6. August

Chapter six

August

F ourth period arrived, along with a full dose of anxiety and a classroom full of students my daughter’s age. I couldn’t share my concerns with Niles. Although amicable with one another, undeniable tension rippled the air between us.

Niles didn’t like me. He didn’t want me there.

Worse, he seemed to have put me on a pedestal, convinced I lived an idealistic life because of a top education and career success. Niles didn’t see the darker side of my life, the underbelly, the horror that lived behind curtain number two outside the public eye. My complicated relationship with Chloé and my parents notwithstanding, ten minutes of observing the friction between father and daughter might show him otherwise. The elevated pedestal was undeserved.

Niles would soon realize that one could excel at music and fail at life.

Shame filled me long before Constance graced the classroom. She didn’t want me there either, and our ongoing squabbles might prove disruptive, if not embarrassing.

Before I could make excuses and leave, escape to the back room as planned, Constance appeared among a cluster of students. She frantically scanned the room until our gazes clashed, upon which she gave me a cold-eyed glare, flicked a braid over her shoulder, and took a seat next to three violinists, who prepared their instruments, tightening bowstrings and testing their tuning.

The boy on Constance’s left immediately engaged her with ceaseless chatter, and she smiled in a way I’d never seen. My gut curdled. Any parent understood the queasy sensation born when their child reached puberty and started dating, but I was at a disadvantage. I hadn’t developed a foundational relationship with Constance in her youth. My extended absence meant I’d never been the rule enforcer. That responsibility had rested solely with Chloé.

Until now.

The new position of authority was going down like a sinking ship.

The boy was a fellow violinist with auburn hair and glowing dimples. Constance communicated with nods, shakes, and a few simple hand gestures. No shrugging or eye rolling for him. She used her phone to type messages to the boy, and he read them with wide eyes before responding. I considered taking her phone away but dismissed the notion. It was not a feasible option in this day and age.

With the assembly of instruments came loud honking, sharp screeching, and the shrill whine of tuning. Warmups filled the room. Staccato scales and long-held notes. A boy with a trumpet balanced on his knee blew raspberries into a mouthpiece and formed obscure and purposefully obscene shapes with his lips to exercise his embouchure.

Niles quieted them after a time and motioned me forward. He’d insisted on a proper introduction before I escaped to the back room, as he’d done with the other classes. For whatever reason, Niles felt it prudent to list the handful of accomplishments I’d shared earlier in the day like they alone encompassed me as a person. Little did he know that what I told him barely scratched the surface.

“Starting today, we have a guest teacher among us. Please welcome Maestro Castellanos, a Juilliard-trained musician specializing in flute, piano, composition, and theory. The maestro left the Chicago Symphony Orchestra to join us, so we should be grateful he’s lending us his talent.”

“ Mr. Castellanos is fine. It’s nice to be here.”

The mouth-stretching trumpeter raised a hand and waited to be acknowledged before speaking. “I’ve heard of you. My mom saw you perform in London years ago, a private show at the Royal Festival Hall. She talked about it nonstop when she got home. She’s followed your career ever since. She thinks you’re hot.” Students giggled. “She has a poster of you in her office. Drives Dad crazy. I can’t wait to tell her you’re teaching us. You won two World Classical Music Awards, didn’t you?”

I sensed Niles’s gaze boring into the side of my face and reached for the buttons on my jacket, undoing the top one, then doing it back up before clearing my throat. “I won three, actually.” Instead of embellishing, I offered the youth a patent smile and motioned to Constance. “My daughter won the gold WCMA at age six for violin. I think that’s far more notable.”

Constance shrank in her seat as several students glanced in her direction. The toxic glare I earned suggested I’d misspoken. Again.

“Tell your mother I said hi,” I concluded with a wince.

Niles came to the rescue, calling the class to order and allowing me to slip out of the spotlight and into the back room. I hadn’t expected to be recognized and put on the spot. My fame was nuanced. Unless a person was entrenched in the classical music world, I was nobody. Another face in the crowd. I’d declined every offer to publish my work, sticking to private performances to showcase new pieces. I’d refused countless TV interviews and allowed only a few articles to be printed in magazines.

My music was my voice, and if people wanted to hear it, they could find me in an auditorium on stage. They could pay the big bucks and attend a show. Unfortunately, being photographed was part of most contracts. Marketing included printing brochures and posters, double-page spreads in programs listing the dozens of achievements Niles had yet to learn about.

