Well, this is it, Evan thought to himself. The day he had been waiting for – anticipating for almost a year. He was incredibly excited, yet wary. Was he just setting himself up for a big disappointment? But then again, he thought, how could it be anything other than great? After all, it was Cindy he was going to see.
Just 2 more miles until the freeway exit, Evan thought. Traffic was moderately light, and he’d hardly had to slow down at all. He didn’t make it into the city much, so he was glad for the easy driving conditions. Not at all like the first time he drove to Cindy’s, or as he knew it at that time, Ms. Drummond’s place…
***
It was not the best of June days as he remembered: unseasonably hot and muggy, nasty, bumper-to-bumper traffic a good part of the way due to an accident, then it took 5 minutes to find a parking space near her apartment. Grabbing his books and running up to the door to avoid being late, he rang the doorbell. A beautiful young woman with long, straight, sandy-brown hair answered the door. Evan said, “Is there a Ms. Cynthia Drummond here?”
She flashed a big smile and said, “I’m Cynthia Drummond. And you must be Evan Randall. Come on in, Evan. The piano is right over here.”
Evan smiled at the thought of it. Based on his previous experience, he hadn’t been expecting such a beautiful young piano teacher. Mr. Karris, his most recent teacher, was a nice guy, but kind of middle-aged, balding, and a tad overweight, while Mrs. Fielding, his first teacher, had been a prim, proper, and appropriately gray-haired lady of around 60 or so.
When it had been decided that Evan would be staying with his grandparents over the summer, they had called the music department at the University to get a list of names of piano teachers. Cindy was the first on the list; his grandmother had asked him if she was OK, and getting an affirmative (“It will only be a summer,”
Evan had thought at the time) made the arrangements for lessons on Evan’s behalf.
That first session, Cindy (Ms. Drummond, then) sat him down at the piano bench and said, “Play me something.”
It was a rather intimidating beginning, and he was tempted to downplay her expectations by telling her what a hack he was. But he didn’t. Instead, he pulled out a Bach cantata that he had been playing recently and played a page of it. All things considered, he thought he’d done well, with only 1 (OK, 2) mistakes. He expected that she would be mentioning those.
But instead, she sat in silent thought for about half a minute, just enough to make Evan really nervous. Finally, she said, “That’s not bad, really. Describe to me how you thought you did.”
Evan fell for the bait. He said he felt pretty good about it, except for the 2 missed notes that he’d made.
She looked at him with intense brown eyes and said, “Evan, I really don’t give a damn about the 2 missed notes. We can work on technique; I’ll give you drills to work on. But far more important is passion. I want you to play every piece you play, whether it’s classical, rock, or jazz, with passion. That’s something that I can’t teach you; you have to find it within. Do you understand?”
Evan nodded yes, even as he was uncertain that he really understood.
Then she asked, rhetorically, “Can I play this piece for you?” Evan moved and “Ms. Drummond” sat on the bench and began to play.
This was the first time Evan had noticed her hands. They were pianist’s hands; no long nails, of course, but with long, strong, expressive fingers. And the music flowed from her fingertips in a way Evan had never heard – the Bach cantata seemed like a different piece of music in her artistic hands.
So with that first lesson as a motivation, most moments when he wasn’t working his job down at the grocery store, Evan was at the piano. Over the next three weeks, he learned a lot about music and quite a bit about his teacher. She was a graduate student in music, age 24. Graduate school was a tough racket, she had confided, with lots of academic egos butting heads. She taught piano lessons on
the side to help pay rent and supplement her meager graduate stipend. A major project in her life at the time was a jazz composition which was to be part of her master’s thesis.
On the day of his fifth weekly lesson, Evan was off work early, so he left a little earlier than usual. That, plus unusually light traffic put him at the apartment a good 15 minutes before the start of his lesson. He went up to the door and before ringing the doorbell, looked through the window to the left, which had a view of Cindy’s patio. For his previous lessons, the blinds had been closed and he hadn’t even known that she had a patio.
There was an electronic keyboard set up on the patio, with a music stand above it. On the stand was a music manuscript that she was writing on. This was obviously her composing set-up. He watched as she tried out a few chords, then entered the notes on her manuscript with her left hand.
Then she did “it.”
Her right hand stretched just out of Evan’s field of view, and when it returned, there was a lighted cigarette between her fingers. She lifted the cigarette to her waiting lips, which gently cupped around the end of the filter, then tightened. With a beautiful cupping of her cheeks, she inhaled. She released the cigarette from her lips, and after a full 5 seconds, tilted her head back and blew out a puffy white cloud over her head.
Evan stood there transfixed by the incredible sight before him. He felt somewhat guilty, like he was eavesdropping, but he couldn’t help himself. He watched until he saw her finish her cigarette (about 12 chords and 5 drags later), then noticed that there were still 10 minutes until his lesson time. He figured that a good use of some of that time would be a walk around the block, seeing as how there wasn’t likely to be a cold shower anywhere nearby.
