Autobiography of Us by Aria Beth Sloss Read Free Book Online

don’t have anything against her, darling. It’s just that I’d hate to see you make choices that lead to nothing but disappointment.”
    With a great show of deliberation, I turned my gaze toward the rug, the faded patch where the light through the windows had struck it repeatedly over the years, bleaching the crimson threads to pink. “I have no intention of disappointing anyone.”
    She fussed with the tissue wrapping the stockings. “Sometimes I forget how young I was when I met your father. Heaven knows what would have happened to me if he hadn’t come along. He rescued me, you know.” She paused. “I don’t think I’ve ever said it quite like that.”
    “I thought you loved working for Henry,” I said, surprised.
    “It was fun for a while. But I had to think of my future, didn’t I?” She left the stockings and brushed something off the collar of my blouse, her hands going automatically to straighten the shoulders. “Don’t look so down in the mouth about it, sweetheart. I never considered it a permanent solution. Much too much traveling, for one, and I’d like to remind you that Henry didn’t exactly make it easy for me. What would I have done if I hadn’t met your father? Taken a job as someone’s secretary in some ugly old office? Come home every night to a grimy little room, dinner on a Sterno?” She stood then, snapping the lid of my suitcase shut and giving it a pat. “Be sensible, darling.”
    “Then you don’t regret giving it up—the traveling. The music.”
    She tilted her head. “You’re full of questions today.”
    I turned my attention to the skirt I’d laid aside to wear the next day, patting it down with exaggerated care. “Everything’s going to be so different.”
    “It’s only natural to feel a little apprehensive. All this change! But really, you’ll find it does you good. Invigorating, I should think.” She put her hand on my shoulder, fingers tapping. “He used to practice like this—Henry, I mean. On his own arm. It just came to me now—isn’t that funny? Of course, he was getting on in his years, but it didn’t have a thing to do with age. Said it helped him understand the keyboard, to see it. A pure kind of vision, he called it.” She ran her hand down my arm, her fingers flying now. “He’d play anything in sight—the table at a restaurant, the dashboard of a car, his own leg. Sooner or later, though, he always had to sit down and play the real thing. I always thought it must have come as the most tremendous relief.” Her hand came to rest on mine. “You’re going to have the most marvelous time.” She tipped my head up so I had to look at her, her hair gleaming in the late-afternoon light. “You know that, don’t you?” I nodded. “Marvelous,” she repeated.
    We had an early dinner that night, after which I escaped to my room, telling my parents I was tired and needed to tend to a few things before bed, the two of them exchanging looks as I kissed them good night. They would have liked me to stay awhile longer, I’m sure—Mother especially must have wanted me to linger, to sit and discuss the details of the next day over dessert and coffee. But I felt distracted at the thought of the next twenty-four hours and vaguely ill, and so I pretended not to see their disappointment, leaving them with their coffee as I turned and fled. I stood for a minute in front of my packed bags, suddenly exhausted, and then I turned the sheets back and crept into bed, too tired to so much as unbutton my blouse.
    * * *
    The knock on my door woke me from a deep, dreamless sleep. It was after ten, late for a call, but my mother only shook her head when I sat up.
    “Sounds as though she had a fabulous time,” she said from the doorway. “You may as well say hello.” I swung my feet out from under the covers and crossed the room. “Don’t forget you’ll need your rest for tomorrow,” she added. “Both of you.”
    “I won’t be long.”
    “You might ask if