by K. M. Walton
Poor Mrs. Gramble tried to teach me how to become a classical pianist for three out of the four years. It didn’t work. She blamed my slow finger movement, but I knew it was because I never practiced. Ever. I only wanted to hear the music, not play it, apparently.
However, the music became deeply personal to me. Part of my identity. The concertos, requiems, and symphonies grew roots inside me. The music was where I went—where I go—when I needed to put myself back together. Note by note. Especially when I was drawing. It was as if the music itself breathed life into my sketches, each lift and sway of the instruments, each bit of intensity or gentleness guided my hands. Those moments brought me happiness.
I stop flipping pages. No. 38. Winter Solstice Song (Molto vivace) stares back up at me.
Marnie says, “Go on. Give it a go.”
I try another angle to get out of it. “But it’s almost nine. Won’t that disturb people?”
“Honey, trust me. When music fills these halls, the darkness lifts.”
I wish I could run through it a few times in a private space, just so I could work out the kinks and not sound like a mess.
Who am I kidding?
This one piece I could play with my eyes closed. It’s the only one I ever truly liked in my four years of lessons. The one that came so naturally while learning to play it that it frightened me a little—it was as if I’d already known where my fingers should go.
It was the only one that ever made me cry.
It was my secret. I never even told Mrs. Gramble. During my lessons I’d intentionally mess up and have to start over. I tested that woman’s patience weekly.
In fourth grade I was two years into my “let’s keep things that make Oscar happy a secret” way of thinking. I didn’t want my father or Vance to know how that song made me feel, how it was practically a part of me. My stomach would knot each time I pictured either of them finding out. They would find a way to ruin it. I knew they would.
Marnie gives me a little nod and a smile. I look over to Vance. He’s gone. Maybe he went for another walk. My stomach flips with relief. Playing in front of him is the last thing I want to do. My brother is a contributing factor in why I chose to stop playing.
He had a lacrosse practice at the same time as my fourth grade recital. At first my mother said it was just practice so they’d all be there to cheer me on. Vance had a little hissy fit at the kitchen table. I overheard Vance begging Dad to not make him go to my “stupid piano thing.” My father chose to take him to practice, and they both missed hearing me play.
Now that I’m seventeen, I kind of get it. Those recitals were painful to sit through. But then I contemplate—isn’t that part of a family’s duty? To support each other? Maybe that kind of stuff only happens on television.
I take a seat and spread the book wide. A musty smell wafts up, and I wonder when this book was last opened. My recital was eight years ago, and I haven’t played since. Not even once. I stare at the notes, hoping something other than the piece’s title will look familiar. My hands travel by instinct or muscle memory or magic. I’m not entirely sure which—but I’m playing.
The room fills with familiar sounds. My heart flutters. The music is satisfying. Welcoming even. The familiarity of the notes feels like safety, like home, like happiness.
As my fingers press keys, Mom’s smiling face fills my head, her beaming from the audience during that last performance. The way she clapped when I stopped playing, her whispering, “Good job, honey,” in my ear when I took my seat. All of it.
The piece is only a handful of minutes, three maybe, so I’m finished rather quickly. My memory slams shut.
I look up to see Marnie clapping and beaming, and the image jabs at my heart. More applause comes from behind, and I wince before turning around. I don’t like attention all that much. A few more nurses, a female doctor, and random family members of other patients are gathered. Everyone’s smiling. The doctor asks me to play something else. I tell her I can’t. She doesn’t press me.
The small crowd disperses with a few more thank-you’s tossed my way. Marnie pats my back. “It feels brighter in here already, hon. Thank you for sharing your talent.”
My cheeks flush with awkwardness as I put back the book. “You’re welcome.”
I’m unsure if I should return to my father’s room. Joey and Bill haven’t come out yet, so my instincts are telling me to stay put and let them have their time. I take a seat on the sofa again and stare at the wall of books. I fiddle with my phone, trying to find the perfect concerto in which to lose myself.
Someone says, “I had Mrs. Gramble too.”
My gaze jumps to the piano. Jacque Beaufort sits on the bench, and she’s stroking the keys, petting them like a cat. “You probably don’t remember, but I saw you once at her studio. I was coming out, and you were coming in. I was in second grade. You were in first.”
I’m mesmerized by her voice, the fact that she’s directly addressing me. I look around the room just to make sure she’s not speaking to Vance. But I shake my head. Vance never took piano lessons. Vance has always been in the same grade as her.
She is talking to me.
