"Mr. Delgado and I should form a union," Ms. Blake said, and squeezed his shoulder once.
When Jack walked onstage, the hall lights made the audience into a soft dark mass with occasional eyeglasses flashing like distant windows. Somewhere in that mass were Eleanor and Mr. Delgado—Mr. Delgado had finally agreed to come, on the condition that he could sit near an exit. Somewhere, Jack knew, was Principal Harrison.
Jack sat. He adjusted the bench. He began.
The Beethoven went well—not flawlessly; there was a moment in the development where his left hand arrived a fraction early and he corrected without panic, the way a walker corrects a stumble without announcing a fall. What mattered more than perfection was the sense, spreading through the hall, that the music was being thought in real time by a mind that cared about consequence. When he finished, the applause came in waves that surprised him. The stage manager signaled encore. Jack played Eleanor's tune. He did not look toward the seats where he guessed she was sitting. He played for the knitting needles and the low heat and the dish towel pressed to a mouth that had tried not to cry over a preliminary letter.
Afterward, in the lobby—always the lobby, as if the building insisted on returning him to the scene of the first misunderstanding—people congratulated him with varying degrees of sincerity. Pierce offered a nod that was almost respectful. Dr. Mori, passing by, said, "Less sentimental than last time. Improvement." Mrs. Cole beamed. Eleanor hugged him hard enough to rearrange his freckles. Mr. Delgado sniffed and said, "Acceptable," which from him was a standing ovation.
Principal Harrison waited until the crowd thinned.
"Jack," he said.
"Sir."