You like it more than I do. You have to look ahead.”
“Do I? Thank you for telling me. What else, if you don’t mind saying so, do I have to do?”
“You’d cut off your own arm to spite me, wouldn’t you?”
The woman paused. “No,” she finally said. “I like my arm.”
When the laughter—nervous, short-lived—sputtered out, that week’s group leader stepped forward to make the speech about conflict’s deep roots, and asked the man and woman to come back next week with new plans for their future. “Who else?” he asked, and Cecilia kept her eyes on the soft blue linoleum until a pair of newcomers, married not quite a year, came to their feet, the man pulling the woman up beside him. “He,” the woman said, jerking her chin at her scowling, straw-haired husband, “he thinks coming here is a good idea.”
“What ideas do you have?” the husband asked. “Buy some cocaine, go out to a club, buy some more cocaine?”
“He thinks I’m his problem. He’s his own problem. A big one.”
“You don’t want a husband. You want a playmate. Somebody to sit in the sandbox with you.”
The woman—short, broad, her forehead high under a helmet of shiny black hair—laughed, a sound like tearing cloth. “You’re right. I’d like a playmate. But instead I’ve got the goddamn nursery school teacher checking to make sure I pooped on time.”
Even Nancy, two seats down from Cecilia, looked uneasy, although she usually welcomed confrontation and stout talk. David was the one who said, “Come on, you two. The fact that you’re here together means you’re willing to find some common ground.”
The man said, “The fact that we’re here together means I forced her into the car.”
“He shoved me into the front seat,” the woman said. “I could get him for assault.”
“You can start this if you want,” the man said, his voice winched tight. “There are lots of crimes we can talk about.”
“He loves to threaten me,” the woman said. “He loves to tell people that I’m a whore and a jailbird. Like he’s the angel Gabriel. Where do you think I met him?”
“Where?” Nancy asked.
“In detox.” When the woman smoothed back her ridge of glossy hair, Cecilia could see the fan of acne over her temple. “But I don’t tell people that.”
“Why not?” the group leader asked.
“Look at him. Isn’t he better than God? Nobody would ever believe he was hopping around a room, clawing at his T-shirt.”
“I believe you,” David said. So did Cecilia. The man’s face, which had been bright with anger, had gone chalky, his lips gray. Cecilia thought he might claw at his T-shirt any second.
“He doesn’t like me to tell people,” the woman said. In the room’s hush she sat quietly, then rested her hand on her husband’s arm. He looked at her hand until she moved it away again.
David said, “The important thing is to finish what you start. Once you make a decision, stay with it. Even if you find out it isn’t turning out the way you expected. Keep going anyway.”
Cecilia nodded. The next day she would realize David’s words weren’t quite in line with the Life Ties philosophy, but for now the man and the woman nodded too, and the group leader proposed they all take a break. Vivy headed for the parking lot, Sam stayed for tea, and David hastened to the new couple to give them his phone number.
Sandy McGee squealed up three more notes, then lifted her bow from the strings. Cecilia glanced at her watch: ten minutes left.
“Can I play my second piece now?” Sandy asked.
“Good idea.” Cecilia cranked her smile back into place. “Think for a second before you begin. Remember: you want to sound like trickling water.”
The girl obediently paused, then dragged her bow across the strings, smearing the opening four notes.
“Lightly.”
After two more attempts, Cecilia stood and said, “I think that’s enough for today,” taking the sheet music from the stand. Sandy looked up with her brackish green eyes, then took her time unlatching the violin case and nestling her violin back into its velvet.
While she was still loosening the strings of the bow, a knock came at the door, and Cecilia sighed. A part of her was always waiting for some neighbor, perhaps the woman two apartments down, so edematous that her ankles looked like quivering bags of fluid, to complain about the noise. Feeling Sandy’s interested gaze, Cecilia went to the door, searching for words of appeasement that dissolved when she found Sam, with his shaggy, exuberant curls, grinning at her.
“Hey,” he said. “How’s that design coming? I’m on my way downtown. If you want, I’ll take them right now and swing by the copy shop. Save you a trip.”
“Oh Sam—I forgot all about it. Darn it. I’m in the doghouse now.” She’d meant to design the new ad last night, something Paul could post to the website and they could use for new flyers. But Cecilia had spent last night brooding about David, and the design was nothing but a stack of rough sketches on the kitchen table. “I’ll get them in by this afternoon.”
“We can do them right now, if you want,” he said, shrugging. “Take a half hour. I can still drop them off for you.”
“You’re a lifesaver,” she said, then stepped back to let him into the apartment and put her arm around Sandy. “This is my new Paganini,” she said.
“I heard her,” Sam said, and turned to the girl. “Do you like playing the violin?”
“Not exactly,” Sandy said, wiggling with embarrassment. “Do you like listening?”
“Not exactly,” Sam said, and Sandy let out a bray of laughter.
Cecilia gave the girl’s shoulders a squeeze and turned toward the kitchen. “What kind of ice cream today?”
“Mocha Crunch.” Sandy looked back at Sam as they followed Cecilia. “This is the best part of the lesson,” she said.
“I believe it.”
“Hard work deserves a reward,” Cecilia said, scooping out a generous cone for the girl. “Now, remember: move your arm from the elbow. You want a touch that’s light, but firm.”
“A feather on the strings.” Sandy’s smile was ironic, older than her years, already defeated.
Cecilia matched her smile. “That’s right.” A tan dot of melted Mocha Crunch shone on Sandy’s violin case as she threaded her way back to the front door and left it half open behind her.
“Am I wrong, or is that girl’s heart breaking?” Sam asked.
“Every day a little more. It’s killing me. Want some Mocha Crunch?”
“I’d
