I’ve missed him, too, so much that I squeeze him tight and don’t let go, my chest lightening in his presence. But then I remember the secret I’m keeping from him, and a heaviness descends. I don’t want to be overprotective or coddling. But I also can’t bear the thought of him stressing about the house of cards we’re both living in, when there’s not a damn thing he can do to keep it from collapsing. That’s all on me.
He puts me down and, pushing my worry aside, I give equally warm hugs to his buddies Jay and Nikki, whom I’ve known since they were pimply middle schoolers starting out in jazz.
“You gonna introduce us to your friend?” Jay asks, smiling in a way that I know he thinks is real cute, but that makes me want to grab his ear and turn it.
“Oh, well, n-not exactly my friend,” I stutter. “This is Dr. Hugh Pridmore, a professor at Emory.”
I see my son’s eyebrows shoot up. Pridmore’s not exactly my type, historically speaking. But I don’t see a good way to correct him, since Pridmore and I are very muchnoton a date. Plus, can I even have a type, when I can count on one hand the dates I’ve had since Aidan was born? I know my priorities, and dating simply hasn’t been among them. Now that Aidan’s in college, I sometimes wonder if I should try to get back in the game, so to speak. But it all seems so exhausting and time-consuming, and I question whether dating is really worth the effort.
“I recently had the chance to work with your mother in a professional capacity,” the professor says, falling deep into his Pridmore self. “I was so pleased to run into her tonight.”
Aidan looks over to me, puzzled. Just as I’m trying to figure out how to explain what on earth I’m doing working with a linguistics professor, Pridmore, clearly sensing that I need to divert the conversation, jumps in to tell Aidan he’s here to see Jeremiah. He gestures toward the stage just as the band launches into Charlie Parker’s “Ornithology.”
We all fall into a trance, watching Jeremiah play. I find that I’m involuntarily letting my shoulders sway along with the snappy tune. Beside me, I can feel Professor Pridmore watching me, and I sense that he, too, is swaying to the rhythm. With my focus trained intensely on that sax, I’m suddenly reluctant to look at the professor, feeling a little disoriented by this new jazz-loving, toe-tapping version of Hugh Pridmore.
Jeremiah leaves the stage to thunderous applause, then comes to join us. Of course, he knows Aidan and his friends already. Much like the country club world, the world of young jazz musicians in Atlanta is small. Their chitchat is easy, relaxed, and to my great surprise, Pridmore is right in there with them, asking all the right questions and listening intently. Hugh Pridmore knows a thing or two about American jazz music, much more than I can claim to know, but he doesn’t, as the esteemed Professor Pridmore would himself say, “pontificate.” Rather, he expresses real interest in what the kids have to teach him. It’s strange, but not in a bad way, to hear Aidan and the professor chatting comfortably with each other.
“I’m spotting not one but three of our talented young musicians that have gone away for school,” the band director calls out when the next song ends. He’s pointing toward our table. “Come on up here, Aidan, Jay, and Nikki. It’s great to have you back in the ATL.”
Jay grabs his guitar case, Aidan clutches his sticks, and the three of them head up to the stage, confident and relaxed. They greet each member of the house band with hugs and fist bumps, chatting as they set up.
“?‘Blue Skies,’?” Nikki announces, heading toward the mic.
“Tempo?” Aidan asks, already settled on his throne, as drummers call their stools.
“Let’s go medium up,” Nikki says, and then my heart soars as Aidan launches smoothly and comfortably into an opening fill and the pianist drops in with the melody. They’re off and running and I’m awed, once again.
“Damn, they’re talented,” Pridmore asserts from beside me.
“Don’t I know it,” I say, looking over at the professor. Tears have filled my eyes, as they always do when I watch Aidan play. Pridmore notices, but he just smiles. He’s wearing a buttery leather jacket, and I feel an intense urge to reach out and stroke it.Could it be as soft as it looks?I judiciously focus my attention on Aidan instead. I can tell he’s now fully in what he calls “the pocket”: eyes down, mouth hanging slightly open, hands and feet moving each to their own beat, in ways that appear so effortless, but also somehow impossible.
When the song ends and the applause is over, the band huddles to discuss their next piece, and conversation swells around us.
“I’m guessing you’re a musician, too,” Pridmore says, gesturing at Aidan up onstage. “That kind of talent runs in the family.”
“Oh no, not me,” I say, turning back to smile at the professor. “I’m not quite tone-deaf, but I can barely carry a tune.” I laugh. “And my hand-eye coordination is for shit.”
He laughs, deep and throaty, throwing back his head. “That makes two of us,” he says. “But we appreciate the gift that natural musicians have, while they often assume that, with effort, anyone could achieve their skill level.”
“It came naturally to Aidan’s father, too.” As soon as the words slip from my mouth, I wish I could take them back. I have no business chatting with this man about my personal life.
“Not in the picture anymore?” Pridmore asks, in a way that feels casual, not probing.
“Not since before Aidan was born. He was a front man—just as talented as Aidan,” I say, figuring it’s probably too late to turn back now. “Big star in a very small world. Always surrounded by adoring fans. You know the type.”
“Does that worry you?” he asks. “That your son might chase the same thing?”
“Not at all,” I tell him, and I mean it. “Aidan’s father needed the spotlight. It fed him. He loved to be onstage—any stage—because he loved to be adored.” I pause, take a sip of my soda, and look back to Pridmore, who seems to urge me on with his silent attentiveness. “Aidan doesn’t need any of that. He just wants to make great music with great musicians. That’s what feeds him.”
Nikki steps off the stage and heads toward the water jug at the bar. The saxophonist for the house band, Billy June, returns to the stage, and Aidan and the keyboardist launch right into an up-tempo piece I don’t immediately recognize.
“Ah, ‘L’s Bop,’?” Professor Pridmore says, closing his eyes. “One of my all-time favorites.”
We listen for a while, enraptured by the wailing sax and smooth stand-up bass. Aidan is where he loves most to be, in the background, working his subtle magic to let the soloists shine.
“It’s lovely”—Professor Pridmore leans in, unnervingly close to me, to be heard over the music—“the look on your face when you watch him play.”
“I can’t help it,” I say, feeling a flush rise to my cheeks. “Even when the lead singer in his emo band is yelling at the top of her lungs and Aidan’s beating at the drums so fast I can barely see his arms and legs, I’m totally mesmerized.”
