Winged

by Natalie Gerich Brabson

Pressing my nose against the smudged windowpane, I spot a gleaming government building topped with proud angels. Wings outstretched, they stand triumphing against the skyglow. Our bus tumbles on over cobblestone streets, and soon, we round the bend and pass the Atocha station. The station’s glass panes reflect thousands of traffic lights. The bus lurches up the ramp. Squinting against the light, I crane my neck to catch a last glimpse of central Madrid for now. We’ll spend most of this week at the school.

My hand cups my belly. I hadn’t caught myself placing it there. I scrape at the soft flesh before tucking both hands beneath my thighs, locking them in place.

From the back of the bus, a chorus rises, “Ninety-nine glockenspiels on the wall, ninety-nine glockenspiels, take one down, strike the bars…”

The voices of almost all forty members of Orchestra A fill the bus. Their trained voices render the song only slightly less annoying. Most of the musicians are in 12th grade. It’s early June. At the end of the month, they’ll graduate, set to move on to fancy colleges or conservatories to take orchestra trips even grander than this one. Their voices grow louder, veering toward wildness.

Seth, the orchestra teacher, turns to me. “Just a few more weeks of putting up with them.” Laughter bubbles beneath his sigh.

“They’re excited about tomorrow, next year, their whole lives,” I say.

“Well, they’re a pain in the ass. I’m only here for the nights out after their curfew.”

That’s untrue, I know, but I don’t say anything. Seth has spent the entire year preparing the orchestra for this trip, rehearsing works by Clara Schumann, William Grant Still, and Aaron Copland. For a week, Parsell Day School’s orchestra will do a residency at a Madrid high school, IES Manuel de Falla, and at the end of the week, our orchestra will perform side-by-side with theirs. Before the trip, Seth told me they’ve rehearsed all the pieces to death. He’s not worried about anyone messing up, but instead that the music will sound flat.

Now, Seth clasps his hands behind his head and leans back, groaning. Highway lamplights flash into the bus, illuminating his round stomach.

A tap on my shoulder—I startle. Sarai is leaning over the back of my seat, her mouth close to my ear. “Must they?” she whispers. She smells like garlic from the gazpacho we all ate at dinner, and I move away from her breath, pressing myself against the window.

Sarai’s the youngest on this trip, just a freshman. She is Parsell Day’s best violinist, so she was allowed to move up to Orchestra A this year, but at three years younger, she’s not a peer to the rest of the musicians. She’s too young for this trip. Since we gathered at JFK, she’s tacked herself onto the teacher group, searching for a mother figure in all of us.

“What’d you say?” Julián and Anita lean over to hear Sarai. Like Seth, they’re Parsell Day music teachers. They’re married, and lead this trip every year.

I teach biology, and only get invited as fourth chaperone because I used to play the flute. I don’t anymore.

Destin encouraged me to go this year, even though it’s only been a few weeks since the loss, which was not the first loss.

“Watching a bunch of students—kids? You just want me gone,” I’d accused, wanting him to retort, or comfort me. But he did not respond at all.

“Even though they’re singing about glockenspiels, they’re actually singing about something else.” Sarai widens her eyes, believing it hasn’t yet dawned on us that the original song is about alcohol.

Julián sings back, “Knock it out, everyone! No songs about cerveza masquerading as glockenspiels…”

A few seniors laugh deeply. Their musical voices quiet and hum as they break off into small conversations.

Seth asks Sarai, “All right, the wack song’s over. Want to go back and talk with the other kids now?”

“Not really,” Sarai answers, still leaning over the seat, her head between ours. Seth, his eyebrows raised, tries to catch my gaze, but I look down at my phone, pull up my last texts to Destin.

Flight delayed. Sarai still glued to teachers. Followed me to the bathroom.

Landed.

Sarai kept me awake the whole flight, telling me what she thinks this trip will be like. Her first time abroad. She says that besides the music, she’s looking forward to seeing how the teachers act outside of school…

Hope you’re good.

I have an international plan for the week—I have to, as a chaperone. My service kicked in as soon as we landed at Barajas five hours ago. I’ve already gotten several emails from Parsell Day parents. But there’s no answer from Destin.

We enter the suburban barrio of San Fermín. The buildings are shorter here, duller. Their white does not gleam in the night like the wedding-cake towers of center city. We stay here because it’s closer to Manuel de Falla, and because staying in a quiet neighborhood cuts down on kids sneaking out. It’s never stopped the teachers though. There’s a Metro station down the street from the hotel, and every year, most nights, we hop on a train, cross into Madrid proper, and hit up a few bars in the southeast corner of the city.

