Page 33 of The Things We Never Say

It was Anne Merrill who first noticed a change in Artie. She had the same period off that Artie did, and even though the time of that changed each day she watched how Artie would take his phone and leave the teachers room. Not every day, but certainly far more often than he had in her memory.

When she spoke to him, he seemed not fully there.

Anne’s daughter, who was twenty-four years old, had recently completed a rehab program, and it seemed to have worked, but her daughter was being cool to her mother now, and when Anne tried to ask her about it, her daughter said, “Mom, I’m trying very hard not to use again, so please don’t stress me out.”

And so, as Anne moved through the shadows of her life, she really missed her old friend Artie.

—

Evie had felt bad about her fight with Artie. She had no idea why, after all these years, she had told Artie that her father had not really liked him. Her father had liked him once he was more fully aware of who Artie was, but it was true that her father had once said to her, “Couldn’t you do better than that kid?” Still, she should not have said it, and in truth she was (slightly) surprised that she had. What was most on her mind at the present time was a client of hers who, after ten years of marriage, had had an affair and now wanted to confess it to her husband, and Evie was counseling her not to do so, asking the client what she hoped to accomplish by telling her husband about this. To live honestly, the poor anguished woman had answered. Evie was trying to let her know that living honestly comes in many different forms.

—

Rhonda Lazarre suffered privately because her mother had caused the police to be called recently; her mother had gone into a dress shop in town and threatened the owner, also screaming that the owner was a whore. Rhonda could have died from the embarrassment of this. But she thought of Mr. Dam telling her that his own mother had been crazy, and how he had told her that her sads would come and go, and that she was going to help people someday; she took solace in this memory of him.

—

Danny Marino was so sickened by the situation with his parents that one night he left the table and said, “I cannot eat. I can’t eat because you guys are killing me. You’re just fucking killing me!” He had expected his mother to say something immediately about his language, but he was surprised that he was met with complete silence from his parents and his two younger brothers. He went into his room and lay down on his bed and thought: I wish I was dead.

5

Francesca came to the house with Rob for Thanksgiving. It had been rainy and cold all morning, but the sun had come out right before they showed up and the kitchen shone with sunshine. The house smelled of cooked turkey and sweet potatoes, and a few pots on the stove had steam coming from them. Through the window the water sparkled; all the boats—except for two fishing boats—had been taken out long ago, and now it was mostly just buoys in the bay, including Artie’s bright blue one.

“Come in, come in,” Evie said, standing at the door in brown slacks and a pale blue sweater. She kissed them both, and Artie, behind her, stepped forward to do the same.

After Artie had taken their coats, and after Rob had followed his mother into the kitchen, Francesca said, holding her hand out toward the piano, “Have you composed anything new, Artie?”

“I did,” he said. “Just a few weeks ago.”

“Can I hear it?”

So Artie sat down and played his recent composition for her. Then he stood up and said, “Now you add your flourishes.”

But she looked at him with solemn earnestness and said, “Artie. Seriously? That’s beautiful.”

“It’s for Rob,” he said quietly, tilting his head toward the kitchen. “And also for the world.”

“Yeah” was all she said, still watching him.

“Now you add your flourishes to it,” Artie said to her again.

And Francesca sat down at the piano and began to play the little piece that Artie had just played, only she added her flourishes, and he was delighted. Up and down the keys she went, slowly and then more quickly; the piece now had a grandness to it. When she finished, she smiled at him with great openness; Evie and Rob had come to the kitchen door to listen. “I want to record that,” Rob said, and Francesca said, “Your father wrote it!” Rob was amazed, and Artie said, “No, no, no, only the melody, Francesca’s the one who’s made it great.” Francesca played it again while Rob recorded it on his phone. After Rob and his mother had gone back into the kitchen, Artie said quietly, “Francesca, what do you think about when you’re playing at a concert?”

She looked at the keys for a moment and then back up at Artie. “I’m just trying to get inside the music,” she said, giving a small shrug.

“Yeah, yeah, okay.” He nodded.

But as she rose and walked toward the kitchen, she put her finger to her mouth to indicate a secret, and she said very softly, “I’m looking for God when I play.”

Artie found that to be astounding. “Do you find him?” he asked.

She winked. “Sometimes.”

They gathered in the dining room, Francesca helping Evie bring in platters of food, and they spoke of the election until Evie said, “Can we please talk about something cheerful?” Artie asked Francesca about her career, and she told him that she had six weeks off before going to Europe again.

“Where’d you get the name Francesca?” Artie asked her. He knew that it was an Italian name and yet she was not Italian.

Francesca wiped her mouth with her napkin before answering. “My father died when my mother was pregnant with me, and she went to the local doctor, a man called Dr. Frank, and said that she wanted an abortion, and Dr. Frank said to Mom, ‘I’m not going to do that for you. I believe you will be very happy to have this child someday.’ And the moment I was born my mom said that she loved me so much that she wanted to call me after Dr. Frank, so she called me Francesca.”