THE QUITTER
As instructed, I find my way from the chapel to Muriel Grassley’s lair in the Adams Theater.
Grassley looks like she should be the subject of a modernist painting. Her face is square, her eyes almond, her lips overly lush—almost certainly the work of a needle, not God. Her brown hair is liberally dosed with gray as if she’s walked through a cobweb. She wears flowing robes of turquoise and purple, silver rings stacked on her slim fingers. She is loud and brash, and I immediately like her.
Which is going to make the next hour of my life very hard.
The music lab is in the back of the Adams Theater, facing the mountains. Like many of Goode’s buildings, glass is the predominant feature. The vista coupled with the sea of blue-green trees is striking. Happily, the piano faces into the room, instead of out. I’ll never be able to focus if I face the windows.
“Ash? I’m Muriel. Come here, let me see you.”
I dutifully cross the room to the woman in blue. I dig in my bag and extract a small gold box with a silver ribbon, which I set on top of the piano.
Those bee-stung lips part into a gigantic smile. “Welcome to Goode! I’m so excited to meet you. You brought me a gift?”
“I read that you love caramels but are allergic to tree nuts. There’s a little shop in Oxford that is allergen-sensitive, none allowed on the premises. These are totally safe.”
“What a darling you are! I will enjoy them tremendously, I’m sure.” She links her arm through mine. “So, Ash. I’ve heard your tapes, you have quite an ear, such a way with the keys. Why have you never performed onstage before? From what I’ve heard, you’re a shoo-in for Carnegie Hall!”
I smile—charming, dimples, with a touch of rueful thrown in for good measure. “My family frowned upon it. I’ve not played in a public venue, only privately.”
“Do you wish to? I’m sure the dean told you about my connections. I could have you at the Kennedy Center in a few weeks.” She slaps her hands together, back and forth, and the sound makes me jump. She is so vibrant, this woman, so loud.
“Oh, no, ma’am. I’d prefer not to.”
“You don’t want to perform?” This is said with such confusion I almost laugh. But I force my face into a downcast expression.
“Honestly, I’ve been considering giving up.”
“Oh, no. A natural talent such as yours can’t be squandered. The joy you’ll bring to your listeners... It would be such a shame, Ash. I was so moved listening to your audition tapes. You’re quite extraordinary.”
Truth, then. “I haven’t been feeling the music lately.”
“Well, we’ll fix that. Why don’t we warm up with some chromatic scales, cadences, and arpeggios at all octaves, and then try a little Bach. I always find Bach so comforting.”
Oh, yes. Bach makes me want to skip through a forest with mice following my trail. Makes one wonder why I have no desire to play.
I sit on the bench and stretch, first my neck, then my back, then my wrists. Muriel sets the metronome at sixty and I go through a quick and easy series of scales, just to get the feel for the keys. I grow serious. This is important.
I run through the second part of the traditional Hanon exercises, do some chord work. My fingers are sluggish on the keys. The strike is too soft for my liking, so I’m depressing the keys harder than normal, banging out the notes.
After ten minutes of noise, I nod at Muriel, who places a Bach fugue on the stand. I’m familiar with it, but I don’t know it by heart. I’ll have to read the music and play.
I launch in, and almost immediately Muriel holds up a hand to stop me.
“Slow down, Ash. You’re pulling the notes. Make me feel it.”
I continue to pound away. The next ten minutes are a study in extreme frustration.
“Now you’re pushing. And your texture is off.”
“Stop chasing the note, Ash. Let it come to you.”
“Feel the keys. Allow each to build on the last.”
“Your placement, Ash, your wrists.”
And finally, “Goodness, we are having an off day, aren’t we?”
Yes, we are.
I slam down both hands, the discordant notes ringing through the room. The acoustics are perfection, the sound lingers in the air until I lift my fingers from the keys and my foot off the pedal.
Muriel’s face is a mask of concern. Her star pupil hasn’t made an appearance.
“What’s wrong, Ash?”
“I said I didn’t want to play. I...can’t. It’s too soon.”
“Now, now, don’t give up so easily. You’re sitting much too stiffly and your fingers aren’t flowing. If I were a betting woman, I’d say you sound out of practice. Very out of practice. When did you play last?”
I don’t have to lie on this one. “It’s been a while.”
“Why?”
“I told you. I’ve been considering giving up. It’s not fun anymore.”
“Is it not fun because it’s gotten too hard? Or because you don’t have anything to work toward? If your parents aren’t allowing you to showcase your talent, I know I can speak to them, make them see how beneficial it would be—”
“My parents are dead.”
“Excuse me?”
I stand too quickly and the bench scoots back with an echoey screech. My hand goes to my mouth and I squeeze my eyes shut. Finally, I catch my breath and open my eyes. Muriel is staring at this performance in shock.
“I’m sorry. This is too hard, yes, because every note reminds me of them. Every time my hands touch the keys, I see my mother. I don’t want to play piano anymore.”
“Does the dean know this? When? How? Oh, my dear, I am so very sorry.”
I allow myself to be enclosed in a bosomy hug. Muriel is crying. I hang stiffly in her arms, a trickle of tears rolling down my neck. This isn’t sanitary. Nor should I be comforting her. I begin to count. At thirty, I gently disengage. Muriel snatches a tissue from the depths of her dress and honks into it.
“Yes, the dean knows. I apologize for blurting it out, and for wasting your time today. I wanted to try, at least once, and see if it would work, but as you can tell, I’m too out of practice, and I simply don’t enjoy playing anymore. I’m so sorry. I hate to be such a disappointment.”
Muriel’s eyes are still shining, her nose is red from weeping. It is a touching show of support. “My dear. Yes, of course, I understand. Though you will find me unconvinced of your true intentions. Some time off perhaps, a few weeks to get your bearings here at Goode, and you’ll be itching to play again. A talent like yours isn’t diminished overnight.”
So you’d think. “But you’ll allow me to speak to the dean about dropping the class? It’s not you, I’ve been very excited to work with you, Dr. Grassley. It’s me.”
“Lord above, call me Muriel. Dr. Grassley makes me feel ancient. I will speak to the dean on your behalf. She is a stickler, you know. Doesn’t like change. You leave it to me, I’ll make sure she understands you need some time. And you will always have a place to practice with me, Ash. I know you’ve been through a horrible experience, but when a natural talent like yours comes along, I don’t like to see it go to waste. Will you agree to meet with me again in a few weeks? Try again?”
I bestow my best benevolent smile. “You are too kind. Thank you for your grace.”
Muriel pats my hand. “Off with you, now. You can come talk to me anytime, Ash.”
I give the piano one last long glance as I leave the conservatory.
One less thing to worry about.