why he sent me out here in the first place. A fresh start. But I’m still known as Joey Donatti’s kid. If my uncle ever goes down, I drown with him. It’s better if people think you’re only my tutor. It’s late. Get dressed and I’ll follow you home. Make sure you get in all right.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I do,” Chris whispered. “You have a treasure, you guard it with your life.”
8
And it was exactly like before. Chris stayed in his group, Cheryl Diggs giving him neck rubs, outwardly oblivious to my distant longing stares. Nothing passed between us, even when we were alone. I simply tutored him. As if he had locked up his feelings for me and put them in cold storage.
His apathy confused me, then angered me. In the end, he had cut me to the quick. I felt embarrassed and ashamed by what I had done for him, for falling for his glib talk and sweet words. By Friday, I decided that I didn’t want to see him anymore. When I came to his place that evening, he threw open the door, pulled me inside, then shut it with a slam.
He was short of breath and paced his living room. “I’m running a little late. My uncle. Effing pain in the ass, excuse my language. Gotta put everything on hold whenever Joey calls. Jerk was in a panic. He’s always in a panic. And me, his effing errand boy. God, I hate that man.”
He suddenly stopped moving and faced me. “I’m almost done setting up. I made coffee. Have a cup while I finish up.”
I stared at him. “Setting up what?”
His eyes went wide, then he smiled. “You’re putting me on, right?”
I shook my head no.
“Terry, c’mon.” His smile lost some wattage. “This is our night, remember?”
“Ah,” I said. “I see. I get Friday while Cheryl Diggs gets Saturday through Thursday. Thank you, but I’ll pass.”
His face fell. “What are you talking about?”
The best defense was an offense. I wasn’t about to be taken in. “Chris, I don’t feel well. I’ll see you Monday. Oh, good going on your math test. Farrell told me you did well.”
I turned to leave, but he came over and gripped my arm. I averted my eyes but didn’t resist his hold.
“Terry,” Chris whispered. “Cheryl means nothing—”
“Oh, please!” I interrupted. “Cheryl means nothing, Lorraine means nothing. What do you do? Surround yourself with girls who mean nothing to you? So what does that say about me, Chris? And let go of my arm.”
Slowly, he dropped his hold on me. Without looking at him, I told him I’d see him later.
“I wrote a composition for you,” he blurted out.
How convenient. I turned around and looked at him as best I could. Because my eyes were in the back of my head from rolling them.
“No, really. I’m not lying.” He held up a finger, indicating that I should wait. Then he went inside his hall closet and returned holding a sheaf of paper. He handed it to me.
My eyes slipped down to the title page.
A poem for Teresa
With special gratitude to Our Lord Jesus Christ, thanking Him for giving me a true spiritual love. May God forever protect her and keep her from harm’s way.
In the left-hand corner was a small drawing that could have been lifted from a fourteenth-century wood-panel painting. A young girl in a red dress, the crown of her head illuminated in gold pen by the spirit of God. Long chestnut hair, eyes closed, her hands folded in prayer, head bent modestly toward her breast.
The face was mine.
My eyes went moist as I scanned the pages. Six sheets of musical notation with lots of cross-outs. Chris took the music from me. “It’s done but it isn’t refined yet. But with the mood you’re in … I figured I’d better bring out the heavy artillery.”
I laughed through my tears. He lifted my chin until my eyes met his. “Let me play what I have so far, okay?”
I nodded. His smile was brilliant. “Okay, sit down.” He led me to his couch. “Okay. Sit. Wait.”
He went to his bedroom and came out carting his cello and stool. “Okay.” He sat down directly across from me and placed the instrument between his knees, burying the spike in his white carpet. “You never heard my Rowland Ross. It is one bitchen instrument. Okay. Okay. Now you gotta remember that it isn’t polished yet, all right?”
I smiled. “All right?”
“And I may make a few mistakes. I don’t have it all down yet. So cut me slack, all right.”
“No, I’m going to critique you,” I said, wiping my tears.
“So you’re happy now?”
“Yes. I’m happy now.”
“Good. ’Cause I’ll do better if you’re happy.”
“I’m delirious with joy. Play it already.”
His smile was edible. Then he closed his eyes a moment, started to breathe slowly. When his bow made contact with the strings, I closed my eyes.
The room filled with a sound so pure and sacred, it brought an ache to my heart, chills. Because he wasn’t playing music. He was praying. Soft, plaintive pleas of repentance answered by the all-encompassing embrace of God’s mercy. When he had finished, I couldn’t see, I couldn’t talk, I couldn’t move. Emotion had paralyzed me.
“Do you like it?” he asked me.
I opened my eyes and swallowed dryly. “It’s …” Tears had been running down my cheeks. “It’s positively … sublime.”
“Like you.”
“Hardly.”
“Look at me, Terry.”
I did.
He said, “What Beethoven did for Elise, that’s what I want to do for you. I want to immortalize you.”
My heart stood still. I couldn’t answer him.
“That’s why I wrote this for you; that’s why I draw you.” He placed his cello on its side rib and came over to me. His lips brushed my forehead, his touch as gentle and spiritual as baptismal waters. “You are holy to me. Our relationship is holy to me. Do you understand?”
I nodded.
He handed me the title page. “Keep it. And whenever you doubt me, look at this. Because it’s the way I really feel. I love you, Teresa. More than you ever could know.” He paused. “Will you let me draw you tonight? Completely?”
I dried my eyes and nodded yes.
