by Ursula Hegi
“I haven’t been cooking much,” Mrs. Piano says. “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t…please.” Mr. Piano strokes her arm. “You’re doing all you can do.”
Twenty-six days today.
“Nothing. I’m doing nothing. Because there is nothing to do.” She’s all in black: scarf, blouse, shoes, earrings. As if she hadn’t changed clothes since Mason’s funeral.
Jake’s mother has told him that she cooks dinner for the Pianos most nights, brings it over and then leaves because they clearly don’t want anyone there. “It’s good that they want to talk with you and Annie,” she told him. He is visiting his parents for the weekend. Their living room is still filled with play equipment, small desks, and shelves with coloring books and stuff for craft projects. His mother still runs her day-care center, though she used to say she wanted to return to teaching science once Jake was grown. Whenever Jake’s father said he was falling over other people’s children, she’d point out that two thirds of the family income came from those children. Jake would cringe. Because she didn’t get paid for looking after him. That was why the other kids got preference. Paying guests.
Annie scoops up a fistful of Cracker Jacks. Passes the tray to Jake, who suddenly remembers Annie’s mother thanking his mother by the door. “I’m so glad Annie gets the homey part of mothering from you. I’m not very good in the kitchen.” Jake’s mother winced. Smiled at Jake. And when she spoke, it was not to Annie’s mother but to him. “We’re lucky I have a job that lets me stay with you all day.”
Jake tries to give the tray to Mrs. Piano.
“We’ve lost him, Jake. We’ve gone and lost him.” She turns to Annie. “Don’t you leave me too, Annie.”
“I won’t.”
“You and Opal can always stay with us. Weeks or months or years.”
“Oh…Thank you.”
“It’s okay if you like that Dustin character,” Mr. Piano tells Jake.
“Except we don’t like him,” Jake says quickly. Still, he feels accused. But he doesn’t know how to extricate himself.
HE PROCRASTINATED getting here. Stood under the shower in his parents’ bathroom and couldn’t bring himself to turn it off because he was terrified he and Annie would never be together the way they used to be since they were kids. Stood under the hot water until, with one swift motion, he made himself turn the handle to cold, gasping at the shock, forcing himself to stand below the icy water longer than he could bear it. He saw the three of them traveling in Morocco…We shimmy up one of the high walls that surround Asilah. Mason is hugging Annie, but suddenly it all changes because he crushes himself against her, and she bites his neck—
Gently? He flinches. Reaches behind her and catches her wrists, holds them there. She arches back, but his body arches forward, against hers. Does she feel the empty space behind her? She must. But she’s not afraid at all. Her teeth against Mason’s neck, she presses herself against him, wrestles him the way we used to wrestle as children. Except she’s no longer stronger than Mason—they’re matched. Is that what their sex is like? Because if they’re this rough with each other in public, then—
“You idiots,” I scream. “Get away from there.”
They think I’m so safe. Safe because I adore them both. Safe because they think I know they belong together. Safe till that moment, when Annie suddenly frees herself and comes up against me, presses herself against me, not Mason, her breasts against me—Annie?—her mouth below my chin. But not biting me, not me. The ledge behind me. Pressing myself closer to Annie. Wrestling us away from the ledge. Annie—
And now Mason is the one screaming. “Stop it! Both of you!” He backs away from Annie and me, hops on the precarious ledge. “I bet you I’ll jump if you don’t stop it.” Behind him white buildings and cliffs and the sea—
“HE LIKED TO…try out the idea,” Jake says.
“What idea?” Mrs. Piano asks.
“That he could…jump off somewhere…or do it some other way.”
“But he didn’t mean it,” Mr. Piano says.
“When we played hide-and-seek,” Annie says, “and Mason couldn’t find us, he sometimes yelled, ‘If you don’t come out, I’ll kill myself.’ ”
“He says that to get what he wants,” Mrs. Piano says.
“With you too?” Annie asks.
Mrs. Piano nods. “He starts off all nice. Then he ups it, sulks and tries to get me to feel sorry for him. And if that doesn’t work, he says he’ll die. The first time he said it was when he was five. Because I wouldn’t buy him ice cream.”
