He fixed his gaze on Annie again. “You caused me some upset,” he said, “but don’t worry about Corliss. Why, she’s the laziest girl here. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen her without a candy bar. It must be like a pacifier to her.”
Annie met his eyes.
“Whether I’ve upset her or not, it’s you I’m concerned for. If I’d known how you felt, I certainly would never have—”
He waved off her words. “I’m an old man. It’s time to put the past behind me rather than hiding from it, I think. Obviously you are the instrument that is supposed to help me do that.”
She was not sure how to respond to his fatalistic attitude, so instead she said, “Mr. Starne, I appreciate your willingness to talk to me.”
He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “If I’m going to talk, I’ll need water. Would you mind pouring me some, please?”
“Of course.” She started to pour water from a gray plastic pitcher into a matching gray cup. “Mr. Starne, this water is room temperature. Wouldn’t you prefer some that is fresh and cool?”
“To tell you the truth, I’d prefer a nice cold cola, but I don’t get one very often.”
She smiled. “I saw a vending machine in the lobby. How about if I go get you a cola?”
His eyes lit up. “I’d like that!”
“All right. I’ll be right back.”
When she returned, she said, “While I was out, I popped into the dining room and requested a bigger cup for you and some ice.”
He smiled and watched as she opened the can and poured the sparkling brown drink over chunks of ice. It foamed, whispering, nearly to the top of the cup.
She pulled a straw free from its wrapper, inserted it into the drink, handed the cup to him and said, “I told Corliss you needed a fresh pitcher of cold water, not something tepid from the tap.”
For the second time his eyes lit up. “You did? Nobody ever tells Corliss anything! Good for you, Mrs. … Mrs. … what did you say your name was?”
“Annie Dawson. Please call me Annie.”
“I’ll do that.” He took a sip of his soda and smiled. “Ah,” he said after the first drink. “That’s good!” He dipped his head in the direction of the other chair. “Sit down, please. People who hover like the angel of death make me jumpy.”
Unaware that she had been “hovering,” Annie meekly sat down.
Peter sipped his cola until she was sure most of it had gone down his throat.
“Why don’t you have soda pop very often? Especially since there is a machine so close.”
He burped discreetly, apologized, and then said, “Doctor says I’m not supposed to have it.”
Annie felt her eyes widen.
“Then why did you ask for it?” she asked in dismay.
“I didn’t ask for it. I just said I’d like to have one. You ran out of here to get it for me, and you didn’t even bother to ask if I could have it or not.” He took another deep drink, and then grinned at her wickedly.
“Why … why … you brat!”
He laughed out loud at that.
“Give me that cup!” she reached for it, and he sucked down the last so fast and hard that the straw flushed noisily against the bottom of the cup.
“Oh, my.” She got up. “I better get Corliss.”
He grabbed her arm before she’d taken two steps.
“Don’t bring that ninny back in here. The only reason the doc doesn’t want me to have soda is because he wants me to drink more water.” He held out the cup. “Pour that water over the ice, and I’ll put everyone’s mind at ease.”
She did what he asked, but realized Peter was sharp, quick, and witty. He was an elder who belied the stereotype of nursing-home residents. Annie sat down again and met his twinkling eyes.
“Mr. Starne, I really, really did not come here to cause you pain. If you want me to go, I fully understand.”
His smile slid away, and he replaced the twinkle with something somber. Annie regretted returning to the subject that minutes ago had caused such raw, unbridled emotion.
“I know that, miss,” he said. “I can tell by your eyes and your manner that you are a lady inside and out.”
“Thank you.” Relief flushed through her. “Thank you.”
Peter set the cup next to his book. Interlacing his fingers and resting his hands in his lap, he gave his attention to Annie.
“I won’t pretend you haven’t surprised me by showing up with it,” he told her quietly, “but please tell me: Why have you brought the music box to me? What have you done with the music that was in it, and why do you feel it necessary to extract something that had been hidden away?”
So he wasn’t as amenable as he had seemed. In fact, his old eyes were sharp and taking in every blink, every breath, and every movement she made.
Annie smoothed her hair as if she were auditioning for a part in a play. She cleared her throat and glanced down at the music box. She lightly rubbed the flat of her hand across it, feeling the pattern of the carvings.
“I have found a lot of puzzling treasures in Gram’s house since I moved to Stony Point,” she told him. “All of them have been special in different ways. In tracking down the mysteries behind these items, I’ve learned about this town, this state, my grandmother, and myself. Mr. Starne, this music box,” she patted it tenderly, “is another puzzle that needs to be unraveled and put back together.”
He moved restlessly.
“I don’t understand why you need to know anything about that box.”
She studied him, looking into the old eyes that, while clear, seemed haunted somehow, as if they carried the weight of an unhappy life. How sad it must have been to live to this advanced age with a secret so devastating that he wanted to destroy such a rare masterpiece.
Annie leaned forward and rested her hand on one of his.
“Mr. Starne, don’t you think it’s time to uncover the past and release it to the light of day? Haven’t you borne this burden from the past long enough?”
