on for three measures. Sometimes Mozart sounded so easy, but in fact it
was difficult to make the music sound light and whimsical. Those bird-like trills and simple
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 225
exposed lines all invited tension and anxiety.
There was a sudden modulation to G major as the piece broke into fo rte arpeggios,
which outlined various inversions of the G major chord—measure after measure of
straight sixteenth notes. The challenge was the make the spaces between these
monotonous patterns perfectly even—to prevent her weaker fourth and fifth fingers from
running together. She loved these bright flourishes, like glorious flames of a blazing sun.
But Mozart always had such sudden melodramatic mood-swings. Brightness
shifted to minor regret with a suddenly poignant dolce section. When Mozart was sad, he
was inconsolable. Then another burst of euphoria with a blast of running sixteenth notes
that ascended the G major scale then erupted into contrary motion between the right and
left hands. Thom’s accompaniment here reminded Ariel of trumpets as his part took over
the music with an orchestral interlude. He had been right; now she was actually enjoying
herself. The next section was her favorite part; her right hand shook back and forth over
the keys, creating a shimmering effect. It reminded her of a Disney cartoon she had once
seen in which snow-fairies skated across the world, turning everything to ice.
“Pleasure performing with you,” said Thom, gripping Ariel’s hand in a serious we
did it handshake after they had left the stage.
“I slipped on that one passage at the cadenza,” said Ariel, remembering one
fumbled scale.
“I hardly noticed,” said Thom. “As our friend Patty says, ‘It’s not the mistakes you
make, but how you recover that matters.’ Anyway, what I really liked about your playing
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 2 2 6
is that you make Mozart sound like something more than a fragile child at the keyboard. It
was very moving and dramatic; parts of it sounded almost like Chopin.”
“Sometimes I make things sound too Romantic,” said Ariel, remembering a
recurring criticism from Homwaller.
“Well, I suppose the important thing at this stage is to play it the way you like it,”
said Thom.
It was a reassuring statement, but Ariel found herself wondering whether the
judges had approved of her performance. For once, she wanted to leave the competition
actually saying, “I won.”
Matilda Lee appeared onstage to perform Ravel’s Piano Concerto for the Left
Hand.
Thom explained that the piece was composed for someone named Paul
Wittgenstein, who had lost his right hand in World War I.
How terrible to be a pianist and lose a hand! The mere thought of it made Ariel
feel heartsick.
Matilda’s teacher—the severe-Iooking Mrs. Tartinovitch—provided the second-
piano accompaniment, which created a murky, dark opening, suggesting bass clarinets and
double bassoons. As the orchestral part crescendoed and became more dramatic, Matilda
seized the music with a sudden solo, which was like a cadenza that spanned the whole
piano from top to bottom and back to the upper range. There was a dotted rhythm in her
part which suggested the guitar.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 227
“It has a lot of Spanish textures,” whispered Thom.
Then there was a military flavor; it was a bright morning in the village, and people
were marching off to war. Ariel imagined friends and family waving goodbye to Matilda as
her first solo concluded with a bright upward-sweeping glissando.
Mrs. Tartinovitch’s part took over, now evoking timpani drums and trumpet
fanfare.
Then back to Matilda, who was now alone. The melody was suddenly plaintive and
lonely—a sad, pensive inversion of the first theme. She would never see home again. She
gazed at her village from a distance and saw the bleak world through a train window. A
fragile bird shook water from its wings as rain began to fall, harder and faster. Mrs.
Tartinovitch began an uneasy counter melody that gradually took over as Matilda’s part
became the rain on the window.
Outside, the territory became suddenly majestic and dry. Matilda climbed higher
and higher against a steady, constant unvaried drum beat. Soldiers passed by on their way
to war. Right foot, left foot, fall in line. The landscape was barren and rocky, but someone
was whistling, trying to cheer himself.
There was a sudden death—the death of a friend. Mrs. Tartinovitch’s part
suggested a lone bugle. Marching became trudging. An endless weariness emerged as the
theme traded back and forth between teacher and student. Now there was more discord,
more tension. Ugliness entered—a battle. Smoke, fire, blows, chaos. Frantic chromatic
scales and burning glissandos. Everything was crimson and black—bursting and
smouldering. Shot down. Wounded.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 228
Then there was the most poignant distant memory of birds, of children laughing. It
was bittersweet and melancholy, Chopinesque in its flourishes and like Mozart in its
almost transparent sensitivity. A last look back.
But it was no use. The ending was supposed to be triumphant, but it instead
seemed tragic, almost pathetic, as Mrs. Tartinovitch’s orchestral pan stepped in and
silenced the melody with the return of the military march. It all ended suddenly—too
abruptly— and the effect was shattering.
This had been a real virtuoso performance—haunting, stellar, dramatic. It was
amazing how with only one hand the melody was countered and sustained with a rippling
undercurrent of notes and large intervals that spanned the keyboard. It was a huge, full
sound. It had to be admitted, however, that Matilda had cheated here and there by using
her right hand to help cover the largest intervals.
“I was wondering how she’d handle that,” said Thom. “It takes a big hand to play
this piece with only one hand.”
“I think that’s one of the most glorious pieces I’ve ever heard,” said Ariel. Her
voice cracked ever so slightly on the word “glorious,” and she realized that she was on the
dangerous verge of tears. Why on earth had she said “glorious”9 How dumb. And why did
she suddenly feel so devastated? After all, she was used to seeing Matilda steal the show.
There had been something about the traumatic beauty of the music combined with
the perception that her own best playing would once again not be quite good enough that
was extremely upsetting. She felt suddenly weak.
“Yes. It is a glorious piece,” Thom said quietly.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 229
No, she would not cry. It would be the worst thing she could possibly do. Mozart
holding her hand as the morning snn filtered through the dusty schoolbus windows.
“Hey—cheer up!” said Thom. “It’s not so bad!”
“ I know,” she said. “It’s just that—” She had to stop. Words were too dangerous.
How stupid of her, to actually begin to believe that she could beat Matilda. Just when she
caught up to Matilda’s level, Matilda shot ahead to five levels higher. She remembered
Matilda’s skinny, naked back under a monotonous trickle of water. How short-lived
power was.
Someone announced that Matilda had won the competition and there were pleased
murmurs from the front rows of the auditorium—an entire section of audience members
who appeared to be Matilda’s Korean relatives. As she walked onstage to take a bow,
Matilda smiled a small, demure smile, lips closed and eyes downcast. She bowed deeply.
Her family’s faces were beaming and Matilda’s mother looked as if she had just
single-handedly won a war. It was an expression of complete vindication.
Ariel searched the audience for Matilda’s retarded brother, but he was nowhere to
be seen. Perhaps the family had forbidden him to set foot in Hill auditorium for fear that he
would embarrass everyone.
Ariel imagined that up in the balcony, Homwaller was turning to Mrs. Terraine and
saying, “ You just couldn 7 argue with that performattce. ”
Her mother was staring at Homwaller with wide, admiring eyes and pink lips,
nodding her head in agreement. “/ think Ariel used a little loo much pedal, ” she said.
“Hey,” said Thom. “If it makes you feel any better, when I was your age I was
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 230
playing “Fur Elise” and spending my time falling on my ass in front of audiences.”
Ariel managed a small smile. Thom was so nice, but his sympathy only made her
want to melt into a puddle of tears.
“Did you ever wonder if you’ll never be good enough?” For a second, Ariel wasn’t
sure if she had actually stated this question aloud.
Thom looked surprised. “What do you mean9”
“I mean, I know I’m a good performer, but sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever actually
win one of these competitions.”
“Hmm,” said Thom. Something about his expression suggested that he considered
this to be an irrelevant question. “Well, are you having any fu n doing this?”
“I guess.” Ariel hardly knew what fun was anymore. She understood the concepts
of need and power, but “fun” suddenly seemed a distant, childish, irrelevant word.
“Because if you’re not having any fun, you might as well be out shopping or
experimenting with drugs or something. But don’t tell your mom I said that.”
She laughed, but his comment actually made her distrust him slightly. She knew
from television that drugs killed brain cells, and she felt that she needed all the brain matter
she could get. If only Matilda Lee would get hooked on some mind-altering substance!
“Hey, you know when you’ll win?” said Thom. “Either when you no longer care
about winning, or after you hang in there so long that the people who used to beat you
have all given up and dropped out. And by then, you 'II hardly care about winning
anymore.”
He seemed to find this a delightful insight, but Ariel found it depressing.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 231
“At least, that’s been my experience. It’s simply the way of the world for most of
us.”
* * *
She was waiting backstage for her turn to perform, surrounded by young girls
who were as fragile and perfect as chirm dolls. One by one, the girls were summoned
onstage, where their brilliant technique exploded in the room like gunshot. They each
played the same piece, which had no composer, no melody. When they were finished, they
bowed demurely and then exited the stage. Nobody made a single mistake.
It was her turn. She saw herself walking onstage, and the piano before her seemed
to smile coldly with its white teeth. Her parents and Professor Homwaller were perched
upon the ceiling like three giant bats. As she entered the spotlight, she felt that she was
not in her own body, but she nevertheless sat down at the piano and tried to concentrate.
Something was terribly wrong. It took a moment for her to register the source of
the audience's horror as a collective gasp o f shock and dismay surged. She had no
hands—they had been sliced o ff at the wrists.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 25
JANUARY, 1981
Since Ariel’s parents were separated, there were two different people to ask for
money instead of one unified parental bank. Ariel had initially (and somewhat illogically)
expected to find more money coming from two different sources, but, in fact, there was
less.
When she asked her mother for money to pay for her piano lessons one afternoon,
Ariel was told, “I’m completely broke. You’ll have to call your father.”
On the phone, her father explained that he could scarcely afford his apartment and
his car, much less Ariel’s expensive piano lessons. “I’ve got a can of beans and a can of
beets in the cupboard to eat for the next week until I get paid,” he said.
Ariel wondered how long a person could live on a can o f beans and a can of beets.
“Well, I have my piano lesson today,” she said, “and we haven’t paid Homwaller in two
weeks.”
Her father was silent for a moment. “How much does she charge, again9”
“Fifty dollars a lesson.”
“That’s really expensive.”
“Actually, that’s much cheaper than most university professors would charge.”
“You have to understand, Ariel,” said her father, “that things are different now.
232
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 233
Your mom and I are really going under financially, so you might want to consider getting
a part-time job of some sort to help out with these special expenses.”
Ariel felt her blood pressure rise. Special expenses. Didn’t her father realize that
playing the piano was vital to her existence?
She had few feelings of affection for Professor Homwaller, but she had developed
a sense of fearful respect for Homwaller’s authority. How could her father even
contemplate upsetting Professor Homwaller by questioning her fees?
“Is he giving you a check?” asked Ariel’s mother as she hung up the phone.
“He says I should get a job.”
“Please! You’re only fourteen!”
Her mother was always convinced that her father had more money than he
admitted to, and vice versa. Ariel was growing weary of begging from both of them;
perhaps she really would take her father’s advice and get a job.
* * *
As a pianist, Professor Homwaller had phenomenal strength. She had a broad back
and powerful shoulders and she played with a stiff, straight spine, her hands pounding the
keyboard tirelessly.
“The power doesn’t come from your wrists and hands, or even from your
shoulders,” she explained, demonstrating at the keyboard, “it comes from your
back—from your derriere! Come on, Ariel— let’s see you draw upon that force all the way
from your rear!”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 234
Homwaller lit a cigarette as Ariel began to play, which seemed to help her
concentrate on the music. She smoked and listened, crossing and uncrossing her long legs,
dragging and exhaling. Then she stood up and began to pace back and forth like a caged
tiger, conducting and singing in a loud, coarse voice, outlining the direction of the music
in broad strokes.
She stopped Ariel in the middle of the piece and adjusted her posture by placing
her hands on Ariel’s shoulders and forcing them down. Next, she grabbed Ariel’s hand
from the keyboard and began to knead and stretch her fingers as if they were bits of bread
dough or lumps of clay. “I think you can reach that interval. There — now try it.”
It seemed that Professor Homwaller’s hands were magic, for Ariel’s relatively
small hands could suddenly span ten keys.
“Let’s hear the Debussy nocturne,” said Homwaller, flicking her ashes.
The Debussy Nocturne in D flat began with a quiet murmur in the lower register of
the piano, then rippling arpeggios clouded with overtones from the sustain pedal that
suggested a magic harp. Ariel heard her teacher’s coarse voice leading her into a humid
summer mist—a fog of nostalgia. The music wandered uncertainly through different
inversions of the D-flat chord until a clear melody finally emerged, simple and sweet.
There was someone she used to know here. Then a difficult passage: for each beat there
were six notes in the left hand against four in the right, all rushing to get somewhere, then
falling back. Crescendoing, then falling; a sudden forte, then everything lost. It was all so
quickly gone, fading away.
There was a sense of awkward embarrassment when the music ended, and Ariel
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 235
returned to consciousness of her shy, adolescent self.
Professor Homwaller was silent for a moment. “Brava,” she said. “You must have
a beautiful soul.”
Ariel’s heart sank. She did not want to have a beautiful soul like church folk. She
wanted to have no soul and be foxy. Nevertheless, it was an alluring and unusual
compliment, and she felt simultaneously intoxicated and repelled by the praise. She wanted
more than anything to please her teacher, but it seemed in some way dangerous for
Homwaller to think too highly of her.
“You should know that I think well of your abilities,” said Homwaller, stubbing
out her cigarette. “It’s not that you’re a great, huge talent; it’s that you have a unique
talent. I think you’re ready to begin training for an international competition.”
As she left the studio, Ariel felt a profound and nauseatingly familiar sense of
vertigo, as if she were walking upon a glass staircase that rose higher and higher into the
blue sky, while the earth below urged her to fall and shatter.
* * *
Weary of the demeaning routine of begging her parents for piano-lesson money,
Ariel wrote “age sixteen” on her job application in order to get a waitressing job at a diner
called Greta’s, which her mother called a “greasy spoon.” She was actually fifteen years
old—one year too young to work legally.
She was given a tight red polyester dress to wear as a uniform, and each night,
instead of doing homework and practicing the piano, she studied the menu for Greta’s,
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 236
which listed foods like bread pudding and liver dinners.
There were two types of waitresses at Greta’s: fat middle-aged career waitresses,
and sexy young career waitresses. Ariel was something of a novelty at the diner, since she
was still in school and had no children or even a boyfriend. Even her name seemed strange
to the other employees, who never tired of asking her if she was getting good television
reception. This was considered an outstanding witticism, made even more enjoyable by the
fact that Ariel was apparently devoid of the assertive comebacks used by the other
waitresses, and “Very funny! ” was the best she could lamely manage, if she said anything
at all.
The employees at Greta’s tended to repeat themselves incessantly. When it was
slow, the waitresses said, “Sure is slow!” and when they were busy, they said, “Damn, I’m
in the woods, bad!” They always asked Ariel if she was “in the woods,” regardless of
whether it was busy or slow, having decided that she must be slightly retarded, since she
had such difficultly making conversation. The truth was that her mind tended to wander.
Amidst the clatter of dishes and conversation and the metallic ring of the cash register, she
was always thinking of the music she was learning that week. She perceived the world
through a lens of concertos, intermezzos, nocturnes, and impromptus.
The condescending treatment of the waitresses was somewhat annoying to Ariel,
but she liked it when they said, “Just let me know if you need help, hon.” It was nice to be
called hon—like something a mother might say. The two men who worked as cooks called
her “Cutie” and “Sweets,” which was also nice, because it meant that she might plausibly
get a boyfriend and become normal.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. I l l
The young waitresses at Greta’s had permed hair and wore heavy black eyeliner
and mascara. They flirted aggressively with the oily men who came into the restaurant on
break from their delivery routes and gas stations. Most of the waitresses were single
mothers with young children—divorced or never married—and not much older than girls
themselves. Centuries, however, seemed to distance them from Ariel.
The older waitresses all had several children and at least one divorce. They were
thick-waisted women with swollen, heavy legs decorated with varicose veins that showed
through their pantyhose. Their nerves seemed deadened, as if they had developed an
inhuman stamina for long, boring hours on their feet slicing tomatoes and cleaning catsup
bottles as customers trickled in. When it was busy, they became very mean, cursing under
their breath, knocking bus boys out of their way, throwing burnt food at the cooks. But
they could also manage the whole floor by themselves if necessary, stacking hot plates all
the way up their arms and balancing them like circus performers.
Each waitress at Greta’s—with the exception of Ariel— had several packs of
Marlboros stuffed into a fat, grease-stained purse. Whenever they had a spare moment, the
employees gathered around a small greasy table in the back room to smoke and count their
tips. As they smoked, they called each other sluts—an affectionate term in the restaurant.
“Hey, slut.”
“Hey, bitch.”
“How’d you make out tonight?”
“Damn slow.”
“You got that right.”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 2 3 8
“Same old same old, that’s what I say.”
“Party hearty, that’s what I say.”
“Yeah, you got that right, too.”
Ariel was not part of the gang, so they couldn’t call her a slut. Instead, they said,
“Don’t say those things in front of Ariel. She’s as green as the grass outside.”
* * *
Dear Diary,
Tonight was my first shift at Greta's.
1. Made SI 5.00 in tips, but I did none o f my homework, and haven't touched the piano
all day.
2. Was told by a fat lady that I am “a very bad waitress. ” Like I care.
3. Was told by a man who looked disturbingly like President Lincoln that I “look like a
tasty dessert. ” Had no reply to this.
4. Was molested by the bus boy several times as he scooted past me in the narrow
kitchen. Not sure if this was accidental or not.
