you don’t have to live to be one hundred
to have them.
A CENTENARIAN’S POV
Mrs. Shepherd lives in a tiny, rundown house
on the edge of a neighborhood in transition.
Mia, with her nose for news,
says it’s all about gentrification
and there’s another story here
she will surely feature
someday.
After introductions
and repeating slowly
more than once
that I’m just along for the ride,
I try to become invisible
while Mia does her thing.
I marvel at her social skills,
the easy way with people,
especially people who are different
or mega-something
like Mrs. Shepherd is so mega-old;
and her writing skills,
editor of the yearbook,
editor of the school paper;
and the fact that she still hangs out with me,
the nerd on the fringe
when anytime she chooses, she could join
the elites,
the intellectuals,
the preps.
I drift in and out of focus,
enjoying the low-intensity day
when I hear the regret question
roll out of Mia’s mouth
easy-peasy,
as we used to say in grade-school.
I hold my breath for a minute,
wondering what kind of response,
if any,
Mrs. Shepherd will give.
I shift awkwardly in my seat
while Mia looks like she just aced a quiz
everyone else has bombed.
A long silence
and Mia doesn’t flinch.
Finally, and almost inaudibly,
Mrs. Shepherd says,
“I didn’t celebrate enough.”
I cough to stifle a giggle.
What? Are we talking to
an old-time party girl here?
Mia perks up like a bloodhound
and perches her hands expectantly
over her computer keys.
Mrs. Shepherd begins.
“Both my children,
daughter and son
and then my husband,
all taken way before their time
and I mourned,
Lordy did I mourn,
‘til I was no good to no one,
a listless pile of rags
tossed in a heap.
I was useless
and it didn’t do them no good now,
did it?
Died and gone to heaven,
I know that for sure,
all of them,
and all my mournin’ didn’t do
a lick of good.
No sir,
I should have celebrated
their lives,
each one.
I should have celebrated.”
Mrs. Shepherd slumps down in her chair.
Mia and I jump up
both thinking the worst.
“I’m right tired now, Missies.
Next time, next time you come
I’ll show pictures.”
Mia takes the cue.
We say good-bye
and quietly slip out
as if leaving church
before the service is over.
ONLY GOOD LEFTOVERS
When I see I’ve beat them home
I check the kitchen
out of habit
and find a note,
“plz put leftover meatloaf in oven.”
I settle at the piano,
let Pachelbel’s Canon in D
carry my thoughts
of hundred-year-old ladies celebrating life,
of brothers celebrating nature,
of friends celebrating music,
of parents celebrating family,
when Davy bursts into the house
followed by Trent, Mom, and Dad.
He slides onto the bench next to me.
I let my fingers finish the piece,
and then lift Davy’s fingers onto the keys
to make music,
striking away
any leftover guilt
from this day.
AFRAID
I help clean up after dinner,
glad to hear Mom talk about their day
without putting a negative spin
on my absence—
Davy making friends with a donkey
at the petting zoo;
Trent proving to be a real snake handler;
the challenge of keeping hands inside
the miniature train
as it wound through the thick forest;
and giving Davy enough visual info
to keep him engaged.
Mom asks about my day
and seems interested
in hearing about Mrs. Shepherd’s
thoughts on celebrations.
Then a pause
while her face shifts
from relaxed to taut
and I wonder if I am in for it
yet.
“Claire?”
“Yes, Mom?”
“Have you seen anything,
anything at all
alarming…
no,
not alarming
just…I don’t know,
unusual,
maybe out of the ordinary
with…with Trent
lately?”
She looks down
and watches her fingers
twist a tissue
in shaking hands.
I’m afraid she’s going to cry.
I’m afraid I know what she’s talking about.
I’m afraid to answer
(faltering feet on a curb)
because surely
my imagination
has gotten the best of me.
COMFORT ZONE
I’m glad for Tuesday
after a holiday.
It always feels like Monday.
I’m even glad for Tara’s chatter
in the car
and curiously amused
to hear her tell all
(well, probably not all)
about her date with Carlos
while he obviously struggles
to keep the car on the road.
Juan and I struggle to hold a straight face.
When we get out of the car
we have our usual hearty laugh,
and that carries me through the morning classes
where I refuse
to let images of Trent
break through,
break down,
break into my thoughts.
I’m glad for the lunch chatter
where Mia tells Juan
excitedly
about Mrs. Shepherd
and then asks again
why I don’t ever contribute
to the school newspaper.
Juan reminds me
we need to get going
on Jazz Night now,
the piece I’ll accompany him on.
“Whoa, cut me some slack, friends,”
I say, half mocking, half serious.
“You two are stretching me way beyond my comfort zone today.”
Two faces,
Trent’s
and
Davy’s,
float into my brain.
I nearly choke on my own words.
What right do I have
to any comfort zone at all?
BE GONE
“What’s going on?”
Juan asks as we walk to
the music wing after lunch.
I give him a sharp, puzzled look
and wonder
again
how he manages to pick up my vibes
with such spot-on ac
curacy
like some kind of streaming data nerd.
“What do you mean?” I ask,
knowing exactly what he means
but wanting to hear it from him.
“You are a thousand miles away today,
and Jazz Night doesn’t seem
to be on your radar.
More bad news
or no news at all?”
I realize as the question rolls out
that both options
have me in a strangle-hold.
Mentioning what I thought I saw with Trent
seems like a bad omen,
and the blood tests
lurk like a brooding storm.
