Mountain Solo Trade cloth - 2003

Details

• Title Mountain Solo
• Author Ingold, Jeanette
• Binding Trade Cloth
• Edition [ Edition: repri
• Pages 320
• Language EN
• Publisher Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, New York, New York, U.S.A.
• Date 2003-09-01
• ISBN 9780152026707

TESS

My mother and I returned to New York the next day, and now, two weeks later, barely into July, I'm on a late-night plane to Montana and still burning with shame. And no closer to understanding how I could have failed.

All I know is that it will never happen again. I'm taking my violin as far away as I can from everything that put me on that stage.

My throat tightens as I hold down the tears that have been hovering this whole flight out. What if Mom's right, and at sixteen years old I'm making the biggest mistake of my life?

As the plane nears Missoula, passengers lean toward cold windows, and I recognize a moonlit summer valley an instant before someone says, "We're coming in over the Rattlesnake."

Scattered lights-one of them must be my dad's house-merge into the close-packed ones of downtown. Not very many lights, really, and dark mountains ring the bright basin like a cord pulled tight.

The hardest thing was getting Mom to believe I was serious. "Leave your violin teacher? Drop out of music school?" Are you crazy? her tone implied. Then she changed arguments. "And how can you want to live with a stepfamily you haven't even met?"

I didn't know how to answer her; I never do, but for once I didn't give in, either. On my own, I had called Dad for a plane ticket and sorted my things into what I'd take with me and what I'd have sent on later.

If I have them sent on. I couldn't tell Mom I was already worrying that staying away from New York might be harder than remaining. She'd have grabbed on to a weakness like that and enlarged it until I'd be back right where she wanted me.

Now, as we angle down to the runway, I think about Mom seeing me off from La Guardia Airport earlier today.

She was so silently angry, I wasn't sure she'd even say good-bye. But she'd suddenly touched the violin case I was clutching. "At least you're taking that with you," she said, and for a brief instant she really seemed to want to understand.

I wish I could have explained. Could have offered something better, anyway, than only telling her, "I couldn't leave it behind."

Though that's the truth. I couldn't.

Dad's tall enough that I easily spot him amid the airport confusion. "Hey!" I yell, running to him for a hug. He looks so welcoming with his arms open wide that I have to fight back a sudden urge to cry. "Hey," I say, and I hang on to his neck a moment before stepping back.

His gaze shifts to a girl rapidly weaving her way through the crowd. Amy, I think, recognizing her from photos. Without slowing down she looks over her shoulder, hollers, "Mom, she's here!" and rams into the edge of a display case. Her mouth opens in surprise when she sees the huge grizzly bear towering inside.

I hurry over with Dad, who asks, "You all right? No permanent damage? The bear didn't bite?"

The poor kid's face is crimson with embarrassment.

"I don't see any puncture marks," I joke, hoping to make her laugh. Then I add, "I'm happy to meet you, Amy. I'm Tess."

She shoots me a mortified glance and barely mumbles a hello.

"And I'm Meg," someone says, and I turn to meet Dad's new wife. She's taller than I'd pictured; fit looking; wears her hair, black like Amy's but faded, loosely caught behind her head. She says, "We are so glad you're here, Tess."

I offer her my hand to shake, but she laughs and hugs me. A real hug, not at all like one of Mom's, which doesn't mess up hairstyles and makeup. Meg hugs as though she means it.

AS WE DRIVE away from the airport, I think about how you hear that a man sometimes marries the same woman twice. The same kind of woman. I suppose that deep down that's what I expected Dad to have done, but my brief impression of Meg is that she's as different from Mom as comfortable jeans are from a tailored silk suit. Which is both reassuring and scary, because Mom, at least, I'm used to.

I look over at my stepsister, who's huddled in her corner of the backseat, apparently still embarrassed over her collision with the display case. I tell her, "If you moved that grizzly bear to New York, somebody would build a whole museum around it."