5. Was nagged repeatedly by the manager to “make the coffee rounds” and to “watch the
door. ”
6. Inhaled large quantities o f toxic fumes and am now craving a cigarette!
7. Was winked at by the dishwasher.
8. Was asked several times if I am related to a television antenna. This was considered
the most hilarious joke.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 239
* * *
At Greta’s, “Doing the Catsup” meant pouring half-filled catsup bottles into each
other to make one full bottle. It was a tedious job that had suddenly become perplexing
and difficult for Ariel because one of the dishwashers was staring at her from the break
table, where he was having a cigarette.
“So where do you go to school?” he asked, suddenly.
“What?”
“What school do you go to0”
“Oh. Saline High School.”
“Oh, yeah? I know Saline.” This wasn’t surprising, since it was the only school in
the area.
“Do you need any help with them ketchups?”
“That’s okay, I think I’ve got it.”
“Sure is a lot of ketchup in this restaurant.”
She could think of no appropriate response to this, and there was an
uncomfortable silence. At least, it was awkward for Ariel. The dishwasher, whose name
was Bill, seemed quite comfortable, and was watching her unabashedly, as if she were a
television program placed there specifically to teach him how to handle catsup bottles.
Ariel glanced up at him and nearly dropped one of the bottles when she met his
eyes. He was a tall, awkward boy of about sixteen or seventeen with very blue eyes and
clear, freckled skin, and long straight hair the color of dishwater. There was something
remotely familiar about him, but he was the wrong sort of boy. He would have been
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 240
considered a “burn-out” at Ariel’s school, but he suddenly appealed to Ariel in spite of
herself.
“Where do you go to school?” she asked, realizing as she said it that he probably
didn’t go at all, since he always seemed to be at Greta’s.
“Dropped out a couple years ago,” he said.
“Oh. Well, where did you go before?”
“Saline.”
“Oh.”
“Too much bullshit there,” he said, as he stood up and walked closer to where
Ariel was working. He leaned against the wall, still holding his cigarette. “So you got a
boyfriend, Ariel?”
“No.” She immediately wondered if she should have said yes.
“How come a pretty girl like you doesn’t got a boyfriend'7”
Her answer was most likely derived from television. “Just a free spirit, I guess.”
She couldn’t quite believe she had said the ridiculous words, but Bill seemed to like that
answer.
He smiled at her winningly, flashing crooked teeth and dimples.
“Do you wanna go to a movie or something after work9”
“Well, I have school tomorrow and my mom is picking me up—”
“I can give you a ride home. It’s no problem.”
“Okay,” she said, feeling as reckless as if she had just decided to shoplift or drop
out of school.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 241
An hour later, she was kissing Bill in his car in the parking lot of Greta’s. It was a
French kiss, which was akin to having a warm piece of meat stuffed into her mouth. Bill
seemed to be trying to devour her whole face by using a fierce suction. The seats of his car
were vinyl, and everything smelled like the distinctive combination of sweat and grease
that always pervaded Greta’s. She wished that she wasn’t still wearing her polyester
uniform, which was both smelly and hot. It did, however, have a convenient zipper in
front, which Bill unzipped eagerly, groping under her bra as he kissed her neck.
Ariel was fascinated by his voice, which seemed to have taken on the distressed
urgency of a person near death as he murmured hypnotically and convincingly that she was
“so beautiful” and, as his breathing grew heavier yet, “You turn me on so much! ” It was
intoxicating, the sense o f power she had over him, but also a little frightening. She
wondered if she would go “all the way” with him, and hoped that she wouldn’t, because
she had the vague notion that this would automatically transform her into one of the career
waitresses at Greta’s, even if she didn’t get pregnant. Even more disturbing was the sense
that she didn’t have the slightest idea what she was doing. She wished she had read the
article on “Improving Your Love Technique” which she had seen in her mother’s
Women's Day magazine.
“I think I’d better get home now,” she said abruptly, pushing Bill away.
“Do you have to?”
“I really should. I’m sorry.”
“Where did you learn to kiss like that?” he asked, leaning closer to her again.
“I don’t know.”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 242
He suddenly turned away and faced the steering wheel. “I kiss like crap, don’t I.”
“No. I mean, I wouldn’t even know —”
“I should take lessons or something so I’d even be worth kissing.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that ”
Bill seemed suddenly depressed and pensive. He looked at her with imploring eyes
and took her hand. “Ariel, I— I feel like . . . like my head is filled with champagne bubbles
or something when I’m with you.”
It was just like television. Ariel stared at her feet as if wishing they had an
appropriate answer for Bill.
“I know it sounds crazy, but—I love you,” he said, imploringly.
This was too much. “You can’t possibly— I mean, you don’t even know me! You
don’t know anything about me.”
“I know. But—I know I probably seem like a fuck-up or something to you.”
“No. I don’t think that,” she said, reflecting that she was attracted to him in spite
of thinking this.
“Can I call you9” he asked.
“Okay.” Ariel felt as if she had decided to set up house with an alien.
Ariel’s waitressing shift the next evening felt like an anxiety-infused and highly
ambivalent performance. Now that she had a boyfriend, Ariel felt compelled to put extra
special effort into her lip gloss application and hairstyling, and to wash her uniform to get
rid of the rancid smell of sweat and grease in case she had to make out with Bill in his car
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 243
again. By the time she walked through the door of the restaurant and punched in, she felt
exhausted.
She was greeted at the time-clock by a middle-aged waitress named Lori, who
gave her a sly, knowing grin. This was her usual expression, but it had taken on a new
significance in light of recent developments.
As she struggled to comprehend the nightly pork special written on a chalkboard,
Ariel reflected that she felt uncomfortable being somebody’s girlfriend all of a sudden.
Instead of feeling glamorous and special, she felt absurd and out of control. She thought
wistfully of the days of freedom when there wasn’t a single boy who cared whether she
lived or died.
When she saw Bill he pressed a crumpled piece of paper into her hand.
“Something for you to read,” he said.
“What is it?”
“Just something. You can read it while you’re on break.”
After checking to make sure that Bill was out of her sight, Ariel unfolded the piece
of paper, which turned out to be a greasy restaurant order-slip. She turned it over and
discovered that Bill was a poet.
As I sit With my smokes I like to think o f you and how beautiful you are because I love you.
Ariel felt a profoundly dual sense of flattery and contempt. She had finally
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 244
discovered the passionate devotion she had always wanted in the form of a real-life
boyfriend, and instead of happiness, she was filled with emotional nausea. Things were
going too far, getting too unpredictable. She turned around and caught the bus boy leering
at her
Everyone seemed to know about the situation, because the waitresses and cooks
kept slapping Bill on the back and humiliating Ariel with lecherous smiles.
When her shift ended, she accepted Bill’s offer of a ride home with the plan of
explaining to him that she couldn’t be his girlfriend. Although they hadn’t even been on a
single real date, she felt as though she had to act quickly to extract what she perceived as
a potentially malignant growth.
Once in his car, she broke up with him with surgical precision.
“You see, I have a lot going on right now. I’m a mu— well, I play the piano, and I
have this important competition I’m preparing for, and I just don’t have any extra time.”
“Yeah, I know you’re a musician.”
“You do9”
“I think that’s what drew me to you the most. Because I love music, and I just feel
for it so much, you know? Especially Led Zepplin and the Moody Blues.”
“Yeah, but I play classical.”
“I know—I’ve heard you play before.”
She was shocked. “When?”
“I think it was you, anyway; it was a few years ago at one of those talent shows at
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 245
the Saline County Fair. I thought you were the best. And cute, too.”
“You saw that talent show9” So there had been someone who had heard her that
day.
“Yeah. I was in it! I played guitar.”
“Really? I don’t remember,” she lied. In fact, she suddenly remembered the
awkward chords of the electric guitar and the adolescent voice singing "Rollin' down a
rivah ” in the dusty arena of a hot afternoon—the afternoon she had played Bartok on the
bed of a semi-truck. How humiliated she had felt on that day. How friendless. And this
boy had been there too; he had also been a performer in the show and he remembered her.
She had to admit that this was somewhat gratifying, but at the same time, she didn’t like
the fact that Bill had witnessed one of her worst performances of all time; she wanted to
erase that afternoon from history completely.
They drove down Bemis Road through a long, straight stretch between dark fields,
where kids from Saline High School liked to speed and crash their cars.
“Thanks for the ride,” she said as they pulled into Ariel’s driveway.
“Hey, do you think if I came in for just a minute you could play something?”
Ariel instinctively recoiled from the idea of bringing Bill into the house. The truth
was, she had avoided having any friends over for some time, since there had always been
the possibility that her mother would say something bizarre or that her parents would get
into a heated argument.
“Please9”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 246
“I guess,” said Ariel, getting out of the car “But if my mom’s asleep, I can’t play.”
“I understand,” said Bill, following her eagerly to the front door.
“Wow, this is a really nice place,” said Bill with sincere admiration. “ So this is
where Ariel Terraine lives.”
Ariel wondered where Bill lived.
“Where I live, it’s such a dump,” he said.
“It’s not so great here either,” said Ariel.
Ariel’s mother appeared, wearing a pink satin bathrobe and smoking a cigarette. It
was a habit she had recently picked up in an effort to keep her weight down. She didn’t
like to be seen smoking, however, and she often acted flustered and irritable when Ariel
caught her.
Mrs. Terraine looked shocked to see Ariel standing in the entryway of the house
with an actual boy. There seemed to be an odd vibration in the room as Bill and her
mother stared at each other.
“Hi,” said Bill, in a voice that was a little too quiet and intense.
“Mom, this is Bill,” said Ariel, wishing that someone would start acting normal.
“Yes,” said Ariel’s mother, a bit too quickly.
Bill was still staring at her mother. What was his problem?
“I’m just going to play something for Bill,” said Ariel. “He’s a musician, too.” She
felt the need to justify the whole situation somehow.
“Ariel has school tomorrow, so she can’t stay up late,” said Mrs. Terraine to Bill.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 247
She sounded cold, as if warning Bill to stay away from her daughter.
“I never said I was planning to stay up /a/e,” said Ariel.
“You have school tomorrow,” repeated her mother. “And you said you would be
home an hour ago.”
Ariel found it very interesting that despite all of her mother’s talk over the years
about the benefits of getting a boyfriend, she now didn’t seem to like the appearance of a
potential boyfriend in her house.
“She’s pretending not to recognize me,” said Bill after Mrs. Terraine had retreated
to her bedroom.
“What9” Ariel felt vaguely ill at the idea of some connection between Bill and her
mother.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Ariel,” said Bill.
She had the sense that she had heard this line before. Once again she was playing a
role, a part in a made-for-television movie.
Bill lowered his voice to a whisper. “I was kind of in Mercywood for a while.”
Mercywood was a mental hospital located about a mile away, surrounded by
cornfields. Whenever a kid acted bizarre or disturbingly uncool at school, someone always
said, "Better send her to Mercywood! ”
“I was kind of psycho for awhile,” said Bill. “I tried to kill myself. A few times,
actually.” He pulled back his shirt sleeve and showed her the thin pink scars on the inside
of his wrist.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 2 4 8
Her mother's small , neat handwriting. A goodbye note. Why was Bill sharing this
information? What did he expect her to say9
“I know I saw your mom there. And we had this great conversation about life and
everything, and I remember thinking, ‘She seems like a nice lady. Real classy and
pretty—not like these other patients’.”
Ariel pictured her mother sitting in a sterile hospital wearing one of her tailored
suits as the other patients around her sat glumly, drooling on their shirts. She and Bill were
having an intimate conversation about life and stuff. She felt nauseated.
“It was her, wasn’t it9”
“I don’t think so,” Ariel lied.
“Don’t worry, Ariel,” said Bill, pulling Ariel toward him. “I would never try to kill
myself again.”
Although she found his words cloying and off the mark, she nevertheless felt a
wave of attraction toward him—or perhaps it was more like a confusing combination of
recognition and fear.
He kissed her eyebrow, then her nose, then her mouth. Now his kisses seemed
soft, magnetic—more enticing than they had been in the car. Something in her body was
melting. She told herself this was normal, that Bill was normal. Perhaps everyone wanted
to die at some point. But then there was the image of her mother and Bill together in the
mental hospital.
“I think you’d better go now,” said Ariel.
“But you haven’t played me a song yet.”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 2 4 9
“They aren’t songs.”
“Then what are they0”
“Compositions.”
“Oh.” Bill was watching her. “You know, you do look a little bit like your mom.”
“Don’t say that.” No, she would not he like her mother.
“I think she’s pretty,” said Bill. “She looks kind of like this lady I saw on television
on the late movie once. It was called ‘Petulia’ or something weird like that.”
“I’m tired,” said Ariel.
“But I think you’re nicer than her,” said Bill. “Your mom, I mean.”
“No, I’m actually not.” More than anything, she wanted him to leave. A familiar
feeling of claustrophobia was setting in—an overwhelming pressure. It seemed that
everyone wanted something from her, and now all she wanted was to be alone. “I like you
a lot and everything,” she continued, “but I just can’t go out with anyone right now.”
“Because you don’t have time0”
“Yes—and, it’s hard to explain, but I have to concentrate; I have to stay focused,
or something.”
“I wouldn't want to screw up your concentrating or nothing. I just thought—I
don’t
know—maybe you needed a friend. I mean, I know I do, and .1 thought. . . maybe you
did too.”
She felt a bit indignant at the idea that she was someone who appeared to need a
friend.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 2 5 0
“Can’t we even be friends ?” he asked, looking at her with his clear, blue eyes.
“I don’t think so.” She realized that she was being unnecessarily ruthless, but she
felt at that moment that she would have killed him if necessary in order to extract herself
from being his girlfriend.
He was silent for a moment. “My mistake.”
It made her feel stronger to slam the door on his world. Because, she told herself,
you cannot exist in two worlds at once.
* * *
It seemed to Ariel that everyone at Greta’s Grub hated her after her first and last
night as Bill’s girlfriend. The bus boys and cooks either regarded her with contempt or
pretended not to see her at all.
Her food was always late or burned, which made the customers hate her as well.
The other waitresses ignored her, which they had always done, but Ariel now perceived a
purposeful coldness, an intentional snub, in their manner. She was no longer the naive,
inexperienced, dumb girl— she was simply a bitch. Furthermore, she was not a sisterly
slut-bitch; she was a frigid bitch.
Ariel had not anticipated this repercussion, but she saw that it made perfect sense
because everyone at Greta’s loved Bill. They had probably been happy for him and
gossiped amongst themselves about how he had “finally found a nice girlfriend for
himself’ even if she was a little daft. For a brief moment, he was no longer just a high
school drop-out and a dishwasher with emotional problems—he had become Someone
with a Girlfriend. But she had ruined the story for everyone, and, worse, they could find
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 251
no logical reason for her behavior.
Feeling surrounded by enemies, Ariel tried to block her fears by thinking only
about music, which now struck her as the perfect creation because it spoke only when she
told it to speak.
* * *
Ariel propped up the lid of the piano on the long wooden stand that usually rested
inside the instrument and then balanced a microphone on the piano so that it pointed
toward the strings inside.
As she pushed “record” on the tape recorder she felt her heart begin to beat faster.
“Record” evoked the discerning audience, the red-penned judges, the simultaneous feeling
of openness and containment she associated with recital halls. “Record” would freeze
time, remembering everything.
She began to play a nocturne by Samuel Barber. It opened fairly conventionally
with a moon-lit, expressive melody, but it immediately veered off into a dissonant chord
that almost sounded like she was playing wrong notes. The mood became increasingly
disturbed, culminating in a passage that reminded her of shattering glass. It was both
percussive and harp-like and when she didn’t botch it, the effect sounded alien, like
something more vast and strange than a piano.
She played it over and over, until she had forgotten completely about Bill.
* * *
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 252
“Ariel, we have a problem here.”
She turned to face Bob Garfy, the manager and owner of Greta’s. He was a
paunchy, aging man with a bulbous nose.
“Yes9” She braced herself for the discovery that she had completely forgotten
about one of her tables.
“Let’s go into my office for a minute. We need to have a chat about something.”
Ariel’s mind raced. He wouldn’t ask her into his office to tell her that a customer was
upset about something; he would yell at her right on the floor, out in the open. Perhaps
she would be reprimanded for her behavior with Bill, which was decidedly unprofessional.
"I d o n 7 care what yon do at home, on your own time, ” he would say, “ju st don 7
do it in my parking lot with one o f my employees. And in my opinion, I think you owe our
friend Bill a sincere apology and a good lay. ”
Ariel followed him into his tiny office, which contained numerous messy stacks of
paper. Schedules and invoices were tacked to the walls, strewn about on the floor, and
piled several feet high on top of his desk. Adding to the clutter were a few cases of tomato
paste and potato chips, several half-filled coffee cups, and ash trays overflowing with
cigarette butts.
Bob sat down, spreading his short legs widely to allow his pot belly sufficient
room. He lit a cigarette and began to search through some papers.
“Ah, here we are!” he declared triumphantly. “A job application filled out by Ariel
Terraine. Ariel, how old are you, Sweets?”
She couldn’t decide whether she should maintain her lie. Obviously, he knew she
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 253
was lying about her age— or did he? “Well, I’m almost sixteen.”
He laughed. “Hon’, I personally don’t care how old you are as long as you can
keep my customers happy. But a law is a law, and I happen to know for a fact that you’re
only fifteen.''''
She wondered who had told him. Probably one of the waitresses. Or maybe Bill.
“I could have called your parents, but I figured that’s none of my business.” He
took a drag on his cigarette and then pulled it abruptly from his mouth, as if he hadn’t
intended to smoke at all. “Now, Sweets, you seem to be a nice girl in spite of lying to me,
but I’ve got girls with families to support—fully-trained people who can work full-time,
who would love to have your hours. And a law’s a law. So I’m afraid I’m going to have to
let you go— at least for now.”
She was relieved. He hadn’t mentioned Bill.
“Anyway,” Bob continued, “what’s a nice young girl like you doing in a place like
this on school nights?”