I turned on the light in the music library and absorbed the task as I listened to Niles teach.

The complexity of scale variations he used with the ninth graders for warmup was understandably different from those he used with the seniors. Both verged on rote. The students would benefit from more variety. A bigger challenge. He didn’t correct them as he should when they made mistakes. I would change that.

Standing among thigh-high stacks of compositions, ear cocked, picking out errors and easily distinguishing my daughter’s playing from her auburn-haired suitor, the conductor in me reared with a barely restrained force.

Among a class of twenty-some-odd students, I heard every note, evaluated each individual pitch and reverberation, and concluded that eleven students played with reasonable skill, and the rest were trash. I wanted to be at Niles’s desk, appraising them properly and taking notes for later use.

Constance would have been upset regardless. My mere existence bothered her. Whether I hid in the back room or remained in plain sight, it wouldn’t change our relationship.

Before long, Niles allowed the teens to spread out and work on their midterm solos. A few students gathered in the instrument storage area outside the music library, where I’d lost myself among scores.

I half listened and half explored options for the spring concert, plucking crisper folders from the shelf, knowing, because of their condition, they contained compositions that had likely never been played. Unaware of the skill level of the concert band and having only seen the senior class for the first time earlier that day, I was ill-prepared to choose something appropriate.

Abandoning the task, I slipped out the door and moved silently among the scattered pupils, observing their individual methods of practice, analyzing their choices for their pieces, and smiling at the few who made eye contact.

Although the urge to offer guidance or suggestions was almost too strong to resist, I held my tongue, hearing my daughter call me a show-off and seeing Niles’s face when I’d proposed changes to his playing on the first day we’d met.

Another day, when they were more comfortable with my presence and didn’t see me as a threat, I would correct their errors. Although I rather thought Niles was the only person who felt threatened by me, and I couldn’t fathom why.

The practice rooms contained a few students each, none taking advantage of the provided study time, seemingly more interested in chatting. How did they expect to improve? Again, I held my tongue.

In the main music room, a spread of teenagers occupied every nook and cranny, and the conglomeration of noise was familiar and soothing.

The mouth-stretching trumpet player stood nearby, fingers bouncing with ease on the keys of his instrument. His tone was perfect, and I followed along as he played. When he caught me watching, he stopped and grinned. “I want to go to Juilliard too, so if you have any advice…”

“I do. Practice, practice, practice. Your playing is decent, but decent won’t get you anywhere. It needs to be exceptional. Eat, sleep, and breathe your music. It’s a discipline as much as a skill. Juilliard is beyond competitive. Only the best land there, so you need to be the best.”

“And I’m not yet?”

“Not even close.”

It was a daunting notion for a fourteen-year-old to understand, but I had a hunch this kid got it.

“Fair enough.” He motioned to the sheet music on the stand. “Any feedback? Don’t coddle me. I can take it.”

I chuckled. “All right. I suggest you find something more challenging. This piece is far too easy. You’ll never improve if you don’t take risks.”

His face fell. “But I only have two weeks until testing.”

I slanted a brow at the pink-cheeked youth. “And?”

“Practice, practice, practice,” he said. “Got it.”

“What’s your name?”

“Dean.”

“You have the right attitude, Dean. If you persevere, you’ll go far. I have an ear for these things. You have talent.” I thumbed over my shoulder. “Now go pick something harder. Don’t shy away from a challenge.”

With a boyish smile, he put his instrument down and headed into the back room.

The auburn-haired teen who’d been smitten with my daughter played a short distance away. Unlike Dean, he’d chosen a piece beyond his skill level and was butchering it. I crossed the room and waited for him to finish. Despite my decision not to interfere, I offered the youth the advice I’d given Niles.

“You’re making it harder than it has to be. Slow your tempo. Disregard whatever the recommendation is at the top. Consider allegro a suggestion, not a rule, until you figure out the notes. Trust me. Your dynamics will shine, and you’ll be able to catch all those runs with a modified pace. Better to command the piece than to always feel like you’re stumbling to catch up.”

When I motioned for him to try again, I kept metronomic time by clapping. It was a world better, and the youth smiled.

“How’d that feel?”

“Way easier.”

“Well done…” I quirked a brow. “Your name?”

“It’s Cody.”

“Well done, Cody. Much better. Did you hear the difference?”

