Chapter 10: One More Minute
Althea sat very still on the piano bench. The simple piece was finished, the praise had been given, and the audition was, by every outward sign, over. Dr. Ashford was turning a page on his clipboard. Professor Brandt had capped his pen. Professor Adler was looking at Althea with an expression between kindness and curiosity.
Althea knew what would happen next if she did nothing. Mrs. Feldman would open the door. Althea would thank the judges, gather her folder, and walk back down the corridor and out to the bus. She would go home to East Philadelphia and tell her grandmother and her brother, truthfully, that she had played cleanly and had not embarrassed herself. And she would know, for the rest of her life, that she had left the best thing she had sitting silently inside her, unplayed.
She thought of her mother, Lorraine, whom she had lost when she was eleven, and of the hymn her mother used to sing in the kitchen, the one that had grown, over the years, into something larger in Althea's hands, with gospel rhythm and jazz harmony and a classical arc, something she had come to call "The River Remembers." She had never played it for anyone except Wendell Osei, her grandmother, and the empty church after services. She had brought its pages with her, taped and worn, tucked behind the simple piece in her folder.
Her heart was beating so hard that she was certain the judges could hear it. She opened her mouth, and no sound came out. She closed it, swallowed, and tried again.
"Excuse me," she said. Her voice sounded small in the high hall, but it carried. All three judges looked up.
Dr. Ashford raised an eyebrow. "Yes, Miss Moss?"
Althea forced herself to look at him, not at the floor. "May I have one more minute?" she asked. "One more piece. Please."
The silence that followed felt longer than the piece she had just played. Professor Brandt uncapped his pen again. Professor Adler leaned forward, her hands clasped.
Dr. Ashford studied Althea for a long moment. His face gave nothing away, but Althea thought she saw something flicker in his eyes, something older and more private than impatience.
"Miss Moss," he said, his voice quieter than before. "I advised you to keep it simple, for your own good. If you play another piece, and it is undisciplined or beyond your grasp, it will not help you. It will hurt you. Do you understand that?"
"Yes, sir," Althea said. Her voice shook, but it did not stop. "I understand."
"Then why ask?" he said. It was not a cruel question. It sounded, to Althea's surprise, almost like a genuine one.
She thought about how to answer it. She could have said that the simple piece had not been enough, but that would have sounded like ingratitude. In the end, she said the simplest true thing she could.
"Because it is mine, sir," she said. "The first piece was well played, but it was not mine. I would rather be judged for something true than praised for something safe."
Professor Adler's eyes brightened. Dr. Ashford did not speak at once. He looked at Althea, at her thrift-store dress and her taped folder, and Althea had the strange feeling that he was not seeing her at all, but someone from a long time ago.
"Miss Moss," he said at last, "auditions have rules for a reason. We cannot simply let every candidate play until they feel satisfied."
"I know, sir," Althea said. "I am only asking for one minute. One more piece."
It was Professor Adler who broke the silence. She turned to Dr. Ashford, her voice calm and firm.
"Cornelius," she said, "let her play."
Dr. Ashford looked at her. For a moment, Althea thought he would refuse. His jaw tightened. Then, very slowly, he nodded.
"One piece," he said. "One minute, if you can manage it. And Miss Moss — do not waste it."
"I won't, sir," Althea said.
She turned back to the piano. Her hands were shaking now, but in a different way than before. Before, they had shaken with fear. Now they shook with something closer to readiness, like a runner at the start of a race. She reached for her folder and turned past the simple piece to the taped, worn pages of "The River Remembers." She laid them on the music stand, though she knew she would not need to read them. She had carried this music since childhood.
She placed her fingers on the keys. They waited for her, patient as the river in the hymn. She thought of her grandmother, hemming her dress, of Jerome, walking her to the bus, of Wendell, and of her mother, singing in the kitchen.