“Well, it’s a job, and I just needed the money because I have these piano
lessons—” Strangely, when she attempted to explain her situation, her voice broke and she
felt tears menacingly near the surface. There was nothing worse than trying to speak
rationally to a virtual stranger and blubbing like a baby instead. She blinked rapidly in an
attempt to stop the inconsiderate tears that were forming. “I have piano lessons that are
very expensive.”
Bob looked at her with his small eyes as if trying to comprehend the emotional
gnificance of piano lessons in light of the divorces, unplanned pregnancies, drug
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 254
addiction, and general hardship among his employees with which he was familiar “Piano
lessons, huh?” He picked up one of the several cups of coffee in front of him and took a
sip. “How much are you paying for your piano lessons0”
“Fifty dollars a lesson.” She wiped her nose on her hand.
Bob looked at her for a minute and then handed her a tissue. “Hell, I wouldn’t pay
more than five bucks for a piano lesson. Piano players— now, not your professionals ,
mind you, but the decent ones—they’re a dime a dozen. In fact, I bet I could walk out into
this restaurant and find you a piano teacher that would charge half—hell, that would
charge one fourth that amount.” He began to tap a ballpoint pen on top of the desk as if it
were a drumstick. “In fact, my good friend Charlie Townsill will probably be in the
restaurant tonight. He plays keyboard in a couple bands, and I think he teaches some
lessons too. Maybe you could set something up with him.”
Ariel recoiled from the idea of being bulldozed into taking piano lessons with
Charlie. Her father would probably applaud the practicality of the idea.
“That’s very thoughtful; I mean, thanks and everything, but I’m not sure he would
teach the kind of music I’m studying. It’s mostly classical.”
“Classical, huh. I feel sorry for you, then, Sweets. Hell, nobody listens to classical
these days, except maybe at church or funerals.” He threw the pen inexplicably into the
waste basket. “And, hey—some people like church and funerals. I can tell you, those
people are no friends of mine. But, hey, whatever floats your boat .”
She smiled weakly as if to demonstrate her agreement that the whole idea of
classical music was ludicrous.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 255
“I used to be a musician myself,” he said, leaning back in his chair “Sang in a band
called the Catboys. Became pretty popular, too ”
“Really0” There was suddenly a much more interesting— if virtually impossible to
imagine— dimension to the decidedly ugly man surrounded by smoke and invoices.
“We even cut a record that brought in some cash.”
“So, do you still sing0”
“Hell, no! It was fun for a hobby and all when I was young, but I’ll tell you, there
was no money in it. None. And don’t tell me you’re thinking of playing piano as a career.”
“I don’t know. I mean, I haven’t really decided. I thought I might major in music
in college and then—”
“Aw, hell. You don’t wanna do that. Play for relaxation in your spare time But let
me tell you, the way this economy is going, you’re going to want something solid to fall
back on in the future.”
He crushed out his cigarette and folded his hands protectively around his stomach
“Like I have this place here. It makes a nice living for me and the wife. You
should consider studying business management. Better yet, be a lawyer! Hell, they make a
killing off all the rest of us.”
“I can see what you mean. I’ll think about it, I guess.”
“You do that,” he said. “It’s never too soon to think about your future.”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 26
MARCH, 1984
Seeing her father on his own always filled Ariel with a disturbing sense of decline
and a vague feeling of guilt. His apartment had a makeshift, temporary appearance, with
no pictures or superfluous decorations. There were several shelves overflowing with
books, a battered couch scavenged from the basement of the Terraines’ house, and an old
black-and-white television set which used to reside in her parents’ bedroom. Only her
father’s desk was unchanged; it was still cluttered with abundant stacks of books and
papers.
“You remember Dr. Ume, don’t you0” asked her father, as he attempted to spread
pizza dough evenly in a pan.
“Of course I do,” she replied. It was hard to believe that ten years had passed since
Ariel had last seen the Umes. She still had a vivid memory of Dr Ume’s earnest, shining
head.
Ariel’s father explained that Professor Ume and his wife were coming over to his
apartment for dinner. “They’ve had me over so many times during the past month; I felt
that I should return the favor somehow.”
Ariel set the table with yellow picnic plates and wine glasses of various sizes,
reflecting that her mother would have been appalled at the chaotic appearance of the
256
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 257
place-settings.
“It’s too bad I don’t have a piano here, because I know they would like to hear
you play,” said her father.
The doorbell rang.
“Could you get that?” her father asked. “I’ve got flour and tomato paste on my
hands.”
The Umes were much smaller than Ariel had remembered, with gray hair and pale,
wrinkled skin. There was a fleeting moment of disorientation as they regarded each other
through the doorway.
“My goodness, Ariel! How you’ve grown!” said Dr. Ume.
“She’s a young lady now,” declared Mrs. Ume, as she tottered through the door
wearing a fur coat.
Ariel heard the oven door slamming shut. “ I’ve got pizza dough on my hands!”
called her father. “I’ll be there in a second!”
“Did he say pizza dough?” asked Mrs. Ume.
“He makes a very good pizza,” said Ariel. She felt the need to reassure them for
some reason.
The Umes followed Ariel into her father’s small living room, which was connected
to the kitchen. Ariel’s father appeared, wearing a large oven-mit.
“So!” declared Dr. Ume broadly, clasping his hands together and assessing his
surroundings. He seemed to be searching for an appropriate sentence to bridge the divide
of time and a broken home. “I see you’re all set here.”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 258
“■Well, it’s a decent apartment for the price,” explained Ariel’s father
Mrs. Ume appeared to be distracted by the extreme ugliness of the couch.
Ariel felt awkward. The Umes were reminders of a time that had passed, of things
that had changed for the worse. They were pale memories of the lavish dinner parties that
her parents had given during her childhood—the polite murmuring of adult conversation,
the clinking of crystal and china, the feeling of the piano keys beneath her hands. At the
time, she had regarded the dinner parties as silly adult events, but they now seemed like
part of a lost, magical world. Why was her father even attempting to entertain the Umes in
his shabby apartment9
“Could I have a martini, Ralph9” asked Mrs. Ume.
“Sure. Have a seat and make yourselves comfortable.”
The couch squeaked as they sat down.
“You know,” said Ariel’s father, reappearing from the kitchen, “I’m very sorry,
but I don’t have any vermouth.”
“Are you sure, Ralph?” Mrs. Ume’s face crumpled as if she might cry Ariel hadn’t
remembered her being such a baby
After what seemed a very long time, during which the Umes and Ariel’s father
spoke of martinis, the university, and the difficulties of house-keeping, her father pulled a
pizza out of the oven.
The warm aroma of sauteed onions and garlic filled the apartment, and Ariel had
to admit that she was impressed with her father’s cooking skills.
Mrs. Ume eyed the assortment of dishes on the table with skepticism, but she did
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 259
manage to compliment the steaming pizza, which was piled high with cheeses, peppers,
and olives.
Following Dr. Ume’s toast to “old friends and bright futures,” Ariel's father spoke
of the tribulations of his full course-load and his research in quantum mechanics, chaos
theory, and other depressing pursuits. He didn’t mention the numerous hours he had been
spending with divorce lawyers.
Professor Ume turned to Ariel. “Tell me about yourself, Ariel. The last time I saw
you, you were just a little kid, playing the piano like a young Mozart. And your father tells
us that you’ve really excelled with your music.”
This piece of information surprised Ariel, since she couldn’t imagine her father
bragging about her.
“Ariel has a big competition coming up this year,” said Ariel’s father “An
international one, isn’t that right, Ariel?”
Mr. Ume put down his fork. “Ralph, the only thing I regret about this evening is
not being able to hear your daughter play the piano.”
“He loves to hear piano music,” said Mrs Ume.
“It made sense for Margo to keep the piano, obviously,” explained Ariel’s father.
“But I do miss having it around. Now I have to listen to the radio as I work at my desk.”
“It would be nicer to have a live performance, wouldn’t it?” said Dr. Ume.
Ariel found these statements mildly irritating for some reason.
“And what will you be playing in this competition?” asked Dr. Ume.
Ariel described some of the pieces she would perform—a Bach Prelude and Fugue,
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 2 6 0
a Prelude by Debussy, a Mozart Sonata, a Barber Nocturne— and, as she spoke. Professor
Ume nodded his head excitedly and said, “Marvelous!” and “Charming!” and “How
Interesting!” Now she remembered how likeable Professor Ume could be; he was always
full of compliments for anything that concerned classical music.
As he continued to ask a series questions about the competition. Dr. Ume leaned
forward in his chair, his chin propped in his hands, a bit of tomato sauce on his lower lip,
his face reddened and slightly sweaty. The intensity of his gaze was unnerving. It was as if
he expected to find some answer within Ariel—some piece of information or source of
insight that he had been seeking for some time. Ariel wanted to tell him that he was
looking in the wrong place—that she had nothing to offer.
“Do calm down, dear,” said Mrs. Ume, touching her husband’s hand. “You’ll have
one of your spasms.”
“I’m fine!” he retorted.
“He likes music so much, he finds it upsetting,” said Mrs. Ume.
Ignoring his wife, Dr. Ume leaned back in his chair and wiped his mouth. “I have
to say, Ariel, that I really envy you ”
“Really9 I mean, why9”
“To be surrounded by such great music—more than that, to be able to participate
in its greatness by performing; well, I think that must feel marvelous! I can’t imagine a
better, more connected, feeling.”
Ariel wasn’t sure what he meant. True, it did feel wonderful to play the piano. But
playing was such an automatic part of Ariel’s existence, she did not consider the
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 261
possibility of what it might feel like not to play. Besides, she had always resented the
suggestion that she was “lucky” to play the piano, that her supposed talent was a gift
rather than a skill earned through labor and sweat. A gift implied too much responsibility,
not to mention the suggestion of abnormality and an uncontrollable fate.
“ Sometimes it feels great,” she said, “but it’s mostly a lot of hard work.”
“At any rate, the fact that you’re disciplined enough to do that hard work is
exceptional, since most people— including myself—can’t focus long enough,” said Dr.
Ume.
“I suppose so.”
“Believe me, it’s true. My own parents had the good sense to make me take piano
lessons when I was a lad, but I refused to practice. On the day of my lesson, I would
frantically try to learn the pieces that had been assigned, as if I were cramming for an
exam, and it was always a disaster. Sometimes my teacher and I were both crying as we
sat together on the piano bench!”
Ariel pictured Professor Ume as a young boy. Sitting at the piano, he was plump,
tearful, and bespectacled, and bald.
“And the saddest thing,” continued Professor Ume, “is that I lived to regret my
lazy habits. When I was in my twenties, I heard a Rachmaninov piano concerto for the first
time, and I broke down with grief at the idea that I would never be able to play it. I was
literally unable to enjoy anything for several weeks.”
“My goodness, dear,” said Mrs. Ume, “if it bothered you so much, why in the
world didn’t you start taking lessons again9”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 2 6 2
“Because it wouldn’t have made any difference! I knew that I could take lessons
for the rest of my life, and it wouldn’t matter. I would never be able to play that piece.”
“I think that’s a very negative attitude,” said Mrs. Ume.
“Negative perhaps, but true. So you see why I envy you, Ariel. Because you have
the two things I would most love to have— talent and time. You have a whole life
of potential stretching before you and the talent to possess those infinite works of genius.”
Ariel did not feel that she possessed time and potential. Time was caving in upon
itself, unable to support the “works of genius.” She felt like a dinosaur, trapped in a dying
world and possessed by a strange desire to ruin something. “I’m not even sure if I want to
go into music as a career,” she said impulsively. “I’ve been thinking of going into law.”
Lately, Mrs. Terraine had alternately been encouraging her daughter to become a
concert pianist or a prosecuting attorney, depending on her mood and whether the bills
had been paid. Ariel had initially rejected the idea of a career in law, but the pathos
surrounding Dr. Ume’s view of piano playing was making the dry, practical world of
lawyers seem very appealing.
“But—you have so much time!” protested Dr. Ume.
Ariel stumbled over her words, attempting to explain the doubts that had been
circulating through her mind during the past months even as she continued to practice the
piano for three or four hours a day. The teachers at her school had been warning students
about “today’s competitive job market” and “changing technology.” The piano was
obviously an impractical and expendable relic of the past. “And with all the problems in
the world,” Ariel continued, “it seems kind of selfish to spend all of my time playing the
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 2 6 3
piano, doesn’t it?”
Professor Ume’s face became a mask of disappointment. ’‘But it would be a crime
to throw it all away!”
“Theodore, I’m sure she’s not planning to throw anything away,” said Mrs. Ume,
reasonably “She has lots of choices to think about at her age.”
“Just what we need—more lawyers!” Professor Ume stuffed a piece of pepperoni
into his mouth.
“It’s true that this economy is tough for anyone in the arts,” said Ariel’s father.
“Realistically, a person has to be prepared to make sacrifices. I certainly learned that the
hard way by going into pure math instead of engineering, and that put a lot of pressure on
my marriage.”
There was an awkward silence.
Ariel reflected that she did not want to suffer, and she did not want to make
sacrifices. On the other hand, the three hours per day at the piano, the lessons, the ordered
patterns of the musical scores were her foundation— a source of emotional stability The
more she thought about her future, the more worried and sick she felt.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 27
APRIL, 1984
Through the open window in her mother’s room, Ariel sensed the spring thaw
outside. The air was moist and fresh and she heard the first sounds of birds singing in trees
that were still covered with melting snow
She opened the door to her mother’s closet and gazed at the untouched promise of
her mother’s new clothes. Mrs. Terraine had recently started exercising at a health club
and new outfits were showing up regularly in her closet: party dresses, stylish suits, and
slim designer jeans that hung like fashionable strangers next to old turtleneck sweaters and
sensible tweed skirts. How did her mother have money to spend on clothes9 True, her
mother had recently taken a job as a secretary while she continued to maintain her position
as a church organist, but the perky outfits hanging in the closet still seemed like self-
indulgent luxuries.
It was overwhelmingly odd that her mother was out on a date—the first date she
had had since the years before her marriage.
Ariel tried on a pair of her mom’s size 4 Anne Taylor jeans and found that they
were too small for her. She knew that there were girls at school who squeezed into jeans
that were too small by lying on the floor and using a hanger or pliers to zip them up, but
Ariel refused to sink that low. The annoying fact was that her mother was small-boned and
264
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 265
skinny, while Ariel was comparatively big-boned and muscular. Her mother was a pain in
the ass.
The date’s name was Stan. Ariel’s mother hadn’t been ready when he arrived, so
Ariel had been forced to entertain him as her mother primped in the bathroom upstairs.
Stan had a sunburned complexion and wore a trenchcoat over his suit. He
reminded Ariel of an FBI agent or a policeman with his impenetrable dark glasses and
gum-chewing demeanor.
As Ariel had made small talk with Stan about boring things like cars and
motorboats, she sensed that something had reversed itself. Wasn’t her mother supposed o
be the one sitting at the kitchen table, questioning her daughter’s boyfriends about the
mundane details of their lives? Suddenly her mother had become the lovely, carefree
daughter, and she herself had become the matronly, puritanical mother.
As Stan was explaining how he and Ariel’s mother had “met at the office,” Mrs.
Terraine had appeared, looking stunning in a periwinkle silk dress. She looked slender,
cute— suddenly ten years younger.
Mrs. Terraine gave Ariel and Stan one of her bright, awkward smiles. “Do I look
okay?”
“You’re one foxy lady,” said Stan.
Her mother giggled. “What do you think, Ariel?”
“You look great.” The words were bitter stones in her mouth. These days, she
begrudged her mother all compliments, for her mother was suddenly shamelessly happy.
But hadn’t she always wanted her mother to be happy? Perhaps not. She had merely
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 266
wanted her mother to be normal.
Now it seemed that the happier her mother was, the more bitter she herself felt.
Her mother was suddenly galloping away into a new life, leaving everyone else behind to
tend the painful garden of the past.
As Ariel opened one of her mother’s drawers to find a tangle of pink, red and
black lace lingerie, she felt an intense feeling of betrayal and regret. If her mother hadn’t
made her break things off with Bill, she might now be the one with new underwear and her
mother would be snooping through her belongings, feeling resentful. How twisted. She
walked quickly out of her mother’s bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
She had to leave—to get away. But there was nowhere to go. She had no car, no
friends to call. Outside there were only the pockets of nature amidst suburbia—the muddy
marsh, the melting snow, the brown fields, the country roads laced with beer cans and fast
food containers. As she paced through the house, Ariel felt that she had made an error
somehow; she had given up too much and now she was stuck. The piano offered little
consolation, for her practice sessions had become tedious, single-minded drudgery as she
prepared for her competition. Rarely did she experience that sense of escape that she used
to feel while playing. In the old days, playing had often been like curling up and entering
the world of a good book which she couldn’t put down, but now it was all work. If only
she could win this time. Then it would all be worthwhile.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 28
MAY, 1984
Ariel was practicing technical exercises at the piano when her mother and Stan
burst through the front door together like an unwelcome gust of wind. Her mother was
giggling as usual.
“Oh, my! You’re still practicing!” exclaimed her mother, even though she couldn’t
possibly have been surprised, since Ariel was almost always practicing, unless she was
asleep or at school. Her mother looked tanned and pretty, which Ariel found irritating.
“I have a competition coming up, if you remember ” Ariel glared at her mother as
her hands continued to move through a series of minor scales.
Her mother began to say something, but she was distracted by Stan, who was
pulling on the back of the two-piece bathing suit she was wearing beneath her sundress.
“Stop! You’re so bad!” shrieked Ariel’s mother with delight.
Ariel’s hands fell upon the keys with a dissonant slap, which startled her mother.
“Sounds modem,” said Stan, grinning at her.
Ariel ignored him. The fact that her mother was pretending not to notice her anger
made her even angrier, and the awareness that there was no logical reason for a sane
person to be furious in the given situation made her even more resentful. For a moment,
she experienced the sensation of being a child on the verge of a temper tantrum.