When Evan got back, the patio blinds were drawn, “Ms. Drummond” had changed blouses, and he detected a light smell of mint about her. Evan struggled through the lesson, and once “Ms. Drummond” told him that he seemed distracted. He lied and said he wasn’t. Then, about three quarters of the way through the lesson, Evan got the courage to speak.
“Ms. Drummond, you can smoke around me if you like. I don’t mind at all,” Evan found himself saying. As soon as he said it, he realized that he was practically admitting that he had seen her, and he became nervous about what she might say.
But she just gave a kind of sheepish grin and said, “I can’t smoke in here, Evan. I teach young kids, and parents don’t want their kids around secondhand smoke, or bad role models for that matter. But I’ll show you my composition area at the end of the lesson, if you’ll do me one favor.”
“What’s that?” Evan asked.
“Stop calling me Ms. Drummond. My name is Cindy.”
The last minutes of the lesson seemed achingly slow, but it finally ended and the two of them went out on the patio. She showed him her keyboard and the composition she was working on, and described how she worked “old school” in writing the original manuscript, but also entered it into a computer. She invited him to play on the keyboard, and while he did, she retrieved a pack, lighter and ashtray strategically hidden behind a potted plant. She tapped out a Marlboro from the red pack, put it between her lips, and lit it with a deep drag. Evan tried mightily to be nonchalant, to ask good questions, to be professional, but it was extremely difficult with his hot piano teacher gracefully holding, lifting, inhaling, enjoying, exhaling… Somehow, he made it to the end of her cigarette without behaving too weirdly, and they said their good-byes.
The time after lessons soon became Evan’s favorite time of the week. Cindy really seemed to enjoy it too. She could relax, and be herself. The two of them talked about a variety of things, and occasionally they would play duets together.
And Evan knew that Cindy was figuring out how much he liked her smoking. Once she played a trick on him – she waited a full 10 minutes after the lesson without lighting up and started suggesting that it was time for him to go. She could see the disappointment on his face, and hear his weak attempts at stalling. Cindy bailed him out by saying that she forgot about some iced tea that needed to be drunk, so she went inside and got him a glass, then promptly lit up a cigarette. And thus, they were both happy.
Finally, the last lesson of the summer came. Evan found out that Cindy would be leaving for Paris in a week. Some sort of exchange program; a French guy would
be staying in her apartment. Nine months. And of course, in 2 weeks, Evan was heading off to college in Arizona.
Cindy had gone in to bring out drinks; she came back with an iced tea for Evan and a red wine for herself. She lit up a cigarette and asked him a question that had never come up between them, “Evan, do you have a girlfriend?”
Evan told her he didn’t; he’d taken his friend Becca to the prom, but that’s all they were – just friends. Then, with an embarrassed stammer, he volunteered, “And, uh, I’ve never actually been with a girl in, uh, you know…”
As if to save him from drowning, Cindy threw him a life line by interrupting, “Well, I’ve only had one relationship that went, I guess you’d say, ‘all the way.’ He was 5 years older than I was, and I thought he was serious. But he dumped me.” (Evan thought, “What an idiot that guy must have been.”)
Then she looked into his eyes and said, “Evan, it’s always better to wait and do it with someone you love than to just hop into bed with someone. You’re a sweet, talented, good-looking guy. Get the right girl. Maybe it sounds old-fashioned, but it’s true.” She took a deep drag on her cigarette and blew the smoke skyward.
Evan had hoped for more, but he knew realistically that she was his teacher and he was her student. They exchanged some pleasantries, and when he knew it was time to go, he asked if he could have her e-mail address. She said, “Sure,” and “you’d better use it or I’ll be really pissed.” They hugged, and Evan caught the beguiling mixed scent of smoke and perfume, which made it all the harder to leave her. But leave he did.
Much to Evan’s surprise, they did indeed keep in regular e-mail contact over the next 9 months. Cindy shared a lot; Evan got the distinct impression that she was lonely there. She had a pretty good time in Paris, but they worked her hard. The smooth-talking French guys tried their lines on her, but she didn’t fall for them. (“Hooray!” thought Evan.) At the end of her stay, she was very ready to come home.
Evan, in turn, told Cindy all about his first year of college in his e-mails. He’d done reasonably well in his studies, made lots of progress in his music, and of course went to some good parties. But no love interests for him, either.
So in her last e-mail, Cindy had told him when she would be back and when to call. He called her at 11:00 this morning. They expressed mutual joy at hearing each other’s voices, Evan asked about her flight, and then he asked, “So, Cindy, can I come over for a piano lesson this afternoon? You saved me a spot, didn’t you?”
Much to Evan’s shock and dismay, Cindy said, “No Evan, I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“Why not? Why don’t you want me to come over?” Evan replied.
“Who said anything about not coming over? It’s just that I’m not your teacher anymore. I’m your…friend. Can you make it at 5:00 tonight, and stay for dinner?” she asked.
With his heart nearly leaping out of his chest, Evan said, “Sure, I’d love to.” ***
Soon after he exited the freeway, about 10 minutes from Cindy’s place, Evan’s cell phone rang. It was Cindy.
