day. Seventeen years: the midpoint of her life to date, almost exactly.
“Yes,” she says, “everywhere
is
far from this godforsaken armpit.” Natalie coughs. Her throat is itchy. “I’m from Ruby Falls. Way upstate. High school music program director.” Why is she still talking? Why can’t she stop? “Moved from Minneapolis this summer.”
“So you know.”
“Know?”
“Snow.”
Ah, the weather. Of course they would get around to talking about the weather. That’s what you do in an elevator, after all.
Natalie nods. “I know snow.”
She and Emmett had talked about what they were going to do next, after the body was buried and the lawyers introduced her to the phrase “justifiable taking of life” and it was clear nothing would happen beyond Natalie’s being written up in the
Minneapolis Star Tribune
as a heroic homeowner. Well, Emmett had talked; Natalie had shouted.
“We are leaving!”
she had yelled at him when he calmly, all things considered, pointed out that running away would solve nothing. She had shouted,
“We are going somewhere else!”
Upstate New York, then, was somewhere else. More like nowhere, except for the hometown of Emmett’s friend from college who was willing to put in a good word with the schools in his district hiring chemistry and music teachers. And in this elevator with Viola Fabian is somewhere else entirely—another world in another time, from another era of her life. Anger comes over her like a wave of nausea, because Natalie cannot imagine that Viola Fabian’s path to this elevator has been anywhere near as disappointing as her own. And where is the justice in that?
“Have you heard the latest?” says Viola. “About this storm bearing down on us?”
“I thought it was only supposed to be four to six inches—”
“Four to six
feet
.” Viola stretches a smile tight over her teeth. “Enough to bury us alive.”
Without thinking, Natalie’s hand slips inside her blazer—to touch, reassuringly, the butt of her gun.
Viola had, among other things, taught her how to recognize a threat.
Viola Fabian taught Natalie that good wasn’t good enough. Neither was great. The only acceptable level of achievement was
brilliant,
which is exactly what Viola made Natalie become. Natalie was the one everyone talked about after recitals, playing solos much harder, with more fire, than her fourteen years would suggest she was capable of. She entered solo competitions and won. She auditioned for adult-level concerto competitions and placed. Every single thing Natalie attempted musically, she excelled at, and every single time someone praised her, she was sure to mention that it was nothing, that it was all thanks to her mentor, to Viola Fabian. Natalie was too young and awed by her developing abilities to question Viola’s motives or methods. Viola had made her successful; success had made her pliant.
Mostly Viola used words—
Stupid. Moron. You’re nothing special, you know. You’re lucky to have me
—but not always. The first time it happened was almost funny. Natalie and Viola were sitting side by side at the piano in Viola’s practice room at the conservatory while Natalie murdered a sonata. She was tired and hungry; she’d taken the bus straight from school without grabbing so much as an apple. Her hands were sore, tingly. She was desperate not to show Viola how exhausted she was, but Viola could always tell.
“What’s your problem today? You think Schumann likes it when stupid teenagers shit all over his music?”
“Of course not,” said Natalie. “Sorry.”
“Again. From letter F.” Viola stretched her arms behind her head and crossed one leg over the other. One pump, red and spike-heeled—she always wore pumps, even with jeans—dangled from her toe and she caught it in her hand. “One two three, two two three—”
Natalie limped along until she came to a particularly complicated passage of thirty-second notes, and her body, that betrayer,
“Yes,” she says, “everywhere
is
far from this godforsaken armpit.” Natalie coughs. Her throat is itchy. “I’m from Ruby Falls. Way upstate. High school music program director.” Why is she still talking? Why can’t she stop? “Moved from Minneapolis this summer.”
“So you know.”
“Know?”
“Snow.”
Ah, the weather. Of course they would get around to talking about the weather. That’s what you do in an elevator, after all.
Natalie nods. “I know snow.”
She and Emmett had talked about what they were going to do next, after the body was buried and the lawyers introduced her to the phrase “justifiable taking of life” and it was clear nothing would happen beyond Natalie’s being written up in the
Minneapolis Star Tribune
as a heroic homeowner. Well, Emmett had talked; Natalie had shouted.
“We are leaving!”
she had yelled at him when he calmly, all things considered, pointed out that running away would solve nothing. She had shouted,
“We are going somewhere else!”
Upstate New York, then, was somewhere else. More like nowhere, except for the hometown of Emmett’s friend from college who was willing to put in a good word with the schools in his district hiring chemistry and music teachers. And in this elevator with Viola Fabian is somewhere else entirely—another world in another time, from another era of her life. Anger comes over her like a wave of nausea, because Natalie cannot imagine that Viola Fabian’s path to this elevator has been anywhere near as disappointing as her own. And where is the justice in that?
“Have you heard the latest?” says Viola. “About this storm bearing down on us?”
“I thought it was only supposed to be four to six inches—”
“Four to six
feet
.” Viola stretches a smile tight over her teeth. “Enough to bury us alive.”
Without thinking, Natalie’s hand slips inside her blazer—to touch, reassuringly, the butt of her gun.
Viola had, among other things, taught her how to recognize a threat.
Viola Fabian taught Natalie that good wasn’t good enough. Neither was great. The only acceptable level of achievement was
brilliant,
which is exactly what Viola made Natalie become. Natalie was the one everyone talked about after recitals, playing solos much harder, with more fire, than her fourteen years would suggest she was capable of. She entered solo competitions and won. She auditioned for adult-level concerto competitions and placed. Every single thing Natalie attempted musically, she excelled at, and every single time someone praised her, she was sure to mention that it was nothing, that it was all thanks to her mentor, to Viola Fabian. Natalie was too young and awed by her developing abilities to question Viola’s motives or methods. Viola had made her successful; success had made her pliant.
Mostly Viola used words—
Stupid. Moron. You’re nothing special, you know. You’re lucky to have me
—but not always. The first time it happened was almost funny. Natalie and Viola were sitting side by side at the piano in Viola’s practice room at the conservatory while Natalie murdered a sonata. She was tired and hungry; she’d taken the bus straight from school without grabbing so much as an apple. Her hands were sore, tingly. She was desperate not to show Viola how exhausted she was, but Viola could always tell.
“What’s your problem today? You think Schumann likes it when stupid teenagers shit all over his music?”
“Of course not,” said Natalie. “Sorry.”
“Again. From letter F.” Viola stretched her arms behind her head and crossed one leg over the other. One pump, red and spike-heeled—she always wore pumps, even with jeans—dangled from her toe and she caught it in her hand. “One two three, two two three—”
Natalie limped along until she came to a particularly complicated passage of thirty-second notes, and her body, that betrayer,
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