267
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 268
Lucidly, Stan and her mother left the room and headed for the kitchen. She heard
her mother offering Stan a piece of the strawberry pie Ariel had recently made.
Ariel began to practice the lively Haydn sonata that Homwaller had assigned as a
sight-reading exercise, but hearing fragments of Stan’s dumb jokes and her mother’s
encouraging laughter, she began to lose control of the music. She suddenly hated the light,
playful phrases of “Papa Haydn,” which struck her as being stupidly jolly. She halted
abruptly and launched into a piece that she hadn’t played for some time— the Rhapsody in
G minor by Brahms. This was the mood she wanted—the turbulent black ocean, the dark
irrevocable waves that would consume her and her mother, covering the new houses and
freshly mowed lawns o f the entire subdivision and erasing them from the earth.
“This is good pie.”
She heard Stan’s voice from behind He was obviously the kind of person who
confronted activities that were alien to his own life by either ignoring them or making
jokes about them.
Ariel bristled. It was unfair of him to approach her when her mother wasn't
around. Usually she channeled her irritation with Stan toward her mother, as if he were a
pet dog that her mother was failing to control, but she couldn’t quite summon the courage
to be rude to him directly. She settled on acting prim and stiff, turning half-way around on
the piano bench to look at him with a small smile that appeared more like a grimace.
“Thanks,” she said, meeting his eyes for only a split second. She then began to
shuffle through a stack of sheet music, hoping that he would take the hint and leave her
alone. What in the world was her mother doing, letting Stan wander around their house
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 2 6 9
without supervision0 She was probably applying more makeup, or changing from her
swimsuit into the new black lace underwear Ariel had discovered while snooping in her
mother’s dresser drawer. It was slutty underwear, and her mother was far too old to be
wearing it.
To Ariel’s profound dismay, Stan sat down in the worn velvet armchair next to the
piano. His plate was sticky with the remains of pie and ice cream, and he licked the back
of his fork.
“Yup, that’s a good piece of pie Have you put this on your marriage resume0”
“My whatT'
“Your marriage resume. You don’t meant to tell me you don’t have a marriage
resume0”
He was teasing her, but it wasn’t hinny. “No. I don’t.” Ariel was wishing him dead
with every cell in her body, but she knew that her outward demeanor suggested that she
might be merely shy. She continued to sift through the pile of music, trying to avoid
looking at him.
“Hey, don’t look so unhappy. I’m just kidding.”
“I know.”
“You should smile more. Pretty girls like you and your mom should be smiling.”
Either he was extremely dumb and couldn’t perceive that she hated him, or he was
challenging her, sadistically. Ariel suspected that it was the latter.
Finally her mother appeared. Predictably, she had changed clothes and applied pink
lipstick and some strong perfume. Stan looked at her with appreciation.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 270
“I was just telling Ariel that pretty girls like you and her should smile more.”
“Oh. Well.'" Her mother sounded annoyed.
Ariel wondered if her mother had enough sense to figure out that her new
boyfriend was a fool. Probably not, she told herself.
“Isn’t that a wonderful pie that Ariel made0” said Mrs. Terraine, looking at Stan’s
empty plate.
“The best,” said Stan.
“I have a bunch of homework to do,” said Ariel, rising from the piano bench.
“Ariel, won’t you stay and play just one piece for Stan0” said her mother.
“I really should get started on my homework.” Why couldn 7 her mother
understand that she had to get away from the tw o of them at that very moment ?
“Won’t you just at least play the Brahms duet with me0”
The “Brahms duet” was a bouncy, melodramatic piece that involved sitting very
close to her mother, butts touching on the bench, arms crossing over and under each other
to reach the high and low notes of the overlapping parts, providing myriad opportunities
for the battle of wills that inevitably surfaced. It began with a cute, lively march theme that
abruptly changed to a stormy minor mood, as if a bunch of toy soldiers had suddenly
turned and shot each other to bits. Then it returned to the happy march theme, as if
nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
“Please, Ariel0”
“I hate that piece.”
“I love that piece!” said her mother.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 271
Stan started laughing. He clearly didn’t care much whether he heard the duet or
not. but he seemed to be very entertained by the spectacle of this exchange between
mother and daughter.
“It’s a lovely piece,” said Ariel’s mother, sitting at the piano bench and flipping
through the collection of Brahms Duets. “Everyone likes it!”
“That’s because everyone is fuckin’ stupid.”
Stan burst out laughing at this remark and Mrs. Terraine pursed her lips and closed
the book of duets.
“How rude.” She said this with a tone of dismissive contempt that robbed the word
“fuck” of its shock appeal and made Ariel regret saying it. She almost wished that she
could take back the impulsive statement and obediently play the piece with her mother, but
it was too late. She exited feeling ashamed rather than vindicated.
* * *
“I don’t like your attitude toward me,” said Ariel’s mother “You’ve been rude and
surly.”
“Sorry.” Ariel didn’t feel a bit sorry.
“You make me feel as if I shouldn’t have any friends at all.”
It was funny that her mother always used the word “friend” instead of “boyfriend,”
as if she didn’t want to call attention to the obvious fact that she was dating.
“But I don’t have to like Stan.” said Ariel
“Ariel, I’m sorry you can’t manage to be even a little bit happy for me. And I’m
also afraid you’re going to end up alone if you maintain this negative attitude.”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 272
You '11 end up alone. So what9 Everyone ended up alone eventually. At the
moment, the prospect of unfettered loneliness sounded just fine. “I’d rather be alone than
with an idiot,” said Ariel.
Her mother looked grim and hurt, which made Ariel feel a wave of guilt.
“I don’t think this frame of mind is going to help your performance any,” said Mrs.
Terraine.
Her performance. “What has that got to do with anything?” But it was true; her
mind felt thick and fuzzy.
“If you have such contempt for me, maybe you’d prefer it if I didn’t come to hear
you play,” said her mother.
No, thought Ariel. I need you there. Without her mother, she would be completely
dependent upon Professor Homwaller. Not only would she have to ride in the car with
her teacher all the way to Grand Rapids, she would have to eat meals and share a hotel
room with her. She would have to shower, brush her teeth, go to the bathroom, and put
on her makeup, all in frighteningly close proximity to Homwaller!
But she couldn’t give her mother the satisfaction of an apology. “Maybe it would
be best if you didn’t go,” she said.
* * *
On the morning of the piano competition, Homwaller arrived early at Ariel’s house
in her little blue Chevette and Ariel’s mother waved goodbye from the front yard.
Ariel’s mother was never able to hold a grudge for more than two days, and when
Stan had invited her to join him for a weekend up north, she had seemed content with her
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 273
exclusion from Ariel’s competition.
Because her mother’s nervousness was always mildly distracting, Ariel was
somewhat relieved that her mother wouldn’t be attending. On the other hand, she was still
uncomfortable with the prospect of being with Homwaller for such an extended period of
time.
Climbing into the car, Ariel noticed that Homwaller looked prettier than usual, as
if being away from her studio had a transformative effect on her mannish appearance. Her
lipstick sat upon her thin lips like a stripe of red paint, and the pale skin of her throat was
adorned with a fire-engine-red scarf.
The anticipation of prolonged exposure to Homwaller had been scarier for Ariel
than the anticipation of the piano competition itself. What on earth would they talk about
for all that time? Furthermore, at some point, both she and Homwaller would have to go
to the bathroom. It was unpleasant to think of Homwaller as a human being with
biological functions— a person who might visit some smelly stall inside a highway rest
stop. Homwaller was music; she was supposed to exist only in artistic settings.
“Did you remember your toothbrush9” asked Homwaller.
It was odd for Homwaller to ask about something so intimate and mundane as a
toothbrush.
“I think so,” said Ariel.
“I often forget mine,” said Homwaller.
The car headed down the suburban road, away from home, away from everything
that was comfortingly boring and familiar.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 274
As she merged onto the highway and sped into the fast lane, Homwaller spoke of
traveling and performing, of arriving late to her own concerts without enough time to
warm up, of missing buses and getting lost in strange cities, o f sheet-music flying off
music stands as she accompanied instrumentalists. They were supposed to be reassuring
stories, since each of the near-fiascos had been averted either by Homwaller’s ability to
fake her way through the music or by sheer luck, but they weren’t the least bit reassuring
to Ariel, who had little confidence in her ability to fake her way through anything and less
optimism about the possibility of good luck.
Ariel hoped that Homwaller had at least one story of an embarrassment that wasn 7
averted. “Did you ever have a memory slip?” Ariel had never actually experienced one in
performance, but she had witnessed several over the years since Cheryl Stone had lost her
place at the Bach competition. The truth was, she lived in secret terror of them.
“Memory slips happen if you haven’t learned the music both consciously and
unconsciously,” said Homwaller, rationally.
“I know,” said Ariel, thinking that this answer wasn’t at all helpful.
“I mean, memory slips happen in the places where you’ve only learned the music
with your fingers , so to speak. The music can’t only exist in your hands, going through
the motions; it has to be in your mind—backwards and forwards.”
Homwaller always made Ariel analyze every chord progression in her pieces so
that she would be able to find her place if she ever got lost. But there were so many
thousands o f chord changes! Memory slips were not necessarily rational; they were
evidence of the mind suddenly backing out of its responsibilities and ceasing to function at
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 275
the worst possible moment. They were the revelation of weaknesses that you had formerly
concealed from yourself
Ariel opened the score to the Bach B-Flat Fugue and began drumming out the
fingering on the page. Her hands knew the piece backwards and forwards; she could
literally play it in her sleep. Then again, the composition was like a maze of intricate
patterns, and she might wander down the wrong path at any moment. Her fingers were
moving because her brain was telling them how to move. From biology class, she knew
that the brain was a labyrinth of lumpy grey folds that contained millions of synapses
between nerves. What were the chances that her brain would correctly retrieve the
information about the B-Flat Prelude during a performance0 It suddenly seemed a miracle
that musicians made it all the way through their pieces without getting lost or collapsing.
“Memory lapses also happen when you’re not concentrating fully enough on the
music itself,” continued Homwaller. “Performers get distracted when they start wondering
what’s going to happen next—thinking about themselves instead of the music. If you’re
truly listening to yourself, you won’t get lost.”
Easier said than done.
“Are you nervous0”
“A little,” said Ariel.
“I used to get pretty nervous when I was younger,” said Homwaller. “And you
know what helped me? Pretending that I was one of the masses—just part of the crowd of
people coming from different cities, all going to the same event. It was like separating my
individual personality from the public situation. It sounds strange, but it helped!”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 2 7 6
Ariel thought of the different teenagers traveling across the country to Grand
Rapids for the competition, moving toward the event with parents and teachers like a pack
of rats. Each of them was nervous; each wanted to win. She was no different from anyone
else.
The enormous, empty restaurant at the Ramada Inn smelled of stale coffee, liquor,
and cigarettes. Ariel and Homwaller stood in front of the “Please Wait to be Seated” sign
until a host finally approached them with an inquisitive look.
“We were just hoping to get a snack,” said Homwaller.
It was odd to hear Homwaller’s musical voice speak the word “snack.”
Ariel and Homwaller were seated at a table with a centerpiece of plastic flowers.
How strange to be in a place like this with Homwaller! Canned violin music
whined through the air. Homwaller moved the fake flowers out of the way and lit her fifth
cigarette of the day.
A waitress with stiff hair asked if they would like something to drink.
“Want a cocktail?” Homwaller asked, with a teasing smile.
Homwaller ordered a Bloody Mary and Ariel ordered a Diet Coke. This was the
real Professor Homwaller—a woman apart from the piano who drank Bloody Marys and
smoked cigarettes at four o’clock in the afternoon, and who visited as many highway rest-
stops as possible.
In the past, when Ariel had tried to picture Homwaller’s private life, she had
always imagined her teacher alone in a beautiful house that resembled a page from a
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 277
sophisticated interior-decorating magazine. Classical music played on an antique record
player and roses stood in tall, slender vases. A grand piano was elevated on a small stage
in the middle of the living room. Homwaller smoked a cigarette in a long, slender cigarette
holder as she soaked in a bubble bath. Occasionally a maid appeared and emptied
Homwaller’s ashtrays.
The waitress arrived with Homwaller’s Bloody Mary and Ariel’s Diet Coke, and
then Homwaller decided that she wanted to order dinner after all, so she ordered a steak.
Ariel ordered a small salad.
“Are you sure that’s all you want?” asked Homwaller.
Ariel explained that she wasn’t very hungry. How could she ever be hungry again0
The strain of this whole endeavor was too great—this life with Homwaller.
“How are your parents0” asked Homwaller.
“They’re okay,” lied Ariel. Then she blurted, “They’re getting a divorce.” Why did
she tell Homwaller0 She had spoken the words impulsively, without reflection.
Homwaller put down her fork emphatically. “You’re kidding me!” Her eyes were
wide with astonishment. “Why0”
Ariel wondered how she could explain her mother’s need for money, security, and
attention and her father’s need for obscure, irrelevant books. “Well, they’re really not very
compatible,” said Ariel, trying to sound mature.
Homwaller gave her an odd look. “You seem to be taking it well, at any rate. I
can’t believe I had no idea!”
“Well I can’t do anything about it, so why worry about it?” How adult she
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 278
sounded! She was filled with pride and grateful that her parents were getting a divorce so
that she could offer this piece o f information to Homwaller. She was sure it was the first
interesting thing she had ever said to her teacher.
Homwaller was clearly interested, but she was reacting strangely to the news.
There was no gesture of sympathy, no recognition of “playing so well, despite this
trauma.” Instead, she looked pensive as she exhaled a cloud of smoke that lingered over
Ariel’s salad.
“I got a divorce a few years ago,” she said. “I remember the day I walked out the
door and didn’t look back.”
So Homwaller had once been married. “Did you—do you have children?”
“I had a stepdaughter,” said Homwaller. “She was always complaining about how
we weren’t a ‘normal’ family. It got really tiresome.”
Ariel wondered what Homwaller’s stepdaughter was like. It must have been
frightening to have Homwaller as a stepmother.
“Did she play an instrument?”
“Goodness, no,” said Homwaller.
No wonder Homwaller had nothing in common with her stepdaughter. Homwaller
was solely interested in music, after all. Her marriage and her divorce were insignificant
detours in her life; it was only playing through the vast mind-maps of the piano literature
that mattered. Everything else was secondary.
Ariel wondered what it was like for a middle-aged woman to live so independently,
with only the piano as a companion. She thought of her own comparatively girlish mother,
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 279
who was forever dieting and going on dates, and she felt disturbed by a sense of
recognition—the perception of a shadowy reflection of her future self in Homwaller’s
severe haircut, strong hands, and steel-gray eyes.
* * *
Ariel awoke early the next morning, and Homwaller told her to go ahead and take
the first shower. Ariel looked at Homwaller’s belongings on the counter of the bathroom
sink: a tube of fuschia lipstick, a hairbrush, a pair of nylon stockings, and a box of panty
liners. Yuck!
The heightened significance of time had set in with the new day, and Ariel had the
familiar pain of that moming-of-the-performance feeling. She showered, curled her hair,
applied her makeup, and put on the special fiischia-pink dress and the white, high-heeled
pumps that her mother had helped her select for the performance. When she entered the
bedroom, Homwaller was already up and dressed, wearing a navy-blue suit. Homwaller
disappeared into the bathroom for only a moment to put on some lipstick and then they
were ready to leave.
“Ready?” asked Homwaller, beaming at her. The only possible answer was yes.
What if she said no?
“Yes,” said Ariel.
“Got the copies of your music for the judges?”
“Yes.”
“You look pretty today.” Homwaller sometimes gave compliments on superficial
things in honor of the day of a performance.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 280
“Thanks— so do you.” Apparently, Homwaller’s short wiry hair didn’t need to be
washed and styled.
“Let’s go then.”
The competition was held in a large building that reminded Ariel of an athletic
arena with its high ceilings and adrenaline-infused atmosphere. The spacious hallways
were filled with young people of all ages accompanied by their excited families and piano
teachers. Everyone was either searching for an open practice room in which to warm up or
trying to locate one of the rooms where the first stages of the competitions were taking
place. The finals would be held in a large auditorium that formed the center of the
building.
Homwaller located a practice room containing a decent piano, and she beckoned
to Ariel to hurry up and claim it.
“I’ll leave you to warm up,” she said, once Ariel was deposited inside. Pausing at
the door, she added, “Are you feeling okay17 You look a little pale.”
“I’m fine.” She was one of the masses. She would do what she always did. Even if
she screwed up, she would still be a good person, whatever that meant. Playing the piano
was like being an athlete. "We 're just gonna go out there and do what we 've been doin'
all season, ” said the baseball and football players on television.
She played scales until her fingers were warmed up. How she hated waiting to
perform! Where was Homwaller? Probably pacing the halls, smoking, and chatting with
other piano teachers. Homwaller was very social with other people as long as they were
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 281
musicians. Concentration she had to maintain concentration.
The door opened and Homwaller popped her head in. Her face was flushed, as if
she were the one who was about to perform. “Ready?”
“I guess so.”
“Well, it looks like you won’t be competing against Matilda Lee for once.”
“Why9”
“It’s hard to believe, but the rumor is that she decided to quit the piano!”
It was unbelievable. “She can 7 quit,” said Ariel. “She’s too good.”
“Nobody’s too good to quit.”
This was an odd statement. Ariel felt entirely confused. Why didn’t she feel happy
and relieved?
“Apparently she decided to begin college a year early—to study math or physics or
something at Yale.”
So Matilda was a mathematical genius as well as a musical protege. It figured. Her
mind had a seemingly innate comprehension of musical language and structure, so it made
sense that she was equally at home with math. “But— she was fantastic at the piano,”
protested Ariel.
“Her teacher must be devastated,” said Homwaller with a hint of horrified
pleasure.