She makes a small noise that could be a sniff or a giggle.

I tell her, "You make the third Amy that I know. There are two in my school."

She whispers, "Dancers."

Surprised, I ask, "How did you know that?"

She shrugs, and I'm thinking there are easier things than trying to talk with a nine-year-old when suddenly she says, "We're going backpacking."

"Who?"

"Us. Day after tomorrow. Pop bought a new tent just for you and me."

Pop? I wonder, and then I realize she means Dad.

Amy's voice turns anxious. "Is that okay?"

"Sharing a tent? Yes, but...Dad?" I say, leaning forward. "Is that right? I was expecting to have some time-"

Amy asks, "Don't you want to go?"

"It's not that," I answer. "I'm just surprised."

Meg says, "The timing's my doing. Part of the reason we're going is to pin down the location of an old homestead site while there's still enough summer left to do a good follow-up."

For a second I don't know what she's talking about, and then I remember. She's a historian-an archaeologist, actually-with the Forest Service. I ask, "So this will be a working vacation?"

"Partly," she answers. "For me."

"Got it," I say.

I'd just as soon not get to know my new family under circumstances that throw us together every minute, but working vacations are one thing I understand. It will just be odd to watch someone else do the work.

I sleep in the guest room since Amy's taken over mine and wake up the next morning to clear sunshine and different sounds than I'm used to. Here there're no horns or sirens; there's no city roar.

The nightstand clock says 11:30-I never sleep so late!-and I realize Dad and Meg must have left for work hours ago. I listen for Amy and then remember her mentioning something about spending the day with a friend. Getting out of the unfamiliar bed, I feel oddly out of place, and the sensation grows as I go through the house, looking at it in a way that I couldn't last night. I know I've got a right to be here, but there's just enough difference from how it used to be to make me feel like an intruder.

Things I expect to see are gone, replaced by things that I don't know, like a new countertop in the bathroom. And framed pictures from the Hawaii wedding that Mom decided I shouldn't attend because, she said, I couldn't afford the time.

I pause at the doorway to Dad and Meg's room, which still has the furniture from when it was his and Mom's. It's been rearranged, though, and the patterned wallpaper and heavy drapes are gone. Now it's just dark wood, white walls, and uncovered windows looking out at trees hung with a half-dozen bird feeders.

The changes are jolting-as though I closed my eyes on the past and opened them to find it changed-and they remind me how little I know about my new stepmother. It takes effort to push down a worry that we might not get along.

When I get to my old room, though, I burst out laughing. Amy's version of leaving it neat was to pile a foot-high heap of stuff on her bed and cover it with the spread. I pick up a stray sock and shove it in with her other things.

And then I see the pictures under the glass top of her desk, and my stomach does a little flip-flop. It's a collage of photos cut from a teen magazine article about my academic school, which is just for kids who are studying to be performing artists or already have professional careers. Amy has mounted them on colored paper and used gold ink to write in our names and what we do.

I trace the faces through the glass and wonder if I'll ever see them again.

There's one of Kiah, Eleni, and both Amys in their leotards and ballet slippers. And there's me with my violin, standing next to Kendall, whom I'd just as soon not see again.

I find the group shot that's my favorite. Ben, my best friend in all the world, is in the middle of it, one hand supporting his cello and an expression on his face like he'd rather be playing it than posing.

Ben doesn't even know I've left New York. Besides cello, he plays a pretty good string bass, and when I got back from Germany he was already off on his summer job, touring New England with a jazz group. He called four or five times, but I let him talk to the answering machine.

Out of habit I glance at my watch and calculate the practice time left in the day. Then I remember I don't have to do that anymore. The whole afternoon and evening lie wide open, with no new music for me to learn and nothing old to polish. I can leave my violin case closed the way it has been for the past two weeks.

The sheer freedom makes me feel a little giddy.

Or maybe I'm just hungry, I think. Should I have breakfast or lunch?

