Chapter Four: Watered Down Gin

Cassie's comment from the previous chapter: "No, see, I've read all this. It isn't new. *pout* Ugh. Is it really really completely totally done?" Yes, it's really, really completely done, but I'm only posting one chapter at a time. The good news is that I'm posting one chapter per day, so you'll get a section you haven't read yet on Tuesday . . . though I'll probably post it Tuesday night, so you won't read it until Wednesday. Still . . . anyway, here's Annalise's chapter. For those who haven't read it yet, enjoy! For Cassie . . . patience, dear sister.
***
"Annalise disappeared during the second World War, before the U.S. got involved. At that time, Americans were trying to live as normal lives as possible, aware that their country could become caught up in the war at any time. This may or may not have had anything to do with Annalise’s troubles, but it was the background that everyone was living against in 1940."

Annalise emerged from the other room, papers in her hand. She had been giving her argument careful thought, and was determined not to swayed by emotion in the way the Faith had been. Indeed, she had been fighting against that for the past year or so; she should have no trouble. She hoped. Somehow, someway, she would make Mr. Farthington see reason.

"Before we start," Annalise said, "I want you all to hear some of the reviews and letters concerning my performances during the last couple years."

"Very well," Mr. Farthington said, with infuriating calmness. Annalise handed Matt the papers, not breaking her gaze from Mr. Farthington as he read.

BRIDGES’ CONCERT QUITE DISAPPOINTING

We have been looking forward to a wonderful evening of violin music from Annalise Bridges. Ever since her triumph at Carnegie Hall a few years ago, she has been in great demand, and last night she finally arrived in Orchestra Hall for a much anticipated recital. To say that I was disappointed would be an understatement. I had been told to expect nothing less than the next great American violin virtuoso. What I heard wouldn’t even stack up against a sixth grader playing "Hot Cross Buns" in her teacher’s living room.

BRIDGES’ PASSION HAS VANISHED

Annalise Bridges’ concert was off to a bad start before it began. Two days before, we received word that she was suffering from a bad cold and may not be able to perform at all. But by last night, she was sufficiently recovered. I hate to say this, but she would have done better to cancel the performance. Everything she played was lackluster and tentative. I tried to chalk it up to her recent illness, but there’s something more going on here. I heard her in San Francisco a few years ago and she was magnificent. What has happened to the fire and energy that gripped her performance then? She looked nervous and uncertain when she walked on stage, and she played as if she was thinking about anything except her music. She will not further her career with performances like this.

"This is a letter," Matt said, moving on to the next paper. "Dear . . . I can’t make out the name . . . I went to Annie’s recital last night." Annalise sighed. She knew who had written that letter. There was only one person who ever called her ‘Annie.’ She hated that name.

She was awful. I couldn’t believe it. I mean, she’s been getting worse for over a year now, but last night was a new low. She kept hitting wrong notes, and it sounded like she lost her place once. When one of the strings broke in the middle of the Mozart, she had to stop. She couldn’t go on. She looked like she was ready to cry. I’ve heard her play those pieces brilliantly, but it sounded like she was sight reading. I’m really worried about her. When I talked to her last week, she seemed distant and distracted. I can’t even get a reaction from her by calling her "Annie." I don’t know what she’s been going through, but I wish I could help her. She was so good and I was so proud to be able to say that I grew up with her. But when she plays today, it’s as if she doesn’t think she can do what I know she can do. She’s lost her confidence somehow, and I hope Mr. Reed or someone can help her snap out of it, because if this keeps up no one will ask her to play. The violin has been her life as long as I’ve known her, and I don’t know what she would do without it.

"It would seem," Mr. Farthington remarked, "that there are others who believe in your abilities, besides Mr. Reed. You have a good friend there."

"She’s been my friend since grade school," Annalise said. "We started taking violin lessons together. She hated them and quit after a month." She smiled, remembering Evelyn's vehement hatred of the violin, in contrast to Annalise’s intense passion for it, and how they had always remained friends nonetheless. Until recently. "She always made a big show of . . . thinking me a fool for playing the violin. But when I said I was going to quit . . . she was always begging me to play again. I finally got angry with her . . . we haven’t spoken since then." She took a deep breath, forcing herself to think about the issue at hand. "Matt, if you would read the following scene, please." Matt nodded, and turned his eyes down to the page in front of him.