“I just can’t believe it.” There was something surprisingly troubling to Ariel about
the idea of Matilda quitting the piano. If one of the most talented students she had ever
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 282
known was abandoning musical performance, what on earth was she herself doing?
“Look,"’ said Homwaller, perceiving Ariel’s distress. “Some people are great when
they’re young, but they just don’t love it enough to go the distance. And I suspect there
was some pressure from her family for her to find a practical career. They want her to be a
doctor.”
“But what if she changes her mind?” You only get one chance in life.
“Who knows9 Maybe she’s gifted enough to do both. Every now and then there’s
a kid who disappears for a few years to study medicine or something, and then he comes
back and boom—he’s got a concert career. But that’s rare. Anyway, you shouldn’t be
worried about Matilda right now; just focus on your own performance. I just thought it
would be encouraging news for you.”
It should have been, but it wasn’t.
Ariel’s performance in the first round of the competition was a success. She played
in a small classroom, before an audience composed largely of the parents of her
competitors. The room was brightly lit and there was a comfortingly familiar chalkboard at
the front of the room. The pieces emerged from her hands just as they always did in
practice— even better than usual. Homwaller’s voice was there with her, coaching her in
her mind, guiding her technical execution and musical interpretation so that they were
flawless: the Bach fugue was a thoughtful conversation among rational voices, the Mozart
sonata was a simultaneously delicate and melodramatic drama, the Barber nocturne a
lonely street at night, the Debussy prelude a witch’s ride across the moon.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 283
Homwaller’s eyes were bright when she learned that Ariel had made it into the
final round of the competition. Suddenly there was an embrace from Homwaller, like a
hug from a perfumed giant. One of Homwaller’s professor-ffiends appeared and
Homwaller told him the good news about Ariel’s performance. The fluorescent light
glinted upon his glasses as he smiled warmly and congratulated her. Soon she would be
accepted by the music professors as a real person—a prospect that was simultaneously
flattering and worrisome.
★ * *
Ariel walked onto the stage and the world receded from her like a dark sea. This
was the final round. How far away from her the audience seemed! They were out
there—those unfathomable people in the darkness, watching her. These were supposed to
be her peers, but she did not feel that she was part of their community of musicians; she
felt somehow distant, alienated from them, just as she felt alienated from the kids at
school.
She sat down at the piano and adjusted the bench. Listen to the music in your mind
before you begin to play, said Homwaller. Ariel heard her teacher’s advice, but she
nevertheless launched into her first piece too quickly, failing to concentrate long enough to
banish the audience from her mind and to allow Bach to enter her consciousness.
There was a statement, echoed by a second voice, then a third, all in conversation.
There were no elements of disguise—no strong emotions, no pounding chords, no
excessive passion to conceal the essential meaning of the piece. She felt the presence of
errors bubbling below the surface of the music, threatening to emerge. The voices wove
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 2 8 4
over and under each other, ruminating, arguing, questioning. The keys suddenly felt
slippery under her clammy fingers as the voices tangled together, becoming confused. She
would not gel lost. She was playing, she was on the stage playing, being watched, the
music; where had the music gone? She missed a note and an unpleasantly dissonant sound
seared her mind like a bullet. What would Honmaller think of that? Now a shaky tone
had entered her playing, obscuring the perfect balance of reason and emotion in Bach’s
composition. The piece she had played a thousand times— two thousand times—had
suddenly lost its meaning. Under the pressure of the performance, the fact that some part
o f her mind did not understand was seeping into the spotlight. She continued to play,
feeling as if she were teetering upon a tightrope above a widening split through the middle
of the earth. The music had become uncertain—a series of worried ruminations, a series of
questions with no answers. She was almost at the end; oh. Lord, let her reach the end!
By the time she reached the end, she was merely playing notes; the music had
disappeared completely. How unimpressive. But she was still there on the piano bench,
wearing her fuschia dress, and the audience was still drifting in that black abyss. She could
not bear to attempt the Mozart, because she sensed that it too would suddenly mean
nothing to her. The pattern had to be broken, so she violated the historical progression of
her performance and launched into Debussy’s Prelude, “What the West Wind Saw.” The
pounding of her hands broke the fear that had settled into her body and mind. This was a
piece filled with discord, with wild, stormy crashes, with chromatic descending scales that
blew across the audience, leaving everything familiar behind.
There was a sense of profound release as a burst of applause greeted her last,
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 285
abrupt chord. Her performance had been distinctly flawed, but in the last few minutes she
had managed partially to redeem herself. “ It's not what goes wrong, but how you recover
that matters, " Homwaller had once said.
How could she ever get used to this bizarre life— this panic and failure and
euphoria, all experienced in a matter of minutes9
Ariel stood up to take a bow, allowing herself to look into the audience and survey
the faces in the first few rows. Homwaller was nowhere to be seen. As she turned and
walked away from the piano, one high-heeled pump in front of the other, Ariel struggled
against a momentary desire to let herself fall from the stage.
* * *
“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” said Homwaller. “You probably just got tired and
lost your concentration. Believe me, I know how draining competitions like that can be.
They take a lot of practice.”
Homwaller was incredibly understanding, considering the fact that Ariel had blown
the competition for which she had been preparing for two years. But Ariel sensed that
Homwaller didn’t fully understand what had happened onstage. She herself didn’t
understand it, but she knew that it was something more serious than being tired or merely
nervous that had thrown her off. It was as if some underlying question had interrupted her
as she played, but she couldn’t determine exactly what the question was.
Ariel had longed to win the competition, or at least to place in it, but in the
aftermath of the pressure, she felt relieved that she hadn 7 won the prize of a performance
tour. She would have had to practice constantly and travel across the country with
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 2 8 6
Homwaller, eating in restaurants and living in an endless series of hotel rooms. Eventually,
she and Homwaller would have run out of things to say to each other, and there would
have been a long, weary silence. The performances would never have ended.
Perhaps she would have gotten used to it, but the strain on her nerves seemed too
great. The money would have been nice, however. It would have freed her from her
parents and their worries about how she would pay for college. “See'? ” she would have
been able to say to her parents and to the world, “I can make money playing the piano.
Playing the piano matters after all! ”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 29
JUNE. 1984
Dear Ariel:
Remember me } Long time, no see! I m sorry' I was so lame about writing after we
left music camp: I guess I 'm just lazy or something.
Anyway, my mom was gossiping with my former piano teacher, Mrs. Tartinovitch,
and she heard that you won a scholarship fo r piano to the University' o f Michigan.
Congrats! Guess what} I'm going there too! But I'm not sure what my major will be.
You 're so lucky, knowing just what you 're doing with your life.
Wanna be roomies?
Love, Cheryl
P. S. I heard that Josephine 's going to drama school in New York. I bet she '11 end
up on “Saturday Night Live'"
P.P. S. Can you believe that Matilda Lee quit piano??!
287
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 30
SEPTEMBER, 1984
At Professor Homwaller’s advice, Ariel entered the music conservatory at the
University of Michigan. She decided to accept Cheryl’s offer of rooming together, since
the idea of living with a complete stranger terrified her.
Cheryl had grown slightly plump, although she was still cute with sunbleached hair
and a deep tan from spending the summer beside a country-club pool. She owned boxes
filled with cashmere sweaters in a variety of pastel colors, along with a closet-full of
leather shoes and boots. Ariel had never fully realized just how wealthy Cheryl was since
they had always worn uniforms at camp.
“You can borrow any of this stuff,” said Cheryl, pushing Ariel’s few outfits to one
side to make room for her clothes.
When her clothes were neatly put away she flopped down on the lower bunk bed.
“This reminds me of camp,” she said. “I had so much fun that summer, hanging out with
you and Josephine. It doesn’t even seem that long ago.”
Ariel remembered the blue skies, the blast of the trumpet waking everyone up in
the morning, the sounds of pianos, flutes, and trumpets from the practice rooms.
“It was so different from everything else in life, you know0” Cheryl explained how
she had given up piano following several bad performances and the increasing pressures of
288
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 289
her involvement on the high-schooi swim team. She had gone to a school where the kids
were ambitious and preppy and where she had clung to the outskirts of a popular and
highly social clique. From this position she had dated some of the less-popular boys who
had been cast aside by the trendy leaders of the sophisticated group. She had given several
blow jobs but was still a virgin.
“My friends were fun and all,” she said, “but sometimes they could be so catty and
bitchy.”
“I know what you mean,” said Ariel. There had been a clique of catty popular girls
at Saline High School, but she had been nowhere near being a part of their crowd. She
worried that Cheryl would discover how isolated and abnormal her life had become during
the past few years, so she decided to elevate her momentary fling with Bill to the level of a
boyfriend, and proceeded to describe the many dates and blow jobs they had shared.
* * *
Cheryl was more concerned about her weight than ever. She seemed to be on a
perpetual diet of lettuce and Diet Pepsi, although she often cheated. Late at night she
often bought cookie dough and brownies from the convenience store, which she ate at
3:00 A.M. while studying in her dorm room.
Ariel had just joined her in one of the late-night binges, thinking that this was the
friendly thing to do. They were standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom, trying to
perceive the immediate effect o f the calories they had just consumed.
“We’re gonna gain the ‘Freshman Fifteen’ if we keep this up,” said Cheryl. “Let’s
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 290
make ourselves puke.”
‘‘I’ve tried it before, and I can’t,” said Ariel.
“Just stick your finger far enough down your throat,” said Cheryl. “Everyone on
the swim team did it all the time.”
Ariel leaned over the toilet and stuck her finger as far back in her mouth as she
could stand, but the thought of the cookie dough rising up through her throat and falling
out of her mouth was just too disgusting, so she stopped herself each time she started to
gag. In the next stall, she heard Cheryl retching efficiently and productively.
Cheryl emerged from the stall with red eyes and a puffy face. She rinsed out her
mouth and spit in the sink.
“Did you do it0” asked Cheryl.
Ariel shook her head, feeling as if she had let Cheryl down.
“I guess you’re skinnier than me, anyways,” said Cheryl.
“You look fine,” said Ariel.
“I’m going running,” said Cheryl. “Are you coming with me0
It was 3 A.M.
“Okay,” said Ariel.
The next morning, Ariel awoke feeling groggy and bloated. She showered
hurriedly in one of the dank community showers and then staggered off to catch the bus to
the music school on north campus, where she had theory class first thing in the morning.
Surrounded by pine trees and a meticulously groomed lawn, the music school was
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 291
set apart from the constant activity and the hints of student squalor that characterized the
main campus. Behind the music building was a man-made pond adorned with ducks and
lily pads, as well as several fountains that arched over the water.
Ariel had been coming here for years to attend her lessons with Homwaller, and
she had often enjoyed sitting in the lamplight beside the fountains as she waited for her
mother to pick her up. But now, after spending time with Cheryl and the crowds of lively
students on the main campus, she found the music school too placid and dull. It was
interesting that the English majors and pre-law students were more likely to decorate
themselves with red and purple hair or black lipstick, while the music students looked
mousy and Iibrarianish.
“My mom always says that a person who makes a spectacle of herself through her
appearance doesn’t have any personality,” said Cheryl, who had grown up with many rich
kids who emulated punk fashion.
But Ariel was fascinated by her new peers. They were always lounging in the sun,
smoking pot and thinking deep thoughts, or skateboarding on the steps of the enormous
graduate library. They radiated a kind o f pointless joy in life.
* * *
Ariel had signed up for the standard classes required of first-year music students:
theory, sight-singing, sight-reading, a private lesson.
Her sight reading was above average as a result of Homwaller’s coaching, and
sight-singing and ear-training came naturally enough to her. It was theory class that often
made her feel uncomfortable and slow, as if she had no business calling herself a musician.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 292
What is the submediant o f F flat? The mediant o f E fla t? The sitper tonic o f A sharp?
What are the minor keys to which these augmented 2nds and diminished 7ths belong?
She had always approached music through the lens of story and color, but there
was an undeniable aspect of music that was constructed purely of numbers. It seemed a
fatal limitation— a true learning disability—to feel so alienated from the very framework of
her art.
Her voice-leading assignments were often returned to her with the theory
professor’s tiny, crabbed red markings: “ Fifths overlapping here , ” “Watch for hidden
octaves , ” "This note too low , " "Don 7 use augmented 2nd here. ” She suddenly hated the
little symbols upon the page, which were infuriating blocks to music, like an
incomprehensible foreign language. She remembered having had this feeling long ago,
when she had first begun to read music, but in those days she had wanted to play enough
to force herself to learn. Now she felt rebellious and weak-willed.
At the front of the classroom, the professor was playing examples of chord
progressions. Ariel cringed when the other music students became absurdly excited at the
professor’s mathematical explanations for obvious, intuitive concepts like “tension
followed by resolution.”
After theory class, Ariel had her private piano lesson with Dr. Phish, whose large
hands were netted with tendons and ropes of veins that laced his fingers and wound
around his forearms. He often poked and pushed Ariel as she played, as if trying physically
to force her into the phrasing he imagined. Throughout the lesson, he sang various phrases
in his deep, smoke-dried voice in order to illustrate the meaning of the music.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 293
He had assigned Ariel a simple piece—the Mozart “Fantasy in D Minor,” which
began with a blurry progression of minor chords that moved like low clouds across the
land, followed by a sudden break into clarity with a poignant, plaintive melody—a song of
regret. Although it was a fragile composition that didn’t require much technical prowess,
something about its fragility— its purity— made it excruciatingly difficult for Ariel to play
in her distracted state of mind. The notes seemed to crumble beneath her hands.
She knew that Professor Phish was observing her uncharacteristic slowness and
clumsiness with concern, but he did not reprimand her. Instead, he kept singing phrases
and grabbing her hands, tapping the pattern of the notes upon her skin as if trying to reach
her, but it was no use. Something in her mind had shut down.
As the tortuous and unproductive piano lesson came to an end, Ariel felt the urge
to explain—to tell Dr. Phish about her doubts.
“Sometimes I’m not so sure I should be a musician,” she said, abruptly
“That’s normal,” he replied calmly as he flipped through his grade book and
crushed out a cigarette. “Everyone goes through that feeling sometimes.”
She knew he didn’t realize how very serious she was, how this feeling of doubt had
seeped into the very core of her being, how, suddenly, everything had changed. She had
somehow stepped back from herself and from the piano, and, once she was outside, a door
had locked. Now she was barred from the room in her mind where music was contained.
And the more she thought about it, the less she could find a single reason to play the
piano.
* * *
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 294
Ariel continued to play her scales and arpeggios in the basement of the music
school each day, but she could not bring herself to play music. She had acquired a
heightened awareness of her place in the long row of dingy practice rooms, each like a
small box containing a musician who was straining to achieve perfection. For what
purpose 9 Who cared? As she listened to the chaotic tangle of trills, blasts, and scales
coming from the practice rooms, she saw that the task of playing was pointless.
Completely unable to move her hands, she saw that there was nothing to do but pack up
her music books and leave.
* * *
Dear Clarisse,
I know it's been years and years since we 've spoken. But I felt the urge to write to
you. Cheryl (my roommate) has gone out to a frat party and I'm alone in the dorm room.
I know, I should have been social and gone with Cheryl to the party, but I just couldn 7
deal with it.
Ihe boys next door are smoking pot and playing a song over and over that goes,
"Why can 71 get just one fuck? ”
By the way, I ’m smoking a cigarette as I write to you. Don 7 worry, 1 "m not
planning on becoming addicted.
I'm so confused right now, Clarisse. I can 7 even get to the point.
Ariel stared at the letter she had written. How odd. Why would she write to
Clarisse now, when she was supposed to be an adult? There had been something about
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 295
magic or freedom— something that had been lost. Her childhood. She wondered what type
of person Clarisse had become. Perhaps she and Clarisse were still similar somehow
Ariel dropped the butt of her Virginia Slims Menthol cigarette into her Diet Coke
can and listened to the pulsing of the rock music from the room next door. There was the
pungent smell of marijuana. She re-read her letter to Clarisse, crumpled it up, and threw it
into the waste basket.
Trying to determine the proper direction for her life was like wrestling with a
math problem that couldn’t be solved. It seemed that she was composed of two different
selves who longed to tear themselves apart and continue on their separate, independent
journeys. One self would live, and the other would die.
Professor Homwaller had told Ariel that she had a “special talent,” but for some
reason, this was no longer reassuring. Did talent actually exist? And even if a person had
talent, did that automatically imply a responsibility to the universe to use that talent9 Was
talent a “gift” or just a matter of heredity9 Conflicting voices filled Ariel’s mind with an
endless and unresolvable argument: You must have a beautiful soul. . . Hell, nobody
listens to classical these days. . . Each one of you children has some special talent that
contributes to the body o f Christ. . . Hell, there is no money in music none . . . These
days, there are no dances for which everyone kticni’s the steps, young and old together.
Her life as a musician had been propelled forward by a great wave that had
culminated when she played in the international competition, but then the wave had
suddenly receded. Perhaps it had not been the force of her own ambition, but someone
else’s. Her mother’s? Professor Homwaller’s?
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 296
Her life had been a piano concerto surrounded by the hum of her parents’ worried
voices, hushed, then crescendoing, then suddenly silent, leaving her alone on-stage.
'7 'm so proud that you 're such a fine musician, " her mother had said. "Rut
whatever you do—make money. ”
All of her emotions had flowed into the piano, romanticizing every piece she
played, blurring the edges of reality so that she had experienced the world at a distance,
like a reflection in a pool of water. How far away she had been from the real world.
Ariel decided to call her parents to tell them that she was thinking of dropping out
of the music school. Part of her hoped that they would plead with her not to give up.
“It has to be your own decision,” they both said.
“I can understand your worries about making a career as a musician,” said her
father. “This economy is tough.”
“I’ve learned the hard way that you have to make money,” said her mother.