In the kitchen I drink orange juice while looking at another photo. This one, which is on the refrigerator door, is of me when I was three and a half, or almost. I'm wearing a bathrobe and cradling my new violin the way I might a doll. Mom's neatly printed label has almost faded away, but I can still make it out. I was Tessie back then. Occasionally still am.

Then I spot a note from Dad propped against a cereal bowl. "I'll pick you up at lunchtime-noon sharp-so we can buy you some camping gear."

I start to hurry down the hall and then have to backtrack to answer the phone.

"Tess," Mom says, "why didn't you call and tell me you'd arrived safely? Anyway, I want you to know that I've spent the entire morning straightening out the mess you left behind."

"I didn't leave a mess."

"Most importantly, I've gotten your violin teacher to understand that you're on a needed mental health break-"

Mental health break! "But that's not true! Why would you tell Mr. Stubner that?"

"So he'll keep a place in his schedule. I'm keeping doors open for you."

"You had no right."

"But they won't stay open forever, so don't dawdle too long in coming to your senses. And don't let up on your practicing. You don't want to get further behind than you can help."

My gaze swings to the microwave display that says 11:48. I think, Dad will be here in twelve minutes. Again I calculate the hours I have left in the day. It's a habit hard to break, and I feel guilty for even trying to. Or maybe the unsettled feeling inside me is dismay at how easy it would be to give in to Mom.

I know that if I stay on the phone with her, she'll soon be telling me what music to work on. And then, before I know how she's made it happen, I'll be on another airplane, on my way back to New York and a life I don't want anymore.

Making my voice steady, I say, "I can't practice for several days at least because we're going on a camping trip. I'll call when we get back."

And then I hang up.

I take a fast shower, throw on some clothes, and am in the driveway pulling my hair into a ponytail when Dad drives up.

Shopping with him is a fast affair. It takes us ten minutes at one store to get a sleeping bag to replace the one I outgrew years ago-Amy will use that-and fifteen minutes at another to pick out an internal-frame pack that looks as if it will hold a lot more than I want to carry. I'm kind of stunned at the size of the checks he has to write, but he says they're part early happy birthday-my birthday's three weeks away-and part welcome-home gift.

Lunch is milkshakes and onion rings, which used to be our secret treat. Then Dad has to get back to his veterinary clinic. He tells me, "If you wouldn't mind getting a ride home with Meg, it will save me some driving."

"Isn't she working?" I ask.

"She has an appointment at a nursing home out this way and then is taking off early to get things ready for tomorrow."

"What's she doing at a nursing home?"

"She didn't say. Just called to suggest I drop you off there."

"I'M SUPPOSED TO meet Meg Thaler," I tell a man at the front desk.

"Dr. Thaler?" he asks, and I almost say no before I remember she is one, a Ph.D. doctor. "She got here just ahead of you," he says, gesturing down a long hall.

Spotting Meg toward the far end, I hurry and catch up with her as she pauses in a doorway. She gives me a smile while speaking to someone I can't see. "Miss Bottner?" she says.

"I wanted to let you know I'm here," I whisper. "I'll wait in the lobby."

"Please stay," she tells me. "Miss Bottner?" she says again, stepping inside. "Katharina?"

Meg motions me into the room, where a woman sits at a window. Even though her back is toward us, she gives the impression of being very old. And when she reaches for the controls to make her wheelchair circle around, I see scars, darkened and puckered with age, stretching across fingers that strain to work the buttons.

Once she's facing our way, she urges, "Sit down, sit down. And tell me who you are. Someone said, but I do forget..."

"I'm Meg Thaler," Meg says, "and this is my stepdaughter, Tess."

"Well, tell her to sit, too," the woman says.

There's only one visitor's chair, so I take up a place on the floor where I can lean back against a bureau.

Meg says, "I work for the Forest Service, and one of my projects is locating the place where you grew up. It's probably the last undocumented homestead site in the Rattlesnake, and..."

