28. Niles

Chapter twenty-eight

Niles

I should have been fuming. August knew exactly when he planned to leave as we’d eaten dinner the previous night, as we’d made love in his bed, as he’d curled around me while we slept, but he didn’t have the audacity to tell me or say goodbye. I had to learn about his departure from a dorm supervisor who called shortly after fourth period ended to inform me Constance was having a fit and could I please try to calm her down.

Boggled, I crossed campus at a run, hustling up the stairs to the third floor where they had housed her. I arrived on scene to her throwing the contents of several boxes out the window. Clothing. Books. Toiletries. Shoes.

Cody lingered in the hallway with several female students from neighboring rooms, bewildered, seemingly at a loss.

“You aren’t supposed to be up here,” I reminded him. The female dormitory was out of bounds to male students, and he knew it.

“Yeah, but—” He motioned.

“No buts. Get going.”

“But her dad left.”

I stalled and stared at the kid’s stony expression. “What?”

“Around lunchtime. He pulled her from class, moved her from the cottage to here, and just left.”

I absorbed Cody’s words and glanced into Constance’s dorm. A supervisor was trying and failing to calm her down. The poor girl’s face, running with tears and blotchy from crying, poured so much torment my heart ached.

Damn you, August. You didn’t listen.

I patted Cody’s shoulder and aimed him toward the stairs. “I’ll take care of her.”

“Did, like, you two break up or something?”

“What? No… It’s… complicated. Go on now. She’ll be okay.”

But Constance would not be okay. She’d been torn from her mother and rejected by her father. That day marked the first of many outbursts.

I entered the room, and the minute Constance saw me, she ran into my arms, collapsing and sobbing uncontrollably. Her sign language was messy and hard to understand when she was finally able to talk. She trembled and had to keep wiping her nose and eyes.

He left. I told him not to, but he left.

“He’s coming back.”

He’s not. I hate him.

Why should she believe me? August had spent a lifetime running from the responsibility of fatherhood. For all I knew, Constance was right, and August wasn’t coming back. He’d padded his exit with proclamations of love, but his shady reasons and elusive explanations didn’t bolster confidence.

Somehow, I calmed Constance, encouraged her to collect her things from the lawn below, and walked her to the activity room where her friends waited.

Did he break up with you? she signed.

“No.” The impact of his absence, however, felt oddly similar to the dissolution of a relationship. “And he said he’d be back.”

He won’t be. Dad’s a liar.

Constance’s biggest concern seemed to be for me, so I assured her I was fine and that August and I had parted on good terms. Eventually, she joined her friends.

As I drove home that afternoon, I questioned everything. Was I once again playing the part of a fool? Our conversation from the previous night played on repeat in my head. Regardless of the outcome, I was a grown man and could handle whatever transpired. Constance worried me, and the more I replayed the scene in the dorm, the angrier I got. How could August not see the desperation in her? She needed her father now more than ever.

August hadn’t texted, so I sent him one, expressing everything I felt in my heart.

You asshole.

***

The spring concert had once again become my responsibility. I junked August’s modified version of “Chorale from Jupiter” and every other ridiculous piece he’d chosen. No one in the band was enjoying themselves, with August’s stern way of conducting and finicky need for perfection. Instead, I selected a few fun compositions, including a medley of show tunes. We didn’t have much time to start fresh—the concert was in May—but the scores were simple enough that the students would have no trouble pulling them together.

Constance stayed every day after school to rehearse our duet or play with the band. She remained sullen and withdrawn, avoiding friends, avoiding Cody—whose cloudy countenance mimicked his disaffected girlfriend’s.

August’s departure had a rippling effect on both our lives, and those ripples spread outward.

Over the course of two weeks, Koa approached me more than once to say he had concerns. Constance’s work was perpetually incomplete, and what she did submit was subpar at best. It was the same in all her classes. The only reason I suspected her music didn’t suffer was because I had become her leaning post, and music was an outlet, but even then, she didn’t talk to me about August.

A month went by. The elusive musician who I could hardly consider a boyfriend called a handful of times. I refused to answer, at once angry at his irresponsibility and too afraid I’d resort to begging him to come back. I’d exposed my heart and left myself vulnerable, and I’d never been good at closing doors once they were open.