They both sounded distant as they spoke of complicated discussions with lawyers,
of deciding who owned what, of going on dates and purchasing new cars.
It was as if a civilization had broken in two and the old values were fading, leaving
only the drive for money, the vague hopes for a second chance, and a lingering feeling of
pain.
So this was the way difficult decisions were made. First, you tortured yourself with
endless contemplation of possible consequences, and then you simply gave up trying to
decide what was right and instead did just what you felt like doing at the present moment.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 297
She did not feel like taking piano lessons at the moment. In fact, it was beginning to seem
entirely possible that she had never actually enjoyed them at all.
As she resigned herself to her decision, Ariel felt as if she were falling off a cliff.
She knew that she should discuss her decision to quit with her music professors, but the
idea of explaining herself to Phish and Homwaller seemed impossible. Professor
Homwaller would be crushed when she discovered this betrayal.
Ariel thought of the coaching, the encouragement, the entire structure of life
Professor Homwaller had provided, and suddenly felt like a criminal—alienated and
vaguely ashamed but also newly free of the expectations and constraints that had
previously governed her life. Now she would finally be free to focus on being normal, and
she had plenty of work ahead of her in that department.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 31
OCTOBER, 1984
"Scoping” was the process of noticing a guy and then voyeuristicallv monitoring
his activities from a distance like a spy.
Once free from the music conservatory, it wasn’t long before Ariel found a scope
in her economics lecture. When she first saw him, he was wearing a sweatshirt with the
letters DKE, which stood for the Deke fraternity house, where Cheryl was a Little Sister.
The official purpose of the Little Sister program was for a freshman girl to receive
guidance from an older, wiser fraternity boy, but the real purpose of being a Little Sister
was to provide cuteness at Deke parties, to drink lots of beer on week nights, and to have
sex with frat boys.
"Don 7 call your fraternity a frat! ” said the frat boys. "How would you like it if
someone called your country a cunt ? ”
The scope stood up and turned around to face Ariel, stretching his arms over his
head to pull off the Deke sweatshirt, and as he stretched gracefully, like a cat, the t-shirt
under his sweatshirt lifted to reveal a smooth, muscular stomach and chest, as perfectly
beautiful as that of a Greek statue. Surely he was displaying himself on purpose. How
vain. She was mesmerized. She decided that she must become a Little Sister at the Deke
298
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 299
house at once.
Ariel discovered that her scope’s name was Sun. Or was it Son? Surely that wasn’t
his real name, but that was what his friends seemed to call him. When he spoke to his
friends, he said things like, "What a concept! ” and “You doofus!"
He always arrived late to class, wearing some odd combination of ragged clothes:
cut-off sweat pants, tom sweatshirts, a bandana or a weathered hat. Something about the
way he dressed made his clothes seem like costumes that had been thrown on for fun and
which might be discarded at any moment.
Ariel concentrated on sending him telepathic messages of lust throughout the
economics lectures, which she had ceased to comprehend ever since the class had
progressed beyond the basic law of Supply and Demand. She was in danger of failing the
course, but she was willing to risk a bad grade in order to pursue her scope.
* * *
It was Ariel’s first night as a Little Sister, and she and Cheryl had carefully applied
eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick with extra-special party effort, and then changed clothes
several times before settling on their usual ensemble of jeans, leather boots, and tight
sweaters. Throughout the process, they drank shots of cheap gin and listened to Squeeze
(their favorite band) as they danced around the room.
They had eaten very little during the day in order to maximize the buzz from their
drinking, and after several shots, Cheryl ran to the bathroom and puked, after which she
had to redo her makeup. Cheryl was one of those people who spit up often and easily, like
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 300
a cat. Ariel, on the other hand, drank shallow sips, so she didn’t get sick, although she was
quite tipsy by the time the two girls left their dormroom and set out for the adventure of
the Deke house.
It was a brisk late-October evening—the first chilly night of the year—and there
was a sense of excitement and anticipation in the crackling sounds of the wind scattering
fallen leaves along the sidewalks, the loud music blasting from dorm-room stereos, and the
distant chanting of fraternity and sorority rituals. Giggling and stumbling toward the Deke
house with Cheryl, Ariel felt young and wild for the first time in ages. Who needed serious
music? There was ridiculous life to live!
In their excitement, they arrived too early at the Deke house, and found only a few
frat guys and Little Sisters standing around the room. Music was blaring, but the dance
floor was empty.
Ariel felt embarrassed, as if she had entered someone’s private living room
uninvited, and her blood pressure rose when she saw her scope standing across the room
by the keg. He was pouring beers for three girls who were gathered around him like cats
around a can of tuna, giggling at something he was saying.
Before they could join the other Little Sisters at the keg, Cheryl and Ariel were
intercepted by a boy with a friendly, horsey face who greeted Cheryl eagerly. “Cheryl! Oh
good, you brought a friend.”
“This is my roommate, Ariel,” said Cheryl. “Ariel, this is Tad.”
“Welcome to the Deke house, Ariel,” said Tad, taking her hand in his damp palm.
“We’re always happy to get more Little Sisters.” Then he yelled over his shoulder, “Sun,
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 301
get these girls a beer!”
“Tell them to get themselves a beer!” retorted Sun from across the room.
“Sun isn’t very chivalrous,” said the friendly, horsey boy.
“Fuck chivalry!” said Sun.
Cheryl nudged Ariel in the ribs with her elbow, and the two girls headed toward
the keg. Now she was standing outrageously close to her scope. It was strange, seeing him
up close, watching him him squirt beer from the keg into plastic glasses. He had looked
perfect and god-like in the economics lecture hall from a few rows away, but up close,
there was a long scar across his eye and down his cheek from some former injury. Still,
there was something exotic about him. He had a strong, aquiline nose, high cheekbones;
full, sensuous, slightly feminine lips that looked as though they had been kissed a lot.
She tried to think of something to say as he poured her beer into the plastic glass.
“ You’re in my Econ lecture,” was all she could think of, so she said it.
“Yeah, I’ve seen you,” he said, glancing up from his beer-pouring and gazing at
her with sensuous dark eyes.
Had he noticed her '*
“What’s your name?”
“Ariel.”
“Ariel. That’s cool.”
“What’s yours?” She pretended not to know.
“Sun.”
So that really was his name. “That’s unusual. You mean like— ”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 302
“Like the Sun in the sky.”
“Is that your real name?”
“Maybe.” Ariel had hoped that he would have a more sensible name. How could
she tell people that her boyfriend was named “Sun”0
They were having a conversation. They analyzed the lameness of their economics
professor and the difficulties of the final exam coming up. Maybe they would study
together since Ariel needed help. They discussed the joys of being a frat boy and the Little
Sister of a frat boy, and how maybe Ariel would become one of his personal Little Sisters.
They spoke of the trials of living in a dorm room and eating cafeteria food and fraternity
food. She liked every predictable thing he said, and he liked every predictable thing she
said. With an excessively animated gesture, she accidentally spilled half of her beer on his
sweater, and he said, “You 're wasted!" but he didn’t seem to mind. The music was getting
louder and the room was filling around them with tipsy Little Sisters and frat boys.
There was a moment of silence in their conversation, and Sun said, “Do you wanna
dance?”
Yes, yes, yes, she wanted to dance!
They left the keg behind and he led her to the dance floor, where loud music
drowned the need for conversation. It was a song about Rock Lobsters partying down,
down, down, under the sea. This music was so unlike the music of the mind and the soul
that had ruled her life—this was music of the body. They danced wildly, dripping with
sweat and spilled beer, moving away from each other and then close together. Sun put his
arms around her and then pulled her head back by the hair and kissed her hard, like an
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 303
animal who took what he wanted without apology— so unlike the tentative groping and
pathetic adoration of boys like Bill-the-dishwasher. He lifted her up and she wrapped her
legs around his waist, and then they were kissing passionately, as if they were completely
alone.
Ariel found Cheryl in a long line of girls who were waiting to get into the
bathroom. When their turn came up, the two girls went in together and once the door was
shut behind them, they screamed with glee, embracing each other.
“Oh, my GOD!” said Cheryl. “You guys were practically having sex on the dance
floor. He is SO HOT'”
Never had Ariel known such euphoria. She loved Cheryl. She loved everyone. The
excessively disgusting ffat-boy bathroom didn’t bother her. She felt beautiful, although she
was disturbed by the sight of an inexplicably silly-looking, sweaty girl with smeared
eyeliner and a goofy smile who gazed back at her from the mirror.
“Do I look okay?” she asked Cheryl. “I look weird.”
“You look fine,” said Cheryl, peeing loudly. “Just get rid of that mascara under
your eyes and put on more lipstick.”
“I don’t have a lipstick.”
“You should always bring a lipstick,” said Cheryl, flushing the toilet and producing
one from the pocket of her jeans.
What a nice, helpful, resourceful friend Cheryl was.
“He thinks you look great, anyway.”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 304
Ariel and Cheryl emerged from the bathroom and blended back into the crowd.
Now the frat house was packed with people. Surely they weren’t all Little Sisters! Where
was Sun? Finally she spotted him across the room, talking to the horse-faced boy, and she
joined him.
“This is my Little Sister, Ariel,” said Sun, putting his arm around her.
Hooray! She was his Little Sister!!
“Yeah, I already met her. You’re Jill’s friend,” said the boy. Ariel couldn’t
remember his name. There was the unpleasant smell of a beer fart in the air Ariel hoped
that it wasn’t from Sun, but she was ready to forgive him if it was. The three of them
suddenly looked about the room as if surveying their territory.
Then Sun whispered in her ear, “Do you wanna go up to my room and hang out9”
She nodded and he took her by the hand, and then the horsey, nameless boy and
everyone else dissolved around her into a blur of voices, music, shouts, and laughter as
she followed him eagerly up the stairs that led to his room. There was vomit dripping off
the windowsill, and she said “Gross! ” but in fact, she welcomed its presence.
Sun’s room was crowded with a group of frat boys who were watching television
and smoking pot. They glanced at Ariel approvingly and then turned back to the
television.
“Let’s go up on the roof,” said Sun.
They climbed through Sun’s bedroom window and then they were standing outside
on the roof of the frat house. It was clear and cold; the stars were like tiny jewels in the
sky. They sat down on the shingles and Sun put his arm around her. This was the place to
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 305
have a more meaningful conversation.
Sun told her about his home in Detroit and then about his family Both sounded
very tough and urban; he had come to the university on a full scholarship due to his Native
American heritage. Ariel discovered that his parents were also divorced.
“My parents are divorced too,” said Ariel. “Does it bother you much?”
“You can’t think about it,” he said, flippantly. “You’ve just gotta say ‘fuck it’.”
“Is that what you say?”
“That’s the only thing to say. My mom is the biggest whore.”
This was a disturbing comment and they were silent for a moment.
“Do you believe in God?” Ariel heard herself ask. Why in the world had she asked
him that? It had to be the effect of the beer.
“Yes,” he said. “Very much so.” She had never heard a person her own age answer
with such certainty. For some reason, she liked that certainty.
They were kissing, and then his lips were warm on the cold skin of her throat, his
breath hot in her ear. His body warmed her as she reached under his sweater, feeling the
rough shingles of the roof under her back and his smooth, muscular back under her hands,
and the pleasure of his weight crushing into her. He pulled up her sweater and kissed her
stomach and then he expertly unhooked her ffont-clasp bra and kissed her breasts. He
rolled over on his back pulling her on top of him and sucking her nipples, and she liked the
sensation of the wind whipping against her back and his warm tongue on her front. His
breathing was growing ragged and heavy as he whispered hotly into her ear, “/ love you. I
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 306
blow it sounds weird ,, but I really do. ” She knew that the words were wrong—that they
had been spoken too soon—but still, they excited her. Then he said, "Do you wanna make
love ? "
Yes, no, maybe. You were not supposed to fuck boys who you had just met
because you could get pregnant and you might be considered a slut. If you didn’t fuck a
boy and only fooled around with him, you might be considered a tease. You could get
diseases from fucking. If she did have sex, she should ask him to wear a condom, but it
would be impolite to talk about condoms, since they had just met. Fucking was
sophisticated, but talking about fucking was impolite. It was only proper if you could do it
smoothly and easily like scenes in the movies when everything went black, and then, in the
next scene, the lovers were tangled together in the sheets, beautifully and serenely naked
in the morning sunlight. If he really loved her, he would take care of her even if she did
contract AIDS; they would die together like Romeo and Juliet— beautifully and silently
dead together in the darkness of their tomb. She was kissing Sun as she thought of these
things, letting him decide for himself whether the answer was yes or no.
“Do you want to9” he breathed sexily into her ear as he unzipped her jeans.
Fear and pleasure were all tangled together; she felt as though she had agreed to
let herself fall into an abyss.
She helped him pull down her jeans, along with her underwear, over her hips and
then over her knees. That was a big step. The cold air was a shocking slap against her
naked flesh. She was still wearing her boots, so her jeans got stuck around her ankles.
Why hctdn 7 she taken off her boots first? It was suddenly very sobering and disconcerting
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 307
to be outside on the roof and practically naked with a frat boy, but there was no turning
back.
Sun untied the laces of Ariel’s boots. He pulled both boots off, placing the first
down gently, and throwing the other over the edge of the roof. It landed somewhere in the
yard below with a thud.
Ariel began to laugh uncontrollably. “You’ll have to find that, you know,” she
gasped.
“What if I don 7 find it?”
“You’ll have to.” She was feeling strangely manic.
"What if I don 7? ”
His kisses were intoxicating, but she suddenly felt the urge to get the real job done
quickly.
She fumbled with the fly of his jeans with her cold hand, but her fingers were stiff
and clumsy in the cold air and she made little progress toward unbuttoning anything. He
brushed her hand away and within a second his pants were down below his hips. Now
there was really no turning back.
Later, Cheryl would ask the inevitable question, "Did he ha\’e a big dick‘?" and
Ariel wouldn’t have anything to compare it to, so she would have to say “Yes.” It
certainly felt enormous as it collided with her cold flesh, and immediately got stuck. It
was infinitely painful. She spread her legs wider, and still he wasn’t in. Surely sex wasn’t
this difficult, since everything before it was so easy. Tender kisses and expressions of lust
were pushed aside as they both focused on the laborious task before them. Sun finally
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 308
forced his way in as Ariel dug her nails into his back in an attempt to control the
overwhelming pain. It wasn’t anything like the movies she had seen in which girls
registered their feminine pain with a pretty little sigh and looked toward the heavens, as if
seeing God for the first time. How ugly she must look. Would he never finish9 She longed
to tell him to hurry up.
Finally the task was done. Praise Jesus! She was no longer a pathetic, superfluous
virgin, a Puritan stuck in the wrong time! Finally, she was a normal human being like
everyone else.
He put his arm around her and kissed her forehead—the kind of kiss a church
minister would give a little girl. This is my Little Sister. The wind was blowing and she
was suddenly trembling with the cold. She had the strange sense that she should apologize
for something, but she wasn’t sure for what.
Her jeans were clinging to the edge of the roof, and Sun retrieved them for her, but
her underwear had blown away. She wondered if one of the frat boys would find it in the
backyard the next day and make lewd jokes about her.
They made their way back through the window and into Sun’s messy room where
several guys and one Little Sister were now passed out, then down the hallway and into
the devastation of the dance floor and the living room, which smelled of puke and stale
beer. Everywhere she looked were plastic glasses containing small swamps of beer mixed
with cigarette butts. How much time had passed? When had everyone gone home?
“This was one great Little Sister party,” said Sun.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 309
Outside, Ariel and Sun threw leaves at each other like children as they searched for
Ariel’s boot in the back yard of the frat house. Sun chased her, caught her. and stuffed
leaves down her shirt. She suddenly remembered an image from her childhood: Dana
being pinned down by the boys as they stuffed her bathing suit with sand. Now she, Ariel,
was the honored focus of male attention. But she had had enough for one night, so she
told Sun that she ought to be getting home when he produced her ankle-high boot from
the bushes.
‘Til walk you to the M,” he said.
The inlaid “M ” stood for “Michigan” and it marked the main quad at the center of
campus. It would be more chivalrous of Sun to walk her all the way home, but she didn’t
say so. She liked his roughness and his lack of chivalry.
They walked into the night, so clear and cold under the stars. As they passed frat
houses and college buildings, Ariel noticed that a sheet of ice had formed on the ground.
It was bad luck to step on the M, but Sun nevertheless skidded directly over it.
This was their goodbye point, and he kissed her goodnight.
“I’ll call you,” he said.
She hardly felt the cold as she made her euphoric way home in the cold, slipping
and falling here and there, since her slick leather boots had no traction and she was still
fairly drunk.
Back in the dorm room, Cheryl was passed out on her bed. She was still fully
dressed and the lights were on.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 310
“I fucked him!” Ariel announced loudly, waking up Cheryl and probably several
other people in the hall.
Cheryl awoke immediately. “Oh my God, you fucked him!” she screamed with
disbelief and glee. Now they were equals. In fact, Ariel was in one way more experienced
than Cheryl—an unbelieveable accomplishment. The two girls sat on Cheryl’s bed and
relived every detail of Ariel’s experience into the first gray sunlight of the next morning.
For the next few days, Ariel felt like the mermaid who gave up her alien, undersea
life in exchange for legs and a human soul. For the first time, she walked as an equal
among the human folk who knew of carnal, earthly things. Music and the ethereal world
were only distant memories, for she was now someone who had a lover—maybe even a
boyfriend.
Her body was bruised, and each bruise was special because it was from Sun. She
cherished the purple marks for several days as they faded, showing the row of bruises
down her spine and hipbones to Cheryl as if they were badges of honor. While the bruises
were still there, Sun still loved her. Perhaps he was thinking of her, waiting for just the
right moment to call.
