10. Niles

Chapter ten

Niles

A ugust toyed with the buttons on his jacket as he peered out the window, but his gaze was as clouded over as the winter sky. He wasn’t seeing the game, his daughter, or the boy who ignited his fatherly fury. August had slipped between realms. Whether evaluating an event from the past or considering future outcomes, I couldn’t be sure, but I’d lost him.

Worry dug crevices into his forehead. The playful, purposefully arrogant side that had taken over warmup scales and shared winks and smiles today was gone.

I’d unintentionally hit a nerve.

Vocalizing my observation had the opposite effect than what I’d intended. August had been staring. It wasn’t up for debate, and Koa was right. Straight men—or rather, someone with no inclination toward the same sex—did not stare at another man’s mouth. Without alcohol to dampen my receptors or blur my memory until I questioned the message delivered from my eyes to my brain, no doubt remained.

But August didn’t seem to want to address it. In fact, the mere mention seemed to prickle his spine.

Silence stretched long and taut like a bowstring tightened to its limit, threatening to break. It thrummed and sang with tension until I couldn’t take it anymore.

“I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“I wasn’t staring at your mouth.”

I inadvertently chuckled. “Except you were.”

“I wasn’t.” August’s whip-snap tone shut me up.

A defensive man was generally a guilty man, but I refrained from pointing it out.

Color rose in August’s cheeks. He tugged at his tie more than once, wedging a finger between the crooked knot and his throat as though he couldn’t breathe. Twice, he undid the buttons on his jacket before fitting their tiny heads back through the tight nooses.

Outside, Coach Blaine’s whistle blew. Teenage voices carried on the crisp winter air, shrieks and laughter.

Inside, August’s chest rose and fell as he fidgeted and sweated.

“I’ll leave you be,” I said when more time passed, and August refused to look at me. “I thought it was important you knew more about Cody before judging him. He’s a good kid, and Constance is a smart girl.”

I waited to see if he’d respond.

A slight tick radiated along his jaw, but otherwise nothing.

“Okay. I’ll see you Wednesday.”

I crossed the obstacle course of broken furniture and debris. Why had I opened my mouth? An attraction existed, sure, and returned interest was evident, no matter that he denied it, but even with the kinks smoothed out and our working relationship less hostile than it had been on day one, August was outside my league. What did I hope to accomplish by flirting with a world-renowned musician whose entire career made me feel small?

“Niles.” The strain in August’s voice drew me up short as I approached the door.

I turned back, but his attention remained fixed on the field. “Yes.”

“Thank you for this. I needed it.”

“Anytime.” I waited, but he was done talking.

***

“The Baroque period is said to have laid the groundwork for the next three hundred years of music. It saw the birth of the orchestra, the opera, concertos, sonatas, and cantatas.” Chalk dust rained down as I wrote each on the board.

“Who can give me an example of a Baroque period composer?”

No one enjoyed the days we studied music history, especially when that day landed on a Friday so close to Christmas. Not a single student in my grade nine class showed a spark of life. Their gas tanks were on E, and there wasn’t a filling station in sight. Some struggled to keep their eyelids from drooping, while others doodled in notebooks.

“How about this? Can anyone give me a time frame for the Baroque period?”

It was written on the blackboard and still no one took the bait. I whistled. “Tough crowd. No one?” I pointed at the answer. Blank stares. No reaction. No volunteers.

Sighing, I deposited the hunk of chalk on the ledge and brushed my hands on my trousers. “For the record, I don’t enjoy teaching the history aspect as much as you don’t like learning it.”

“Then why can’t we skip it?” Benjamin Murray, a horn player in the back row, asked as he penned a tattoo on his forearm.

“It’s part of the curriculum, Mr. Murray, and if the design you’re drawing is suggestive in any way, you will spend the rest of the period chatting with Dr. McCaine.” He scribbled it out, dropped the pen, and surreptitiously covered his arm like I hadn’t witnessed the whole thing.

“I’m just doing my job here, folks. Someone, please answer either question, and I promise I’ll wrap it up as fast as I can.”

