Summer 2014 • Vol. XXXVI No. 3 FictionJuly 1, 2014 |

Mezzo

Though it had been four years since she'd seen him, (since she'd been passed over), and they were predicting more snow for Boston, it was the right year to have lunch, so Martha took the commuter rail in from Worcester to meet her old teacher, Fred Holleman. "We'll have lunch every year that has an extra day in it," he'd said at her last lesson before graduation. "It's extra so that old friends find time to have lunch." It was his way of speaking—imaginary, in a way—but Martha believed in it, had ever since her fourth lesson ten years ago, when she was fifteen, her voice airy and breaking across the important phrases of the soprano audition piece. "Know this?" he'd said in the middle of the Italian aria, and began to play the low opening bars to "Send in the Clowns." Martha did, and sang. "It's rich," he'd said, stopping her after a verse, "that no one took you for a mezzo. But there it is, Day. You're home in B flat." And he'd let her sing on, to know it. In the yea

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Though it had been four years since she'd seen him, (since she'd been passed over), and they were predicting more snow for Boston, it was the right year to have […]

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