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Wednesdays by Tim Wohlforth
Janet Taylor was beaming as she stood in line at Hertz Hall on the Cal campus in Berkeley. The fog had cleared, producing a brilliant September day tempered by a slight chill. Her gray hair was cut fashionably short and she wore a peasant skirt with an embroidered white blouse, a Guatemalan bag hanging over her shoulder.
There were only three people in front of her. Soon the line would be around the ochre mission-style building. She always arrived early for the Wednesday noon free concerts. Since she took early retirement from teaching primary school, the weekly performance had become the center of her busy life. It wasn't so much her position in line that pleased her so. It was anticipation of the musical experience to come. Elizabeth Kroy, featured violinist with the Baroque Philharmonic, was going to play Bach. Janet ushered at all the orchestra's concerts. Elizabeth was the best.
She felt an elbow nudging her in the middle of the back. She turned to face a man with a gentle boyish visage, white hair and a trim beard, wearing blue jeans and moccasins. She figured him as late fifties to early sixties. He held a steaming latté in one hand and a bran muffin in the other. A cell phone in the pocket of his loose-fitting white shirt was ringing.
"Could you help me out?" his soft blue eyes implored her.
"Of course."
She smiled back at him as she took his lunch out of his hands. She stood there, not sure what to do with the coffee and muffin. The man began to speak into the phone.
"Yes, this is Jack," was all she could hear. For several minutes he murmured almost in a whisper into the phone. Then he flipped it closed and turned to her.
"You've been an angel. I don't know how to thank you enough. I don't seem to ever get away from business." He reached towards her and lightly took hold of her two arms. "Could I ask you one more favor? Please hold on to these for a few more minutes. And save my place. I need to run a quick errand."
"But the door may open at any minute and they don't allow food inside," Janet protested.
"Then dump the stuff, but save me a seat. Wouldn't miss this concert for the world."
"You've heard Elizabeth?"
"The greatest."
He had said the magic words. Anyone who loved Elizabeth Kroy was automatically her friend. And it didn't hurt that he was so damnably good-looking and that she could feel the warmth of his hands on her arms.
"Be quick," she found herself saying. He dropped her arms and started jogging in the direction of Telegraph Avenue.
* * *
Janet Taylor sat in the front row, no more than ten feet from where Elizabeth Kroy would be standing. Seats packed with people rose high up behind her. She had felt guilty turning down the dozen or so persons who asked to occupy the seat she saved for Jack. She figured she'd seen the last of him, but a promise was a promise. Funny the effect he had on her. Silly, really. Her female friends insisted that she was a pretty woman with an attractive figure. But the phrase "for your age", spoken or unspoken, was always there. She did work out each day––even lifted weights––and kept trim. Men like Jack, she knew, were only interested in younger women. She was just two convenient hands to hold a cup and a muffin. But he did have a nice smile.
The lights started to dim and a hush fell over the audience. Then Elizabeth walked in holding her magnificent baroque violin. She was a heavy woman with a round freckled face and an unruly mound of brown hair. Looked more like a farm girl than a concert violinist. That was part of the charm. Her face would light up when she played, like a little girl with a Barbie Doll on Christmas morning. The audience greeted her with applause and then fell silent. The first marvelous note hit her ears. A hand enclosed her hand on the armrest. Janet almost jumped out of her seat.
"Sorry for being late," Jack whispered into her ear. "You've been a darling."
Janet blushed. He released her hand but she could feel his shoulder pressing against hers during the rest of the concert. She made no effort to move away.
Elizabeth concluded her short concert with Bach's Toccata and Fugue in A minor for unaccompanied violin. More than once Janet looked up at the stage, expecting to see a whole orchestra. She saw only Elizabeth, with her little girl smile on her large freckled face, effortlessly bowing away. Goose bumps formed on her arms. Jack's hand squeezed hers, pressure increasing as the piece's complexity unfolded. Then silence, leaving her and the whole audience stunned.
She rose to her feet with Jack still holding her hand. Jack dropped her hand and started clapping. She joined in, too. Jack shouted, "Magnificent." They both stomped their feet. The audience followed their lead. It was as if Janet and Jack were the cheerleaders at the Super Bowl.
Jack turned to her. "Incredible…that a human could have written something of such beauty. Impossible…that Elizabeth Kroy could play a piece of such complexity." He took her hand. "I owe you lunch." He dragged her after him out of the concert hall.
* * *
"I've talked enough about myself," Janet said. "I'd like to hear about you." It was their third lunch together. They sat at an outdoor table at the La Strada Coffee House on the corner of Bancroft and College. It was packed with students; some sat alone with their books open or laptop on, others in clusters chattered away. She loved the college atmosphere. Certainly didn't make her feel particularly young. A vitality, an electrical charge stirred the air. There was an intensity expressed as much in the chatter as in the quiet studying.