Constance raised her hand.

“Yes. Miss Castellanos to save the day.”

She signed the letters H-A-N-D-E-L .

“Handel. Good example. Thank you. He was indeed a Baroque composer. Can anyone name another?”

Dean blurted, “Bach?”

“Are you asking me or telling me, Mr. Townsend?”

A few teens smothered smiles, and one muttered, “Neither. He’s clucking like a chicken. Bach, Bach, Bach.”

More laughter.

I slanted a brow. “Mr. Townsend?”

“Um… telling you?”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, not anymore.”

Titters rolled through the classroom. A few more boys made chicken noises, and I was ready to throw in the towel.

I forced a smile. “You’re correct, Dean. Bach was a late Baroque composer, and the next person who clucks is getting extra theory homework.”

They shut up, but only marginally.

The students were almost too unsettled to teach. I debated getting into the stylistic diversity of the era but took pity instead and let them get their instruments out so they could practice before the bell rang in twenty minutes. It wasn’t a lot of time, and their solo pieces should have been polished and ready to perform, but it was better than pulling my hair out to get them to participate in a lesson. I had a vast supply of patience, but it wasn’t endless.

August sat at my desk in the back corner, stacks of musical scores surrounding him. His lips moved to a tune only he could hear. Be it a time-keeping bass beat, a steady tempo of rhythm, or a fast flurry of sixteenth notes, it no longer surprised me. It was a quirk I’d seen in August a lot this past week. Stress did different things to different people. For August, it made him fidget with the buttons on his jacket and incessantly adjust his ill-knotted tie. It also transformed his thoughts and emotions into symphonies, and those symphonies leaked out of his mouth without him realizing it. Sometimes, he played air piano on the desk or his thighs.

It had been a trying week since our quibble on the top floor of the recreation hall. I had hoped the previous weekend and subsequent five days would repair the damage, but it hadn’t. August, professional to the extreme, assisted wherever needed. He was not a teacher, and his influence tended toward harsh, nitpicky comments he should have swallowed. The man’s personal supply of patience and understanding was slim at best.

He accepted responsibility for warmups and was available during free practice time to lend a hand or offer advice to struggling students, but he’d gone out of his way to avoid being alone with me.

Although I’d caught him staring a few times from across the room, he did his best to evade eye contact and conversation, always showing up at the start of second period, never a minute before the bell. We didn’t discuss Constance or his private life. He spoke no more about Chloé or his struggles with parenthood. Any suggestion of interest had been effectively erased.

One week remained before the Christmas holiday. Students would go home for a much-needed break and to spend time with their families. It marked the middle of term one and the true beginning of winter in Ontario—despite its early onset that year.

Apart from the annual Christmas concert happening the following Thursday evening, solos were scheduled to begin Monday morning. August and I were supposed to collaborate and share our thoughts for grading purposes and choose who we wanted to perform at the spring concert. He’d originally agreed to be present the entire week since there wasn’t enough time to fit everyone into his reduced schedule, but since the mood had shifted, I had no idea if that was still the case.

At this rate, it would be an uncomfortable task. It wasn’t that August outright ignored me—he was too mature for that—but the tension that existed between us would be easily picked up by an observant teen. Someone needed to break the ice, and it wouldn’t be him.

As the students stuffed binders into backpacks and opened instrument cases, I crossed to the desk, unobserved by the man still humming and singing an undefined concerto. The task he’d assigned himself occupied all his attention.

Stopping a few paces away, I strained to pick out notes and catch the tune of his random vocalizations.

“Handel?” I asked, startling him. “I want to say Water Music ?”

August stared blank-faced for a moment before his gaze turned inward as though accessing an internal data bank—a man checking what record he’d put on—and nodded. “Yes. That seems to be the case. Second suite. I didn’t realize I was humming. Bad habit.”

He averted his attention to the score he’d been scrutinizing. “I’m considering ‘Chorale from Jupiter’ for the concert band.” He held out a thick folder containing the sheet music for all the sections. “Thoughts? I played it with the Royal Philharmonic. It’s complex, but I can modify parts to fit the parameters of the students’ skill levels.”