***

Blue Springs Town Hall, Friday, February 23rd, 1940, 3:15 PM.

Jonathon Reed tried not to wince, but it was becoming harder and harder. Annalise was murdering Vivaldi’s Concerto in A Minor in much the same a way a beginning violinist would . . . and Annalise had never played like a beginning violinist. She had been a child prodigy, amazing many musicians, including Jonathon himself. She had been a brilliant musician as a child, and had improved throughout her whole life. Until now.

Jonathon tried to force a neutral expression as Annalise played the last few out-of-tune notes of the piece. The few people sitting in the audience looked relieved that it was over. But none looked more relieved than Annalise herself. The audience applauded politely--a few scattered claps, in sharp contrast to the roar of shouts and whistles that had used to come at the end of Annalise’s performances--and Annalise left the stage quickly, not even bothering to bow. Jonathon knew that he had a very short window during which to find her while she put her instrument away, before she left the hall. She had been avoiding him recently.

"Annalise?" he said, finding her backstage. She sighed. "We need to talk."

"I know it was bad; you don’t need to tell me," she said.

"You decided it was going to be bad before you even went out there," Jonathon said. "You played as if you were already defeated."

"I told you this was a bad idea," Annalise said. "Almost no one came. The hall was cold."

"Annalise, what’s going on?" Annalise sighed, staring at her violin case.

"I can’t do this anymore," she said, quietly.

"Yes, you can," Jonathon insisted.

"Have you read the reviews? ‘The kick of watered down gin’ is the most recent comparison to my playing."

"I don’t need to read the reviews to know that you aren’t playing as well as you can. I know you can play better than this. Everyone knows you can play better than this. Even the people that write the reviews."

"I used to be able to play, Jonathon, but I can’t anymore. I’ve lost my ability."

"That’s nonsense."

"Weren’t you listening to me out there?" Annalise exclaimed. "I saw you wincing. No one wants to listen to me play. I don’t even want to listen to me play."

"You can’t lose an ability unless there is some physical reason for it," Jonathon argued. He was not a particularly imposing figure, but he could be intimidating when he got passionate in his arguments. "If someone chopped off one of your hands, then you wouldn’t have the ability to play the violin. But there is no physical reason why can’t as well, if not better, than you always have. What you have lost is your passion for music. You used to love the violin. You were one of the only students I had who actually looked forward to her lessons every week. There was a gleam in your eye every time you picked up your instrument. Your hands were twitching to play Mozart and Vivaldi and Tchaikovsky and any other of the slew of composers you loved. But lately, when you come to lessons and you perform, you act as though you don’t even want to be there. I can’t think why."

"Well, I can," Annalise said, coldly. "Perhaps I’ve ‘lost my passion’ because I’ve realized that I can no longer do what I used to do. Do you think that I don’t want to be able to play? You make it sound like I just suddenly got bored with music. I want to play like before . . . but I just can’t."

"So, you’re not even going to try?"

"I’ve been trying. That’s how I ended up like watered down gin. No more. The musical world has tossed me aside, so I’m moving on to other things."

"Like what?" Jonathon asked, shocked, disappointed, and angry all at the same time. This was the first time Annalise had openly talked of giving up music. "Music has been your dream for has long as I’ve known you! How can you think of throwing it away?"

"What else is there to do, Jonathon?" Annalise asked. "Can you give me back my ability? Do you have it stored in a box somewhere, in case of an emergency?"

Jonathon sighed, and his voice became gentle. "I think what you need to do is find out what’s really bothering you. Your ability is still inside you, Annalise, but you’re blocking it somehow."
Annalise looked at Jonathon, and for a moment it looked like she might do it. Then, she looked away and picked up her case.

"I think what I need to do is face the fact that I can’t play anymore and move on," she said, walking away. "And I think that you and everyone else would do well to do the same. Now, if you will excuse me Mr. Reed, I’m going home."