The bus slows, jostling us up into suspension over each bump. After the flight, the rush through the airport, and dinner—hawk-eyeing the students at each step to make sure we didn’t lose any—I feel like I’ve been swimming. Like I’ve been plunged into a roiling ocean, left to tumble in the depths. The kids are almost adults, except Sarai, but we are still responsible for them.

We’re nearly at the hotel, and I have only a moment more before I have to spring into ushering duty again, and then—finally—go out with the other teachers. I’ve been up for at least a day—over a day. Last night before heading to the airport, I lay down for a quick nap after packing, tense and only dozing because Destin, for the first time all spring, scootched close to me. Still feeling the ghost of her, I curled into myself. I held my body rock-still until the alarm went off.

Now, Seth’s unfamiliar chunky arm at my side, Sarai’s garlic breath floating in the air between us, my body goes soft. My knees fall apart. I’ve just passed into the darkness when we pull up in front of our hotel.

*

We get the kids to haul out their instruments and bags from under the bus. The exhaust blows at us as we unload, hot and sticky like Madrid’s June air.

We gather them in the lobby. Anita, barely five feet tall, stands on a suitcase to run through her annual speech. “Remember your worth, your potential. You’re representing Parsell Day and, well, the U.S. Remember that we’re waking you up at dawn for your first day of classes and rehearsals.”

The kids lean on each other like puppies and scrunch each other’s hair. They’re more comfortable flirting with each other in front of teachers here, far from home and regular school. Sarai stands at the edge of the group. Nia, a kind senior, pokes Sarai’s side, gently smiling. Sarai jerks away from her, then goes back to standing stiffly, paying unreasonably close attention to the speech.

They’re serious musicians—serious students—each of them, but they’re kids still. When Anita announces that we’re taping doors to ensure no one steals out of their room to explore Madrid, some giggle at having their plans named aloud.

Seth grabs the tape from his carry-on. Spinning it around his index finger like he’s readying a lasso, he shepherds the kids to their rooms. The kids laugh, picking up their instrument cases and luggage to head down the hall. Lila, who plays the cello (and who despised my class last year), struts unburdened ahead of the group, her hands free. IES Manuel de Falla agreed to loan equipment to her and the other big-instrument kids so we didn’t have to pay too much in baggage fees.

“Help someone!” I call to Lila. I watch her pass Sarai and the other violinists, and then the horn players, all of whom are struggling to carry their instruments and luggage, their hard cases knocking against the walls. She seeks out Emmanuel, a flute player, and nudges him until he hands her the tiny case. She turns to shrug at me.

*

The kids all in their rooms, I gather with Julián and Anita, and Seth unfurls yard-length strips of tape and drapes them sticky-side-up around our necks like boas.

“How long ‘til they fall ‘sleep, you bet?” Seth asks.

Anita, usually the one to second-guess whether we should go out, and always the one to ultimately get us out the door, adjusts her purse strap. “We’ll monitor. If they’re quiet in an hour, we can see about grabbing just one quick drink.” But she’s ready. She changed into a nice going-out dress during the flight.

*

With forty kids, we’re never able to book all the rooms in a cluster. Anita and Julián take the west corridor, Seth and I the east. Before we’ve taped even half the doors, Gianna waltzes out of her room.

“I just need some ice down the hall,” she tells us.

She’s already wearing her pajamas, which are dove gray and baggy. Her mother likely lent her the pair for the trip so Gianna would be warm enough, or covered enough, not expecting Madrid’s swelter.

She has the ice bucket in hand, so I say, “Sure. We’ll tape your door when you get back.”

A minute later, Roy opens his door—already behind us—and breaks the tape.

“Damn,” he sighs. “You guys are fast. I’m just heading down for some ice.”

I glance at Seth—Roy and Gianna were in my class last year, and I don’t know if they’re still a thing.

Seth shakes his head. “You got water in your room. Tap water, even without ice, won’t hurt you.”

Roy raises his eyebrows, snaps his gum. “You all are too tough on us.”

Gianna returns with her ice and smirks at Roy before slipping into her room. Roy spins on his heel and stands in the doorway, closing the door slowly on himself. He backs into his room, and soon, only his face is smushed between the door and frame. He blinks dramatically as I tape Gianna’s door, softly says, “Hm!” and finally closes himself in his room.

