The Metropolis Case_ A Novel - Matthew Gallaway [63]
“Mia bella.” Bérénice raised her wrinkled face to Maria. “La Callas! Elle est morte,” she whispered.
“But she’s not that old, she’s only—” Maria paused. “How did she die?”
“Fifty-three,” Gina said. “They think it was a heart attack.”
To see her mother and Bea in tears, and to digest the news about Callas—whom she had secretly been hoping to meet now that she was Pennsylvania’s top high school soprano—also caused something in Maria to snap, so that seconds later she was sandwiched between them on the couch, sobbing along through the aspirin commercial that preceded a short retrospective on Callas. She had apparently died alone—a recluse—in her Paris apartment, which made no sense to Maria and for the first time made her question whether the fruits of her own artistic dreams would make her happier than she was now. She saw herself at fifty-three and wondered if her own mother would be alive, and considered that most certainly Bea would not, and felt bereft at their prospective departure in a way that made her regret what she had done that afternoon.
“Ma,” she sobbed to Gina. “I didn’t mean it—I want you to come to New York. Anna said to call—she wants you to come, too!”
“It’s okay,” Gina stroked Maria’s head, which now lay on her shoulder. “We can talk about it later.”
THOUGH GINA’S OFFICIAL position toward her daughter was forgiveness, she, too, had been frightened by the specter of Callas’s lonely death, and felt that it was only right that Maria get a true taste of the life she so desperately sought. “I thought about it and decided that I’m not going to New York,” she declared to her daughter a few days later. “I don’t want to distract you.”
“You won’t, Ma—”
“You and Kathy can go, and then we’ll all plan a trip up there in the spring, when it’s nicer weather—your father and grandmother can come, too.”
“But Ma, I want you to come. I was just in a bad mood. I didn’t mean it.”
“I know, and I appreciate it, but really—I think it’s best if you go alone this time.”
That fall, an unprecedented formality descended upon the Sheehan household. Dinners devolved into conversations between Bérénice and John about the Steelers, who were in pursuit of Super Bowl number three, and after a terse exchange of presents at Christmas and a subdued New Year’s Eve, the week of the audition finally arrived. Gina softened the night before the scheduled departure and offered to help Maria pack, a process that required the delicate maneuvering of an arms-reduction treaty when Gina insisted on placing into the valise a navy blue gown that Maria had never liked and that they both knew would later be replaced with a black one she did.
Before any of this erupted into open warfare, John came in to say good-bye, as the next day he had his weekly inventory meeting at the company and the idea of disturbing Maria at six o’clock in the morning held no appeal. “I’m hitting the sack,” he said with a yawn. “Remember, if anybody gives you a hard time for being from Pittsburgh, just mention Franco Harris and Jack Lambert.”
Maria looked at Gina, and they both laughed. “Dad, I’m sure the admissions committee isn’t too concerned about the Steelers.”
“Then maybe this will help you,” he said and flipped her an Indian-head nickel that he explained had been his good-luck charm when he was a kid. “The day after I found it I hit my only home run.”
Maria thanked him and even shared a smile with her mother before she popped it into one of the penny loafers Gina had bought her for the trip, and John kissed her on the cheek and went to bed.
The next day, Gina drove Maria to Cedar Village, where the snow-dusted trees glistened in the morning sun. She remarked