We said good-bye on the street with a wooden hug. She went off to her car and I went off to buy some vacuum cleaner bags.

If I'm honest, that was the moment I shut down the possibility of Clive. Even though Leah had said it was okay. Even though Leah was who I went to for permission. Because I thought she really knew how to live.

I stood in the vacuum cleaner store, looking at the bags, of which there were too many kinds, and I was unable to remember the model number of my vacuum cleaner, because I didn't give a s.h.i.t, and an Armenian man with anxious eyes was heading in my direction, and I realized, I don't love Leah anymore, and if I don't love Leah anymore, I'm not sure who I love, and if I don't love anyone, that means no one loves me, and people cannot live without love. They've done studies.

By the time the Armenian man reached me, I had started to cry, and he said, "What can I do for you?"

And I looked at him and said, "Nothing."

THAT MONDAY WAS when I got the news.

It was at the end of a lesson, during which Hallie had done a fine job of memorizing the first movement of a Bach concerto, that she told me. She was memorizing now, had been for some time, which meant she was no longer reading music. She was storing it all in her brain, and it came out by the numbers, technically perfect, spiritually bland. The thrill was gone, for both of us, and occasionally we looked at each other like old friends who could no longer remember our shared past, all the reasons we liked each other. Like me and Leah.

"Very nice," I said.

She put her violin on her lap and sighed.

"What's up with you?" I asked, hoping that innocent question would help us segue into something more meaningful. I was hoping to dig deep into her psyche, help her root out the reasons she no longer cared about her music. As it turned out, her problems were gestating at the surface of her brain, waiting to hatch on her tongue.

She looked at me, her dark eyes flat and devoid of emotion, her eyebrow ring dull and placid in the harsh fluorescent light.

She said, "I think I'm pregnant."

Nothing could have prepared me for that. I heard it, dismissed it, heard it again, and started thinking. My face must have processed a dozen emotions at once, and she looked away from me, down at her scuffed Doc Martens.

"How?" I said, without thinking.

She looked up at me, surprised for a second, before she smirked.

"Are you sure?" I asked.

"No. What does it feel like?"

I didn't know how to tell her. I had been pregnant, twice, had lost both babies. The first time I barely knew I was pregnant. The second time I knew right away, having grown accustomed to the symptoms. It was an indescribable feeling. In the early days, it felt like being plugged up, with a thick, warm water collecting at the drain. It made you feel drowsy and cranky and warm and cold. It made your b.r.e.a.s.t.s come alive, though they weren't sure what to do with their new life. I had headaches and backaches and a vague flulike sensation. But those could have been the symptoms of anything.

"You're not pregnant," I told her. Then all the ramifications of that statement went through my head, as quickly as information through a computer circuit, and I said, "Hallie, you're only fourteen."

"I know," she said.

"Why are you fooling around?" I asked.

She shrugged, chewing on a hangnail.

"If you are fooling around, why aren't you using birth control?"

She shrugged again. Then she said, "Tell me what to do."

"Get rid of it," I said without hesitation. Because here was this fourteen-year-old girl on the verge of greatness, musically speaking, and I couldn't imagine letting her take this event another step further. I couldn't imagine it was G.o.d's will to let a fourteen-year-old musical prodigy end it all by having a baby.

She had no reaction to my advice. She continued to stare at the floor.

"Does Dorothy know?" I asked.

"No," she said quickly. "And you can't tell her. You're like a shrink or a priest or something. It's against the law for you to tell anyone."

I had to admit, I liked being put in the category of a shrink or a priest, but the truth was, I was only a teacher, not a public school teacher, as Earl had pointed out, and I had no obligation to anyone. I could tell the cops, the social workers, the parents, anyone. The only thing forcing me to keep this secret was the thin specter of loyalty.

"Do you need money?" I asked.

She shook her head.

"You do if you want an abortion," I told her.

She glanced up at me. "How much are they?"

"I don't know. At least five hundred for a good one."

She picked at a hangnail and said, "I don't have that kind of cash."

I grew angry all of a sudden, picturing the seventeen-year-old piece of trash who had done this to her, some swaggering senior who told her it wouldn't hurt and it wouldn't count if they were standing up, and she'd never get pregnant because it doesn't happen the first time.

