My Husband Wouldn't Sign, So He Gets Thirty Days of My Life novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: The Church Hall

Aubrey walks to Thad's church hall in Dorchester and plays her first notes in six years; her hand locks and Thad holds her up as Max walks in.

I took the Red Line to Dorchester with a duffel bag on my knees.

The church hall sat behind a Methodist church on a street of triple-deckers, and the sign out front was a bedsheet.

It said DORCHESTER STREET STRINGS, FREE LESSONS, in marker.

Thad Teasdale opened the side door before I knocked.

He is a wide man with a beard and a bow tie, and he had a dish towel over one shoulder.

He looked at the bag, and then at my face.

"You look like a ghost who got fired," he said.

"I asked for the divorce," I said.

"And?" Thad said.

"And she cancelled my phone."

"Who did?" He frowned.

"Sybil. With her thumb. While eating a cube of sugar."

"Get in here," Thad said.

He sat me down at a folding table in the kitchen of the church hall and put a plate in front of me.

It held a slice of something with cheese and a lot of black pepper.

"My husband made it," he said. "It's his mother's recipe, so if you hate it, you hate her."

I ate every bite.

I had not noticed that I'd skipped breakfast, because I had left before the eggs.

Thad watched me with his chin on his fist.

"Six years," he said. "Six years, Aub. I called every Christmas. You said you were busy."

"I was busy," I said.

"You were in a cage with a bell," he said.

"Thad."

"I'm sorry. I'm a terrible friend and I have strong feelings."

I laughed, and it came out wet.

He pushed a napkin across the table.

"Stay upstairs," he said. "There's a flat over the practice room. It has a bed, a kettle, and a radiator that bangs all night."

"I can pay you," I said.

"With what?" he said.

"I have two hundred and twelve dollars."

"Then you can pay me by teaching Tuesdays and Thursdays. Cash. The little ones need someone who knows what a shift is."

He stood up and wiped his hands.

"Come see the hall."

It was a long room with a stage at one end, folding chairs stacked along the wall, and music stands in a neat grid.

There were child-sized violins in cases by the door, with names on tape.

A girl's drawing of a cello was thumbtacked over the radiator.

It had a face.

On the stage, alone in the middle, stood a full-size cello in a battered case.

"Lost and found," Thad said. "A student's father left it. It's a decent instrument. Don't be shy."

My mouth went dry.

"I haven't touched one in six years," I said.

"I know," Thad said.

"I'll be terrible."

"You will be a little terrible for about four minutes," Thad said, "and then you'll remember who you are."

I sat down on a folding chair.

The cello was heavier than I remembered, and warmer, and it smelled like rosin and an old coat.

I set the endpin and drew the bow across the open C.

The note came out of the wood and filled the room.

It was rough and sour and wonderful.

I played the prelude of the first Bach suite, the one my mother taught me when I was nine.

My right arm remembered it before I did.

I got eleven bars in.

Then I shifted up into the fourth position, and my left hand locked.

All four fingers curled into the string and would not let go.

The pain shot from my wrist to my elbow.

The bow screeched, and the whole room rang with it.

"Aub," Thad said.

"I can't," I said.

"Breathe," he said.

"I can't open my hand."

"It's okay. It's a cramp. It's six years of it. Breathe," Thad said again, softer.

Thad crouched in front of me and pried the neck of the cello out from under my palm.

My hand stayed curled in the air, shaking.

"I used to be good," I said, and my voice cracked in half.

"You're still good. You're sad and out of practice. Those are different."

I was crying so hard I couldn't see him.

He pulled me up off the chair and into his arms, and I put my face in his shoulder and shook.

He smelled like soap and coffee.

"I've got you," he said. "I've got you, Aub. It's okay."

The side door banged open.

Someone in the doorway said nothing for a very long second.

I lifted my head.

Max stood at the far end of the hall with rain on the shoulders of his charcoal coat.

He was out of breath, and he had not brought a driver.

His eyes went from my wet face to Thad's hands on my back.

His jaw locked.

"Take your hands off my wife," he said.

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