“Evan, are you still on the way here?” Cindy asked.
“Yes, I just got off the freeway.”
“Uh, I feel kind of dumb asking this, but I’m in the middle of fixing dinner and I forgot something and was wondering if you could get something for me at the corner store.”
“Anything for a friend.”
In an apologetic voice, Cindy asked, “Could you buy me some cigarettes? I can’t believe I didn’t notice I’m out. I’ll pay you back.”
“No you won’t; they’re on me. Still Marlboro reds, right? I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
As he hung up, he wondered why the very thought of buying cigarettes for Cindy was giving him an erection…
He arrived as promised at Cindy’s apartment with the Marlboros and a card he had found at the store (nice touch, as it turned out; she liked it). She gave Evan a big hug and suggested they go out to the patio, since dinner was in hand now. Knowing what that meant, Evan eagerly assented and made sure that Cindy had a pack in her hand. He needn’t have worried. She lit up as soon as they got outside.
Evan turned on the keyboard and noted that there was a manuscript of Cindy’s completed jazz composition – she was nearly done with her master’s degree. Cindy said that she wanted to play it for him inside on the piano, but she wanted him to feel free to play some of it himself. Evan found a section with some particularly difficult chord progressions and tried to pick through them. He came to the hardest part and said, “How do you do this, Cindy?”
“It’s not as bad as it looks, Evan. Here, let me show you.” She put her cigarette between her lips, and with it dangling, she played the 10 chord sequence at half speed, so he could follow. Then, she started a no-hands inhale, brought scissored fingers up to her lips, and removed the cigarette, which was followed a few seconds later by a billowing volume of smoke. “See, nothing to it!” she said. (Evan thought, “Holy shit! Can this woman get any more sexy? I think my blue jeans are going to explode.”)
They had dinner; it was really good, including some cheeses and other foods that Cindy had brought back from France. But for Evan, it was hard to keep his mind on the food. He asked Cindy for a glass of wine, and she said OK, but reminded him they weren’t in France and he would have to take it easy. (“Foolish though American liquor laws are that way,” Cindy thought.) Evan was cool with that.
They went into the living room, to the piano, and Cindy said, “Play me something.”
Evan had been working on Gershwin’s “Rhapsody in Blue,” so he played it. He played it with vigor, and heart and soul; in his estimation, the best he had ever played. When he finished, Cindy sat silent for about half a minute, just as she had done about a year ago on their first meeting. Then she said in a soft voice, “I can’t believe that it’s only been one year since I first heard you play. I’m on the verge of tears. That was a really, really lovely job, and I’m not just saying that.”
Then she played “Rollercoaster of Hope,” her master’s thesis composition. Evan had already seen that it was a technical marvel, with wild block chords, difficult modulations, and unconventional rhythms. But as she played it, the piece was so
much more. There was a be-bopping innocent sound at the beginning, a mournful blues section in the middle, and a joyous chorus of unconventional but beautiful harmonies at the end. When she finished, she was trembling. So was Evan.
With his heart beating wildly out of control, Evan looked deep into Cindy’s eyes. Then he quickly embraced her, and she him. Evan kissed her on the lips, and felt their gentle softness. He luxuriated in her smoky taste and the gentle touch of her talented hands upon his face. They sat there for a long time on the piano bench hugging, kissing, fondling, enjoying each other.
Finally, Evan broke the silence. “Cindy,” he said, “would it be wrong for me to say that I love you?”
Cindy said, “No, because I love you too.” After a pause, she said, “Evan, do you think it’s the time now?”
He nodded yes, and he absolutely meant it, but nevertheless a pang of terror shuddered through his body.
“Wait right there,” she said. “I’ll call you.”
It took a few minutes, but it seemed like hours. Evan nervously walked around and turned off the lights. Finally, he heard her gentle voice.
“Come on in, Evan. And shut the door behind you.”
Evan had never actually seen Cindy’s bedroom. She kept it locked to prevent the kids who took lessons from snooping. Her bed was a queen size brass four poster; nice but nothing fancy.
Cindy had changed into a see-through negligee. (Until tonight, she had been wondering if she’d ever get to wear it again.) She had a lit cigarette in her hand, and as Evan looked full in her face, she lifted it to her lips. She inhaled deeply, and the tip of the cigarette glowed red in the dim light of the bedroom. She exhaled…
They approached and embraced, and kissed. Cindy’s talented hands began unbuttoning Evan’s shirt. Cindy could see the excitement, but also the nervousness and anxiety in his eyes. She said to him, “Have I ever led you wrong? Don’t worry, Evan. I’ll give you the instructions, and you just do it. OK?” She grasped his hand and led him to the bed…
***
Evan stared over at the lovely vision spread out next to him, as she smiled at him and took a fulfilling drag on her cigarette. Lying there in the afterglow, with the most beautiful and talented woman in the world at his side, Evan knew he had just received the greatest lesson of his life.