Late Spring 1954

"Dear Julie," Natalie's letter began,
I know you'll disapprove (plenty of reasons), but I'm going to marry Ned Baer. If you only knew what would happen when you dragged me to his recital, I doubt you'd have done it.
As you probably know, Ned's recital caused some controversy among the members of his jury — the envious kill-joy faction say it doesn't matter how "creative" his concept for the recital, he didn't satisfy the requirements — and it's not clear when (or whether!) he's going to get his degree. But Dr. Patterson's on his side, so there may be a chance....
Ned himself is insufferably smug about the whole thing, of course. Not only did his performance blow everyone else off the stage, he got me into the bargain, which makes him strut and crow like a giant rooster — really tiresome when we're out on the street, but I can't complain about his high spirits when the lights go out.
Please don't be mad at me — you started this, you know, so you've only yourself to blame. I'm going to miss you so much, and I'm really scared, but I don't seem to be able to stop this train and I sure ain't getting off until the end of the line.
So pray for me, and will you be my maid of honor? It may just be a City Hall job, but it will be soon.
Your dearest friend what loves you,
Natalie

Julie carefully folded the single sheet into a paper airplane and threw it at the open window. But it took a dive and plunged into the radiator, where it lodged, tail out, like a fighter jet that crashed into an apartment building.

Naturally, Julie was pissed, but mostly at herself for being so naive. Had she really been just a lovesick coed with a crush — as Natalie had accused her of being, whenever they had another bout in their long-standing argument over Ned's eligibility for membership in the species human?

She didn't blame Natalie for anything, but she was seriously disappointed in Ned, who was behaving like a cad, Julie felt, though by now it should be obvious that he'd been angling for Natalie all along, and his solicitude of Julie was just part of that project. But now it hit her like a fist in the chest that maybe Ned really did love Natalie, and wasn't just notching up another conquest, as he was rumored to have done — more than once — before Natalie appeared in his life.

Dear Natalie,
Of course I'll be your maid of honor, whenever and wherever you can arrange the ceremony. Just give me a call, even if it's only five minutes beforehand, and I'll be there.
And I could never be mad at you, no matter what you did, as long as you're happy. Naturally, I'm worried that this sudden change in your feelings towards Ned could just as suddenly reverse itself again — how many times did you tell me he was a total jerk? I lost count years ago — but, given my position on the subject, I'm also pleased that you seem to have come to your senses.
Except for the maid of honor business, don't give me another thought. I'll be fine, and you've got your hands full. Give Ned my love, tell him if he ever gets tired of you, he can park his shoes under my bed anytime he wants (well, maybe you should save that for when you get tired of him), and have a grand time in your new life.
Love,
Julie

This single sheet she also folded into an airplane, and launched it towards the window. It sailed straight out into the muggy night, got caught by a downdraft, and plunged out of sight.

She never saw Natalie again.

But Natalie had left a lot of stuff behind — clothes, books, even music — and Julie didn't know what to do with it. She waited for a month but heard nothing, then the end of the term came and she wanted to go home. She was going to sublet the apartment, then decided to just give it up, put the whole thing with Natalie and Ned behind her. She went to leave a message at Ned's office, but was told Ned was on tour with Figaro for the summer, wouldn't be back until Labor Day. In fact, it wasn't clear that he was coming back. Julie asked about Natalie, but nobody knew what had happened to her — one day she was there, the next just gone — she hadn't finished any of her classes, would likely flunk out if they didn't hear from her soon.

Then one day a thick envelope arrived, hand-delivered. Julie recognized Natalie's handwriting in her own name and address on the outside, but there was no return address, and inside there was no greeting, no explanation, no signature, just a sheaf of closely lettered pages.

A note in a bottle, Julie thought, once she read it. She's lost for good.

§

When I was sixteen my piano teacher, dear Mrs. Wolf, who'd never done a thing wrong in her whole life, told me she couldn't teach me any more. I thought she was mad at me, I was crushed, I adored her, she was the mother I never had. My real mother despised her. "Old biddy," she called her, even though they were about the same age. "Them what can, do," she said. "Them what can't, teach," she said.

I hated her for saying that, as for so many other things. The hell of it was, she was right. That's what Mrs. Wolf was telling me. She couldn't teach me anymore because she couldn't teach me any more. I think I realized how much it hurt Mrs. Wolf to admit this. But she was also very proud of me. And that made me proud. Because I loved her.

She told me the name of a man in the city. Some of his pupils went on to become famous. She named a few; I'd never heard of them, but I knew they must be really good. Not just good, professional. Professional musicians are real musicians; they get paid because they're that good.

