Chapter 13

So the late Summer rambled on into the Fall. We stopped meeting with Dr. Applebottom. Actually, I stopped going; what Mrs. James decided to do was a mystery. She got more and more pregnant, of course.

And, of course, she continued to ‘dress for success’ with Lucas, about twice a week. Maybe some of that was my fault. I wouldn’t fuck her pussy nor fuck her ass, for the three weeks when she was home. Actually, I fucked her good and proper when she came back on Friday of NYC week. She only got mostly oral sex from ‘C,’ according to her story. She probably fucked him, though. But at least he wasn’t her baby-daddy. I didn’t kiss her much, considering that she claimed to give blow jobs to ‘C.’ I wasn’t kissing her on the mouth these days. But still.

The slut was fucking her local dick twice a week and going to see her ‘C-man’ at least twice in NYC every month. And I got to hear about it being MY fault, cause I didn’t give her enough sex in between. Once a month I fucked her hard on Fridays and even fucked her ass. Not Rufus style; just a nice friendly ass-fuck. And no cuddling afterwards.

We were dead. This marriage was dead. The little boy that was incubating in the bitch’s belly was not dead. He was growing and, by god, he was NOT going to grow up in the world of 4” stilettos and a mother who was focused on money and herself. His world was going to be filled with love and sports and the arts. Even if I had to kidnap him and live in Costa Rica. Not really – I couldn’t live that way. But I’d die trying to give him a non-bitch life, or a non-goddess life – a life that was different than my 14 ½ years of being lied to.

Ahem. Anyway, that was running through my mind. One Saturday in November, I was visiting Ludmilla and Gladys, and discussing the future.

I had unburdened myself about the ever-loving Katheryn Ellis James. My thoughts were focused on my problems. Along with thoughts of changing careers. After 15 years, I could take an early retirement, or leave DOJ early. I’d get a government pension. The payouts would start when I reached 60. Then I’d get $61,408 per year ... or $5,117.34 per month. Plus COLA adjustments every year. I was now 35, more or less. In 25 years that would probably pay me enough to keep me in dog chow.

That was what I was planning to leave behind. What I was looking forward to was Ludmila Resnikova’s suggestion: I was going to be the pianist for the Atlanta Municipal Orchestra. I was going to be paid $125 per performance and per rehearsal. That would come to a hearty $500 per week.

Imagine: I’d be giving up $150,000 per annum, guaranteed by the U.S. Government, for the stately sum of $26,000 provided by the AMO Foundation. But I’d be loving what I did. Plus I’d get to play concerts for maybe $500 to $1,500 per night. Which was exactly no nights a month, ‘cause I didn’t have any reputation. Yet. Luddy was big on the ‘yet’ part. She was talking about making maybe 100 times that much. More if I could be giving big recitals or concerts with a top soloist.

I stopped her ramblings. “I have only one question. How much did the winner of last year’s Van Cliburn Competition earn last year?” The VC is held in Fort Worth, Texas, every four years, and is one of the top piano competitions in the world.

“You can’t judge it like that. She earned about $100,000 after all expenses. But ... BUT she was acclaimed everywhere she played, and she was doing what she loved. You can’t put a price tag on that.” She paused and took a sip from her tea. Served in a bone china cup. “You could be that good.”

“Right. She practiced about eight hours a day, every day since she was ... what? 10 years old? I’m going to resume playing after a 15-year layoff.”

The rattle of cups in the kitchen area broke the silence of a break in the conversation. I looked at Gladys, questioningly. Suzanne Moise, the violinist who was just off her three-concert appearances with the Cleveland Orchestra, came out of the kitchen, a cup of tea (I guessed) in her hands.

Actually, she entered from the kitchen in stages. The first thing I saw was her belly. She was pregnant in extremis. Then came the tea cup, and then the rest of her.

“Wow!” I said. “You are really pregnant. I mean ... congratulations, Suzanne!”

“Not so much. The SOB – Pietro Signorelli – who got me this way left for blonder pastures seven and a half months ago. Thank God for Arliss Greene. With her sitting in on my recitals last month at least I could perform. The people in Montreal were very understanding. They didn’t mind at all when I had to sit to play. Imagine a blimp in a maternity fancy gown playing the violin.” She laughed. She was still attractive in a blimpy sort of way. Taking a sip from her tea, she continued. “Ludmilla says you’re going to be playing with the Atlanta Municipal Orchestra.”

I nodded. “Straight from the Atlanta Arts Center to Carnegie Hall. Shouldn’t take me but a week or two.” I smiled at her.

“Maybe a month at the outside.” She smiled in return. “She tells me you’re playing the Ravel. I’ll still be here on Saturday. Mind if I come? Gladys says she wasn’t planning on going, so Ludmilla has a spare seat.”