I giggle, surprising myself, and look to Seth to share my laughter, but he’s already down the hall, taping Nia and Ruth’s door.

*

We finish and wait in the center of the corridor for Julián and Anita. Soon, they waltz up, and Anita circles us up and shimmies her hips. “Well? They’re the most exhausted they’ll be all week. I’ll bet a hundred dollars none of them will sneak out and get into trouble tonight.”

“Maybe don’t bet and just pay for our drinks?” Seth teases.

We head to the lobby. Julián leans over the front desk and tells the attendant, “Llámeme si ve a alguno de nuestros muchachos, ¿vale?”

Out front, a shock of humid air envelops me. Dizzy, I imagine a fall, a fight, a fire. The kids might sneak out. They might need us. My steps slow.

Julián looks at me, tilts his head.

I haven’t had anything to drink in months, not while I wanted to be pregnant, nor during, nor after. I imagine my mind wine-slippery, sharing my grief. The clump of her.

I am desperate to share, but it’s too early. The kids are awake still, and sometimes things go wrong. “Text me where you end up,” I say. “I’ll join in a bit.”

*

In my room, I chug water to stay alert. The water is warm and tastes like sediment. I consider getting some ice—I’d bring some to Roy too—but instead, I sit at the edge of the bed and hunch over my phone. I can’t lean against the pillows or I’ll fall asleep. My messages to Destin from JFK and Barajas are still unanswered, unread. He had asked me to let him know I was safe.

Bug? I text. Waiting, I switch into Safari and scroll for life updates from friends I no longer know.

It is hard now to remember a time without tension and doubt, even though I know Destin and I were once happy with each other. Recently, we were. Last autumn. Now, I ask him, “What would be your breaking point? What if we can’t ever have a child?” He doesn’t answer. He won’t talk about the loss at all. I need to, so instead, I push him away. He gives me too much space. These are hard habits to break.

Half an hour creeps by. I’m still scrolling when a text notification slides down the screen. It’s Anita. La Fontanilla. Join us already!

Sleepier now, I force myself up from the bed and tug open the curtains. Outside, past our hotel’s parking lot and our rented bus and the neighborhood’s little houses is the night sky, blurred by city lights and pollution. I can’t make out Madrid’s tallest buildings near Puerta del Sol, only a few miles away. La Fontanilla is in that direction.

Another text alert sounds, from Anita again. Don’t worry about the kiddos. We’re only two stations away. Besides, that’s never stopped you before!! During the school year, she is rarely effusive or informal. She is drunk already.

I begin to text back, Heading out now. I haven’t sent it when I hear laughter—Gillian and Lila’s. It’s coming from the next room over. I make myself drop my shoulders. They’re inside, safe.

Kicking off my sneakers, I rummage through my suitcase until I find my velvet flats. I slip them on and judge myself in the mirror. My dress is crumpled from the day’s travel, and I tug at it to loosen the creases. My expression is somber and droopy. I flash a strained smile at myself, imagining that I am fooling someone.

I hear a click in the hall, but no footsteps or giggles follow, and I decide I’ve imagined the sound. Still, despite the kids’ travel-weariness tonight, and despite the fact there’s nearly nothing to do in this barrio, I know their desire to see nighttime Madrid isn’t entirely muted, their escape not impossible. The sneak-out period hasn’t quite passed.

I did not used to worry like this. I peek behind the curtains to see the night again. The sky is dimming slowly. Staring into the darkness, I imagine going out into it. I imagine sitting outside La Fontanilla with the others in the balmy air. The bar, two stations away and across the city line, is surrounded by lace-edged marble buildings of Plateresque architecture, all bathed in streetlights. If we stay out late, we’ll hear Madrid’s morning birds. There are little green parakeets that I look for each year.

*

A violin’s heartsick voice cuts into my thoughts. It takes me a moment before I realize that it’s William Grant Still’s “Summerland,” one of the pieces the kids will perform this week, and that the violin is real, singing now.

I stumble to my door, peek through the keyhole. I see nothing but the music goes on. “Summerland” is played once through, and then again. At the spring concert, I choked up when our orchestra played this same piece. I was nearing the end of my first trimester, yes—nearing the end of it all—but still, it was the kids’ playing that brought tears to my eyes.

Now, the solo violin lumbers on, making no mistakes, yet hesitantly, too slowly, deadening the music.