Well, I went with Mrs. Wolf to this teacher. He was European, Czech, I think. I had to audition. I played the Moonlight Sonata, Solfeggietto. He was bored, I could tell. When I finished, he tried to be kind, but he told me I was too old. At my age I should be playing much more difficult music, without mistakes. Mrs. Wolf started to say it was her fault, but he cut her off, wanted to know why, if Mrs. Wolf thought I had talent, she hadn't brought me to him two years ago, when he might have been able to do something with me?

Mrs. Wolf could only bow her head. I'll never forget that gesture. It made me furious.

He looked at me. "You love your teacher. You think I have no right to talk like this. You are angry, hurt. These feelings do not matter. Only the music matters."

Mrs. Wolf was nodding her head. He looked at me a little longer, then back at her. "However," he said to me, "I do not wish to make worse your teacher's mistake. Come back in six months and play for me two pieces." He looked at Mrs. Wolf. "The Polonaise in A? The Cat's Fugue?" Her eyes went wide, but she nodded. "Six months, then."

When I told my mother she just laughed. "What did I tell you? Not only can't the old biddy teach, she screwed you up, too," she said. "Well, you'll just have to get over it. Better get used to gettin' over it. It's the way life is." I told her Mrs. Wolf wanted to work with me three times a week for the six months. Mother wouldn't pay for it, didn't see the point. "Why prolong the agony? He'll just say the same thing. Only it'll hurt worse."

I told her what Mrs. Wolf had told me to say: she didn't want any money, wouldn't take it even if Mother offered.

"Well, OK," Mother said. "But don't say I didn't warn you."

So we went to work. And Mrs. Wolf really put me through it. Four hours of practice a day: two hours on scales and exercises, an hour each on the two pieces. And then a two-hour lesson every other day.

She was really smart. She knew I'd burn out on the Polonaise and the Cat's Fugue if I learned them too fast and didn't play anything else, so she gave me other pieces to work on as well. And she put herself through it, too. She was playing every day when I got there at three, and I could hear her start up again when I left at five. One night I called to tell her I couldn't make it the next day — I had a cold or something, probably was just plain exhausted. Her husband answered, said he couldn't wait till the six months were up, then he could have his wife back again. He said it like he was kidding, but I could tell he meant it. The whole time we were talking I could hear that damn Polonaise crashing in the background. I decided not to cancel the lesson.

I must have had homework, must've studied for tests and written papers, I just don't remember. If anything changed in my own playing, I didn't notice it. Yes, I was learning new pieces, but that was no different from before — I was always learning new pieces. I was practicing a lot longer each day, but after the first half hour I lost track of the time. The big change I noticed was in Mrs. Wolf. She began losing weight, looking younger. She laughed more, began hugging me hello and goodbye. Like she was my real mother. I wanted her to be my real mother. My real mother kept up a steady stream of snotty put-downs. Fortunately I didn't have to talk to her very often.

Finally the day came to go back to Mr. Franticek. Funny I couldn't remember his name before. This time we met him in his little office at the Teachers College. I played through the two pieces. Mrs. Wolf told me later that he'd kept his eyes closed the whole time. When I finished he sat still for quite a while. Then he got up and said, "Come with me." He took us into the concert hall, sat me down in front of the nine-foot Steinway on the stage, asked me to play them again. He and Mrs. Wolf went out into the auditorium to listen.

I'd never played a piano like that one. It talked back to me, it showed me what the music was, the music played the piano, it wasn't me. It was stronger than I was, it made me want to find out just how strong. When I finished the two pieces I wanted to just keep playing for the rest of my life. Mr. Franticek started speaking. I had to close the lid over the keyboard to keep my hands off it.

"You have promise," he said. "I am glad you were not ruined by waiting too long. Play something else." I couldn't believe he'd said that. I was trembling. I turned back to the keyboard, lifted the lid. When my fingers touched the keys I felt it all the way up my arms. All the way into me. I started playing, I don't even know what. It was almost — no it was — it was sexy. The damn piano seduced me.

I don't know how long I played. It could have been hours. When I finally looked out into the auditorium Mr. Franticek and Mrs. Wolf were gone. I got scared, went looking for them. I finally found them in the lounge, sitting together on one sofa. He had his arm across the back behind her. Her face was red.

Figure out what happened next. He took me on. And he was a great teacher. My playing quite suddenly became — there. I crossed a line somewhere, the line between good and good enough.

After a year I was permitted to join the rest of his students in a recital, to be held in that same auditorium, with that same nine-foot Steinway. The other kids did all right, but they all made the same mistake. They tried to play that piano. I knew better. I let it play me. I blew their doors off.