"I’m not giving up you, Annalise," Jonathon said to her. "Even if you’ve already given up on yourself." Annalise turned to face him.

"Watered down gin," she said coldly.

"Even watered down gin has some kick left," Jonathon said. Annalise stared at him for a moment, then turned and disappeared out the door.

***

"How long ago was this?" Mr. Farthington asked, as the scene disappeared.

"About a month ago," Annalise said. "That was my last public performance. Mr. Reed scheduled more, but I ended up canceling them."

"Did you two speak after this?"

"Yes, several times," Annalise said, thinking about their arguments. "He kept insisting that I get help for my ‘problem.’ I just couldn’t make him understand. We usually ended up yelling at each other. The last time we talked was earlier today . . . I think I finally got through." But she didn’t look happy about it.

Mr. Farthington looked at her for a moment, then picked up a few more papers from his desk and handed them to Matt. "Here’s what happened to Mr. Reed after you disappeared. Matt, if you would." Matt nodded, and looked at the paper.

***

Jonathon Reed’s office, Blue Springs, Thursday, May 23rd, 1941, 4:00 PM.

Jonathon stared bleakly out the window. He had just gotten off the phone with his last student, telling her not to bother coming in for her lesson next week. He hadn’t been able to concentrate on lessons lately. It was as though whatever had afflicted Annalise had rubbed off on him. He had an idea how she had felt now . . . even if he had never known why she felt that way.

"Sir?" Jonathon turned at the sound of his secretary’s voice. "The architect is on the phone. He says he needs a decision from you about the project."

Jonathon smiled, ironically. "The Bridges Performing Arts Center?" he asked. It was almost a laugh to call it that now. "That’s what it was going to be called. I wanted today to be the day. I wanted it to be groundbreaking day. It would have been her birthday present." He sighed. "She could have been great, Claire. She was the best violinist of her generation. She had a whole, beautiful career ahead of her." He looked out the window again. "I wish I knew what happened."

"No one can explain her disappearance," Claire said, sadly.

"That’s not what I mean," Jonathon said, shaking his head. "She left a long time before she disappeared. I don’t know how many times I tried to help her . . . but she always turned away, and continued to deteriorate as a musician. No one remembers how great she once was. All they remember is that she gave up on herself in her last years, canceled appearance after appearance, abandoned a recording contract, and then disappeared without a trace. How can I name something after that sort of person?"

"Perhaps you can name the building after someone else?"

"Who? Blue Springs has no other musician of note . . . no pun intended. Annalise was unique. Her name alone could have drawn musicians and artists from all over to come here and study and perform. But lately when I mention her name, people have trouble remembering who I’m talking about. There just . . . doesn’t seem to be much point anymore." There was a moment of silence.

"What should I tell the architect?" Claire asked, finally.

"Tell him I’m abandoning the project. I doubt he’ll be surprised. He probably just called as a formality anyway." Claire looked at him for a moment.

"Yes, sir," she said, and left the room.

In a few minutes she was back. "Sir, Miss Evelyn Teal is here to see you."

Jonathon nodded. He had been expecting her to show up since dismissing Betty. "Show her in," he said. Might as well broach this now.

Evelyn, a short, red-headed, brassy young woman, walked in. Jonathon remembered her for her passionate hatred of her violin lessons. Performance had never been her thing.

"Hi," she said, shortly. Jonathon turned to face her.

"What can I do for you, Evelyn?"

"Well, you can start by explaining to me what the hell you think you’re doing."

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," Jonathon lied.

"Don’t play dumb," Evelyn said. "You’re no good at it. Betty told me you dismissed her. Why?"

"I’ve referred her to Mr. Stone. She’ll be in good hands."

"I’m not concerned about Betty, and you know it, so cut the crap. Betty was your last student. You’ve been sending students away for the past year."

"I’ve decided to ease up on my work schedule," Jonathon said.

"Damn it, Jonathon, you don’t have a work schedule anymore! You’ve given up, just like Annie. She vanished, and you decided to quietly fade away. Claire just told me you’re not going to build the concert hall, you’ve stopped making appearances yourself, and now you’ve dismissed all of your students. Are you trying to make Annie look cheerful by comparison?" Jonathon sighed.