But as the purple marks faded, the entire memory became uncertain and tenuous,
as if the whole experience might have been a dream. “/ love you, " he had said. And then
more importantly, “I'll call you. ” Ariel longed to recapture the annihilating sensation of
his weight crushing into her, the ruthless strength of his hands pulling her head back by the
hair and kissing her hard, pushing his tongue deep into her mouth. Now she remembered
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 311
no pain; she only remembered a feeling of connection, the sudden absence of which now
left her even more painfully aware of her essential loneliness.
The phone sat insolently upon the wall, delivering nothing but calls from
meaningless mothers and pointless girlfriends. It refused to transmit the voice of her
beloved.
Deep down, Ariel knew that it was entirely possible that Sun would never call her;
in fact, it was most likely that he wouldn’t. A girl who had sex with a frat boy during a
Little Sister party and lost her underpants in the back yard of the frat house was exactly
the sort of girl who wouldn t get asked out on a date. Sure, she’d be invited to all the
parties, but she would never become a girlfriend. But Sun had said, “I love you.” She
knew now that words were pointless and misleading.
“Maybe you had sex with him too soon.” said Cheryl, tentatively.
“But he definitely wcatted to,” said Ariel, thrusting her hand into the bowl of
microwave popcorn they were sharing.
“Well, of course he wanted to,” said Cheryl. “But with a lot of guys you’ve got to
make them wait at least a little for what they want, or they lose interest. The conquest is
gone and then it’s not worth anything to them.”
“But then if you make them wait too long, they also lose interest, don’t they?”
This was what had recently happened with a guy Cheryl was seeing.
Cheryl spoke carefully. “I know Sun was really into you, Ariel. It’s just— I’ve
heard some gossip about him, and it sounds like he’s kind of a whore. He just doesn’t date
people.”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 312
“So why doesn’t he just call me for sex9” She knew the answer to that
question—there were other more experienced girls who knew to take their shoes off
before their jeans, who didn’t wear runny eyeliner, and who didn’t ask ridiculous
questions like, "Do you believe in God? ”
“Listen to yourself! Anyway, he probably doesn’t think you’re the type to just have
sex,” said Cheryl. “Like, if he called you again, you’d become his girlfriend, since you’ve
already had sex, and you can’t really just date him, because you’ve never really had just a
date with him. Know what I mean?”
“Yes.” There were tears in Ariel’s eyes. “But I love him.” Her emotions were as
uncontrollable as melting butter. “He told me he loved me!” What the hell was happening
to her ‘?
Deep down, she knew that Sun’s romantic words had been a sort of gesture to set
a mood, like making a toast at a party. They were not binding; they were not a promise.
They were simply an expression, like a passage of music that transforms the world for a
moment, then vanishes forever. What made her sadder yet was the sense that Sun had in
fact meant what he said at the moment he said it. But then the moment had ended.
“It’s so hard,” said Cheryl, hugging her. “It’s like trenches of pain, what you’re
going through. Believe me, I know.”
Thank goodness for Cheryl. At least she had a best friend again, and that was
worth something.
* * *
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. Ariel had always regarded most pop songs as banal and absurd, but now they
seemed every bit as true as classical music. They sang of the pain of unrequited love and
the longing for self-annihilation through love, and these things had become the only truths
worth knowing. How alienated and distant Ariel had felt from the ordinary world in the
past; how grief-stricken and sappily human she felt now. She wasn’t sure which was
worse.
Since Jill was also pining for a guy, she and Ariel became partners in grief. The
girls began and ended their days to the accompaniment of a silent phone and sad songs
played on Jill’s battered stereo.
Ariel and Jill spent many hours sitting on their beds, eating chocolate-chip cookie
dough from the convenience store that came in a long, penis-shaped tube, listening to sad
songs, and talking. They engaged in an obsessively detailed process of analysis, as if they
had witnessed some unexplained phenomenon and were trying to figure out how it had
happened. "But why would he not call if he said he would?'1'' They spun the thread of their
mutual grief between them, weaving it, examining its structure, embellishing it with
language. “ How can a person suddenly not like you if they liked you only a few days
ago? ” They spoke almost entirely in metaphors. "It’s like he told you to jump in the
swimming pool o f your relationship, hut then he just stuck his big toe in the water and
thought it was too cold, so he just left you there swimming by yourself. ” The problem
was, talking never changed anything.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 314
There was some comfort in dorm food. For lunch, the girls ate hot fudge sundaes
accompanied by endless cups of coffee. Shifts of students entered the cafeteria, gulped
down their food, and left to attend classes and busy themselves with other industrious
pursuits, while Ariel and Jill remained in the same spot, talking and eating. They couldn’t
imagine it was possible for people to be interested in anything except love and its loss.
Then, shaky from an excess of caffeine, Ariel and Cheryl returned to their room to
listen to more sad songs while they took a nap to sleep off the coffee overdose. They often
missed their afternoon classes.
* * *
Sun had been skipping economics class for the past week. The lecture hall was
depressing and pointless without him, and without the distraction of her scope, Ariel was
faced with the fact that she had no clue whatsoever to what was going on in class. Soon
there would be an exam, and she would fail it. Perhaps she should call Sun and beg for
help with her studying. But that would be pathetic, and, besides, Cheryl had advised her
not to call him.
“Just give him time,” Cheryl had said. “When he realizes that you’re not expecting
to be his girlfriend, he might give you a call. Maybe he just needs his space right now.”
People needed space. She used to be one of those people. How lucky they were!
Now she hated having space. She remembered poor Bill-the-dishwasher who had
shamelessly given up his space by writing her a poem. How contemptuous she had been of
his willingness to give up his space. Now she felt a wave of remorse at the memory.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 315
Maybe Sun was sitting in his frat-house room smoking a cigarette and drinking a
beer, trying to work up the courage to call her. Most of Ariel’s mind registered the
implausibility of this idea, but another part of her mind was filled with wishful thinking and
episodes of “The Love Boat” and this kept the dream of her relationship with Sun alive,
despite its obsessive pathology.
Maybe if Sun heard her play the piano he would want her back. He had never
heard her play. Neither had any of her teachers or friends outside the music conservatory.
Nobody knew her. Now there was nobody to play for because she had betrayed the people
who had loved that part of her: Professor Homwaller, Dr. Ume, Bill, Dr. Phish, Mrs.
Schwartz. Even her parents. She had betrayed them all, let them down, and now she was
truly alone, which was what she deserved.
When Sun didn’t show up at Economics for the fourth time, Ariel left class and
walked outside into the wintry cold. Students were straight-faced and stoic against the
dreary weather as they smoked cigarettes and rushed to class with a heartless sense of
purpose and direction, wearing their leather jackets and leather boots, their parkas and
jeans, their orange, red, and blue hair. People need space. The sky was gray and the trees
were coated in sheets of ice. The branches reminded her of lithe, skeletal fingers, of frozen
veins and arteries.
Ariel wandered through campus and then into town, where students and ordinary
people emerged from shops munching bagels and sipping coffee. She wandered into a
book store to get warm and found a cozy room in which the Chopin Piano Concerto in F
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 316
Minor was playing over the P. A. system. Rippling arpeggios surged and then waned with
poignant sighs. A sense of longing was building, constantly intensified and constantly
thwarted, until it reached its brief climax. People milled about in the store, flipping
through books and thinking about a world made of words. To them, the music probably
sounded relaxing and sophisticated. To her, it evoked an infinitely painful feeling of exile.
As the music modulated to a major key like a window opening to a bright new day
of loneliness, her mind reeled with weak emotions and their accompanying cliches: tides
going out, birds flying away, tender hearts breaking. Each image moved her to pain and
left her unsatisfied.
She walked aimlessly through the book store, reflecting that it would be nice to
find some comforting book, like a letter from a best friend that would confide every secret
and affirm every sorrow, but she found only endless shelves of books filled with
landscapes and ideas and other dreary narratives. She flipped randomly through the pages
of the novels that reached her hands, but the printed words blurred before her eyes and she
could perceive only the clear, recorded tones of melancholy Chopin, so tender, so
inaccessible.
In the old days, she would have gone to the piano to purge her emotions, but now
there was no piano for her. She was afraid to return to the music school, where she might
run into Professors Phish and Homwaller. If she returned to the music school and
attempted to sneak into a practice room, she would feel like a murderer drawn back to the
scene of her crime. But what was her crime? There was an icy presence all around her—a
feeling of betrayal.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 317
For the first time, she fully realized the fact that she had given up the centrality of
music in her life. Without it, her identity was like a series of notes without a staff or time
signature; there was no pattern, no form to give coherence to her existence. Her body
ached to belong to music, to touch music, to be dissolved by the sound she created, to
speak with phrases far more sophisticated than her own voice, to be used and consumed as
a mere instrument of sound. It was not enough just to listen to music—it had to be played!
She could still play if she wanted, of course, but it seemed that something essential
wouldn’t be the same. It was as if something had been irrevocably lost when she
abandoned the idea o f music as her career—her purpose. There would never again be such
a complete escape from herself.
* * *
Dear Clarisse,
I haven't gotten my period. Could I really be this unlucky 9 IVhat are the odds that
I would get pregnant on my first time? I mean, I know it's possible in theory, but it's
really too much o f a cliche. I don t have morning sickness or anything, but I'm hungry
all the time, and yesterday I ate practically a whole box o f poptarts! I tried to make
myself puke, but I was too chicken. I suck.
* * *
Ariel’s father called to ask what she wanted for Christmas. She imagined herself
saying, "Money for an abortion, ” and wondered what his reaction be. Instead, she said
that she didn’t know, that there was nothing she really wanted. Then she asked whether
there was anything that he wanted for Christmas, and he replied that there was nothing he
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 318
needed except, perhaps, a pair of socks. Exchanging gifts with her father had always had
its lameness but it was even worse now that her mother couldn’t intervene to choose their
gifts for each other.
Ariel’s relationship with her father had declined into sporadic conversations about
numbers, an ongoing equation of amounts. How much was her tuition ? Shouldn 7 she get
a part-time job? Was she spending too much on frivolous purchases?
After she hung up the phone, Ariel looked in the yellow pages of the telephone
directory under “Abortion” and surveyed the listings of clinics. Would she tell Sun if she
actually was pregnant? No, absolutely not. But then again, telling him would give her an
excuse to talk to him again. Perhaps she only hoped she was pregnant for this reason.
What was happening to her ? She felt as if there was something wrong with her
mind; the thinking mechanism wasn’t working properly. All through finals, she had stared
at her text books without comprehension. She had probably barely passed her courses in
political science and sociology, and she had most likely failed economics. The entire
structure of her world was collapsing inward as if the central skeleton that had supported
it had been pulled out.
Professor Homwaller appeared regularly in her dreams as a surgeon. She
performed an operation in which internal organs were replaced with plastic parts, hands
were amputated and kept in glass jars.
Sun was still the first thought and the last thought of every day.
Ariel imagined that she felt the baby growing. Sun didn’t love her, but if she had a
baby, it might love her. She imagined holding its cuddly body in her arms and gazing into
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 319
its dark eyes— Sun’s eyes. It smiled. She imagined Sun meeting her on the street as she
pushed her beautiful child in a stroller; she would be dressed in black and looking very
mysterious and beautiful, and he would wonder—and hope—that the baby was his.
Then again, having a baby would shock her parents. So much for the responsible,
piano-playing girl. She would now be a girl who got pregnant and failed Economics.
But she knew she would get an abortion. Supposedly she still had her whole life in
front of her, directionless as it was.
She remembered the waitresses at Greta’s and felt a stab of sympathy. So she was
no different than them after all.
* * *
Dear Sun (if that is your real name):
I wonder if you remember me. Yes, it's you-know-who. Do you regularly talk to
virgins about God on the roof of your frat house and then have sex with them? I don 7
mean to sound so bitchy. It's just that I wanted to say hi, and I didn 7 have your phone
mimber. Maybe you've tried to call. I wouldn 7 know, because I've been out pretty much
constantly, and am totally hungover right now. Anyway, I better get ready fo r my date!
See you around, Ariel
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. CHAPTER 32
DECEMBER, 1984
When Christmas break arrived, Ariel’s mom picked her up from school to take her
home. Practically everyone in the dorm had left by the time her mother showed up.
Ariel threw her duffle-bag filled with dirty' clothes in the back seat of her mother’s
shiny new car and climbed in. It felt odd to be in the car with her mother after being away
for several months. Everything had changed.
Her mother looked even prettier than before. She was very thin—almost
waifish— and her passionately teased big hair had been replaced by a cute short hairstyle
with lots of layers.
Ariel and Cheryl had failed to avoid gaining weight. Now that she was with her
skinny mother and away from Jill’s big sweatshirts, big hair, and comfortable, stretchy
clothes, Ariel felt like a blimp. She wondered if her mother was thinking that she looked
fat. Ariel observed her mother’s familiar rosy lips and her heavy, black eyeliner, and her
gold earrings sparkling against her hair, and felt slightly annoyed.
Mrs. Terraine was chattering about how busy she had been. She had been working
as a salesperson at Hudson’s during the day and playing the organ at the church in Saline
on weekends, and teaching piano lessons in the evenings, and still, there wasn’t enough
money. If only she had pursued a career when she was younger! Or perhaps she shouldn’t
320
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 321
have gotten a divorce after all, since it was so hard to meet men at her age. She was
getting old, after all. Did Ariel think that she looked older9 Her boyfriend Stan had been
fun for a while, but since he had lost his job, he was becoming tedious. He had moved in
temporarily, and was currently residing in the basement.
“He’s living in our basement!” exclaimed Ariel. She felt outraged, as if her home
had become an apartment complex for random men.
“Just for a while,” said her mother, glancing at Ariel. “In fact, I’ve already asked
him to leave, but he keeps making excuses. He does help with some house-keeping—”
“That’s very annoying.” Ariel felt nauseated at the thought of going home to the
constant presence of Stan. “I would have just stayed in the dorm during break if I’d
known that he was going to be at home the whole time.”
Her mother was silent.
“Why don’t you order him to leave if you really want him to9 It’s vcwr house, you
know.”
Her mother’s face had taken on a disturbingly familiar mask-like expression that
seemed to suppress all thought and emotion so that there was no possibility of
communication. Ariel remembered the doll-like mother who had once withdrawn
completely from the world and felt a wave of fear.
Through the car window, Ariel saw people bustling about doing holiday shopping
amidst the Christmas lights that lined the cheerful streets of Ann Arbor. How she still
missed Sun! If only she had become his girlfriend, she could have blocked out her mother
and Stan and the declining civilization of home.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 322
But she realized that she, too, was weak. She was no different from her mother,
for she had vowed to be logical and strong, but she had nevertheless crumbled. Now she
was in danger of becoming a teenaged mother and a college drop-out.
“You’re unhappy,” said her mother suddenly in a small voice. “I’m sorry that
things are like this. I even asked your father once if he wanted to get back together, but he
said no. I think he’s seeing someone.”
“You asked him if he wanted to get back together? Don’t you have any prideT’
Her mother fell silent again.
It bothered Ariel that her mother was allowing herself to be chastised, as if she
deserved it; as if she didn’t have the energy to reprimand Ariel for rudeness. “Anyway,”
continued Ariel in a softer tone, “that’s not even what I’m upset about. It’s more about a
guy I was seeing who broke up with me.” She couldn’t say, "A guy I had sex with who
never called again. And by the way, I might be pregnant. ”
This piece of information seemed to disengage Ariel’s mother from her
withdrawal.
“I’m very sorry,” said Mrs. Terraine. “Breaking up with someone can be every bit
as painful as a death— it’s like losing a best friend, or a parent.”
It seemed like the first time Ariel’s mother had ever expressed genuine sympathy
about an emotion. How strange! And all for a lost boyfriend.
Then her mother added, “But you just have to move on and find some other
fellow.”
Now the landscape had become rural and on either side of the road was low
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 323
marshland—the lumpy shrubs and muskrat dams covered in snow. Ariel saw the flash of a
cardinal’s red wings in the dim evening light. There was something frightening about
going home again; even the most familiar, innocuous memories were inexplicably painful.
* * *
Inside the house, Ariel and her mother encountered Stan, who was washing dishes
in the kitchen.
“Hey there,” he said to Ariel. He looked tired and haggard, as if he had aged many
years and lost several pounds since she had last seen him. Perhaps it was difficult for him
to live with her mother. “How’s it going?”
“It’s okay.”
“Done with the semester9”
“Yup.”
Living in a home where small talk was required was like being at a bad party which
you could never leave. She was irritated that her mother wasn’t helping out with the
conversation.
“How long is your break9” asked Stan.
“A couple weeks.”
“Then back to school, huh?”
“Then back to school,” she echoed.
Stan had been laid-off several months ago, but he had ideas for making big bucks
in something having to do with marketing, electronics, and telephones. It all sounded quite
boring to Ariel.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 324
Then he spoke of his idea of marketing Ariel and her mother as a piano-playing
duo. Perhaps he would videotape them and they could get on “Star Search.” Ariel had a
memory of the talent show at the Saline County Fair and recoiled from the idea.
“I think it’s a great idea!” declared her mother. “You shouldn’t be such a snob. If
you’re not in the music school anymore, you need to find more practical venues for
playing.”
“I don’t play anymore,” said Ariel, peevishly.
* * *
A bitter wind blew a dry, sandy mist of snow across the frozen ground. A large
hawk was gliding smoothly across the gray sky, its broad wings spread open upon a gust
of wind like the linear motion of a bow across strings.
Ariel knew that it was dangerously cold outside—nearly eighty degrees below zero
with windchill—but she didn’t care. She wanted the cold to anesthetize her mind and heart
just as it numbed her hands and feet.
As she walked down the street of the subdivision Ariel passed Tammy’s house and
then Dana’s house. What they were doing now? They had presumably gone to college
somewhere—probably to middle-of-the-road state schools where they took courses in
business and computers and other practical job skills. Dana was probably engaged by now.