Mrs. Wolf was there. It was the first time I'd seen her since that day. She'd put the weight back on. She looked older again, but worse. She looked tired, defeated even. She came up to me afterward. She wanted to hug me, I could tell, but I just said, "Hello, Mrs. Wolf," as if she were one of my mother's friends. I couldn't have hurt her more if I'd slapped her face. She had to change what she was going to say. God forgive me, I just stood there, cool as could be, waiting politely as she recovered her composure.

"You played beautifully," she said finally. Knowing that, I said thank you in such a way that she would know that I knew that.

And then she said, "I was right to bring you to Milos. I was holding you back. Anyone can see that."

Just then her husband came up, claimed her with an arm around her shoulder. "Thanks for giving my wife back, Natalie," he said, winking at me.

I must have gone, as we used to say, a thousand shades of red. I stammered out something, maybe — though I hope not — "You're welcome."

When I looked back at Mrs. Wolf there was an unpleasant glint in her eye. "Goodbye, Natalie," she said. "Give Milos my love... when you get the chance." They left.

I found out what she meant soon enough.

A week after the recital I graduated high school. It made little impression on me. As far as I was concerned, the only thing that was going to change was that I'd have more time to practice now that I wouldn't have any schoolwork. But Mother wanted me to get a job, pay for my own lessons. I realized I didn't know how much that was. She named the same figure she'd paid Mrs. Wolf. That couldn't be right, I knew, and said so. Mother got flustered and said something about telling that old biddy she'd have to make up the difference if she wanted me to study with this hotshot. Mother hadn't come to the recital, it was her bridge night. She'd missed my graduation, too, slept through the alarm, she said. I was just as glad, in both cases.

At my next lesson I asked Mr. Franticek what the story was. He said it was true that he and Mrs. Wolf had made an arrangement about the difference between what my mother could pay and what he had to charge. I was mortified. I wrote to Mrs. Wolf the instant I got home, told her I was getting a job and would pay her back every cent she had spent subsidizing my lessons during the past year. A few days later I got a note from her. Of course I could do as I pleased about getting a job, though she advised against it. And she utterly refused to accept any money from me: she had received her reward for whatever sacrifice she may have made. She told me not to worry about my lessons in the future: she felt certain that, since my performance at the recital, Milos would be satisfied with whatever I would be able to pay.

I told Mother, and she said it was all right then. She'd keep paying until I got work and could gradually take over the payments myself. But she said there was no hurry. She was almost human about it.

Then Mr. Franticek told me he could get me a scholarship to the Teachers College if I wanted it. I wasn't sure I wanted to go to school any more, but he convinced me my career as a pianist depended on going on with my studies. Mother was very happy because now she could stop worrying about what I was going to do with my life — I could be a teacher. All I really wanted to do was play the piano, I didn't need all these extracurricular activities. But they both worked on me — he at my lessons, she at home — and I finally gave in.

The scholarship he got for me came with free room and board. My mother practically danced a jig: now I'd be out of her hair for good, and guilt-free. I was scared about leaving home, but I figured the grownups knew best. So I went.

Mr. Franticek was my advisor, so I saw him every day. My lessons were now of course free, which meant I got as many as I wanted. Which meant as many as he wanted. Which meant I went to his house twice, three times a week. Which meant I sometimes stayed to dinner, and afterwards we listened to his recordings of Rubinstein and Horowitz and Landowska, and he gave me wine to drink, and at midnight I sailed back to my room in a dream. And one night he lifted me off the sofa and out of my clothes and into his bed.

It wasn't the food or the candlelight or the wine that seduced me. And it was not the man that ravished me — it was the music. It took me, launched me, sailed me like a boat. The next day, the next night, days and nights without end, naked, open, free.

Well.

I think it got to him, too, our lost weekend or week or whatever it was. I never saw a man's eyes shine like that. I never saw anyone's eyes shine like that, until I finally looked in the mirror on his bathroom door and saw my own. I will never look more beautiful. I knew that, so I looked and looked.

And suddenly I understood everything, about Mrs. Wolf and Milos, about my mother and the father I never knew, who was supposedly killed in the war — and may have been — about me. Well, not everything about me, but everything that mattered at that moment. And I also understood that I could lose what was mine in my life if I didn't get away, maybe even if I did get away. But if I didn't get away, the outcome was certain.

Milos had gone out, probably to class. I called my mother on his phone. I told her what had happened. She was silent. I asked her what to do. She told me to come home. I asked her should I leave a note? She said no, just leave. Right away. She'd be waiting for me.

