Free The Distance Between Us by Noah Bly

“You’re making it sound like elevator music, for God’s sake. Do it like this.”
    I pound out the opening measures to the Scherzo of Prokofiev’s
Second Piano Concerto,
exaggerating the accents and the dynamics to make sure she hears what I want her to do. “Understand? Put some muscle into it.”
    She nods her empty blond head and plays the phrase exactly the same as she did before I corrected her. I bang my fist down on the lid of the piano and she almost falls off the bench.
    “Are you listening to me?” I demand. “Sloppy performers like you are the reason nobody younger than fifty listens to classical music anymore. They think it’s all boneless, insipid tripe that no one with a pulse can possibly respond to. Dear God, girl, are you breathing? Listen to what you’re playing. Can’t you hear the fire in it?”
    Her eyes, rimmed with dark blue mascara, well up, and her bright red lips quiver.
    Oh, for pity’s sake. I hate it when they cry.
    I sigh. I’m in a foul mood and I’m taking it out on this poor child. She’s actually not a bad player, but I don’t have the patience at this given moment to deal with Miranda Moore’s fragile self-esteem.
    I grunt and pat her on the shoulder. “There, there. Buck up,dear.” I force my voice to soften. “If you’re going to make it in this business you need to grow thicker skin.”
    Her voice shakes. “I’m sorry, Ms. Parker, but it’s just …” She leans over and grabs a tissue from the box on my desk and blows her nose.
    I wait for her to get hold of herself. “Yes? It’s just what?”
    She shrugs her shoulders and fresh tears roll down her cheeks. “Last week you told me I was playing too loudly, so I worked really hard on being more musical and more subtle, and now you want me to play louder again. I don’t know what you want.”
    My temper re-ignites. “What I want is for you to pay attention to what I’m saying.”
    She quails. “I’m trying …”
    “No, you’re not. You’re just going through the motions. A lobotomized chimpanzee could play with more feeling.”
    Her shoulders begin to tremble and I pause to rub my temples and collect my thoughts.
    I should have stayed home this afternoon. It was idiotic to come to work. The argument with Paul on the phone earlier this morning was reason enough to cancel lessons for the rest of the day, even if I hadn’t also had a dreadful meeting with my lawyer afterwards.
    The fight with Paul was par for the course, but my conversation with Phillip Hogan was a disaster. The gist of what he had to say today was (in direct contradiction to what he predicted a month ago, when he agreed to represent me) that I am now likely to lose my house to Arthur. He told me Arthur has a much larger chance of winning the house in the settlement than he had originally believed.
    And he also told me—more or less—that I should just give up.
    I suddenly can’t seem to govern my chin, and Miranda is gawking at me. I look away and struggle with my emotions.
    Maybe I shouldn’t be teaching any longer. My students would all be better off and so would I. Maybe all I’m good for these days is terrorizing hapless young musicians like this little girl, and instead of doing that I should just retire and sit in peace by my fireplace. At least there I can’t do any more harm. At least there I’ll be warm and safe.
    A shudder runs through me.
    My fireplace.
    God. What am I thinking? I won’t even have a fireplace when Arthur is done with me. He won’t be happy until he’s tossed my naked body out in the snow for the wolves to feed on.
    How did it come to this? How did I ever end up here? Have I been such a bad person that I’ve somehow earned this?
    I don’t think I have the courage to answer those questions.
    The last few years come crashing into my mind. All the lies I’ve told, all my cruelty, all my selfishness. Everything I’ve done to my husband, everything I’ve done to my children, everything I’ve done to