Page 32 of This Side of Beautiful

“Hello.”

“Hello, son. How long have you been home?” Her perfect diction indicated that she hadn’t called to chitchat.

“Maybe an hour.” The night wasn’t as clear as it had been in Houston, when Janae joined me in the backyard. I couldn’t spot any stars or planets.

“I need you to stop over this evening.”

The gnawing began as I closed my eyes. “I just got home after two shows and traveling. I’m exhausted.”

“It’s just for a little while. We’re having a dinner party to celebrate a colleague’s promotion, and everyone wants to meet the Grammy-winning guitarist of The Hollow Bones,” she said proudly.

“The same people you worried wouldn’t accept my music because it wasn’t good enough?Thosepeople?” I asked.

“Landon, forget about the past. These people can get you in the right rooms. One wants to ask you to be a guest lecturer or maybe invite you to the faculty at Juilliard.”

“I didn’t go to college. When did I ever want to speak in front of people? I thought teaching required public speaking.” I sighed deeply. My mother still refused to see her son for who he was.

“Yes, it does. You can focus on playing more than talking. How you teach is at your discretion.” Her tone suggested she was smiling. “Just imagine the prestige of teaching young, gifted people everything we taught you.”

“Then why don’tyoutry to secure a job at Juilliard? I’m sure they’re dying to work with you, an alumnus. Or Dad, from Oberlin. It’s not Juilliard, but hey. Or maybe you can teach together. It would be a kickass class,” I retorted sarcastically.

“They don’t want us. They want you.”

“It’s a Monday night. Who gives dinner parties on a Monday night? What if I wasn’t home? Then what?” I shook my head. “I’m not in the mood to deal with strangers, Ma.”

“Son, I’ll give you until nine to make an appearance, and you can leave by ten.” My father’s stern voice startled me. “We’re not taking no for an answer. You wouldn’t even be in a band to travel if I hadn’t taught you how to play.”

“Yes, sir,” the eight-year-old child in me replied meekly.

They hung up the phone, and I curled into a ball, wishing the gnawing would stop.

An hour later, I stood before my family brownstone in Brooklyn Heights, the home and neighborhood I’d grown up in. I’d worn dark cargo pants and a long-sleeved white polo, hoping people wouldn’t touch me. At these kinds of intimate, pretentious parties, people liked to grip your hand, forearm, or shoulder as if their touch made sure you listened to whatever self-aggrandizing statement they wanted you to hear. I’d been seven before I allowed anyone but my mother to touch me. My parents knew of my debilitating discomfort around people but didn’t seem to care when it involved their image. I was expected to push through and smile.

I opened the heavy door and was assailed with polite chatter, soft laughter, and music… jazz, probably Coltrane or someone new who imitated him. I couldn’t quite discern yet. I jammed my right hand in my pocket to rub my pick and walked past the hallway that led to the stairs and into the large living area where the intimate party was held. I barely glanced at the three large portraits of us as a family over the years. One of me at five, then at ten, and lastly at fifteen that lined the hallway. In each one, my parents smiled while I looked straight ahead, hating that this was my family.

The gnawing in my stomach increased the closer I came to my parents’ elite friends and musical scholars. My parents were virtuosos of their respective instruments and tenured NYU professors. My mother cherished the violin. My father could rival the greats with his horns. I completed the trio with my mastery of the guitar. We were considered special and blessed as a family.

If they only knew.

My mother’s beautiful, serene hazel eyes watched me as I entered the party of ten or twelve guests. I was sure she’d trained her gaze on the door to spot me before I attempted to duck upstairs to my old bedroom. Her perpetually red lips curved into a smile meant to engender warmth from her only child, but all I could feel were unattainable expectations in her welcoming embrace.

“Here’s the prodigal son, fresh off a performance down south at the rodeo, of all places.” She chuckled as she hugged me. I held on to her soft body to prolong the time before I had to greet the guests waiting to pounce. I tucked my head into her neck and inhaled the familiar Chanel No. 22 perfume she’d always worn because my father loved the scent. “Aww… he must have missed his mother.”

The small crowd oohed and aahed, and she pulled back. “I keep hoping I’ll see your beautiful hair again.”

I pulled down the brim. “My hat is my superpower.”

Her forehead wrinkled prettily, and she turned me around to greet the guests. “My handsome son… One day he’ll bring home a gifted woman like himself so he can give me some beautiful grandchildren to spoil like we did him.”

After I nodded and made the tiniest of responses to three of the guests, my mother curved her arm to my waist and pushed me toward an older woman standing separately from the party, who I could only assume was from Juilliard. The woman with the cloying floral scent that made breathing challenging gripped my forearm, and I clenched my jaw as my mother excused herself. The woman smiled wide, and I focused on the gap in her front teeth.

“Dr. Sarah Howard, faculty at Juilliard. We’ve been following your career for some time. My area is the piano.”

I replied, “I play the guitar.”

Her smile faltered a bit. “Yes, but you’re also a classically trained pianist.”

I repeated, “I play the guitar.”

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