FanStory.com - The Devil Fights Back

Chapter 3

Marie

“For Christ’s sake, Corinne! No vibrato here in measure 20. This is a baroque piece. Just straight tones.”

“I’m sorry, Dr. Schmidt. I just forgot.”

Did I detect a slight smirk on her face? No respect from these young ones. “And drop the ‘Dr. Schmidt.’ It’s just Marie. We’re not so formal here in these rehearsals.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Smartass. She does it to needle me.

I’m the principal second violin of the New York Philharmonic Orchestra. That means I’m the leader of the second violin section. Big fucking deal! I should be a first violin. In fact, I should be the concertmaster because I’m better than that old fart. But he’s held the job for the last hundred years or so and plans to drop dead before he’ll ever retire.

That’s the thing about musicians in a major orchestra. Once you receive tenure after about three years of probation, you’ve pretty much got the job forever unless you really start screwing up.

It’s not like it was in high school where you could challenge someone for their chair. Auditions for chair placements are periodically held, but that’s only within the section, so there’s no way for me to become a first violin, no less concertmaster, unless a specific position opens in that section.

In the 13 years I’ve been in this orchestra, there have been only three retirements among the first violins. I auditioned each time for the positions but got beat out. They’re supposed to be blind auditions, meaning they can’t see you while you’re playing, but I’m convinced they know who’s playing, and that’s what’s holding me back. They don’t like me. Well, screw ‘em. I still make decent money, and I get to command these idiots in my section.

“Alright, folks, let’s take it again from measure 16, and no vibrato this time.”

When the section rehearsal was over, we were done for the day, and I headed back to my upper west side apartment just a few blocks from Lincoln Center, where we play. As I approached my apartment building, our new doorman saw me coming and opened the door for me.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Schmidt.”

He’s a young fellow and has only been employed here for a week or so. “It’s Dr. Schmidt, as I’ve told you before.”

“Oh, that’s right. Sorry. So, what kind of doctor are you? No, let me guess—pediatrician?”

He must be joking. Another smartass. “Does this look like a doctor’s bag?” I said, pointing to my violin case. “I have a doctorate in music. I’m a musician in the New York Philharmonic.”

“So, what do you play? No, let me guess. I’d say… you’re the tuba player.”

That’s actually amusing, considering what I’m carrying. I’m quite small and slender too. I don’t think I could even lift a tuba. I know he’s joking. I think I like this kid.

“Uh, close. I play the violin.”

“Darn. That was my second choice.”

“I’m sure it was, Cecil.”

“It’s Cedric, ma’am.”

“Whatever.”

I waited what seemed like ages for the elevator to my apartment on the tenth floor. I began punching the button again after a minute. I know it doesn’t do any good, but it feels good to do it. So does cursing at it. When it finally arrived, I stepped in, and naturally, it took forever for the door to close again. I started hitting the door-close button, and nothing happened. I realized I’d been hitting the door-open button by mistake. Can’t they use better symbols on these damn buttons? Finally, it closed and started up.

Once inside my apartment, I headed right to the liquor cabinet and made myself a martini. Very dry. I downed it fairly quickly and made another.

While I was pouring the second one, my cell phone rang. It was an unfamiliar number that said the call was from North Carolina. This was October of an off-year election year. I got the occasional political call, but nothing like last year, so I decided to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Mother. It’s Julia.”

I was silent. What do you say right off to your daughter, whom you haven’t spoken to in 13 years? Oh, I’ve kept up with her a little from afar, but I haven’t seen her in person nor communicated with her in any way since that one afternoon in 2011 when she was a sophomore at Juilliard.

At the time, the bad feelings had been building for a while between us, and we finally had it out that afternoon. She cursed me and stormed out with her drug addict boyfriend, and that was that.

I’ve had years to brood about it, and I still feel justified in what I said to her. She was throwing her life and talent away with that boy. She was a drug addict herself, and I could just picture the two of them bringing each other to ruin together. She was so talented and deserved much better.

I had trained her in the violin since she was three years old. She was superb—a more natural and gifted player than even me, although I never told her that.

And this boy was corrupting her. Why, he even took her bowling, and she smashed her finger right before her audition for Juilliard. I mean, really. Bowling?

My husband and I divorced about a year later, and we’ve occasionally talked in the intervening years. He fills me in on what she’s been up to. Plus, I’ve heard about her enough through my job—enough to know that she’s doing alright for herself.

I’ve occasionally been tempted to pick up the phone and call her, but those hateful words at our parting have always held me back. And she’s never called me either… until now.

“Hello, Julia. Is it your father?”

“No. He’s fine. Mother, I want to invite you to the christening of Brian’s and my baby son, John. Your grandson. He’s nine months old now.”

I haven’t spoken to her father in over a year, so this I hadn’t heard about. I knew she married that boy, Brian Kendrick, and they were living in Charlotte, but this was news that I’d become a grandmother.

I didn’t know what I was feeling right now. God, I needed another martini!

“Mother, I’ve thought about our last time together often over the years, and I think maybe it’s finally time to try to get past it. There’ve been some major changes in Brian’s and my life lately, and I’m ready to put aside the differences you and I had. I think you might enjoy getting to know your grandson too.”

“When is it?”

“It will be on Sunday, November 9—about two weeks from now. I checked the schedule of the New York Philharmonic, and there’s nothing going on then. I hope you can come.”

Would I go? Should I go? I don’t know yet.

“No promises, but text me your address in case I can make it.”

“I will. I really hope you decide to come, Mother.”

“We’ll see.”