He looked at her and his mouth quivered. A single tear slid down his creased face. He turned his hand and gripped Annie’s.
“Yes,” he whispered. “It’s time. I’ll tell you my story.”
18
“Can’t I stay home?” a six-year-old Peter Starne asked his mother. “I know my ABCs and how to write my name and how to count to a hundred.”
Mrs. Starne smiled down at her blond-haired, dark-eyed son, handed him a brown sack with a ham sandwich wrapped in a clean, white cloth.
“It is the first day of school; you must go,” she told him.
“I’d rather stay home and play the piano.”
“I know, son,” she said, stroking his hair. “You play the piano so well, and I know how much you love it. But playing the piano will not help you get a job when you grow up. You must also learn to read and write and do your sums.”
“But can I play my songs when I get home?”
She ruffled his hair. “Yes, you may. Now, scoot. You don’t want to be late on your first day.”
Before he stepped out the door, he looked up at her soberly and said, “When I grow up, I will get a job where I play the piano all the time!”
She smiled and watched his small figure join his waiting older brother and sister at the gate. When he reached them, Peter turned around and waved to her.
“You’ll like school,” said Ida, his sister, as she took his lunch bag and carried it for him as they walked. “You’ll meet lots of other children.”
“Yeah, squirt,” his brother Arthur said. “You need to play with kids, not just pianos.”
Peter said nothing. He knew he would not like school if it had no piano. But maybe it would. He remembered seeing an old woman play the piano at Ida’s school program last year. He brightened and walked along, a little happier for the moment.
That happiness lasted only until he, Ida, and Arthur entered the building of Halstead, Michigan’s, elementary school. Ida took him to the door o
f a room filled with boys and girls his age, while Arthur ran on to another room.
“After school,” Ida said, handing him his lunch, “wait for me at the door where we came in.” Then she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Have fun, Petey.”
Peter watched his sister walk away and join a couple of friends who waited for her at the foot of a flight of steps. The three girls, in fresh haircuts and new clothes, ran giggling upstairs.
“Come in, little boy,” said a kindly voice, and he turned. A lady who looked as nice as his mother and smelled like the talcum powder she used smiled at him.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Peter Christian Starne.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Peter. I’m Miss Carey, your teacher.” With her hand on his shoulder, she led him into the classroom.
Some of the other children glanced at him, but most of them were busy looking at their desks, or new pencils and tablets, or the pictures of presidents on the wall. Above the blackboard behind the teacher’s big desk at the front of the room the alphabet had been painted in bright red letters.
He pointed at them.
“I already know my ABCs,” he said.
“That’s wonderful!”
He glanced around.
“Don’t you have a piano?”
She laughed softly and patted his head. “No, not in this room. But we do have a piano in the music room.”
“Can I play it now?”
She gave him a sad smile.
“I’m sorry, Peter. We have music only on Fridays.”
“Can I play it then?”
She shook her head. “You children sing, and Mrs. Pratt plays the piano.”
Peter heaved a sigh. School would be worse than he imagined if he never got to play the piano, not even once a day.
“Now,” Miss Carey was saying, “this is your desk. And this is your desk mate, Olivia Sloan. Olivia, this is Peter Starne.”
Olivia, seated silently and serenely at the desk rather than examining the room like most of the other pupils, turned her head to look at him. She had shining black hair with lovely bangs that hung above eyes that were bluer than an April sky. With long, thick lashes, a small nose, and cherry lips, Olivia Sloan was by far the prettiest girl Peter had ever seen. He stared and stared at her. When she smiled shyly at him, she had two deep dimples, one adorning each cheek.
Without saying a word, Peter sat beside her and gave her a nervous little smile.
“Hello,” she said, her dimples peeking.
“Hi,” he muttered. He looked away from her because she kept smiling at him as if she wanted him to talk to her, and he couldn’t think of a thing to say. He wanted to tell her how pretty she was. He wanted to say he was happy they were sitting together. He wanted to ask her if she liked music, and if she could play the piano. Instead, all those words just jumbled up in his head and nothing came out.
“I’m a little scared,” she said softly. He turned his head and saw her clench and unclench her hands as she chewed on her lower lip. “Are you scared too?” she asked him.
More than anything, Peter did not want his lovely new friend to be afraid. He thought if he acted brave and smart, she would feel better.
“Nah,” he said. “There’s nothing to be afraid of here.”
She showed her dimples again. “Really? OK, then.” She put her hand on his, “But you be my friend all day, in case I get scared again, OK?”
Her soft, warm hand on his made him feel all light and bouncy inside. He nodded.
“OK.” And he didn’t say anything else because he was too overwhelmed.
A loud bell rang, and Miss Carey stood in front of the class, smiling.
“Welcome to the first day of first grade,” she said. “You children have just taken a big, brave step into a new world.”
As the school years passed, Olivia and Peter almost always sat near one another, though at recess, Peter played ball or rolled hoops with the boys, and Olivia played quieter games such as jacks or house with the girls. Sometimes the other children teased them because, at their age, boys and girls simply were not friends. Peter didn’t care if he was teased, and neither did Olivia. To them, their pairing was more natural than the sun rising and setting daily.