In April, Constance started skipping classes and gave up on her music. Once, I got pulled from teaching because another student from her dorm reported she’d left with plans to hitchhike to Toronto in search of her mother. Thankfully, for as worldly as Constance could be, her street smarts left much to be desired, so I caught up with her at a bus stop in Peterborough.

“Get in,” I said, pulling up alongside the curb.

She didn’t argue, slipping miserably into the passenger seat, wedging an overfull backpack between her legs. I didn’t scold or lecture her. It wasn’t my place. Instead, I drove back to the school and walked her to class.

Before she entered, I caught her arm. “So you’re aware, every time you pull a stunt like this, I’m the one you’re punishing, not him. I’m the one getting pulled from work. I’m the one suffering.”

I’m sorry.

“After class this afternoon, I want you to stick around. I need help with something.”

She donned a quizzical expression, but I didn’t elaborate.

“Get going.”

At the end of the day, Constance remained seated as the rest of the fourth-period music students packed their instruments.

“You won’t need that.” I motioned to her violin.

She put it away and sat rigid, peering over the music stand as I tidied my desk. Once the rest of the students were gone, I moved to the piano and sat.

Are we practicing our duet? she signed

“No.” I spread the complex piano piece I’d been studying for years on the rack. “I need your help. I’ve struggled with this piece for a long time, and I want to open with it at the concert. The first time your dad heard it, he criticized my playing. It was a punch to the gut. I’ve been sore about it since and haven’t gone near it.”

Constance approached and peered over my shoulder to see what I’d arranged on the rack.

He’s a perfectionist, she signed.

“Yes. To a fault… To his own detriment. I’m going to play it for you, and I’ll probably butcher it, but I want you to be honest and tell me what you think. If it’s a lost cause, say so.”

You want my feedback? Constance seemed perplexed at the request.

“Yes. You’re a far better pianist than me, and I value your opinion.”

You don’t value my dad’s?

I chuckled. “I do, but…” I recalled August’s words. “He has the harsh presence of a conductor, and I have the soft heart of a teacher. I wasn’t made for the stage. When someone yells at me or points out my flaws, I dig a hole and bury myself inside.”

He yelled at you?

“No. But he certainly told it like it was, and I need gentler handling. I’ve seen you work with Cody. You have a gift, Constance. You’d make an excellent teacher.”

For the first time in a month, Constance stood taller, and her face brightened.

“Will you help me improve this mess?”

She nodded and gestured for me to play.

Playing Gaspard de la Nuit had been a goal of mine since graduating from teacher’s college. I went through phases of heavy practicing before giving up, never satisfied I did it justice. As I played for Constance, she lingered close, following along and moving the sheet music when required.

I stumbled over the worst transitions but didn’t let it stop me. When I finished, I dropped my hands into my lap and sighed. “That was a train wreck.”

Constance slipped onto the piano bench beside me and shook her head, rearranging the music. Not at all. You inject so much emotion into your playing. I love it. So many people simply play the notes without feeling. I felt that. It was powerful. I have some tricks that might help with the transitions.

We worked together for an hour, Constance overly cautious not to step on my toes or hurt my feelings. The request for assistance started as a means of giving her something to focus on, but the heart she put into the task seemed to help soothe the sting of other issues.

By the middle of May, Constance showed signs of adjusting to her new reality. Her temperament improved, and her grades went up. Friends regathered, and Cody smiled anew.

It was me who’d taken on her suffering. August had been gone seven weeks, and we’d barely spoken. To shield my heart, I still refused his calls and kept texting to a minimum. He continued to assure me of his return, but I quit believing in him. Soon was the only date he’d given when I asked for a time frame.

The longer he was away, the more I understood Constance’s assessment. Was she right? Was he never coming back?

With a week until the spring concert, my mood plummeted. Koa invited me over several times for wine and conversation, but his morose outlook on life—however restored by Jersey’s companionship—didn’t invoke positivity.

Constance noticed, no matter how hard I tried to hide it. My teaching suffered. The energy in the classroom tanked, and I stopped sleeping well.

During an afternoon rehearsal, when we’d exhausted playing the duet, Constance leaned her head on my shoulder in silent commiseration. I had no doubt we were thinking about the same person. August Castellanos.

He’d abandoned us both.