"You knew her longer than anyone in town. Do you remember her enthusiasm?"

Evelyn laughed, sadly. "How could I forget? She left me exhausted sometimes. I remember one night, about ten years ago. She was staying overnight with me, and she kept playing snatches of tunes she’d been working on. She kept me up most the night, jumping from Mozart to Gershwin to Beethoven to Paganini to Kreisler . . . by three-thirty I was ready to sleep, but she was still going strong. That’s the Annie I like to remember." Jonathon smiled.

"It’s the Annie I like to remember too," he said. "It’s what I remember the most about her. She was always so excited to be learning new techniques, new music . . . it was infectious. When the lessons were over, I felt somewhat winded, but exhilarated. It was her passion that inspired me to build the music center in the first place. I felt she needed a large space to display her enormous talent." He sobered. "But then the light went out. God only knows where she is now. And no one remembers her passion for music anymore. And I found that I invested so much energy in her, that I don’t feel like doing anything else. I told her once . . . when she was going through her slump, I told her that I’d give up on music before I gave up on her."

"You never gave up on her," Evelyn said. "Not while she was here."

"Yes, I did," Jonathon said. "Just before she disappeared . . . I think that’s why she left. I can barely even remember that old Annalise anymore."

"Someone has to keep that memory alive," Evelyn said, urgently. "By giving up like this . . . if you end your own career as a musician, then she is gone. You were the one who inspired that passion, Jonathon! You can’t give up on her like this!"

"I already have, Evelyn," Jonathon said, sadly. "That’s why I dismissed Betty. I’m taking early retirement and moving away. If it were just a matter of her disappearing, I might stay. But it’s more than that. I don’t want to remember the child prodigy, who turned into . . . watered down gin."

Evelyn stared at him angrily for a moment . . . then her face softened, and her eyes turned down. She shook her head. "What happened to her, Jonathon?"

"I was just going to ask you the same thing," Jonathon said.

"She was never alone," Evelyn said.

"No," Jonathon said, turning to the window. "No, she wasn’t. But she thought she was. She had to face it by herself. Now, she’ll never know how many people she affected by shutting us out."

They stood in silence for a long time. The Evelyn spoke, resigned. "Where will you go?"

Jonathon sighed. "Someplace where no one knows about Annalise Bridges, and no one talks about Hitler." He turned to face Evelyn. "Do you suppose there is such a place?"

"I doubt it," Evelyn said, sadly. Jonathon turned back to the window, and they both mourned the loss of their friend.

***

"Less than a month later, Mr. Reed packed up and left town. He surfaced briefly in Southern California, hiring himself out as a musician for weddings and such. After that, he was never heard from again. I looked for other records of him; I couldn’t even find a death certificate." Annalise stood numbly. She had never seen Mr. Reed in the way she had seen him in the scene--depressed, dejected, and devoid of any feeling. It had been him who had inspired her to play, because of his sheer love of music. She never realized that she had affected him the same way. And she never realized how many people had hurt. Annalise felt moisture on her face. She was letting her emotions rule her . . . but she didn’t seem to care anymore.

"I don’t know what to do now," she said, quietly.

"You have the same choice as Faith," Mr. Farthington said. "You can go back and continue as you are now, pushing people away . . . or you can accept the help your friends are offering and resume your career."

"Or I could stay here," Annalise pointed out.

"That would not be advisable for a number of reasons I can’t go into right now," Mr. Farthington said.

"But . . . I don’t know if I can . . . it’s been so long . . ."

"Annalise," Mr. Farthington said, looking at her. "It won’t be easy, I acknowledge that. And it will be a bumpy path at first. But you have lots of friends who will help you along the way, and there is no reason why you can’t recapture that passion and talent you once had." Annalise sighed.

"I’ll need some time," Annalise said.

"I understand. While you think about it . . . we’ll move on to the next story. Gabrielle, I believe it’s your turn."
***
End of chapter 4.

"What's next?"