Olivia became all the more beautiful as they grew up. Peter’s interests remained focused on his music and on his Olivia. When he wasn’t at his piano, he was with her, and they walked hand-in-hand through their small town, looking in shop windows, pausing to play tag or blindman’s bluff with other children. As a young teenager, Peter continued to ignore teasing about his devotion to a girl and to music. They were the true loves in his life, and he’d rather cut off both legs than to be without either one.
By the time they were in high school, teachers recognized Peter’s talent and encouraged his parents to send him to a music conservatory where he could learn theory and composition. Their reluctance grew as the dark days of the Great Depression lingered. Money was scarce, of course, but more than that, they feared an education in music created a career doomed to failure.
“I can teach. I can compose. I can perform!” Peter argued hotly when his mother and father repeated their concerns. He added, somewhat bitterly, “If nothing else, I can tune pianos, but thanks for your faith in me.”
His desire to pursue music was so strong that Peter began taking odd jobs, hoping to alleviate his parents’ financial worries. He cut grass in his neighbors’ yards or delivered groceries for the local market. Often, he ran errands for some of the older women in town. Seeing his relentless pursuit of this dream, Peter’s mother and father finally and reluctantly gave him their blessing and he applied to several music schools.
Olivia shared his enthusiasm and his dream. Each week she gave him the few cents she had earned by washing dishes or ironing for her mother.
“We’ll travel the world,” she told him one evening as they strolled, arm in arm, down the quiet, tree-lined avenues of Halstead. “You will perform for great crowds. I—and our children, of course—will sit in the audience of every performance and applaud for you louder than anyone!”
“Won’t you get tired of hearing me play?”
She had squeezed his arm tightly. “Never! I haven’t gotten tired of it yet, have I?”
He had never asked her to marry him, nor had she asked him. It was simply a fact they both knew, like knowing they would graduate soon, or sit down to supper each evening. With a sense of inevitability, in the spring of their senior year they began to plan a simple June wedding. It was a complete surprise to both of them when both sets of parents formed a committee of sorts, and called them into the front parlor of the Sloans’ large, elegant home. The four elders sat, serious and implacable.
Olivia’s father, a tall, dark-haired man with a firm jawline and hard mouth, announced no union would occur between the two young people—at least not for a long time.
Peter and Olivia were stunned. She turned large blue eyes to him, clutching his arm.
“Peter?” she cried.
“Of course we’re going to get married!” he said, gripping Olivia’s hand. “As soon as we graduate and find a place to live.” He looked at the others. “We have known this since first grade. Why would any of you believe otherwise?”
“We have always known you would pursue music,” his mother said. “That is what we’ve always known.”
“Yes,” his father agreed. “How can you expect to support a family and attend the music conservatory at the same time? Because let me tell you, son, if you and Olivia were to marry, a family will surely come, and quickly. You must complete your education, and then set out to earn a living. Then you may think about getting married.”
“No!” he and Olivia cried together, almost frantic.
“Olivia,” her father said, “you have never dated any other boy but Peter. How do you know he is the man you want to be with for the rest of your life? You need to meet other young men before you settle down. You’ve always h
ad what you wanted, and we’ve always given you the best. A musician’s salary will be, at best, minimal.”
“I don’t care!” she shouted. “I plan to get a job while Peter is in college.”
“And where would you get this job that would pay enough to support the two of you and any babies that come along during those years?”
Olivia gulped.
“There are all kinds of dress shops in Minneapolis. I can work there, or a five-and-dime, or even in a grocery store. We’ll be together and that’s what’s important.”
“Oh, darling!” her mother said. “Retail! Really? You don’t want to work in retail. You’d be on your feet all day, and people would treat you like a servant. We’ll happily send you to Miss Jane Masters Advanced Academy for Young Women. In fact, we’ve already sent off the paperwork, and you’ve been accepted.”
Olivia’s eyes grew big. “But that’s in Atlanta, Georgia, Mother! I told you a hundred times I won’t go. It’s a million miles from here. I won’t go. I won’t! Peter,” she said, turning to him, panic on her pale face, “I won’t go!”
“I know,” he said quietly, slipping an arm around her. “I won’t let you.”
“I hardly think you can stop her, young man,” Mr. Sloan said. “She will be leaving the week after graduation.”
“I won’t!” Olivia shrieked.
“You will.”
Peter’s parents stoically sat in the Sloans’ living room, saying nothing to stop this disastrous state of affairs. In fact, by their mere lack of action or words to stand up for his beloved, he felt completely overwhelmed and bitterly betrayed.
“You can’t send her away,” he said. “She has her own life to live.”
Mr. Sloan rounded on him, fury in his eyes. “That is what we are trying to accomplish, young man! We want to give her an opportunity to have a life before she ties herself down to a house, a husband, and children.” He softened his expression and his voice. “You children don’t seem to understand that you won’t be young forever. There is plenty of time for marriage and the responsibilities it brings, but these are the days for you to explore the world and find out what it is you really want.”
The Unfinished Sonata Page 16