“You plan to rewrite it?”

“Not exactly. Modify. Adjust some of the trickier sections. Essentially, it would be a ‘Chorale from Jupiter’ variation.”

“Modify.”

“Yes.”

I glanced at the pristine folder, opening it to peruse the sheet music. Its immaculate condition spoke to its challenge. I’d never felt any class was ready to tackle this particular piece by Gustav Holst. And August planned to modify it? Every part? The idea was preposterous. It would take ages—for me, anyhow. Maybe August could manage it over afternoon tea.

“Um… sure. If you think they can handle it.”

“Some of them. But with discipline, I have hope.” He shifted a few folders around and plucked another from a pile. “And potentially Boléro by Ravel. It needs a strong flutist, but Abby Young can manage. I’ll give her some pointers. I’d like to find a piece to highlight Dean’s trumpeting. He should have first chair. His skills are beyond the girl’s… What’s her name? Gretta?”

“Gina.”

“Dean’s better.”

“He’s in ninth grade.”

“So?”

“I don’t give first chair positions to grade nines, no matter their skill.”

August’s brow furrowed. He didn’t ask why, but the question sat on his tongue. Perhaps he was considering his daughter, who was leaps and bounds beyond anyone in the senior class. He returned to the spread of files. I set Holst on the corner of the desk and pulled up the chair typically used by students. “It’s Friday.”

“Yes.”

August’s movements turned jerky and erratic with the invasion of his space. He shuffled files senselessly, opening and closing them without looking at the contents.

“Would you like to grab… coffee or a drink? Dinner perhaps? We need to discuss how to approach the solos next week and review my grading scale. I can show you the form I use. Make sure we’re on the same page.”

August stilled, gaze locked on a roughened file containing Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture , a piece the concert band had performed several times over the years. It presented a challenge while also being recognizable. The students always enjoyed it.

August wet his lips and warily scanned the classroom before lowering his voice. “You’ve got the wrong idea about me.”

“The invitation is work-related, August. Nothing more. Teachers do that sort of thing.”

He thumbed the frayed edge of the file and drummed his fingers once, twice, three times before opening it and tapping the cover page. “I always loved this piece. Intensely dramatic. Powerful. It gives me chills when I hear it performed.”

“Tchaikovsky has always been a favorite of mine.”

“Has the concert band played it recently?”

“It’s been about six years, so no.”

August nodded as he flipped through the instrumentation for each section. “We should add it to the list.”

“Sure.”

The disharmony of so many instruments playing at once filled the space between us. Practice sessions had turned to goofing around, and had I not been so focused on getting an answer from August, I might have reprimanded the class for not using their time wisely.

I waited.

August shuffled through scores, vocalizing his opinion on several and disregarding my invitation until I gave up and stood. “Never mind. I’m sure we can sort out grading on the fly.”

I turned to let the students know the bell was about to ring and they should pack up when August spoke. “Is nine too late? Constance usually shuts herself in her bedroom with a book by then, so I’d feel more comfortable leaving her if it was later. We don’t need to eat. A drink would suffice.”

“Nine it is. There’s a jazz bar on George Street called Junction. They usually have live music on Friday nights. It’s not as noisy as it sounds. More serene. Atmospheric. We’ll be able to talk. It’s classy. I like it. They do a nice cocktail.”

I stopped rambling as I considered the intimate setting of Junction and wondered if August would think I’d deceived him when he showed up. My innocent invitation was pure on the surface, but deep down, I couldn’t help casting one last lure into the water.

“I’ll find it.”

The bell rang, and the room exploded into Friday afternoon chaos as students packed up and scattered.

Instead of seeing them out or saying goodbye, I found a notepad and pen buried among the scores and jotted my phone number before tossing it to August. Something told me he was the type who would go home and talk himself out of it, and I would spend half the night drinking alone, waiting futilely for him to show up.

“If you can’t make it, please have the courtesy of letting me know.”