nine yards.”
“The whole nine yards?”
“You know what I mean. Love, marriage, kids, dogs, mortgages, responsibility, life—”
“Poor Peter. You’re feeling so burdened.”
“I’m not feeling burdened, I am burdened.”
Rina took his hand. “You want to go out to New York again?”
Decker shook his head no. “What does that say to Cindy? That every time there’s a crisis, Daddy’ll come to rescue her? No, I’ve got to let her deal with it and just pray for the best.” He looked at the kitchen clock. “Is it too early to say Shacharit?”
Rina thought a moment. There were entire sections of Talmud written about the permissible times to say the morning prayers. Rina looked at the kitchen clock. A little before three A.M.
“It’s never too early or too late to pray. And Peter, add your own private wishes at the beginning of Shemonah Esreh. Ask Hashem specifically to look after Cindy, to watch over her and keep her safe. Make your requests as detailed as you want.”
Decker smiled. “I can do that?”
Rina smiled back. “You can do that.”
7
In the dead of night, I wrote letters to my grandparents, all the while growing even more aloof from my father and stepmother. Jean tried to cut through my secrecy with insipid stabs into my personal life. It became clear that she thought I was sequestering a boyfriend. I answered her politely, but revealed nothing. My father never even picked up on my change of attitude. To him, I was a house pet. As long as I was healthy and didn’t pee on the carpet, I was left to benign neglect.
The school week rocketed by. With Chris gone, I was back to walking home. On Tuesday, Bull—né Steve—Anderson met me at my locker after school and offered me a ride. The school’s star halfback, as did Chris, ran in the fast lane of booze, drugs, and sex. Steve was handsome and buffed with a con-man smile. He’d been cordial to me the year I’d tutored him. But beyond that, he had never given me a second glance.
On the lift home, I sensed a change—the wolfish way he looked at me. I sat rigidly in the passenger seat of his Camaro, showing scant interest in his conversation. When he parked in front of my house, he told me I needed to loosen up and have some fun. He invited me to a party that night. I declined, citing schoolwork. When I closed the door to my house, I turned the deadbolt.
The next day, when Steve saw me in the halls, he acknowledged me with the barest of courtesy. I was relieved.
Chris called me up the following Friday morning. Hearing his voice sent ripples of pleasure down my spine. He wasn’t coming to school but he told me to come to his place tonight at the usual time.
I was weak-kneed when he answered the door that evening. He wore a black silk jacket over a black tee and faded jeans. His hair had been stepped in back, but it was long and loose in front. A gold crucifix hung from his neck. He took the lead-filled backpacks I was carrying.
“Welcome back,” I said.
“Thank you.” He hefted the book bags onto his kitchen counter. “These are heavy. Next time, just leave them in the car and I’ll get them for you.”
He poured me a cup of coffee and told me to take a seat. I pulled up a stool. “How’d your gig go?”
“Without a hitch,” he said. “I never have any problem with work. How’ve you been?”
“Fine. A little nervous actually.”
“Why’s that?”
“Mr. Hedding announced an orchestra test this Monday.”
“Which piece?”
“Brandenburg Number Two. I’m embarrassed to play in front of you.”
“Why?” He poured himself a shot of Scotch. “I’ve heard you play before.”
“Yeah, but now it’s different. I know you.”
“You see me struggling in my studies all the time. I’m not embarrassed. You shouldn’t be either.”
“But this is different.”
“Why?”
I leaned on my elbows. “Because my bad playing is so … visceral. It’s so … out there … public.”
“You never cared before.”
“Because I never had to look you in the eye afterward.”
Chris held a finger in the air, disappeared, then came back a moment later with a violin case. He took out the instrument, tuned it, then motioned me up from the stool.
“Play for me.”
He offered me the fiddle. I regarded it as if it were an evil talisman. “I don’t have the sheet music.”
He sat on his leather couch and sipped his drink. “Play what you know by heart.”
“I don’t know anything by heart.”
“So just draw the bow across the strings. Get a sound from it, all right?”
I sighed. I got As in orchestra only because I showed up on time and took all the tests. It was no reflection of my skill as a musician. Red-faced, I started bowing open strings. My hands were shaking. I made sounds akin to a strangling cat’s. I stopped and giggled, but Chris kept his expression flat.
“Keep going.”
“I know how sensitive your ear is. How can you stand it?”
“Keep going.”
I played the test piece as best I could by heart. I made mistakes. I sounded terrible. I was almost in tears. I kept waiting for him to grimace, but he sat stoically.
“Play it again.”
“Chris—”
“Play it again.”
“This is torture—”
“Play it again.”
I did. I sounded a bit better and Chris gave me a compliment to that effect. “Can I please stop now?” I asked.
Chris got up from the couch, took the violin.
“It’s a beautiful-sounding instrument,” I said. “I wish I could do it more justice. Why don’t you play the piece?”
He shrugged, tucked the violin under his chin, and came up with a concerto that was note-perfect as well as sound-perfect. I told him I hated him.
He smiled, put the violin away, then patted his jacket pockets. “Where’d I put … ah, here we go.” He pulled out a small wrapped package.