Their Christmas trees sparkled in the living room windows and the hedges and fir trees in
their front yards were decorated with colorful lights. Mary wandering alone through the
white, silent world.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 325
When she reached the end of the subdivision. Ariel continued to walk for several
miles down a dirt road that divided a snowy field. There, across the flat, white land, was
the farmhouse where Stacey lived. There was the colorful blur of a Christmas tree glowing
in the front window—a warm spot surrounded by shades of white and gray.
Ariel had heard that Stacey’s parents had recently sold most of their land for
development into some kind of shopping center and that instead of getting married, Stacey
had gone to Michigan State University to study textiles. Ariel wished that she could run
across the frozen ground, back through the years, back into her childhood.
She crossed the snowy field, heading toward the woods. It was hard to see where
she was going, for the sky and earth seemed to merge together in a bleak white haze. It
reminded her of seeing Lake Michigan one night at summer camp when the dark sky had
blended with the black water so that it seemed that she was standing at the edge of the
world, gazing into space.
There was a crusty top layer of ice over the snow which crunched under her feet as
she walked. Her hands and feet were growing numb and she knew she was in danger of
getting frostbite, but she didn’t care. Numbness was what she wanted.
As she drew closer to the woods she saw that a large number of trees had been
felled to make room for hulking wooden houses that were almost twice as big as the
houses in Ariel’s subdivision. Big, isolated houses on small plots o f land. The good life.
Her face felt burned by the wind, which whipped small bits o f ice against her skin.
Her lips were cracked and her toes and fingers felt as if they no longer belonged to her.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 326
Finally she reached the woods, where the trees offered a degree of shelter from the wind.
Ariel remembered wandering through these trees years ago, after her parents had
separated. Then the trees had seemed a comforting forest—alive and offering an almost
human level of sympathy. Now she felt that this had all been in her own mind; the trees
were mere plants that couldn’t see or hear.
Her mind felt suddenly fuzzy, like cotton. She was overwhelmingly exhausted, so
she sat in the snow and then lay back to look up at the patterns of the naked tree branches
that surrounded her. It was odd how feeling was diminishing, as if she hardly felt the cold.
In the old days, she could spend hours watching the faces that were described by the trees
but now her whole body was consumed with a gauzy fatigue. How simple it would be to
freeze to death. It would be quiet, unassuming, and neat—like falling asleep. She closed
her eyes and remembered the music that had haunted her with its unearthly stillness—the
ground of white roses against a blue sky. For a moment, she saw it clearly, but then there
were shadows at the edges, her mind darkening and filling with dust. No, there was no
music in this garden. And even if there were, something told her that she would be closed
out of it. There would only be cold, silent space.
She heard a soft crunching sound and through half-opened eyes she saw a young
deer observing her and sniffing the air. The deer looked more curious than afraid; it was
probably used to encountering people. Its slender legs seemed to be moving toward her,
and she now saw only a brown, soundless blur. She remembered a childhood image of
death as a dark, faceless cloak, and then she thought about how the uprooted deer and
foxes were often pushed out into people’s backyards in the subdivisions, wandering
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. through the snow in search of food. There was a wet sensation on her hand. Cold, wet,
warm, rough. Flicking its tongue across her palm. Salt. She had eaten chips earlier in the
day. Death would be the absence of this sensation. She moved suddenly and when she
opened her eyes she saw only the bouncing scud of the deer’s white tail hopping away
through the trees.
For the moment, this was a single reason to live. Even if she could no longer play,
she could still hear; she could still feel; and she saw that that was heaven compared to the
black hole she had felt herself drifting toward.
She stood up shakily, determined to make her way home on feet that felt like
blocks of ice.
* * *
On the kitchen table next to a messy pile of bills, receipts and coupons was a small
envelope addressed to Ariel. The handwriting was childishly messy, and the nameless
return address said “Chicago, IL.”
Dear A riel:
I was sitting here painting some plaster frogs and I found myself wondering how
Ariel Terraine is doing. (Kidding.)
Actually I 'm writing to you with an offer. My dad tells me that you 're still a
musician. (He heard it from your dad.) Anyway, I'm in film school right now and I was
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 328
wondering if you want to write some music for a film I m making called "Searching for
Isabella. " (Don't ask me what it's about.) Anyway, I can't really pay you anything, but if
you come visit I ’ll buy you a drink.
How about it?
Yours Sincerely,
Monica
P. S. Remember Clarisse ? I run into her occasionally, and I hear she's marrying
into a beer-drinking family from Milwaukee. She wants to have five kids.
It was odd how time suddenly seemed irrelevant. It might as well have been just
yesterday that she and Monica were riding their bikes through traffic, throwing water
balloons at each other, and banging out “Heart and Soul” on the piano. Perhaps some
people were like themes in music that reappear after long absences.
And Monica was offering her a chance to compose. Ariel remembered the A minor
composition she had written years ago at music camp. Why shouldn’t she write songs or
music for a film? After all, she no longer had to worry about the approval of professors
like Homwaller and Schwartz, and for the first time, she fully perceived that she had
choices in life; she could be free if she wanted. Her life wasn’t necessarily over.
The living room was illuminated by the blinking lights of the Christmas tree. Ariel
approached the piano, sat on the bench, raised her hands to play, and then stopped
suddenly. How many hours of her life had been spent in this spot? Homwaller’s face
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 329
passed before her mind and she felt a wave of guilt. It had been almost three months since
she had touched a keyboard.
She began to play her scales slowly and her hands felt stiff and strangely numb.
“It’s like exercising your muscles when you warm up at the keyboard, ” Homwaller had
said. “Warm up slowly - don 7 launch into playing too fast. Take your time. ”
Slowly, she felt her way back over the keys as if she were a blind person becoming
reacquainted with the face of an old friend. She explored the different shapes of the major
and minor scales and the multiple variations and inversions of her arpeggios—major,
minor, augmented, diminished. She was pleased to find that she could still play. How
comforting the keys were under her hands. How solid the body of the piano was, so
unchanging and permanent. No, she didn’t want to give this up.
Then she began the Mozart Fantasy in D Minor— her nemesis. The searching,
broken chords at the beginning were followed by the quiet, gray light of morning—the
opening of a new day of pain.
A sweet, gentle voice began to tell the story of a lost love. “/ tried, ’’ said the
voice, ‘7 tried. ” Then came the ominous repetition of a single note, like the tolling of a
bell following a death, and the downward descent began. The tender voice pleaded. “ But
it s no use, " replied the second, deeper voice. And then there was a third voice—silence.
Ariel had never before understood how to deal with silence in music; it had always
made her feel awkward and uncomfortable. Now she saw that silence was itself a
presence; it supported the structure of the music like a layer of snow.
In the changed atmosphere that immediately followed the music, she felt a moment
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 330
of profound satisfaction. But the disruptive voices of an old argument were still present in
her mind, still threatening to surface again with their endless, circular discussion. Who was
she ? And what was the real point o f playing the piano?
“It’s so nice to hear you play again,” said Ariel’s mother, from behind. Ariel hadn’t
realized that she had been listening. “You actually sound better than before.”
“Thanks,” said Ariel, reflecting that perhaps she shouldn’t have left the music
school so abruptly after all.
“Remember Mrs. Schwartz9”
“Of course.” Her mother was holding a newspaper. I f it was Mrs. Schwartz's
obituary , she didn 7 want to know.
“ She’s offering a seminar on performance anxiety.”
So Mrs. Schwartz was alive. “Can I see9”
The blurb in the arts section of the paper read: "Mrs Caroline Schwartz , M.A.,
M.S. W. will offer a seminar on handling performance anxiety for musicians and other
performing artists. Schwartz completed a M.A. at the Juliard School o f Music in 1966
and an M.S. W. in social work in 1984. ”
“How interesting,” said Ariel’s mother. “She did a social work degree! Maybe you
should go hear her speak.”
“But I’m not exactly performing anymore.”
“You’re being too narrow-minded,” said her mother. “Even if music isn’t your
career, there’s no reason not to keep playing and developing your abilities. Don’t make
the mistake I made by putting your talents on hold for too many years.”
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 331
Mrs. Terraine sat down on the piano bench next to Ariel. “Would you like to play
a duet9 I thought we could play something together at the Christmas Eve church service.”
“I guess.” said Ariel, unenthusiastically. But why not9 It would at least be an
opportunity to play again.
“Do you want Primo or Seconcfo?”
“I’ll take Primo ,” said Ariel.
Her mother pulled out the music—a medley of Christmas carols with awkward,
unsubtle transitions between the familiar songs. “Silent Night,” “Hark! The Herald Angels
Sing,” “What Child Is This.”
As they sight-read the piece, Ariel felt mildly annoyed with the poor quality of the
composition and found herself reprimanding her mother for failures to observe crescendos,
diminuendos, and pedal marks.
“Stop being so impatient,” said her mother. “I’m doing the best I can, and my
arthritis is acting up.”
But it was also pleasant to sit next to her mother on the piano bench, to bicker
back an forth as they practiced. It was as if the piano provided a kind of buffer—a
distraction that allowed her to feel connected to her mother even as they argued. Sitting
next to her mother on the piano bench, she felt the vibrations of her mother’s playing
infusing the strings, hammers, and wood of the piano. She was grateful for her mother’s
ability to play the piano. For the moment, they were in harmony and cooperating.
* * *
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 332
Dear Clarisse,
I've been sick with a wretched case of the fin. But I don 7 even care because of my
intense relief that I finally got my period. So this is what it’s finally goodfor knowing
that you 're actually not pregnant after all. When I told Cheryl she said, " You were
probably late because you were worrying about it too much and getting all hysterical. ”
Then she said, "I can 7 believe you were stupid enough not to use birth control! ” (1 know
she's right, but why should it be all my responsibility ?)
And what about you, Clarisse ? Why are you getting married when you 're only
19? Isn 7 there more to life than raising five kids? But then, I guess you ahiays hated
being an only child.
Anyway, I can 7 wait to see you again, Clarisse!
* * *
“Why do we want to perform9” asked Mrs. Shwartz. “For soloists, it can be one of
the most exposed situations in the world. We set ourselves up for potential embarrassment
and failure every time we do it.”
Mrs. Schwartz looked different—younger and somehow transformed. Her skin
was glowing, her hair had grown back, and she had lost weight. Because her seminar was
held in a classroom at the University of Michigan School of Music, Ariel had been
reluctant to attend, fearing that she would encounter Professor Homwaller or Dr. Phish.
But her desire to see her old piano teacher had been greater than her fear.
“The thing about performing is that when it goes well, you feel that you’re in
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 333
complete control .” continued Mrs. Schwartz. “And that’s a feeling that we rarely get in
life. A great musical performance can suddenly seize power over the thoughts, the
breathing, the very heartbeats of hundreds of people all at once. Some of the professional
musicians I know tell me that they feel they can control time itself at that moment. And if
you can control time, you feel like a perfect, all-powerful being—a God.”
It was an odd way to describe the experience of performing, but Ariel recognized
its element of truth. For her, music had been a celebration of beauty, an escape. But it had
also gradually become a desperate means of attempting to control reality.
This made her think of her excessive grief over Sun. She had felt that she was
grieving the loss of a boyfriend, but perhaps the whole thing really was about a loss of
control—her frustration with the fact that no amount of skill or preparation could possibly
change the outcome of human relationships.
“In my experience as a pianist, I spent years suffering from crippling, incapacitating
stage fright,” said Mrs. Schwartz. “Now I think that when I was onstage part of my mind
was always thinking of my father, whose approval I could never get. Finally it got so bad
that I finally stopped performing altogether, and turned my attention to teaching private
lessons.”
So Mrs. Schwartz had also had a remote father. Or perhaps he had been a
demanding, critical father. Ariel was surprised to hear this piece of information. She had
always regarded Mrs. Schwartz as supremely calm and wise— one of the most unruffled
people on the planet whose parents had most likely been models of supportive behavior. It
was difficult to picture her becoming overwhelmed by stage fright.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 334
‘‘But a few years ago, when I was working on a social work degree, I became
increasingly interested in what happens to the mind during performing situations,”
continued Mrs. Schwartz. “Why do some people rise to the occasion while others
crumble?”
Several people in the audience leaned forward, hoping to hear an easy answer to
the question of this fundamental inequality among musicians.
“Well, one thing I started to notice is that those of us who get unbearably nervous
tend to view the audience as the enemy—a panel of judges. And deep down, we want to
prove something to those judges—to put them in their places. Why9 Because we feel
totally worthless otherwise. On the other hand, people who don’t suffer from stage fright
tend to be concerned with communication. They like the audience. They feel they have
something they must share. Often, they have a sense of humor about what they’re doing.”
Mrs. Schwartz spoke of relaxation techniques, of the “mind-body connection” and
the need to practice the art of mental concentration itself as well as technique and
harmony. “We learn to play,” she said, “but we rarely address the more wholistic
emotional and physical aspects of being artists.”
When the lecture ended, a group of intellectual-looking people gathered around
Mrs. Schwartz to describe their personal problems. There was a cellist who had twice felt
his bow slip out of his hand as he played in competitions, a flutist whose mouth always
seemed to turn to cotton, a singer who often lost her voice just when it really mattered.
Ariel stood behind them, wondering if she would even get a chance to speak with
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 335
Mrs. Schwartz. So much time had passed; perhaps it was silly to approach her after all
these years. As she watched Mrs. Schwartz nodding and smiling, listening politely, she
saw that the woman she remembered from the days of her private piano lessons no longer
existed. Mrs. Schwartz was still kind and compassionate, but now she had a crisp,
business-like presence; she was becoming a voice for the masses. She had finally become
primarily a performer, which was what she must have always wanted.
But now Mrs. Schwartz was regarding Ariel searchingly, as if trying to place her.
“Hi,” said Ariel.
“Ariel?”
Ariel nodded. She was suddenly intensely aware of the fact that Mrs. Schwartz
was now merely an acquaintance; the bond between student and teacher had faded. That
she herself was no longer a child.
“I almost didn’t recognize you, Ariel; you look so grown up!”
“I just wanted to thank you for the lecture and—and for the piano lessons.” It
sounded dumb after all these years, but it was something she had always regretted not
saying. “I really missed working with you.”
Mrs. Schwartz’s face softened. “Thank you. I sometimes wondered how you were
doing over the years and whether you stayed with music, Ariel.”
Ariel noticed that everyone had finally left the room, so she told Mrs. Schwartz
about her studies with Homwaller, the competitions, and the artistic crisis that culminated
with her decision to drop out of the music school.
“Taking a break is probably the best thing you could do at this point,” said Mrs.
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 336
Schwartz.
“Really'7”
“Well, if you’re spending too much time wondering whether you should do
something, why not just try something else for awhile9 You know, sometimes you have to
get a little lost before you can find yourself”
Ariel imagined herself wandering through an ever-thickening forest, becoming lost.
There were footpaths leading in multiple directions. “But what if you make the wrong
choice?”
“During the years when I was sick I began to see things differently,” said Mrs.
Schwartz. “I saw that I had always thought about my art in such polarized terms—success
or failure, fame or obscurity—and I began to really ask myself why I was a musician. What
I discovered was that for me, music was about communication with other people, that
listening is just about as important to me as playing. I had to admit that I’m more
interested in the feelings and interpretations of individual performers than in the
architecture of the music and the original composer, and so I started to focus my attention
in that area.”
She spoke quickly while gathering her belongings—mittens, index cards with neat
hand-written notes, several books on music and psychology. “So don’t think that your
musical training is only relevant to playing an instrument. It’s different for my husband, of
course.” She laughed. “If he had to choose between music and other people, he’d have to
pick music.” She laughed. “He’d deny it, but it’s true.”
Ariel remembered her lessons in Professor Schwartz’s northern cabin during which
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 337
he had urged her to dissect the music and examine its structural framework. She found
Mrs. Shwartz’s response to her question vaguely confusing, but she saw that perhaps
there were two types of musicians—those who had an intuitive mathematical
understanding and those who gradually discovered their art through more unpredictable
human routes.
“Anyway, my point is that it’s hard to know what to do if you don’t know
yourself”’ said Mrs. Schwartz. “As far as I’m concerned, the best musicians know a thing
or two about life—about subjects other than music. They don’t just have technique; they
have something to say.”
Ariel left Mrs. Schwartz’s seminar feeling as if she had been forgiven for
something. For the first time in several months, the atmosphere of the world seemed
lighter, less oppressive. She walked bravely down the dingy music-school hallway without
panic at the prospect of seeing Homwaller or Phish. True, she had let them down, but it
wasn’t as if their lives depended on her. There were hundreds of other music students who
would quickiy take her place. "Nobody's too good to quit. ” It was odd that this was an
uplifting sentiment; it gave her a sense of freedom, of buoyancy.
She heard piano music coming from one of the studios and as she drew closer she
recognized Professor Homwaller’s distinctive playing style blasting out an assertive series
of arpeggiated passages.
She now knew that she didn’t owe Homwaller her life, and that she didn’t have to
apologize for wanting a life outside of music. Then again, Homwaller had been a loyal and
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. 338
supportive teacher—a backbone during the bleakest years of Ariel’s life. She deserved an
explanation of some sort. And besides, Ariel suddenly realized that she missed seeing her
teacher.
There was a moment of silence from inside the studio; Homwaller was probably
taking a drag on her cigarette.
Ariel hesitated for a moment, then went ahead and knocked on the door
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (Q A -3)
“ US 1.0 | SC 1 IM l. 2.2 £ I ^ £ li. 2.0 l.l 1.8
1.25 1.4 1.6
150mm
IM/IGE . Inc 1653 East Main Street Rochester. NY 14609 USA Phone: 716/482-0300 Fax: 716/288-5989
O 1993. Applied Image. Inc.. All Rights Reserved
Reproduced with permission of the copyright owner. Further reproduction prohibited without permission.