When I finally got there she put me straight to bed. She'd ironed the sheets. Turned back the covers. Put my stuffed lion on the pillow.

I must've slept for a day and a half. I heard the phone ring once, and my mother shouting. I may have dreamed it. When I woke up my mother fed me soup like she used to when I was home sick from school. Then she said she had something for me. I was still groggy, but the soup was reviving me.

"Surprise!" my mother sang from out in the hall, and Mrs. Wolf appeared in the doorway. I must've knocked the soup on the floor, but she rushed in and took me in her arms and rocked me and rocked me as I cried and cried. Mother stood back from the bed, looking uncomfortable.

I told Mrs. Wolf everything, about the lessons and the dinners, the wine and the music. I told her how it scared me and how it hurt, but how once it got going I never wanted to stop. She knew all about it, she said, and I loved her for knowing all about it.

When I calmed down they both sat on the bed, on either side of my knees, and we figured out what to do. They did most of the figuring, only turning to me every once in a while to see if I was following them.

Of course I could never go back there, must never see Milos again. At first I hated this idea, but even as I protested I realized that it wasn't him I would miss, it was it. I knew from my mother that that was just something I'd have to get used to. At least until the right man came along. And Mrs. Wolf's husband gave me hope that such a mythical creature perhaps did exist.

And Milos must be kept away. Mrs. Wolf said she would speak to him, try to convince him this was best. She thought it wouldn't be difficult, knowing him as she did. In the meantime she would try to find another teacher for me; I mustn't stop playing, especially now. That might be harder to accomplish, but Mrs. Wolf thought that Milos himself might be able to help her find another teacher, once he saw the necessity for this change in my life.

She was better than her word. She got me in here with a full scholarship. Or persuaded him to. I don't know what their arrangement was, but I think she got her own back with interest from him.

They must've thought I'd be safe. I must've thought so too. Well, live and learn.

§

That was it.

The first and last page were cropped funny — the first at the top, the last just beneath the words "live and learn." In fact, now that she looked more closely, Julie could see that the pages had been torn out of what must have been a blank book of some kind, like a journal or a lab notebook.

It was a note in a bottle, Julie decided. Natalie was in trouble somewhere, and couldn't — or didn't want to — tell Julie where she was, how to help. She couldn't help, Julie realized, and so did Natalie, hence the story, which cleared up some plot details about Natalie's life before Julie met her, but if it was supposed to account for her running off with Ned, it didn't work.

Maybe, Julie thought, it was a cover-up. Not that the story wasn't true, but it didn't feel like a confession, it was more like a boast, the kind of thing you say to make yourself sound interesting. Or the kind of thing you say to throw somebody off the scent, somebody you don't want getting close, or any closer. That sounded more like Natalie.

Although they were nearly inseparable from the day they met, Julie was only too aware that she didn't really know Natalie very well — oh, they'd had their late-night gabfests, as people do when they finally get away from home and all the people who think they have a claim on you, who do have a claim on you because you didn't know you had a choice back there back then, when growing up was something you couldn't do by yourself, or anyway no one let you do by yourself. But all Julie could remember of those sisterly confidence-sessions was that Natalie never seemed terribly shocked or very impressed by Julie's revelations, which were, after all, neither terribly shocking nor very impressive — Julie had been a good little girl all her life, she now thought with a snort of contempt.

In contrast, Natalie's story read like something out of a nineteenth-century novel, almost ridiculously romantic: questionable birth, negligent mother, tireless benefactress, handsome seducer, the fall from virtue, a brush with death, then a gallant lover, and now an elopement. What part had she, Julie, played in this near fairy tale? Eve Arden, the best friend, the one who stands on the church steps throwing rice, alternately waving her hanky at the happy couple's receding car and dabbing at her eyes as she smiles through tears, her best friend having stolen her man right out from under her.

From under her? Where did that come from? But of course she knew — a fantasy image so raunchy and ripe she'd never allowed herself to let the whole thing play through to the end: riding Ned Baer's thighs while he stabbed up into her, over and over, erupting like a volcano within her, through her, blasting her inside out.

Was that what it really felt like? she wondered. Would she ever find out? Well, not with Ned — for the foreseeable future, at least — and now the weight of that reality finally landed on her full-weight, crushed her down so hard that she slowly rolled face-first out of the chair onto the carpet, where she lolled on her back in the middle of the room.

Soon there would be tears, but first she'd have to get her breath, and for the moment that didn't seem to be happening, it was all she could do to keep her eyes open, which she fought to do, to keep from beholding that frightful image again, and knowing it was Natalie, now, not herself, on that delectable perch.