Page 58 of Echoes of a Silent Song
“Oh, that’s right.I remember now.”Robert’s manufactured smile was at a level 8.“And that’s wonderful, because so do I.Tell me, Iris.Who’s your favorite Beatle?”
I swallowed.None of them, honestly.“Well, I—”
“Wait, I’ll bet you’re more of a Rolling Stones girl, aren’t you?”
“Actually, Robert, I like Chopin.”
The smile faded to a 7.5.“Show ...who?”
“Frédéric Chopin.A Polish-born French composer most famous for his piano works.Of course, I also love Bach and Beethoven, but who doesn’t?”
I sensed Mother getting ready to kick me again, so I moved my right foot out of the way.Sure enough, there came a gentle tap against the table leg as her toe connected with wood.She shot me a brief glare.
“Oh, of course.”Robert’s smile had dimmed to a 7.“Obviously Bach and Beethoven.I meant besides them.”
A devilish idea seized me.Putting my fork down, I turned to Robert and batted my eyelashes.“I could listen to Bach all day long.Especially his seventh Brandenburg Concerto.”
“Ah, yes.The seventh.”He dug his knife into the Christmas tree– shaped pat of butter on his plate and buttered his dinner roll.“That’s my favorite one, Iris.Especially the beginning.”
“The beginning of which movement?”
Robert still wore that manufactured smile.Did anything deter this man?“The first one, of course.”
For the first time all evening, my own smile turned genuine.“Trick question, Robert.There is no seventh Brandenburg.Bach only wrote six.”
Mother set her fork down on the table with enough force to sloshwater over the edge of my glass.“Iris.May I please speak with you in the kitchen?Now?”
“With pleasure, Mother.”I tossed my napkin aside and charged into the kitchen.Flora glanced up, startled, and bustled around the corner toward the laundry room.
Mother whirled to face me, hands on her hips.“You will apologize to the Stuarts immediately.”
“I’ll do no such thing.”
“How many times do I have to tell you, Iris?Men don’t appreciate it when women one-up them.”
“Then men should be smarter,” I retorted.“Honestly, who doesn’t know there are only six Brandenburgs?Victor’s probably known that since kindergarten.”
It wasn’t until Mother’s penciled brows inched together that I realized what I’d said.I never meant for the name to slip out, but it had, and now it hovered between us.
“Victor?”Her mouth twisted uncertainly around the word.“And who on earth is Victor?”
“Victor Nelson.The drum major.”I lifted my chin.“We’ve been seeing each other.”
“Seeingeach other,” Mother scoffed.“Well.The least you could’ve done is bring him to meet us.Is he of the Chicago Nelsons?”
“No.”My lips curved.“He’s of the Second Street Nelsons.”
“Second Street?”Mother drew back as if she’d been branded.“Oh, Iris.No.Absolutely not.You can do better than Second Street.What kind of life can this boy give you?Don’t you want better for yourself?”
“What I want is Victor,” I snapped.“Because he loves me.He understands me, which is something no one has ever done.”
“Oh,please, Iris.”Mother folded her arms across her chest.
“Everyone thinks I’m weird, Mother.I don’t like loud noises or scratchy fabrics.I don’t like movies or rock bands or crowds or parties.I like music, because it’s the only thing that makes me feel alive.It doesn’t matter whether I’m singing it or playing it or writing my own.And Victor is the only person I’ve ever met who has the same talents.Who loves music the same way I do.”
Mother reached out to touch my arm, but I backed away.
“Well, of course, Iris.”She offered a smile.“Music is wonderful.There’s nothing wrong with it.But, darling, it’s simply not a sensible career.For you or for him.”