“Did you?” Jake asks.
“Buy him the ice cream? Yes.”
“He said it at camp,” Jake says.
“That place on Winnipesaukee…Mason hated it there,” Mr. Piano says. “You know, a couple of times Mason tried that with me when I said it was time for bed. But he stopped that when I told him he’d go to bed half an hour earlier for every time he said that. I knew he didn’t mean it.” He squints. Suddenly looks sick.
“I thought it had to do with betting against himself,” Mrs. Piano says. “The way he said it was…sort of playful, betting…testing if I’d believe him. That’s why I thought it was important to make Mason believe that I did not believe him. So that he wouldn’t…do harm to himself. And when he’d say it again, I’d remind myself that he hadn’t harmed himself the time before…that it was just another one of his moods.”
“I used to know everything about Mason,” Mr. Piano says, “and then I didn’t know him at all. I used to know the music he liked. He and I had the same favorites. A four-year-old who likes Mahler. Can you fathom that? And Schumann. Now I don’t even know the music he liked before he—”
“Sarah McLachlan,” Jake says. “He liked her a lot.”
“Also the Cardigans,” Annie adds.
“The Mrs. Robinson song.” Jake points toward the TV. “But performed by the Lemonheads. Except hearing it now, with the movie, it’s clearer what the words are about. It feels more true than from the Lemon-heads.”
“Lemondheads…that reminds me of the Lennon song,” Mr. Piano says. “No connection really. Just Lemon and Lennon?”
Annie nods. “Sure.”
“Did you ever listen to that song John Lennon wrote for his son?” Mr. Piano hums. Coughs. Then sings, “the monster’s gone…your daddy’s here…”
Annie’s face is bright red.
Tears run into Mr. Piano’s collar. “…beautiful little boy…”
Jake has goose bumps. Don’t do this to yourself.
“He was the most beautiful baby in the neighborhood,” Mrs. Piano says.
How can this be good for the Pianos? For any of us?
“I can burn a CD of Mason’s favorites for you,” Annie offers.
“Everyone said he was the most beautiful baby. Even the other parents. Not that you two weren’t good-looking babies too—”
“Strangers stopped us to ask if they could look at Mason. All that black hair.” Mr. Piano scrutinizes Jake’s hair, which has been thinning since Jake was in his early twenties.
Jake makes an effort to keep himself from checking that it hasn’t spread. My third eye. That circle of shiny skin behind his fontanelle.
“Mason got so excited when people smiled at him,” Mr. Piano says.
Mrs. Piano touches her neck. “He never went through the no-neck phase. You know. That pudgy baby phase. Right from the beginning, he was beautifully proportioned.”
“Aunt Stormy always said he was beautiful,” Annie says.
“See?” Mr. Piano looks at his wife.
“Like a miniature grown-up,” she says.
“Not miniature,” he objects. “At least not for long.”
“You used to fret that he wasn’t growing fast enough,” she reminds him.
“Not really.”
“He had the most gorgeous skin, Annie.”
“I understand,” Annie says softly.
“Do you?” Mr. Piano turns on her. “You and
Mason—you rushed everything.”
Annie blinks. “What do you mean by that?”
BUT JAKE knows what Mr. Piano means. Jake was Mason’s best man, and at the altar Mason got so moved that he started crying. When Jake handed him a handkerchief—discreetly, behind their backs, not realizing that the guests saw it—Mr. Piano was mortified.
At the wedding dinner, he told people, “Mason never cries.”
“Well, he cried today,” Mason’s uncle said.
“Only because Annabelle is rushing him into marriage.”
But Mrs. Piano took her husband’s wrist, held it down next to his wedding plate and the wedding cutlery. “You of all people know that our Mason only cries when he’s overly happy.”
“What I mean by that,” Mr. Piano answers Annie now, “is getting married when you two were just kids.”
