Matthew 32
Clusterfuck. It’s a highly improbable and extremely destructive confluence of events that transpire in the same brief period of time, rendering the victim well and truly fucked.
What’s unfolding right now, onstage with the Gotham Chamber Players, is a textbook clusterfuck. It started with Vivian in the horn section. After using an aluminum mute earlier in the concert, she left it sitting on the floor next to her chair. Which wasn’t a problem … until the player next to her accidentally kicked it over during a super-soft section of the Brahms Serenade No.1. The mute, which is essentially just a large, hollow, metal cone, fell over onto the stage floor, bounced once and then ricocheted off the leg of Vivian’s music stand. It then rolled – loudly – under the chair of Bill, the bassoonist sitting in front of her.
It was bad, but maybe if it had stopped there, it would have just been an unfortunate disruption of an otherwise uneventful concert. But it didn’t stop there. Not by a long shot.
Rather than waiting for us to finish the Brahms, Bill the ever-helpful bassoonist tried, unsuccessfully, to fish the mute out from below his seat. While half the audience, most of the orchestra, and the conductor looked on in horror, Bill leaned as far to the left as he possibly could. A triumphant smile lit his face as his fingertips grasped the neck of the mute. That’s when the strap that holds his bassoon in place slipped out from underneath him. As if in slow motion, the top of the instrument, a tall, wooden pipe known as the bell joint, slipped and swung to the left, hitting Marie, the second chair oboist who happened to be sitting next to him.
Marie’s oboe jammed back into her face, its hard reed smacking into her mouth and splitting her lip. Poor Marie started to bleed like a stuck pig.
It was bad, but maybe if it had stopped there, it would have just been a really unfortunate disruption to an already eventful concert. But it didn’t stop there.
The first chair oboe, Sarah, tried valiantly to continue playing, even as she turned a sickly shade of green. Finally, she pulled the oboe away from her face and slapped a hand to her mouth in an attempt to keep from vomiting. She failed in her attempt and, sickened by Marie’s blood as well as her own bile, she simply slid out of her chair and onto the floor, as if she had suddenly become liquid.
Inexplicably, with only a couple of minutes more in the piece, the maestro stubbornly continued to conduct even as a half dozen orchestra members got up to tend to the two oboists. By the time the Brahms came to a weak and sputtering finale, the double doors at the back of the hall burst open and a pair of paramedics came rolling in with a stretcher, radios squawking, having been summoned by an alarmed audience member.
That would be a clusterfuck.
****
“I don’t know, I don’t think it was that bad …” Brett is saying as we cross the parking lot to his car.
“Dude! It was that bad!” I can’t help but laugh and shake my head.
It’s been really nice, this new, friendlier relationship I have with him. After nearly a decade of being fierce rivals and enemies, I find I’m enjoying this time he’s spent subbing with my ensemble. I’m also enjoying the time he’s spent building a relationship with Julia and me. And with our son, David, who is Brett’s own flesh and blood.
“How long do you think it’ll take us to get back to the city?” Brett wonders, glancing at this watch.
I shrug. “Depends on whether or not there’s construction traffic. But, if you’ve got to pee, I’d go now …” I smile.
He holds up a hand. “Nah, I’m good, thanks,” he laughs and then jumps a little in surprise. “Oh, hey, my pants are vibrating!”
“Excuse me?”
“My phone, Matthew. Please, as if you’d be the one to make my pants vibrate!” he chuckles and shakes his head as he pulls the phone out of his pocket and looks at the screen briefly. “Hey, give me just a second, okay? I need to take this,” he says, turning his back and walking several feet away.
I glance at my own watch and see it’s quarter till ten. If we hit it just right, Julia and I could be curled up on the couch laughing our asses off over tonight’s debacle before midnight.
When I look up again, Brett has the phone to one ear and his hand to the other ear, blocking out the extraneous noise around us.
“Alright already!” I call out. “Can we put the phone sex on hold so we can get on the road already? I’d like to be home before tomorrow morning!”
Brett ignores my teasing. When he ends the call, he continues to stare at the screen in his hand and I get the distinct sense that something’s not right. That’s when he looks up at me slowly. Too slowly. Brett’s eyes are wide and his jaw is slack. I can see the phone shaking in his hand.
“What? What is it?” I ask calmly and quietly, preparing myself to jump into damage control mode – whatever it is that’s happened to him.
Brett just shakes his head. He seems to be having trouble finding the words. I walk to him and put a concerned hand on his shoulder.
“What is it, Brett? Tell me.”
The look in his eyes … Oh, Christ. A look like that can only mean someone is dead. His mother, maybe? I hope not … not so soon after his father. Or … no! It couldn’t be Maggie, could it? And then it strikes me with the force of freight train. My breath catches in my throat and I feel my blood run cold even as a film of perspiration breaks out on my face.
“It’s not …” I close my eyes and shake my head. I can’t look at his face when I ask. “Is it Julia?” My voice is barely a whisper.
The half-second delay in his response answers my question. My eyes fly open now, and I can feel them darting, squinting, looking for answers. “Oh, God, no … the baby?”
“Matthew,” Brett begins, leveling his eyes on mine, “It’s my brother. It’s Jeremy …”
My grip on him tightens as the panic seizes me from within. “Tell. Me!”
“He forced his way into your apartment and knocked Natalie out. He was waiting when … when Julia got home tonight. He took her … somewhere …”
Suddenly his voice sounds so far away, and the starry sky above me has started to spin. I can’t stay upright for a single second longer, so I drop to my knees as my viola case slides off my shoulder and into the grass. Brett is there, squatting in front of me, shaking me.
“Oh, God. Oh, my God,” I whisper. “When? Is David with them?”
“No,” he says firmly. “No, David is still with Natalie. She wants to call the police …”
“No! No police!” I hiss, grabbing his arm and staring at him in wild-eyed desperation.
I don’t know what’s happened yet, but I know enough – I know him well enough – not to get the police involved. He’ll hurt her … No, he’ll kill her before he lets himself be caught by the police. Besides, the fucker’s brilliant in that crazy, cunning, dangerous way. He’s most likely got a fool-proof back-up plan in place, should he have to make a run for it. And then Julia is dead for sure.
No. My only chance to do this myself.
“Matthew?” Brett is shaking my arm.
“No. Police,” I grit out.
He takes a deep breath and nods. “Okay, man, no police. I promise. But we need help. Come on, you have to stand up now so we can get moving. I’ll tell you everything in the car, but we have to leave now, Matthew. Do you understand?”
I swallow hard and nod. He extends a hand to help me get back up on my feet. I take it, and allow him to lead me by the shoulder toward the parking lot. In the meantime, he’s dialed someone else and seems to be waiting for a response.
“Mom,” he utters into the phone, after a long moment. “Mom, I need you to do something for me. It’s really important.”
I fight back the wave of panic and fear that threatens to unravel me. But it’s too late. The destructive events are already transpiring and the clusterfuck is imminent.