Doubters and Dreamers

Off to the Music Lesson

23 Off to the Music Lesson Just beyond the steep hairpin turn on Del Mar Avenue, three blocks from home, my ankle twists on an edge of asphalt, and my right foot smashes against hard-packed soil. I stumble into a parked car; the oboe and my book of études go flying and land among the thistles. With the sudden ache in my foot, I break into a sweat. Should I return home? That would mean facing my mom’s wrath. It would take twenty minutes to walk back up the hill, only to have her yell, “You came home because of a turned ankle? I pay good money for those lessons, and you haven’t touched that instrument all week! So if you think I’m going to drive you because you’re late, you’re out of luck!” Leaning against the car, I remove my loafer, empty it of grit and pebbles, and gingerly dust off the instep of my bare foot against my left calf. I shut my eyes against the pain. I don’t dare look at my foot, but slip it back in the shoe, then straighten my skirt and gather my book and the instrument from among the weeds. Clumping ahead, I try out different methods for walking without bearing down too much. The steep road is shady beneath the eucalyptus along Glendale, but La Loma is bright with plum and apple blossoms and the forever view through the Golden Gate. On this Saturday afternoon, the bay looks steely beneath the pale sky. A pair of mourning doves perches cozily on the phone lines above the oblique walkway. I can smell the pungent fragrance of acacia trees. Beyond Buena Vista Road, I take the shortcut down the paved back steps of my old elementary school, Hillside, bracing myself against the iron rail. The air is moist beneath a canopy 24 of lilacs and bare madrones. Reaching Hilgard, I wait to cross busy Euclid Avenue, then Scenic and Arch. Limping, I force my weight onto the metatarsus and my big toe. It’s not that bad, I say aloud, but I don’t quite believe it. The streets are no longer precipitous, the grade hardly noticeable. Here’s Oxford and the horticulture station where my high school friends and I joke that UC scientists grow huge cauliflowers in nukedout soil. I can see Mrs. Forrest’s old Victorian on Shattuck near Virginia. She owns the music shop down the street, but Monsieur LeRoux—first oboe in the San Francisco Symphony—has arranged to give lessons in the living room of her home, which he prefers to the cacophonous rooms in the music store. I hobble along the sidewalk, stumping like Chester from Gunsmoke, afraid I’ll be late. At the top of the steps, Monsieur LeRoux greets me kindly and offers me a café au lait, which he makes on Mrs. Forrest’s gas stove. We work on breath control, and he demonstrates again how to fill the diaphragm with air and release it slowly, aspirating so carefully the flame of a candle hardly flickers and will not blow out. All this time, my foot is throbbing. After the lesson, waiting for the bus by the drugstore on University Avenue, I finally slip off my shoe and examine my foot. The bone juts beneath the skin, bruised and knobby. Tears spring to my eyes. I consider calling home, but that would mean using some of my bus money, and if Mom refuses to come, I’ll have to walk back up the hill. As it is, I hoof the usual half hour from the bus stop at Grizzly Peak and Shasta Road. When I get home, dusk has fallen. From the 25 street, the steps are shadowy because no one’s turned on the porch light. Is Mom still mad? She seems calm when I find her in the kitchen preparing a chicken, but her eyes darken when I show her my foot. “Why didn’t you call me?” she asks. “I’m sure that’s broken.” ...