“That was Mason’s plan,” Mrs. Piano tells him. “Getting married was all he talked about after Morocco. I think—” She hesitates, glances at Jake, who wants her to stop, but she continues as if nothing should be left un-said. “I think it was to keep Annie away from Jake…so he wouldn’t ask her first.”
“Show-off.” Mr. Piano motions to the screen. “Hopping into his little red convertible without opening the door. A user, that Dustin character. Drives that jazzy car his parents paid for but despises them.”
“At our age now,” Mason’s mother says, “Benjamin seems indifferent…lazy.”
“That’s true for sure,” Mr. Piano says.
“And he blames Mrs. Robinson—she’s his parents’ friend, Annie,” Mrs. Piano says, “—for seducing him though he certainly takes part in the seduction. Just because she’s older.”
Mason’s father stares at Annie.
“Stop it,” Mason’s mother says. “With barely four months ahead of Mason, Annie hardly qualifies for the role of Mrs. Robinson.”
Annie’s lips crinkle.
More like the Annie I know.
Jake wants to touch her forehead, high where her skin and hair meet, loosen her knot of hair—a bit—to let her face rest. He stuffs his hands into his pockets. But already they’re out again. He doesn’t trust them. To keep them away from Annie, he picks up a piece of string cheese he doesn’t want, peels off the strands just to be doing something. The taste of milk-soaked rubber bands.
“Sitting there with that fish tank, that Dustin character!” Mr. Piano sounds agitated.
“What fish tank?” Jake asks.
“You missed that part, you and Annie. You were still in the kitchen when that Dustin character was sitting in his room with that aquarium thing, letting his father make all the effort. He didn’t even smile at his father.”
“Our Mason used to do that,” Mrs. Piano says, “not smile at me. Deliberately not smile at me and—”
“When he got into that mood of his,” Mr. Piano says. “Gloomy. Not talking to us.”
“It made me want to shake Mason.” Mrs. Piano closes her eyes. “Once I did—”
“That way he stared past his father…” Mr. Piano pops some almonds into his mouth. Opens the lowest button on his vest. “Like he’s bored with him. I don’t think he notices his father.”
In the vase on the piano, the lemons used to shimmer, but today the water is cloudy.
“WHY DON’T you have flowers in that vase?” Jake once asked Mason’s father after his piano lesson.
“Because lemons don’t wilt.”
“Oh—”
“Lemons last longer than flowers, and once they fade or get spots, we use them for lemonade.”
“Can we have a lemonade stand?” Mason asked.
“Sure. You can have these.”
When Jake, Annie, and Mason got ready for their sale, they were so excited that they kept zipping back and forth on their street. From Annie’s basement they lugged a card table and set it up on the sidewalk. Jake’s mother gave them sugar and her insulated pitcher with the red lid. In Mason’s kitchen they squeezed lemons, added water and sugar. Annie printed huge letters, STOP, on both sides of a paper plate, colored the white space yellow, and trimmed it in the shape of a lemon.
“I bet the first car is silver.” Mason fastened his roller skates.
“Green,” Annie said.
“Bet you a nickel—”
Just then they spotted the car—silver, indeed—
“I win!” Mason yelled and rolled sideways along the sidewalk, full face to street, like a dancing girl, Mason, waving his palms, windshield-wiper style, pointing toward the lemonade bucket.
When the car slowed, Annie wielded her STOP plate and ran a few feet into the street.
“Be careful—” Jake shouted. Already such a good audience for their daring.
“Go in the middle of the street, Annie,” Mason yelled, “you’re such a girl.”
“That’s what I am. A girl.” She flapped her sign at the car.
It swerved. Didn’t hit her. Annie—
“You idiot!” Jake screamed. “Get out of the street!” Hopping up and down on the sidewalk. Screaming. “You idiot!”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” Annie said in her grown-up voice.
“Lemonade!” Mason chased the car on his roller skates. Greedy. Fierce. “Stop! Hey! Look at me, Jake—”
And Jake was grateful because Mason singled him out for being friends. Even though grateful felt sticky. Still—he felt the excitement of risk, the badness, that became his when he was with Mason.
