J R

Stella stood tracing an edge of sun with the point of her shoe. — It was Edward’s birth certificate that Mister Coen wanted? she said finally.

— He, he mentioned it, yes.

— But if there’s any question, Edward himself must wonder…

— Wonder?

— What he’s… inherited.

— Why he’s, what he’ll have from James, heaven knows. I’m sure James doesn’t. His work is always money going out not coming in, having scores prepared and getting them copied, the parts for each instrument…

— And James was never one for writing little trios. He likes lots of brass.

— And voices.

— Voices, yes. What it would cost to do his Philoctetes! Hiring musicians to play his compositions, getting them recorded and all the rest of it his royalty checks aren’t a drop in the bucket, even these awards seem to cost twice what they bring in. When the time comes there won’t be much for Edward.

— It wasn’t money I meant, said Stella quietly, and then, her voice as casual as her step, — was Nellie talented?

— Nellie?

— Talented?

— I… I don’t think the question ever came up.

— In all these pictures with Uncle James, Stella murmured clouding the glass of one with her closeness, — there’s none…

— That’s the one of him with Kreisler, isn’t it?

— But this says Siegfried Wagner, nineteen twen…

— Oh. That was Siegfried Wagner, yes. He used to be around Bayreuth and charge twenty-five cents for his photograph, simply because he was Wagner’s son.

— But in all these pictures with women, there’s none…

— That was that Teresa what was her name, Julia. She was over here touring during the war. She’d been married to that, I can’t recall him either. During the war even though he was British, he made such a scene about being German but what was his name, a French name, but what was it. He was married a good half dozen times. She was known as the Valkyrie of the keyboard, she came from Argentina or some such.

— There’s no picture of Nellie? Stella got in abruptly, turning her back on those frames and faces. — Didn’t she take lessons of Uncle James? after he was sick, and she’d come to nurse him back?

— I think you have it twisted, Stella. She was sick and, yes and James…

— There’s no reason to stir it all up again. That Mister Cohen, repeating gossip…

— But now that we speak of it, Julia, do you think we have Edward’s birth certificate?

— I suppose it’s right there in the top drawer. That little Martha Washington sewing table.

— Here? said Stella, trying it. — But it’s locked.

— Yes. The key is right there in the bottom drawer. Yes, there… let me see that, Stella. It’s a picture of Nellie with the Gloria Trumpeters when they led that welcome home parade for Charles Lindbergh, down Fifth Avenue.

— I think they went up Fifth Avenue, Anne. And you certainly can’t make out Nellie in this. I think it was before her time, at that.

— Then why would we ever have kept the clipping?

— Nellie played… trumpet?

— You knew that, Stella. You knew James gave her lessons.

— But not, trumpet. No, I just thought, just music.

— Yes, or was it cornet, Julia.

— And I thought Uncle James just wouldn’t waste time on people without talent.

— Well, but after all, Stella.

— Nellie wasn’t well, Stella, after all. She had consumption. You knew that, didn’t you? It wasn’t as though James set out to make her the finest cornetist in the world. The doctors said she must build up her lungs, and that was why she came for these lessons. But she came too late.

Closer, over the sewing table fitting its key, Stella’s hand rose as it might have in scorn, lost to her forehead tucking a strand of hair. — Oh?

— That’s… but you knew that, didn’t you? Stella?

— Knew?

— Knew that… that that was how Nellie died.

Motionless, eyes taking all, giving nothing, Stella said — Was it?

— Why, why…

— Yes, why yes Stella…

Their looks suspended three sides of a broken triangle which crumbled, shifting on different planes. — I’m sure that Thomas has told her, Anne. Perhaps it’s just slipped her mind for the moment.

And two sides of the triangle rose again, querying, seeking confirmation in the third; but Stella’s eyes stayed down, kept the distance in her voice. — There’s nothing here but stock certificates, securities…

— Yes, that’s what James always says isn’t it. Bonds are for women, and…

— Stocks are for men. But that was Father.

— Listen. I think I hear hammering somewhere.

— You might as well stop looking there, Stella. It’s probably over in James’ studio, though I’d hate to be the one to look. Digging through all that, pictures, clippings, deeds and tax bills, song sheets, scores and all those piano rolls…

— Julia… now? Don’t you hear it? Hammering?

— Edward?

— Oh, it’s Edward?

— Edward… but what’s that he’s carrying?

— It looks like a can.

— A beer can!

— In the living room? What in the world!

— You, we said he was upset Stella, but…

— If he could see himself…