The Distance Between Us by Noah Bly

Author:Noah Bly [Bly, Noah]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780758246080
Publisher: Kensington
Published: 2008-04-14T16:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 15

About two years after Jeremy began teaching at Carson, Paul decided to move across town into one of the faculty bungalows on the grounds of the Conservatory. (These so-called bungalows—Jeremy referred to them as “bungholes,” irritating Paul to no end—are little more than a row of flimsy shacks the Conservatory put up next to the river around World War I, to provide low-income housing for some of its grossly underpaid faculty. Nowadays the salaries at Carson are more than adequate to buy a decent home in Bolton, of course, but many of the younger teachers still seem to find the shacks inexplicably charming.) Paul tried to convince Jeremy to move in with him, but Jeremy declined the invitation, preferring the attic apartment Paul was vacating. A few months later Caitlin began her master’s degree in Ann Arbor, and with her removal to Michigan and Paul’s conspicuous absence from our daily home life, Jeremy took on his role of “only child” with gusto.

He’d sit next to me by the fire in the evenings when Arthur was on the road, and peer up from his newspaper now and then with a quizzical expression.

“What is it, dear?” I’d ask.

He’d pull at his ear. “Well, it’s nothing really. I was just wondering why you didn’t smother Paul and Caitlin at birth.” He wouldn’t wait for an answer to questions such as these; he only asked them to amuse me. “I’m serious. I would have enjoyed my childhood so much more without having to share you and Dad with those two leeches.”

“Liar,” I’d murmur. “You adore Paul and Caitlin, and you know it.”

“Once upon a time, maybe.” He’d pour himself another shot of whatever we were drinking for a nightcap. “But Paul’s turning into something of an ogre, and Caitlin is fast becoming a first-class shrew. You may not see it yet, but I do.” He’d hold his glass up for a toast. “Well, here’s to how they were before the body snatchers got to them.”

I thought he was joking. I didn’t know he had the gift of prophecy.

Quite often the two of us played music in the evenings until my wrist couldn’t take it anymore, wading through all the literature for horn and piano. We read everything from Saint-Saens to Mozart to Maxwell Davies, and even though I could only handle about five minutes at a time (with frequent stops for self-medication) we played the hell out of whatever caught our fancy until, at last, I’d be forced to cry uncle. I shouldn’t have done it, of course, because the pain was intense, and afterwards I’d always have to ice my hand like an injured athlete to reduce the swelling. But I could never resist the temptation; it brought me too much pleasure.

When Arthur was home the three of us would occasionally even tackle a little of the Brahms trio (one of my personal favorites, but far too demanding for me to endure more than a few pages in one sitting), and it’s

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