“I did.”

“In the future, don’t tackle something far beyond your reach.”

And stay away from my daughter , I wanted to add but didn’t.

“Keep it up. Also, you overlooked the repeat at the end. Missed it both times. That’s a grave error in my books.”

Cody puzzled the sheet music. “Oh shit… shoot.”

I left him alone to practice and scanned for the object of Cody’s affection.

Constance had set up her music stand beside Niles’s desk. He looked over her shoulder, watching as she played a complex piece that far surpassed the level of her peers. Dean might have to battle his way into Juilliard, but Constance was already on their watch list.

A smile touched the corners of Niles’s mouth, and despite my daughter’s impeccable performance, it was the music teacher who stole my focus.

I couldn’t look away. Although he’d pulled his hair back again that day, several shorter strands escaped the elastic and framed his face, curtaining his trimly bearded jaw. Dappled in the afternoon light shining from a high window, Niles was an autumn sunset, aglow with pride, warming the room with his presence. I couldn’t seem to shake the attraction, and it worried me.

So many questions roared through my head. Was he married? Was he single? Was he attracted to men?

None of it mattered. I’d sworn decades ago that I wouldn’t entertain baseless desires. I was an adult with self-control. The appeal was rooted in loneliness and frustration, of which I had ample supply since October. Nothing more.

Constance finished playing and lowered the violin, glancing expectantly at Niles. He spoke, his voice quiet among the cacophony of instruments as he pointed at sections of the sheet music, offering feedback, I presumed. Constance listened and nodded with more attentiveness than she’d ever given me.

Niles spoke again, and she laughed.

When Constance leaned the violin against the side of the desk and reached for a pen and paper—I assumed to respond as she’d done with me at the restaurant—Niles stopped her, clasping her hands between his. His expression changed as he communicated something that looked serious.

Good, I thought. He was addressing the infuriating silent act and informing my daughter she needed to use words.

But when Niles released his grip on her hands, Constance used ASL to respond. My mind stuttered and stalled.

Niles held up a halting hand and said something. Constance repeated the gestures, only slower the second time.

Niles nodded as he carefully watched, brows furrowed.

Was he… Had he just…

No! I’d specifically explained to Dr. McCaine that the staff were to encourage Constance to use her voice. Depending on crutches was unnecessary. She could speak perfectly well but chose not to. Was Niles blatantly ignoring this request?

Without pausing to regulate my emotions, I marched across the room, tugging my suit jacket in place, fighting the urge to loosen my tie so it would stop choking the life out of me.

At Niles’s desk, I startled them both. Their matching smiles turned to matching frowns as I pivoted between them, unsure who to address first. My daughter’s indignance was familiar and hit a nerve, so I aimed my animosity at Niles.

“In my meeting with Dr. McCaine, I made it abundantly clear that faculty were to encourage Constance to use her voice when communicating. Under no circumstance should you be facilitating any other option.”

Constance smacked my arm and stamped a foot. Her face said all she wouldn’t.

“Enough. Take your stand and violin and practice elsewhere. I’m having a word with Mr. Edwidge.”

Her hands flew in a yelling manner. Whatever she signed went over my head. Before I could further reprimand her, she did as she was told, but she did it with all the indignance of a scorned teenager.

The instant she was out of range, I lowered my voice and hissed, “You will not—”

Niles spoke over top of me, and he did not whisper. “No, you will not come in here and tell me how to run my classroom. If you want to be a parent, do it at home. As far as I’m concerned, it’s more important that Constance is comfortable among her peers. Speaking aloud clearly makes her uncomfortable, so if she needs to find another way to communicate, she’s welcome to do that. My classroom, my rules. You don’t like it, Maestro , get out.”

My ears rang with the abruptness of Niles’s speech. The room had gone silent. Not a single instrument sounded. I knew without turning that all the teenagers were watching. My daughter was watching.

I could have stood my ground and fought. I was the parent. I had a right to decide how my daughter was treated, but not a single soul would back me up. Chloé would have agreed with Niles’s sentiment. My parents had told me a dozen times that Constance would outgrow the shame of her prosthesis, and I should let her walk her own path and support her.

Instead of rebuking or taking Constance by the arm—she would have caused a further scene—I departed with what little dignity I had left. In the hallway, I unbuttoned my jacket and loosened my tie only to discover when I reached the main doors of the academy that I’d left my wool overcoat in Niles’s classroom. Freezing rain fell in sheets and the paltry cottage was a five-minute walk through the forest. I’d be soaked and numb with cold before I got home. Maybe I’d catch pneumonia. It would be fitting.