When the car got away, Mason plopped himself on the curb. Dropped his forehead to his knees. “I can’t do this day.” All the light out of him. Sudden. The way he’d get sometimes.
Annie plopped down close to him. Jake on his other side. Across Mason’s curved back, they looked at each other.
“There’s a car,” Jake said.
Mason didn’t move.
“Another car—” Annie poked him.
Four cars passed.
“We got a lot of lemonade to sell,” Jake said.
“That’s it.” Annie knelt in front of Mason, started to undo his roller skates.
Mason tried to kick her away.
But she got them off. Still stronger than Mason. Bigger.
During the next hour, only two drivers bought lemonade, though Annie and Jake took turns swinging the STOP lemon plate at every car. They kept watching Mason. So still. Just a lump on the sidewalk, really. And when he stirred, finally, they laughed with relief.
Laughed when he demanded his skates. And when they helped him fasten them. And when all at once he was up again, doing his skate routine, adding a movie star smile. Mason.
By late afternoon, every drop of lemonade got sold.
“Let’s make plans for the money,” Jake said.
“We’ll buy something together,” Mason said. “Something we all want.”
“We need poster board and markers,” Annie said, “so we don’t have to use paper plates for our next sale.”
“First we have to buy a flashlight,” Mason said. “With different color lenses.”
“You want it for yourself,” Jake said.
“I want it for us. The yellow light keeps bugs away, and the red light means stop. I saw them at the hardware store, and two boys at school have them.”
“Poster board—” Jake started.
“I’ll guard the money,” Mason promised.
But Jake knew Mason would promise him whatever he wanted…and all it meant was that Jake would get nothing.
“My house is like a bank,” Mason said.
“Your mom only works at a bank,” Annie said.
“Not so. It belongs to her.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“But the bank is not in your house.” Jake knew. Because his parents had their checking account in the bank where Mason’s mother worked.
Mason started counting the money.
“Why can’t I keep it in my room?” Jake asked, wishing he’d said it differently, because asking was handing it over
to Mason. He tried again. “I want to keep the money in my room.”
“With all those kids running around, it’ll only get lost…or stolen.”
“You’re the one who runs around.”
“That’s for sure,” Annie said.
And it was. Jake didn’t want Mason and all those others—except Annie—at his house every day. Wanted to go to their rooms instead and mess them up. Mostly Mason’s, throwing his toys and clothes around, crushing Cheerios on Mason’s floor so they’d get stuck to the bottoms of his feet and get into his bed and make him feel itchy. Bouncing on Mason’s mattress—except in the Pianos’ house, you didn’t get a good bounce because the mattresses lay on the floors.
But at least Mason got punished for breaking the blue robot Jake got for his fifth birthday. Even though Jake took it into his bed that night to guard it from Mason. Once it was morning, he knew, Mason would play with it. And break it. Jake knew how: First Mason twists the arms, then snaps off the head. Jake’s stomach was hot like just before throw-up. Scared-hot. Though he was bigger than Mason and could snap off his head. But Mason was family income. And Jake had to keep his robot safe. Had to—Don’t—But I have to. Stop Mason from twisting off the blue robot’s arms. Jake did it, then. Twisted off the arms. Like this. Stop Mason from snapping off the blue robot’s head. Jake did it, then. Snapped off the blue robot’s head. Like this. Before Mason can. Mason, who’s making me do this. And when he blamed Mason, it was true because it would have happened. Like this—
“WHY ARE the Pianos’ mattresses all flat with no space underneath?” Jake asked his mother one morning when he helped her clean up yesterday’s day-care mess.
“Because they don’t like to spend money,” his mother said. “They let it grow in the bank.”
Jake wished his parents could grow money too. Because they had less than the other parents on the street. That was why he helped his mother clean up. Pride in that, being useful. But rage too. Because what the day-care kids needed came first. While his mother was stuck with him—he knew that even when she kissed him—and once his sister was born, his mother had two children who were not paying guests like Mason, who chased Jake’s mother around, making his whinnying sound, high-pitched through his nose like an ambulance and a horse, till she yelled at him, “Please? We don’t run and yell inside this house!”