And that was the positive scenario I was picturing. The other one wouldn't quite form.

"What's he, a football player?" I asked.

She shook her head, still staring at the ground.

"Basketball? Some kind of jock? Some kind of Best All-Around?"

"No."

"Another musician? Some kid in a band?"

"No."

"How did he talk you into it?"

She shrugged. "He didn't do much talking."

"It's illegal, you know," I told her. "You're underage. It's statutory rape."

"Oh, what, are you going to tell the cops?"

"It's certainly an option," I said.

"Not to me. And if you tell anybody, you're going to make me very sorry I said anything. I'll deny it."

I cleared my throat and tried to gather my thoughts.

"Does he know?" I asked.

She laughed a short, derisive laugh. "We don't talk about things like that."

"Well, that's exactly what you should be talking about. You should have talked about it before."

"I know. That's what they say in health cla.s.s, but that's not how it is."

"He has certain obligations," I said.

She shrugged again. She looked very tired. She started putting her violin and her music sheets into her case. She was giving up. On both of us.

I said, "If I give you the money, do you promise to get it taken care of?"

Her eyes came alive. She looked like a kid being offered a day at the fair.

"Yes, I promise."

"I can get the money for you. We can work this out. But Hallie, you have to tell me if this is something else. I mean, something besides some high school boy."

"I never said he was in high school."

"It's against the law. You have rights."

"I did my part, you know? I'm not innocent."

"But you are. You're a child."

She smiled. "That's what you've been thinking about me all this time?"

"I can help you. Don't do anything drastic. Just come back next week and we'll figure it out."

We both heard Dorothy's footsteps on the stairs.

I said, "Promise you'll come back, and we'll decide what to do. You and me. Don't tell anyone else. This is between us."

She c.o.c.ked her head. "Why do you care so much?"

"Why did you tell me?"

She smiled. "Because I knew you'd care."

Dorothy opened the door. "Is the lesson over? I have to get supper on the stove."

Hallie grabbed her violin case. I followed them and stood at the top of the stairs.

I had a feeling, in that moment, that I was releasing her from all of her pain. I knew I was partic.i.p.ating in a sin, but I was taking it upon myself to explain. My mother had convinced me that no transgression would go undiscovered. "Be sure your sins will find you out," she used to say. "If you lie down with dogs, you're going to get up with fleas." I remembered all those warnings, but only lately had they seemed true. I was taking it upon myself to argue for Hallie and myself. I would say to G.o.d, Did you hear her play? Did you?

"Come back next week," I said.

"Okay," Hallie said.

"I can help you."

Dorothy turned. "With what?"

"She's just having some trouble with the bowing," I said.

"Oh, you musicians. The things you worry about."

11.

FRANKLIN FIRES CLIVE on a Monday, two weeks before Christmas. He does it at the beginning of the day rather than the end. He tells him in front of Patrick and Ernest and Declan. Other than that, he handles it perfectly.

I come in on the tail end of the commotion. Clive is yelling something about how no one in this G.o.dforsaken place knows a d.a.m.n thing about music, and it's just fine with him, because now he can really pursue his career, and he's going to call all his students and tell them to take private lessons from him, never to set foot in McCoy's again. Patrick and Ernest are watching with neutral expressions. Declan is the only one who seems vaguely interested, scratching his long beard, his brow knitted with concern, as if he were the final arbiter, as if he were G.o.d.

He does kind of look like G.o.d, I find myself thinking. I'm oblivious to Clive's ranting. I'm not sure why.

Clive finishes up his angry parting speech and nearly b.u.mps into me as he turns to make his dramatic exit. He stares hard at me.

"You're in on this, too?"

"I'm not in on anything. I haven't even punched my time card."

"It was nice knowing you," he says.

The chimes rattle manically as he slams the door.

"Well, that is what we call that," Declan says. Then he gets to work on repairing a lute.

Franklin shudders as if caught by a sudden draft. He looks at me, then at Patrick and Ernest.

"Had to be done," he says.

Ernest just shrugs, to indicate his lack of involvement.

Patrick says, "Why?"

"He was bad for the shop," Franklin says.

"He had a lot of students," Patrick says.