Mendelssohn and Mozart, why is this proving so difficult?Charles braced trembling hands on the dressing table in his bedchamber, scowling at his reflection in the oval mirror above the pitcher and washbasin. More precisely, he scowled at the narrow piece of white lawn looped about the straight-standing collar of his starched evening shirt.
Contrary to the current state of affairs, Charles did, in fact, know how to tie a bow tie. He did. Granted, it had been years since he’d last had occasion to don formal attire. But at one time in his life, he’d put on a bow tie nightly. White ties and coattails had been the uniform of his trade. One he’d no longer needed once his family had come to need him so desperately. The Steinway, his luggage, his performance wardrobe—all had been sold to cover the family debts.
Was that why his fingers fumbled so ineptly? Did the evening suit, purchased by Mr. Harrison, remind him of all he’dgiven up? Of the life he no longer lived? No, that wasn’t what had triggered the tremors, which now rendered his hands useless. It was the reminder of why those changes in his life had been necessary.
Charles fisted shuddering hands. Chest tightening, his heart rate accelerated. He stared at his reflection. Forehead creased. Lips flattened as a tremor cruelly toyed with the flinching muscle of his taut jaw. He couldn’t do this. The night shift with Father was his responsibility. He couldn’t leave. It felt wrong. He’d send his regrets to Mr. Harrison. Hopefully, his employer would understand.
Charles snatched a piece of paper, scribbled a semi-legible note of excuse, and burst through his door, intent on dispatching the message posthaste. Preferably before Mr. Harrison arrived in his carriage to convey them to the charity ball. As he hurried through the upstairs corridor, the delicate chime of a bell halted him midstride. His heart stalled.Father.
Pivoting on the heel of a slick dress shoe, Charles doubled back to his parents’ room and stopped before the open door. “What’s wrong?”
Father sat upright in bed, propped with pillows, eyes clear and coherent.
Not like before. Not like that day.
Charles exhaled a ragged breath.He’s fine. It’s not happening again.
Using his functional arm, Father returned the signal bell to its place on the bedside table and patted his quilt, silently beckoning Charles to enter. Charles obliged, sitting beside him on the bed. Patiently, he waited for Father to take up the slate and chalk he used to communicate his needs since the episode had stolen his voice and paralyzed his entire left side. Slowly, Father scrawled words on the slate and then turned it for Charles to read.
Is the house on fire?
The question Father used to ask whenever he or Benjamin had taken to running amok in the house as boys coaxed the smallest of smiles from Charles. He sighed a longer breath, relaxing as much as he ever did. “The only fire was under my feet. I’m in a rush to post my excuses to Mr. Harrison before he bothers driving out of his way to fetch me for tonight’s ball.”
The brow on Father’s mobile side furrowed, and he turned the slate about, wiping the old words away with a handkerchief before jotting new ones down.
You’re not going? Why?
Charles swallowed.Because I’m afraid. I’m always afraid.
The handkerchief cleared the slate, the chalk scratched across its surface.
You’re hiding.
“I’m n-not hiding. I’m prioritizing my time. Staying where I’m most needed.” Leaving felt selfish and wrong and ... dangerous.
A palm settled over Charles’ hand, which was now clenched and shaking. Father gave his hand a squeeze and then held out the slate.
I’m still here, Charlie. I didn’t die.
A vise cinched around Charles’ chest, choking his words. “But you almost did, and that ... that holds its own terror.”
Father studied him a moment, moisture welling in his eyes. Then he wrote something upon the slate, with great care, underlining the whole of it to indicate the words were of great significance.God didn’t spare my life so you could stop living yours.
Charles recoiled from what the words implied.
“Spit-spot, Charlie!” Mother’s voice carried from downstairs. “Mr. Harrison’s carriage has just arrived! Don’t keep the man waiting.”
Charles sighed. There was nothing for it now. Sending Mr.Harrison away from their front stoop would be the height of rudeness. “It seems as though I’ll be going after all.”
One side of Father’s mouth quirked in a smile. He patted Charles’ knee and then motioned toward the door as though telling him to be off. His mouth attempted to say the wordgo, but only a garbled “guh” sound emerged. Charles rose and placed a kiss on his father’s brow. A sign of affection he’d have been loath to demonstrate in adolescence—a season in life when embarrassment seemed the worst of ills—but one he now bestowed liberally and without compulsion. Because in manhood, he was all too aware that the worst of life’s pains was goodbye, and the worst of life’s fears was never knowing when the final parting might come.
Charles forced his feet to travel from the room without looking back. Halfway down the staircase, he noted whispering below ... or rather, a very poor attempt at whispering, for he could make out that the whisperers were discussing him in hardly hushed tones of merry anticipation. What on earth was going on?
Clutching the railing, he doubled his pace only to be met in the foyer by an eruption of oohs, ahhs, and isn’t-he-handsomes. Charles gaped. Like a sold-out concert hall, the entry of their modest home was packed. The Magi huddled together, taking stock of him with grunts of approval. Mrs. Bailey clasped arms with Mother, each dabbing handkerchiefs to gleaming eyes. Benjamin, meanwhile, leaned against the door, sporting a broad smirk.
Heat singed Charles’ ears. Being on stage before a thousand strangers was less nerve-racking than this private audience of family and friends. Here he’d no instrument to hide behind, nor sheet music to follow. He swallowed. “Um ... what’s all this?”
Benjamin snickered—actually snickered!—and beamed the most annoying of grins. “You didn’t expect us not to makemuch ado of your grand entrée into high society, Charlie? ’Tis a momentous occasion! Why, we’ve never had a debutante in the family before. You’re sure to be the handsomest deb in attendance. Granted, you’re also sure to be the oldest and dustiest, what with your being on the shelf for so long, but fret not, brother! I’m sure at least one spinster will take pity on you and write a name on your dance card. Though it’ll likely be the name of a spinsterly rival she wishes to give a public setdown.”
