man asked you to. What was his name? Albert-something, right?”
“Albertson. Wendell Albertson.”
“That’s right. You really should have made those records.”
When Clarice was a sophomore at the university, she won a major national competition. Wendell Albertson, who was the head producer at what was at that time the leading classical music label in the country, was one of the judges. He talked to Clarice after the competition and told her that he wanted to record her. His idea was that she should record all of the Beethoven sonatas over the coming year. He had wanted to market her as a female André Watts, a pianist version of Leontyne Price. But Richmond was injured not long after the competition, so the recording was put off until later. Then Richmond and Clarice became engaged and the recording was delayed again. Then there were the children. Her piano teacher, Mrs. Olavsky, had greeted the news of Clarice’s first pregnancy by shaking her head and saying, “All these years, wasted,” before slamming the door to her studio in Clarice’s face.
Clarice hadn’t wanted to believe that it was over for her, but time had proved her teacher right. All those years of work, both hers and Mrs. Olavsky’s, had been wasted. Though she tried not to, Clarice thought of the career she had thrown away whenever she suffered through a sloppy, poorly phrased performance from one of her weaker students. And she mourned that lost life even more keenly each time she watched one of her especially gifted pupils escape Plainview for a fine conservatory, leaving her behind to ruminate over her missed opportunities.
Beatrice said, “You know, I often wonder what would have happened if you’d gone ahead and made those records.”
“I haven’t given it a thought in years,” Clarice said. That was only half a lie because there had been years, mostly when the kids were young, when she hardly ever thought about having passed up her big chance. But now it was on her mind during each one of those nights when she sat up playing the piano. Lately, as she charged through the angriest Beethoven passages, she found herself wondering what would have happened if she had been stronger or braver and walked away from Richmond when she’d had the opportunity. But then there wouldn’t have been the children, and what would her life have been without them? She stirred the grits in the saucepan and tried to think of Christmas shopping.
The phone rang and Clarice pulled the last strips of bacon from the skillet before going to answer it. After she said hello, she heard a young woman ask, “May I please speak to Richmond?”
Clarice was about to call him to the phone, but she heard the sound of water running in the bathroom at the top of the stairs, so she said, “I’m sorry, Richmond isn’t available right now. Who may I tell him called?”
There was a pause, and then the woman said, “I was just calling to confirm my meeting with him today.” Another pause. “This is Mrs. Jones.”
Mrs. Jones. Clarice had to roll her eyes at that one.
Clarice said, “I’ll be sure to deliver the message, Mrs. Jones.” She hung up and went back to stirring the already overcooked grits.
Her mother had tired of discussing Clarice’s failed musical career. She began to complain about her Arkansas neighbor, Clarice’s aunt Glory, another of her favorite topics of conversation. Aunt Glory was petty. Aunt Glory was ill-tempered. Aunt Glory was unwilling to listen to constructive criticism. And, worst of all, Aunt Glory had set such a bad Christian example in her own home that Veronica had fallen under the satanic influence of a fortune-teller.
She said, “Veronica hasn’t been right since she left Calvary and went over to First Baptist. Those First Baptist folks are all show and no substance. Watch and see how fast they drop her after she burns through that money she got from the Leaning Tree place. Mind you, they’re still a step ahead of that primitive Holy Family bunch. I know your friend Odette goes there, but honestly, they might as well be snake handlers.”
The ache behind Clarice’s eyes that had started when Forrest Payne called a day earlier throbbed a little harder with each word that came from her mother’s mouth. What made it worse was the fact that Clarice had expressed similar sentiments about her cousin and about her friends’ churches countless times. Just like Veronica, her mother had a way of reminding Clarice of