Not Forgetting -- rough opening

I said I'd post some of the NaNoNovel, so here's the opening. I appear to be writing out of order, so I'm not sure what might show up next...


City, In the Summer

Dad expects me to drive him to the airport after the show. "We could leave right now," he says. "Why make me wait for a cab? Such a waste of money."

"Dad. I don't have a car in New York, remember? I left it with you so Paul could drive it?" And he better not be wrecking my car. Little brat that he is, he's probably spilling chocolate milkshake on purpose.

Dad looks blank for a moment. "Oh. Of course. How foolish of me to forget something so simple."

Celeste titters nervously. Gary says, too heartily, "If Nicky had the car, he could drive you all the way to Virginia."

"I could not ask him to miss his classes for something as unimportant as transporting me. No, no, I am quite happy to fly and quite happy to transport myself now that matters have been made clear." He smooths his hands over his thinning silver hair, though not a hair is out of place. He looks like he just stepped out of the dressing room.

Celeste looks airy and sweet in her pale blue dress. Angela, subdued in plain black, looks just as cool. Gary is a little ruffled, but then he's been loading our speaker and amp into the back of the van.

Mainly, though, I'm the only one who looks sweaty and rumpled. Dying of thirst, too. I wish I had remembered a water bottle.

Gary offers his hand to Dad. "It's been a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Coventry."

"Yes, it has," agrees Angela. "Hopefully we'll see you here again soon."

My father's mouth twists. I can see he's about to correct her wrongful use of 'hopefully.'" Thankfully -- also misused -- Celeste leans forward to add her thanks for him making the long trip, and for letting her borrow me as an accompanist. Dad, ever gallant, gives her and her cleavage his full attention. "You're welcome, of course, dear, but I'm afraid I can't take credit -- "

"Nicky is just the best!" she gushes.

Angela says, "I agree. If I have a recital, I want Nicky there with me."

I turn as red as a traffic light. Dad chuckles. "I will be sure to attend that event."

There will be an event like that. Angela studies medieval percussion. Gary plays trumpet, but today he's just here to help out with the equipment. We have a couple of string players as well. We call ourselves, with great originality, the 9th Avenue Ensemble.

Gary touches Angela's elbow. "We'd better hurry or we'll be late. If you don't need us, Nicky?"

I wave them away. Gary borrows the van from the flower shop where he works, and he has to return it in time for evening deliveries. Celeste excuses herself as well to ride with them, leaving me out on the sidewalk in front of St. Stanislaus Orthodox Church, where we have just finished her well-received recital.

"Ready?" says Dad.

I adjust my gig bag strap so it doesn't dig into my shoulder.

He flags down the next cab. "Will you allow me to drop you off at your apartment? I believe it's on our route."

I always forget that Dad knows the city the way he knows his way around an organ's manuals and pedals. He lived here after the war, playing in Brooklyn jazz clubs, before he married my mother, and still has friends who welcome him after all these years. I think his visit had more to do with seeing them than with listening to me accompany a soprano, no matter how pure and clear her voice might be.

"Thank you," I say. "If you're sure it won't make you late?"

He makes a show of consulting his watch, then grins. "If I'm late, I'll just catch another flight."

I slide in the back seat after him while he gives the cabbie our destinations. The cabbie seems puzzled. Dad switches to French. The driver brightens and says, "Mais oui, mais oui!" His voice is soft with the rhythm of the warm blue islands.

He ought to feel right at home today. It's not good weather for wandering around in a black suit.

Dad says, "You really were excellent today, Nicholas. A fine performance. I didn't know you played the harpsichord."

"I don't. It was a guitar with Harmonizer."

Dad blinks.

I add, "Mom taught me."

"Your mother. Yes, of course." His mouth twitches with the kind of smile that hints at private conversations and bedroom matters guaranteed to make your adult children blush the way I'm blushing now. "But why did you choose to imitate, rather than to perform upon the genuine instrument? Surely such are available."

"Space. There was barely room for both of us in the choir loft as it was."

"Ah. No doubt that accounts for the rather odd harmonics."

That's dad for you. Start with lavish praise and then proceed to pick you apart. If we had longer, I'd listen. He knows what he's talking about. But I don't want to part in the middle of a fight, so I dismiss it as best I can. "It was Celeste's choice. I'm just the accompanist."

"But surely she would have listened -- ?"

"Yeah, but what about the bride?"

He would like to continue. Before he can, I add, "I just didn't want to get between two fighting women."

Dad chuckles. Then, as if that was the cue he needed, he asks, "Nicholas, have you spoken to either of your sisters recently?"

Uh-oh. "Not since Nancy got into Georgetown law school. She called me then."

"She's...very excited."

He stops.

"Is something wrong?" I prompt.

He hesitates again. We're almost at my corner. He'd better hurry.

Finally he exhales and shakes his head. "It's probably nothing. I am sure I only imagine a coolness between them recently. But your mother is also concerned. That Nancy may feel -- but of course she's mistaken if she thinks we value her any less because she is not the mother of our grandsons."

"And of course Jill would never ever brag to her sister about anything like that, would she?"

Dad bursts out laughing as the cabbie pulls into the empty space in front of a fire hydrant. I'm just off Central Park, not in the high rent district but a couple of blocks west of that, on the thirteenth floor above a Vietnamese noodle shop and a dry cleaner. Big comfortable apartment, and you would not believe the discount because of the floor. I don't know why they don't just skip the number like everybody else does.

Dad shakes his head. "Of course you're right. If they've had a tiff, no doubt it will blow over."

I have my doubts, but I say cheerfully, "I'm sure they will. Thanks again for coming, Dad. It means a lot to me."

"It was my pleasure."

He sounds like he means it. We shake hands through the open door, and he grips mine tightly for a moment. Then I shut the door, the cabbie pulls away into a line of identical yellow, and the cab disappears up Broadway.

-#-

I cross the street with the light, heading away from Central Park. The day has turned beastly hot and the pavement burns through the soles of my thin dress shoes. The sidewalk sticks to them. A stench of human flesh, urine, grease, and who knows what else rises from the subway entrance.

I push past a tour group gaping at the statue of Columbus. They're overdressed and as sweaty as I am. A man scowls at me. He looks like he's wondering why he didn't stay home in North Shoestring Falls. Maybe life would be better working in his uncle's buggy whip factory.

Maybe I'd be happier working in a buggy whip factory. God knows I'm not happy here.