If home is where the heart is, Ezekiel didn’t have a home anymore.The narrow two-story clapboard house was as pleasant to return to as a crypt at the witching hour.Granted, if he took the time to sweep away some of the cobwebs and dust, it might look less abandoned, but it wouldn’t remove the ghosts that haunted him each time he walked through the door.
He deposited Tristan on the rocking chair that took up almost the entire porch, and retrieved his keys from the still-damp pocket.Impatient for his lunch, despite already having eaten more fish than one cat ought to, Tristan leaped to the partially open window and squeezed his way inside.The rocker sang a low, mournful sound as it creaked rhythmically back and forth, missing its mistress as much as Ezekiel did.He reached out and stopped its song.He couldn’t take the reminder.Not today.He’d done well to set the pain aside while with Miss Davis, but now that he was home—
No.Not home.
He should be claiming that his home was in Longview Asylum with Ma, but his bruised and battered heart struggled to claim her as home.Too many months of Ma’s lack of warmth toward him had left its mark.He loved her with all he had, but he was growing weary of the fight to convince her of it.Surely if she could just understand it, that love for her would heal the hurting places of her soul.Today had been promising, and yet he felt just as defeated as when he left last week.Tristan and Miss Davis had brought about the change.What if his love wasn’t enough for her?What if despite all his efforts, he still lost her?
He rubbed his eyes, stifling the emotion that threatened to leak.Dr.Chalfant claimed her inability to come home wasn’t Ezekiel’s fault.Ma required help beyond what Ezekiel could provide.But maybe Dr.Chalfant was wrong.Maybe if Ezekiel had spent less time at the opera house and more time with her, she would have been happy.Maybe if he had done a better job of removing dangers from within the house—
Tristan yowled from inside to remind Ezekiel he was waiting for his afternoon meal.
As annoying as Tristan could be, Ezekiel was glad for the impetus to pull himself free of the downward spiral.He only had twenty minutes to get cleaned up and out the door again.
The house was as cold as Ma’s welcome, but he had no one to blame but himself.If he weren’t in the habit of leaving the window open for Tristan when gone, he might have remembered to close it, but he’d come home to too many spiteful messes from the cooped-up cat to feel guilty.Better a cold house than Tristan’s temper tantrums.Ezekiel hung his hat on the hook and shrugged out of his coat.It would need a good washing before he wore it again, but that would have to wait until he could leave his laundry with Mrs.Tillner.
Fifteen minutes later, Ezekiel was preparing to walk out the door when someone knocked.He checked his watch.If he didn’t leave within five minutes, he’d be late.Should he slink out the back to avoid whoever it was, or answer and send them on their way?
“You can’t hide.I see you in there, Ezekiel.”Graham Linville’s gray hair, beard, and mustache pressed against Tristan’s window in a humorous fashion as he slid his arm through the narrow opening, trying to reach the interior latch Ezekiel had installed to prevent thieves.
Great.He’d known it would only be a matter of time before Graham caught up to him.Apparently today was the day.Two months was longer than Ezekiel had expected, but maybe he could find a few more grains to shake out of the hourglass.
He pivoted and strode toward the back door.
“Avoiding the issue won’t resolve it,” Graham called.“I’ve givenyou time, but we have to talk about this.I needThe Insurrectionist’s Masqueradein my hands by the end of the month.”
Ezekiel ran a hand down his face and dared a look at the collection of instruments that haunted him as much as Ma’s lack of desire to recover did.Months of dust and Tristan’s gray fur coated the once-white sheet draped over the piano, and pillows of cat hair cushioned the violin and clarinet cases beneath the bench.Had it really been that long since he’d touched an instrument?The softened calluses of his fingertips accused him as he rubbed them together, and his mouth, no doubt, would feel the lack of exercise when he finally played the clarinet.Why had he agreed to write the score for Graham’s libretto?
Because the man was like a father to him, and Graham’s confidence in him had been contagious.
With only seventeen of the twenty-one pieces composed, he’d never finish in so short a time.Even when he wasn’t struggling to string two notes together, it took weeks of stealing every free moment he had to compose one satisfactory piece that included all the parts necessary for a small ensemble.Now with Ma’s stay at Longview, he could barely keep his life in order, let alone find the time or inspiration to do what Graham required of him.It had been a mistake to accept the job, and it was time to own up to it.
He opened the front door but prevented Graham from entering.“Take it to someone else.I can’t do it.I was a fool to think I could.”
“Stop being dramatic.You’re worse than a prima donna.”Graham forced his way into the house and strode toward the piano.“How many pieces have you written?”
Ezekiel leaned against the door’s frame and crossed his arms.“It doesn’t matter.They’re all amateur notations that are a discredit to your libretto.You need someone with more training and experience.”
“Nonsense.All artists wrestle with self-doubt.”Graham pulled the sheet free from the piano, sending the abandoned pages of score beneath it fluttering across the floor.After tossing the dusty sheet onto a settee, he crouched over the music and studied it as he collectedthe pages into a neat stack.“I’m certain the music is exquisite.You forget, I’ve heard your other compositions.”
“Those were not tied to a story.”And were written when he could hear the music playing in his head and in all his surroundings.“I’m late to work.I cannot have this conversation now.”
“Then I’ll walk with you to Pike’s.”He flipped through the pages.“Or I can stay here and play through what you have to determine whether your opinion is justified.”
The man could barely play a scale.He wasn’t capable of determining anything on his own.“Trust me.Commission someone else for the score.”
“There’s no time.I’ve just left lunch with Crosley, and he’s finally allowing one of my operas to be performed.I pitched others, but he wantsThe Insurrectionist’s Masquerade.And he wants it performed during the opera festival.”
Crosley, as in Ezekiel’s boss, the man over all opera house operations?And he wanted a debut composer and operetta to compete with the first-ever weeklong opera festival hosted by the College of Music at Music Hall?Ezekiel rubbed at the sudden tension in his forehead.“George Nichols is bringing in some of the most well-loved operas and opera stars.We don’t stand a chance for a good turnout.What possessed him to take such a risk?”
“Apparently the performer he had scheduled suffered an apoplectic fit and isn’t expected to survive.With his performance having been scheduled for the week of the festival, Crosley’s having trouble finding anyone willing to compete for the crowds.Given our friendship, the hope that some money is better than no money, and the potential interest generated by a never-performed opera written by a local librettist and composed by one of Pike’s own, he came to me.”
“Crosley knows you commissioned me for this?”
“Of course.It’s a point of pride for both of us.We’ll be advertising it as a prime selling point.”
Ezekiel groaned.Now the likely failure of Graham’s operetta would have Ezekiel’s name attached to it, risking far more than hisuntested reputation as a composer.If Crosley lost money because Ezekiel’s skill was lacking, the man would, at best, demote him to stagehand or, at worst, fire him.He pinched the bridge of his nose.If he were alone, he could manage on the lower pay of a stagehand until he gained a stage manager position elsewhere, but Ma’s monthly Longview fees demanded half his income.Already his savings dwindled as he balanced paying bills with the added cost of sending out his laundry and eating most meals from vendors.He simply didn’t have the time for domestic chores and the demands of theatre life.He could pay for one month’s fees, but after that, Ma would be sent home to make another attempt at ending her life or dumped into the unpaid ward, where conditions were far from favorable.
This was a disaster.How did Graham not see it?“I cannot finish it by the end of the month.It’s already the eighteenth.”