I set off into the weather, chin down, shoulders hunched. The rain pelted my cheeks like razor blades.

I wanted to go back to Chicago. I wanted to drive to the city, find Chloé, and tell her I couldn’t do this anymore. But then what would happen to Constance?

***

I didn’t change out of my wet clothes when I got home. Sodden and with my teeth chattering, I poured a stiff drink, sat at the piano, and played. Parts of my commissioned work came first, then other unfinished projects. I played popular classical pieces, unpopular arrangements, and tinkered with the strange few bars of music that had become like an earworm, aggravating me all day.

Constance stormed to her room the minute she came home from school, slamming the door in case I didn’t know she was angry.

At dinner, she refused to join me, so I ate alone. Ham, cheese, and mustard sandwiches on gummy white bread that stuck to the roof of my mouth. It punctuated the unpleasantness of the situation. In an effort to be the affable father, I always allowed Constance to pick the groceries. It meant there was rarely anything in the fridge that appealed to me.

Where had affable gotten me? Nowhere.

I added a second stiff drink to wash the gluey mess down, wanting nothing more than to cushion the horrible day and make it more tolerable.

At nine, I knocked on Constance’s bedroom door. No response. I knocked again, offered a warning, and poked my head inside, only to deflate. There would be no conversation that evening. She’d fallen asleep reading a book in bed. I crossed the room, removed the novel from her hands—Charlotte Bront?’s Jane Eyre —and pulled the covers to her shoulders. She was still dressed in her school uniform, but I didn’t have the heart or courage to wake her and see if she wanted to change. Besides, our argument was best left unresolved. I would inevitably say something I shouldn’t and make it worse.

In the main room of the cottage, I peered out the window. The rain had turned to snow at sundown, and it danced and swirled in the air like fairy dust, gathering on tree branches and carpeting the ground.

I’d lived in North America for the past four years. Chicago saw plenty of snow in the winter months, and I was led to believe this part of Ontario was the same, but it seemed soon for such ongoing storms and accumulation.

Mesmerized by the snowfall, my thoughts drifted to the conflict with Niles that afternoon. His words had played on repeat since I left in the middle of class. More than once, I considered breaking the rules and calling Chloé, but unless she had allocated phone time, I wouldn’t get through. Perhaps if I was stubborn and demanding enough, I could…

Could what? It was out of my hands. Nothing could be done at this stage.

Lacking a proper coat, I found a heavy woolen sweater, traded my wrinkled and weather-stained suit for jeans and a long-sleeve turtleneck, layered up, and ventured out into the night. My shoes retained the dampness from earlier, and my socks grew instantly wet.

I followed the path to the school but found the main building locked for the night. Timber Creek campus consisted of several historic buildings. I hadn’t spent much time familiarizing myself, but I recognized the separate dormitories and identified the monolithic structure between them as the dining hall and shared living space where students could spend their recreational time.

Lights shone from a few windows on the main level. When I tried the door, I found it unlocked. Locating a supervisor—in an entertainment room where a dozen or more teens were piled together on three couches watching a movie—I introduced myself as a guest teacher and asked if they knew how I might contact Niles Edwidge.

“His number is on the staff phone list.”

“And how would I go about getting one of those?”

“Give me a second. Keep an eye on this group. You turn your back, and they get up to no good.”

The supervisor—a woman in her midtwenties—vanished down the hall. Shrek played on an oversized TV. The zombie-eyed spectators barely acknowledged my presence. Would Constance survive at a boarding school? Would she fit in and make friends? Would she curl up on a couch with girls her age and watch movies like a normal teenager? She’d lived an isolated life thus far. It was the foundation of my argument when I’d told Chloé she needed to be in regular school.

Or did I only want these things so I could return to my own life? Were my reasons selfish, or was I looking out for Constance’s best interests?

I didn’t have the answers. Perhaps it was a bit of both.

The supervisor returned with a packet of papers stapled together in the corner. “Here you are.”

She angled the page and pointed to an entry where Niles Edwidge’s phone number and home address were listed. I removed my phone, opened the app to create a new contact, and entered both pieces of information.

Thanking the woman, I returned to the snowy outdoors to consider my options.