CELLO, STANDARD


©

Jack watched as Valerie packed for her trip. Heavy, hard things in the duffle bag. Soft folded clothes in with the cello. She filled crevices with rolled socks and wispy
panties, padded the fingerboard and tail piece with blouses and sweaters. “I wish you’d let me come along,” he said.“No. I’m too nervous.” She was humming again, Bach Suite No. 1 Prelude. Slurred, choppy, smooth and deep, all the various ways she’d practiced it over and over the past month.
“You’ll be fine,” he said. “An asset to any program.”
“Right. And the other students can call me Granny.” Frowning, Valerie slid her audition outfit into the garment bag. Navy silk, demure as hell until she spread her legs for the cello, when hidden slits would reveal her slim calves, her graceful high-arched feet. “Besides,” she added, “I want to keep Hopalong in the front seat next to me.” She patted the cello, momentarily caressing the curves.
The cello case lay across their bed, flapped open, the red velvet lining in stark contrast to the white bedspread, the cello itself a deep glowing brown. For a year now, Jack had shared his home with this entity, living wood, and with Valerie, all warmth and color and life. “You need me,” he said, fists balled up inside his pants pockets. “At least to help with the luggage. Deliver coffee. Provide massages. Your personal cheering section.”
Valerie stopped what she was doing to climb on his lap. Straddled him, looping her arms around his neck. “I’ll be back, you know. Before you can miss me.”
“I already do. Besides, they’ll accept you and then you’ll stay out there.” Valerie shakes her head but Jack holds her tight. “Yes they will. You’ve practiced so hard. You care so much. They can’t not take you.”
She kissed him. Lips, jaw, his closed eyelids. “You’re sweet,” she said, “but for God’s sake, grow up.”

They met at the music store. Valerie had been weighing the merits of a Yamaha electric travel cello. “Weighs less than ten pounds,” the salesman had assured her, “even with the travel case. And you can take it anywhere.” He set it up, plugged it in. Without the wood body, all that exists is the cello’s stringboard and head, fold-out side pieces to balance between the cellist’s thighs, and a chest rest.
“Looks like a praying mantis,” Jack had joked, forgetting the pretense that he wasn’t eavesdropping, hoping to bridge the gap between classical and rock, between cellist and drummer, between yin and yang.
Valerie had smiled and, seating herself, drew a bow across the strings, playing a few notes of Verdi. “Nice buzzy tone,” she said. “I like it. Good upper harmonics. But not for me.”
“Maybe you should get it,” he’d pushed. “If you have to go back and forth to classes on the bus, it’d save you a lot of hassle. Make things easier.”
“No, I don’t think so. Easy isn’t always better.” She tossed her keys in the air and caught them again. Her ponytail stuck out the back of a baseball cap, on which was the legend Bach is My Homeboy. Jack closed his eyes on the image of himself, wrapping his hand around that ponytail, pivoting her face toward him for a kiss.
He opened his eyes again to see her smiling at him, as if she’d read his mind. “Some things aren’t supposed to be easy,” she teased, sauntering close enough that he could smell her perfume. “They’ve got to be real.”
Jack took her to a series of dinners, then a concert, and finally to bed. Before they made love for the first time, she had drawn her hands up her body, pausing a moment to stroke herself. Pizzicato, she whispered, and then she licked her fingers. Sucked her own juice greedily before letting him taste her, before opening her thighs and letting him in.

Jack woke in the middle of the night. Valerie’s side of the bed was cold and he could hear the shower running in the bathroom. She must not have been able to sleep – the cello case lay open on the carpet and she’d clearly been re-arranging the padding – a blouse had been replaced by a cashmere scarf, blue lace panties had been wrapped around the bow. Her lucky panties, she always said. She believed in luck. Serendipity, fortuitious chance, hunches. She had even washed the car that afternoon, just in case. “In case of what,” Jack asked, knowing, and she grinned.
“What if the director happened to see me getting out of my car before the audition? He might say, What a clean car! I want that girl in my classes!” Then her smile had disappeared and she shrugged. “Have to try. Even though the odds are bad.”
“You’ll make it,” Jack told her again.
“Might not. Might be me and Hopalong, sawing away alone until we reach the absolute bottom and, you know, give lessons. That would be major suckage.” Her tone had been light, but when she turned away, Jack saw tears.
Everything rode on this audition. At least that was what she thought, he knew. There was no other plan for her, no options, no fallback position. He felt sick, his stomach shrink-wrapped to his spine. If she got accepted into the program, she’d move to Boston. He could follow, sure. A good drummer can always get a job. But in Boston, in that richer atmosphere, she’d grow away from him. It would be a case of classic versus contemporary, Bach versus rock. She’d grow serious, even more dedicated to her craft. He could see it now, a prophecy. If she got this job, she’d leave him.
It was that cello, that damned massive wooden *bleep* between her legs! It wasn’t even a classic or antique, just a standard cello from a catalog. She hadn’t been able to afford more. He remembered the first night they made love, when she had driven him crazy with her touch, stroking him until he vibrated, playing him until he reached crescendo. And then afterward, as he lay there and the sheets cooled, she went to the living room and he found her there, nude, playing Vivaldi in the moonlight. After that, he had no choice.
The wisp of blue lace caught Jack’s eye and he pulled the panties free of the bow. Held them to his face while his senses filled with her scent. He could hear the water still running in the bathroom, and Valerie’s voice, humming the opening notes to the D Major Sarabande. Quickly, he pulled all the clothing loose from the cello. He lifted it from the case, stood it between his hands. A little pressure, just a bit, and the wood could crack. No one would know. She’d pull it out to warm up before the audition and she’d hear it, a little sigh as air passed out of the cello’s lungs, and she’d lose confidence. It would be there in her eyes, like Sasha Cohen before her long performance in the Olympics. The self-fulfilling prophecy that she’d fail. Valerie would come home from the audition, desperately sad, but he’d make it up to her. He’d love her enough to make it up.
In one hand, he still held the panties. She’d been wearing them the day they met – that’s why she said they were lucky. “Who’d have thunk,” she told him, “that we’d find each other out of all the people in the world? It was meant to be.” He held the panties and he held the cello. One moment of leaning to the side, one decision to make, one split second to change his life forever.
“Oh!”
Valerie stood in the open bathroom door, a towel wrapped around her. She stood perfectly still, taking it all in. He hadn’t done anything yet, but in that moment of perfect clarity and self-fulfilling prophecies and pure bad luck, he knew that she knew what she knew. And he knew it was over.

 

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