Katharina Bottner listens attentively to the explanation, but when Meg says, "I was hoping you could tell me some landmarks to look out for," Katharina replies with, "Are you the girl come to give me my bath?"

Meg's cheeks turn a faint pink. "No," she says, and starts over with a simpler explanation.

Katharina interrupts to ask me, "And who are you again?"

"Tess Thaler," I say.

"And you?" she asks Meg.

"I'm Meg Thaler, from the Forest Service." Meg touches Katharina's hand, and again I notice the scars. "Katharina, it would really help me to know about where you grew up. Do you remember if your parents farmed the land?"

Sudden humor sparkles in Katharina's eyes. "They certainly didn't run a store on it. Wouldn't have had any customers but wild animals."

Meg chuckles but pushes on. "Do you remember what buildings you had? Besides a house? A barn, perhaps?"

"Certainly we had a barn," Katharina says. "If I could, I'd ask Papa to show you." She halts, appearing puzzled, as though she's trying to pull together some thought. Then she shakes her head. "But I haven't seen him in a long time."

Meg waits a few moments, and then she says, "Your father was a violin player, wasn't he?"

"I haven't seen him in a long time," Katharina repeats. She looks down at her hands. "He would have taught me to play, you know, only of course there was the dynamite. My own fault for wandering off. I'd been told."

"Dynamite?" Meg asks as I shudder at the image of a little kid being hurt by explosives. But Katharina is done talking about it. And when Meg tries to direct the conversation back to the homestead, Katharina starts talking about the young robins outside her window.

We thank her for seeing us and are saying good-bye when the puzzled expression returns to her face. Then it dissolves as she apparently finds the thought she was after. "I do have something of Papa's you can look at."

She rolls her wheelchair to a closet, slides open the door, and nods toward a shelf crammed with bags and boxes. "It's up there," she says, looking at me. "You'll have to move some things."

Meg motions for me to go ahead, and I'm about to ask what I should be looking for when I see the unmistakable shape of a violin case. I pull it down and set it on the bed. "Your father's?" I ask.

"That's what I said," Katharina answers.

"May I open it?"

"You won't see it unless you do."

As I ease back the worn, stiff latches, Meg says, "Tess is a violinist herself."

Katharina says, "Papa called it a fiddle."

The hinges squeak when I lift the lid, and the mingled scents of rosin, old wood, and decaying fabric rush out. The violin that rests on the case's crushed-velvet lining has one peg that looks different from the others, and two of its strings are missing.

"Will you play a piece?" Katharina asks.

I draw a finger over the instrument's curved, finely crackled surface, sad to have to tell her, "I'd like to, but this isn't in any shape to play."

"Oh." The single word is soft with disappointment.

"I'm sorry," I tell her. "What kind of music did your father play?"

"Every kind you can name. Square-dance music and hymns and old-timey things like 'Go Tell Aunt Rhody.' One year when every one of our lambs lived right to market, Mama even bought him a book of music so he could learn some different pieces. That's when he learned 'Danny Boy.'" Katharina's eyes focus on a point in midair. "What I liked best, though, were his woods sounds."

"What were those?" I ask.

"Oh, just one thing and another we'd hear. Birds singing, owls, like that." Frowning, she looks at the instrument and makes a small humphing noise in her throat. "Well, put it away." She reaches for the buttons of her wheelchair. "You'd better go now. I'm tired."

We're in the hall when Katharina calls us back. "Girl," she says to me, "what's your name again?"

"Tess."

"Did you come here by train?"

"Come to...?" I hesitate, wondering if she means to the nursing home and not sure it's polite to call it that.

"To Montana, of course," she says. "Papa came by train, carrying that fiddle all the way from South Dakota."

"You were with him?"

"Why, he was just a boy. I wasn't even born!" She chuckles. "The idea!"

Copyright © 2003 by Jeanette Ingold

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