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Show 14-3 Father and I tiptoed around her, finding things to do outside whenever possible. Father insisted that she stop on the weekends. The last Sunday before the big day, we took a long drive in the country. She relaxed a bit and even talked and joked with us while we ate lunch under a farmer's tree. That night, she didn't practice, but sat on the porch swing beside Father. I sat on the steps with Fidelio. From the corner of my eye, I could see that Mother and Father were holding hands as they rocked gently on the swing. I wished I weren't there, that they could be alone together, they had so little time these days. They rocked and I ruffled Fidelio's head and kissed his ears and muzzle. The cicadas whistled and scraped. The night was hot but soon, the faithful breeze moved by us, stirring the leaves. I wondered if Andrew was asleep or if he was watching the night settle around him. Soon we all went in to bed. Mother was more relaxed that week, as if her nervousness had driven her playing over the past two weeks and was now used up. Our lives returned somewhat to normal, but all of us were conscious of the recital on Thursday, hovering on the horizon of the week. Mother and I shopped for a dress for her in one of the nicest shops in town, one with deep carpet and whispering clerks. She chose one of purple satin and in it she looked like a model from Harpers' Bazaar, mysterious, haughty, rich. When I told her she looked glorious in that dress, the clerk put her fingers to her lips and corrected me. "This is a gown, mademoiselle, not a dress." Mother held it out from her and made a half twirl in the dressing room. Then she hunched her shoulders and stuck her elbow out from her side. The clerk frowned. |
