another trip. I don’t think they know what else to do with me.” She turned from Lucy toward the railing and the sea. The whole vast world seemed cool and uncertain, with no new light promised. “But what should I do with me? I have no goal, and no one to be with.” Lucy didn’t say anything. That showed that there was no simple answer. “I have no plan.” Her voice cracked. “I-I don’t know enough to do anything other than just feel one step ahead. I always have to make choices without knowing or seeing enough.” She realized she was stuttering. She’d never spoken so openly to Lucy, but here, with the sound of the wind engulfing them, separating them from everyone else, she felt a closeness she hadn’t known back home.
“Just because other people can see doesn’t make their way more clear,” Lucy said softly. “I don’t know any more than you what to do with my life. I just go on, that’s all.”
Wind flapped her jacket sleeve rhythmically and water churned below them against the deep hum of the engines.
“There’s always music,” Lucy offered.
Yes, there was that. Nothing thrilling, nothing to make a life out of—she would never be good enough—but certainly pleasant. There had always been piano. She could recall as a child seeing the round black notes on sheet music. They weren’t round exactly, more like tiny black eggs bouncing along the lines. Something about the way they looked was cheerful.
When they were settled at home, Jean began again to study with Mrs. Sturdivant in New York, the teacher Miss Weaver had hired for her. Between lessons, Mother taught her note by note the work for the next week. “This is your next measure on your right hand,” Mother would say. Then she’d play it. “Start on A. Play it as an arpeggio in the tonic chord for two octaves. Run down the scale two octaves. That’s the next two measures.” Jean copied her, drilling it into her head. Her concentration and memory sharpened.
They gave a two-piano concert and invited a hundred Bristol friends. The living room became Hickory Hill Music Salon. The twin grands were dovetailed together in front of the fireplace and they had printed programs: Mozart’s Rondo for Two Pianos, Grieg’s Piano Concerto in A Minor with the second piano doing the orchestral part, and Jean’s favorite, the Ahrensky waltz. No matter what music she played, though, it all seemed like variations on one theme: What shall I do? What can I do? What am I good for?
She couldn’t dominate all Mother’s time to teach her everything note by note, but she could do something else with music. She knew enough piano to teach beginners. She asked Vincent, their chauffeur, to take her to the local girls’ club. Could they use a beginning music teacher just to teach children the basics? Yes, of course they could. The words shot back at her without a pause. She smiled; they sounded like Miss Weaver’s. Vincent drove her there once a week.
Vincent would drive her anywhere, for that matter. She sought out other needs in the community. Surely, some places needed volunteers. At the family welfare center she helped a little girl who had a cleft palate, drilling her on sounds. She served at the Visiting Nurse Association. She joined the Junior League and the Red Cross. Vincent was always available, always accommodating. But she had a nagging feeling she wasn’t doing these things simply for themselves. They filled time. And Mother’s friends always said, “How wonderful for you to do that, Jean.” But was that really her? Maybe it was self-love that actually motivated her, doing praiseworthy things so she’d be loved. A justifiable substitute, she supposed. Still, the pain of limitation pulsed.
Except when she was with Icy. Icy lived in a second-floor flat with her mother and sister in Litchfield, 18 miles away. Once a week after work she picked up Jean and they spent the night together at Icy’s.
Icy Eastman didn’t have interests. She had
“Just because other people can see doesn’t make their way more clear,” Lucy said softly. “I don’t know any more than you what to do with my life. I just go on, that’s all.”
Wind flapped her jacket sleeve rhythmically and water churned below them against the deep hum of the engines.
“There’s always music,” Lucy offered.
Yes, there was that. Nothing thrilling, nothing to make a life out of—she would never be good enough—but certainly pleasant. There had always been piano. She could recall as a child seeing the round black notes on sheet music. They weren’t round exactly, more like tiny black eggs bouncing along the lines. Something about the way they looked was cheerful.
When they were settled at home, Jean began again to study with Mrs. Sturdivant in New York, the teacher Miss Weaver had hired for her. Between lessons, Mother taught her note by note the work for the next week. “This is your next measure on your right hand,” Mother would say. Then she’d play it. “Start on A. Play it as an arpeggio in the tonic chord for two octaves. Run down the scale two octaves. That’s the next two measures.” Jean copied her, drilling it into her head. Her concentration and memory sharpened.
They gave a two-piano concert and invited a hundred Bristol friends. The living room became Hickory Hill Music Salon. The twin grands were dovetailed together in front of the fireplace and they had printed programs: Mozart’s Rondo for Two Pianos, Grieg’s Piano Concerto in A Minor with the second piano doing the orchestral part, and Jean’s favorite, the Ahrensky waltz. No matter what music she played, though, it all seemed like variations on one theme: What shall I do? What can I do? What am I good for?
She couldn’t dominate all Mother’s time to teach her everything note by note, but she could do something else with music. She knew enough piano to teach beginners. She asked Vincent, their chauffeur, to take her to the local girls’ club. Could they use a beginning music teacher just to teach children the basics? Yes, of course they could. The words shot back at her without a pause. She smiled; they sounded like Miss Weaver’s. Vincent drove her there once a week.
Vincent would drive her anywhere, for that matter. She sought out other needs in the community. Surely, some places needed volunteers. At the family welfare center she helped a little girl who had a cleft palate, drilling her on sounds. She served at the Visiting Nurse Association. She joined the Junior League and the Red Cross. Vincent was always available, always accommodating. But she had a nagging feeling she wasn’t doing these things simply for themselves. They filled time. And Mother’s friends always said, “How wonderful for you to do that, Jean.” But was that really her? Maybe it was self-love that actually motivated her, doing praiseworthy things so she’d be loved. A justifiable substitute, she supposed. Still, the pain of limitation pulsed.
Except when she was with Icy. Icy lived in a second-floor flat with her mother and sister in Litchfield, 18 miles away. Once a week after work she picked up Jean and they spent the night together at Icy’s.
Icy Eastman didn’t have interests. She had
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