I know before I open my door that it’s Sarai, and I’m right. She’s sitting on the hallway floor, eyes closed as she plays. Her bright blue pajamas are printed with spaceships and planets.

“Why?” I ask, but my voice isn’t loud enough to break her concentration.

More forcefully, I say, “You ripped your tape.” I point to her door.

Still holding the violin in place between her chin and shoulder, she looks up at me and scowls.

“You know, I can’t be the only person who heard you. And we all have to wake up in just a few hours to get over to the school.”

“So do I,” Sarai growls. “And yet I’m out here because I don’t want to sound stupid in front of the whole school tomorrow.”

“The concert’s not ‘til Friday.”

“You can sound stupid in rehearsal, you know. I can’t sleep.”

I interweave my fingers, sighing, then cross my arms tightly. “Okay, play just the difficult part—once—then go to bed and I’ll retape your door.”

She glances at me, lifting her violin perpendicular to ready it. Biting her lip, she plays the middle of “Summerland” academically, then sets her bow at her side. “It’s the trills that get me… they’re choppy.”

“If you’re sleep-deprived, you might mess up in rehearsal. You know, they say the night before a test, it’s better to sleep enough than study extra. Same thing applies here.”

Sarai considers, tucking her cheek against her violin.

My phone buzzes. Anita again, I think, and I look, preparing to tell her I’m nearly on my way, but the message is from Destin. Sounds like a funny kid. Maybe when you’re back, you can tell me about her.

I tap the screen three times to keep it lit up as I read his message over and over. I wait for another message from him. None comes.

Sarai speaks in a tiny voice, and it takes me a moment to register her words. “I need to play it all the way through. I need to know I can get it right.”

She is looking up at me pleadingly. Her young earnest face is shiny, and she’s left a slick of oil on the violin’s varnish.

I sigh again. “Once. And outside, so you don’t wake the others.”

She scrambles up right away to follow me, cradling her violin close against her chest.

*

In the lobby, I wave to the front desk man. My Spanish isn’t good enough to tell him we’ll be right outside, so I don’t say anything. I hope he will not call Julián.

Outside, we sit on the bench near the front entrance. The light buzzes overhead. Moths swarm the light. The air is too warm for this time of night. The city’s pollution traps the heat here as much as in central Madrid. Here, though, there is none of the city’s charm.

Sarai tilts her head back to watch the moths, quiet for a moment. “I guess they come out earlier here than in Yonkers.”

“Different climate,” I say.

She still has her violin tucked under one arm, but she’s holding it loosely now, less aware of it.

“Are you going to play or not? That’s why we came out.”

“You’ll still retape my door?” She steps close to me, shuffling in her flip-flops.

“So long as this rehearsal doesn’t last all night,” I warn her, but my voice is soft.

Sarai tugs at her pajama sleeve to make the fabric taut, sets her violin on her shoulder, and begins tuning. I glance back at the front entrance: no other students appear as she plays. No one else is around in any direction. The other teachers might soon return from La Fontanilla, or perhaps they’re searching now for another bar.

My phone buzzes again, and this time, I know it is Anita, but I tighten my grip on the phone and tuck my hand against my belly. Through the fabric of my dress, the phone’s plastic is warm on my skin.

Sarai finishes her tuning. She adjusts her violin several times, and, displeased, scrunches up her face. She looks so young.

“Just once,” I remind her, but I no longer mean it.

The first notes of “Summerland” are halting, with too much space between them. Sarai’s clenched all over, her fingers knotty, the cords of her neck strained. She’s not yet dreaming. I look away from her, away from the light, and up to Madrid’s night sky—starless. Gradually, the notes begin to skate and slide into each other. Sarai moves into the trills, and they flutter effortlessly, quickening until the music pauses. She takes a breath in the silence, and begins to play again. I let my head fall back onto the bench’s top rail, my arms to my sides, resting. The drifting melody carries me up into the dark. The notes float impossibly high, lifting my breath, my soul. I begin to see the stars faintly through the smog and clouds.

The music quiets, ceases. I hear the bow rest on the strings, hear Sarai hold her body still. The silence perfect, I remain suspended, lifted.

 

Natalie Gerich Brabson is a graduate of Sarah Lawrence College’s MFA program, and holds a BA in Hispanic Studies from Vassar College. Her fiction has been published in Cleaver Magazine, New World Writing, and Philadelphia Stories, among others. She lives in Pittsburgh and is at work on her first novel for children.