Their meetings had already fallen into a routine. Janet always arrived at Hertz early and saved a seat for Jack. He invariably came late. The previous week, he missed the first movement of a marvelously played Beethoven Piano Sonata. Janet didn't mind. He always turned up and they had their lunch together. Mostly they discussed music. Jack loved Bach but knew little about early music. Janet filled Jack in on Purcell, Jordi Suvall, Marias, and Hildegard von Bingen.
When not discussing music Janet prattled on about her life. Somehow Jack had avoided talking about himself. She didn't like to pry, but it bothered her. She didn't even know his last name. So the question had come blurting out.
Jack stiffened in his chair. He didn't look her in the eye. Instead he fixated on the screen of a laptop sitting in front of a thin blond-haired co-ed at the table across from them. She wished she could take a deep swallow and the question would be withdrawn.
"You've got to trust me, Janet. Wednesdays have become very important for me. I look forward all week to the concert…to being with you. You must believe that. However, it's best for you that I not talk about myself."
What could she say? She felt an uncontrollable urge to cry. A tear began to roll down her cheek. She swiftly wiped it away before Jack could notice it. Her mind was spinning. He must be married. Maybe even children. The wife didn't like music. That's it. He needed somebody to share that passion. Talking about music was not going to bed with someone. Or was it? A smile crept over her face. For her their relationship was intimate. She would have liked more from Jack, but what they had was too precious to her to lose.
"There's a group of women singers who specialize in medieval music," Janet said. She looked directly at him forcing him to return her gaze. "They're called ‘The Anonymous Four.' You're my ‘Anonymous One.'"
He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek.
* * *
Janet and Jack attended their Wednesday concerts throughout that fall and winter. Their weekly time together had transformed her life. When she read a novel for her book club she knew just how Jack would react to the story. She threw herself with greater energy into her volunteer work at Alta Bates hospital because Jack was so proud of her. She had visions of the expression of astonishment that would have been on Jack's face if he could watch her as she performed precision kicks at her martial arts class at the senior center. She chattered on about him at her weekly lunches and dinners with her friends. Above all, he was with her whenever she listened to music. "That's Jack's piece," she would say to herself when KDFC played Bach.
* * *
One Wednesday in March Jack didn't show up. Janet figured he must be sick or some pressing business matter came up. She went to the La Strada and sat at their favorite table. She waited almost two hours. For the next three Wednesdays in a row she faithfully saved his seat and waited at the coffeehouse.
A small package arrived in the mail. It was a CD by the "Anonymous Four." There was a Post-it attached with one word scrawled on it: "Sorry." She burst into tears. "One word, only one word!" she exclaimed to no one. "Damn him."
His wife must have spotted them, Janet figured. She knew it couldn't last forever but that didn't make it any easier for her. There was really nothing she could do. She felt miserable. She had been a happy person before she met Jack. Had it really been worth it? Wasn't she too old for…for love?
After a few weeks a change came over her. She discovered that she wouldn't have wanted to live without knowing Jack. The pain of losing him subsided. She permitted thoughts of him to reenter her life. He was with her again at the Wednesday concerts and whenever she heard music.
* * *
On one cool overcast Wednesday in May, Janet was hurrying up Telegraph Avenue. For once she might be "late" for the concert. Late for Janet would be arriving on time in anybody else's book. She wouldn't get the best seat.
She pushed through throngs of students rushing from class and on their way to their apartments or to find lunch. Ahead the punks and Goths had sprawled over the sidewalk across the street from Cody's bookstore. Bright red spiked hair, tattered blue jeans, leather jackets, chains, dogs, backpacks. Girls, with ghostly pale complexions who couldn't be more than sixteen, dressed all in black––hair, flowing long dresses, lipstick. A whiff of pot mixed with car exhaust in the air.
Towering over the punks was the gigantic hulk of a man. Shaved head, rings in ears and nose, a swastika tattooed on his massive biceps, leather vest with thongs attached, chain holding up tattered leather pants, no shirt. He was talking with an older gray-haired man in a white shirt. It was Jack.
Janet froze. People bumped into her but she couldn't move. The hulk grabbed Jack's shirt and ripped it open. She started running towards Jack, bashing past a young Iranian woman, her hair covered by a chador, and knocking over a table full of anti-establishment bumper stickers. She tore across the street. A new Beetle screeched to a stop inches from her body, its horn blaring.
The hulk saw Janet, black eyes burning right through her. Then he reached behind his back, pulled out a revolver and fired directly into Jack's stomach. He fell to the ground while the hulk calmly turned his back to him and walked up the street.
Janet reached Jack and dropped to the sidewalk. She picked up his head and cradled it in her lap. She could see a wire on his bloody chest leading to something taped to his belly. His blue eyes absorbed her and he smiled weakly.