“A little of both
and nothing I want to talk about
today. Are you cool with that?”
Juan,
always cool
with everything,
smiles and nods
and presses on in his
irresistible way.
“I’ll bring your accompaniment
tomorrow so you can get started on it.
Saturday afternoon
at my house,
the first run through?”
I return his smile with a chuckle.
“Sure, Juan
comfort zone be gone.”
WRITING ASSIGNMENT
Mia can hardly contain her excitement
over the assignment we just got handed
as we stroll out the classroom door
in Honors English.
Write a narrative to develop real
or imagined experiences or events…
“Of course I’ll use Mrs. Shepherd
and get extra mileage out of
the interview. Whoot! Whoot!
Life is goooooood!
What about you, Claire?
Any ideas?”
“Well, I was thinking of
the life and times of a talking piano,
you know, one that converses
with the player’s fingers
and together
they plot to take over the world
and make everyone speak in
staccato notes and arpeggios.”
She looks at me
dumbfounded
with her bottom jaw dropped.
“Seriously? Did you just think that up
like now, on the spot?”
“Yeah, I sort of did,” I say,
savoring her reaction.
“Claire, if you don’t start sending me stuff
for “The Chanticleer” soon
I’ll… I’ll…”
“Be forced to start a “fugue” with me?
Get it? Fugue? Feud? Like ha, ha?”
She shakes her head
in mock disgust
and tells me I’ve been hangin’
with Juan too much.
Hmm. Too much or not enough?
HEAVY NEWS
I shuffle through the mail
knowing it’s way too early
for contest results
but not too early to wonder,
and hope,
and dream,
when
a thick envelope with mysterious
initials,
BDSRA,
in the return
sends twitches through my fingers.
I want to rip it open,
but it’s addressed to my parents
and it feels so heavy…
weighed down
with news
that feels
way
too
heavy.
THE TREE AND THE LEAVES
Juan’s jazz piece
stares at me,
speaks to me,
I dare you
as I slide onto the piano bench
to grab the few minutes
of quiet
before everyone gets home.
A sight-read,
a second run through,
and on the third try
I picture dazzling autumn leaves,
all shades of yellow, red, auburn
swirling in an October vortex.
Untamed,
playful,
relentless,
free spirited,
around a bare-branched,
unbending,
mediocre
tree.
My fingers laugh in my face.
Who said jazz isn’t fun?
Can you guess who is the tree
and who the leaves?
MISSING INFORMATION
The wind whipping around the tree
outside my window
wakes me up,
and I snuggle back under the covers.
It’s Saturday
and I chuckle, remembering that
the leaves and I
have a practice date this afternoon.
I wonder what Juan would think
if I told him about the mental picture,
tree with dancing leaves,
that pops up when my classical fingers
try to let go,
jazz-like,
on the accompaniment
while he rips it up
with some kind of awesome
and the slightest bit of effort
on the flute.
The brother-noise downstairs
reminds me it’s been a quiet week.
No seizures,
no news,
nothing out of the new ordinary.
I decide to join the mayhem in the kitchen
and grab the last two pancakes
while Trent shows Davy
the running-back play
he learned in flag football this week.
I stop eating and watch.
Way awesome for a six-year-old.
Way too awesome.
Mom stops loading the dishwasher
like a paused video.
Dad puts his cup down and freezes.
I become aware that my parents are
not just watching my brothers
but studying them,
looking beyond the football moves
as if an important piece of a puzzle
were floating somewhere in
the chaos.
HUG
After we finish practicing
I tell Juan about the tree
and the leaves.
He dances around the room,
around me—the tree—
waving his flute
like a magic wand,
arms flourishing,
feet doing crazy Michael Jackson moves
until we are both in hysterics.
“About time I see you laugh again,” he says,
collapsing on the floor.
It catches me off guard
and I remember I’m talking to
my oldest and most trusted friend
besides Mia.
“It’s been so quiet all week
but my parents…”
“You got the blood test results?”
“No, but that’s just it. It’s the same
stupid tension,
unspoken,
that we had before we found out,
you know,
about Davy.
And you should have seen them this morning
watching the boys while they played,
watching them,
watching Trent, really
looking for symptoms, I think.
That’s it.
I really think they expect the worst.”
“Do you, Claire?”
I can’t hold back the tears
and I tell him in huge, blubbering gasps
about what I’ve seen
and what my mother has seen.
He pulls me towards him
and hugs me tight
while I cry it out.
LOOKS
Mia catches up with me
on our
way to Honors English.
“So, are you sticking with the
magic piano story or has the musician
with no ideas
come up with another doozy?”
“Fresh out of doozies, I’m afraid,
so it’ll have to be the talking piano.
This musician with no ideas
is knee deep in jazz practice
with Juan and…”
“Juan, hmmm?”
Mia says, giving me her best
Cruella DeVille look.
“Yeah, you know,
our friend from Kindergarten,
and why are you looking at me
that way, My-yah Me-yah?”
“Speaking of looking,
have you noticed the way
he’s been looking at you
lately?”
No.
I mean maybe
and after I savor it a while,
I’ll tell you
what I noticed
about his hug.
Winter Part 1
THE BEAST
Juan glances at me over his shoulder
with concern
when Carlos pulls into the driveway
behind both cars.
Both cars are never in the driveway
at this time of day.
“Want us to wait?
Behind These Hands Page 6