"Sorry," he murmured, blood spurting from his mouth. "Missed Wednesdays. Was watched." There was a gurgle and he stopped breathing. Janet heard sirens. She looked up. The Goths and punks were all gone. She was surrounded by cops.
* * *
Janet sat rigidly in a straight chair in front of a painted gray table in the interrogation room of the Berkeley Police Department. A lanky black man with short-cropped hair and a thin mustache, wearing a three-piece brown suit, sat opposite her.
"I'm Detective Malik Baraka. You appear to be the only witness to the murder of Detective Jack Henderson."
"So that was his last name."
"I gather you knew him?"
"Yes, I did, but I hadn't seen him for months. I didn't know he was…a policeman."
"The best. Worked undercover for years. Dedicated. We need your help if we're going to be able to prosecute his killer."
"It was a crowded street. There were all those young people, dressed in leather, with dogs, sitting on the sidewalk."
"The punks. Disappeared as soon as they heard the gunshot. We need you to testify."
"I'd be happy to. It's the least I can do for Jack."
"He'd been working for three years trying to trap Gigante."
"Gigante?"
"The big guy. That's how he's known on the street. We still don't know his real name. He's behind the drug pushing on Telegraph. Jack had penetrated his gang. We had him wired. I was sitting in an unmarked car not more than twenty feet away. But I wasn't close enough. Somehow Gigante caught on."
"He risked his life." Janet now realized why he had stopped seeing her. Gigante must have seen them together. He was trying to protect her.
"Jack didn't care. Wouldn't listen to reason. I was his partner and kept telling him it was only a job. Catch one big dude and another rises in his place. But he was obsessed with this particular bad guy. Don't blame him. His daughter died on that street when she was only fourteen. OD'd. Gigante supplied her. He took sexual advantage of her, too."
"Oh God, how terrible. How's his wife taking it?"
"Wife? Long gone. They divorced years ago. You know, the job's all-consuming. Then the daughter's death. Really destroyed his family life. We think the wife's in LA somewhere. Haven't been able to locate her. Are you coming to the memorial service?"
"Of course."
"Won't be anybody there but us cops. He had no other life."
"You're mistaken."
"About what?"
"His life. He had Wednesdays."
* * *
Janet Taylor walked out of the First Congregational Church smiling. She was dressed completely in black in her ushering outfit. She clutched a Bible, pressing it to her chest. She was the last one to leave. She had sat for awhile looking up at the cross, making her peace with the loss of Jack.
It had been a beautiful service. Taking money from her meager savings, she had hired Elizabeth Kroy to play Bach's unaccompanied sonatas. She had concluded with the very same toccata and fugue she had played at the concert where Janet met Jack. It was his favorite. Now it was hers. She never performed better.
Janet stepped out onto the patio in front of the church, the fugue throbbing sonorously in her head. She remembered each note. It was more than a magical piece of music to her. It was Jack.
Blinded for a moment by the sun, she held her Bible up to her eyes to defuse the rays. A shadow fell over her. Gigante's bulk blocked out the sun. Standing directly in front of her with legs spread apart, a cocky sickening smile crept over his face. He reached behind his back. Janet knew that was where he kept his revolver. He planned to kill her, the only witness to Jack's murder.
She took the Bible in her hand and flung it with all her might into his face. It hit him just as his hand, holding the revolver, swept around front. A deafening roar. Flames spurted out of the barrel. The bullet went wild.
"Murderer! Murderer!" Janet screamed as she lunged towards the monster. As she fought him, the music throbbed ever louder, ever faster in her head. Giving her courage. Pushing her on. She felt no fear, only hatred for what he had done to Jack, to Jack's daughter.
"You killed Jack," she shouted. She started scratching his chest and kicking at him.
"Damn!" Gigante exclaimed. She had caught him by surprise. She could see that he had not expected such furor from a gray-haired lady. Now she was too close for him to shoot. He swung his massive arm, seeking to fling her away as if she was a mosquito.
Janet dug her teeth into the flesh of his massive arm. Blood spurted from his arm. He involuntarily jerked it away.
She stepped back swiftly from Gigante, and using all her strength, landed a powerful kick right at his crotch. He doubled over screaming. She rushed forward and dug her fingernails into his eye-sockets. Gigante dropped his gun.
She heard footsteps, shouting. The cops had returned. They grabbed Gigante from behind. But Janet didn't let go. She pawed his huge chest like a wild animal, digging her nails ever deeper, drawing blood. It took two cops to pull her off Gigante.
Janet dropped to the ground, exhausted. She lay on the grass beside a flowerbed full of yellow and red roses. A crowd gathered around her.
She muttered only one word.
"Wednesdays."
They didn't understand. After all, it was Sunday.
THE END Tim Wohlforth © 2007 |