Vance
Two years ago
Dad came stumbling out of the woods right after I hung up on Oscar. His zipper was down, and he had some woman wrapped around him.
“Damn, Dad. Where have you been? Where’s Tom?” I asked.
Before answering me, he made out with the woman. They squeezed each other’s butts and growled after the kiss ended. “You like that, Growler? We sound like you!” he said.
My best friend had seen my dad tanked before so I’m pretty sure he wasn’t that freaked out by the show going on in front of us. More groping and moaning.
“Dad!” I shouted. “Growler’s gonna get grounded if we don’t get the hell out of here. His mom has already called three times. He can’t hold her off any longer. Is Tom gone?”
The woman giggled. My dad giggled. I wanted to tackle both of them to the ground.
“Fine. Just give me the keys. Stay here in the parking lot for all I care,” I said.
Dad shook his head and came at me, like, in anger. Since I was fully sober by then, I was able to quickly move out of his way. He stumbled into our car.
My mouth unhinged. I was shocked. He’d never tried to hit me before, not even when I was little. He seriously looked like he was going to take me down.
Dad took his time turning around, and when he did, his face was wrinkled in disgust. “You sound just like your mother! So why don’t you just shut the hell up, Vance? I’m living my dream, remember? I own a bar. I did that. This is my life! My! Life!” He grasped the door handle so he wouldn’t fall.
The woman staggered to his side. He ran his hands through her long, brown hair. “I’m living my dream, right, baby? Everyone needs to leave us the fuck alone.” She cooed in his face and then licked his neck.
Taking advantage of his preoccupation, I marched over and said, “Just give me the keys, Dad. Right now.” Both of their eyes were slits. They were sweaty and red-faced. They were on more than weed. Shit. Even though he was being a dick, I didn’t want to leave him there. Who knew if this lady even had a car, and there was no way either of them was driving.
I held out my hand, and Dad smacked it down. My first reaction was to take a step back. I had no idea if he’d actually take a swing at me. But instead of anger, the two of them burst into laughter.
That was it. I’d had enough. I didn’t care if Dad would be pissed or not. “Hey!” The volume of my voice snapped them out of their giggle fit. “I swear to God, Dad, if you don’t put the friggin’ keys in my hand right now, I’m gonna freak out!”
He dropped them into my waiting palm. Growler somehow talked them into the backseat, and I drove as fast as I could without getting a ticket. Thankfully, the two of them passed ou
t as soon as we hit I-95. Growler’s mom fell for the story that my dad had struck up a conversation with our waitress at the diner (the imaginary diner we told her we were at for the last two hours) and that he may have made a real connection. It calmed her right down.
We decided to drop the wasted lovebirds off at our house first. We didn’t want to run the risk of Growler’s mom coming out to the car—which she did, by the way.
As soon as she walked back inside, Growler said, “If he were my father, I’d be really pissed off. You are allowed to be angry with him, Vance. It’s not fair that he’s out of control all the time.”
What the hell did he know? His mother was alive and breathing and calling him every five minutes to see if he was okay. He had no idea how it felt to watch his father try to fill a hole that would never be full. I gnawed on the inside of my cheek and gripped the steering wheel. “Well, he’s not your father, so…”
Growler got out of the car and walked inside.
On the ride home, I replayed Dad lurching for me. I couldn’t stop thinking about the way his face had looked, or the way he’d talked to me. He’d sounded like he hated me. Losing Mom was clearly eating him up inside. His drinking was at an all-time high. And this anger was new. There was no way I’d survive him turning on me.
Who would I hang out with at home? Watch sports with? Dance around the kitchen with? Who would I talk to about lacrosse and college? Dad was all I had left.
Oscar hated sports and reggae. Pretty sure Oscar hated me.
I pulled the car into the garage and sat thinking for a while. What else was Dad on? He reeked of alcohol, so there was that. And I know he got high. He did that almost every day lately. I hoped it wasn’t something bad like heroin or crack. That lady did look kind of messy. What if she was a drug addict? And she was in my house.
Oscar sat at the kitchen table looking like a scared toddler.
“They’re up in his room and…” his voice trailed off.
“And what? They’re having sex? News flash, little brother, that’s what guys do.” I was still angry with him for being such a selfish baby on the phone. Boo-hoo, you’re scared. Join the club. I tossed the keys onto the counter and opened the fridge. An extremely loud scream or moan stopped me in mid-grab.
“They’re up in his room, and they’re loud. They’re in Mom and Dad’s bed,” Oscar said.
Crap, I hadn’t thought about it like that. I knew Dad played around with women after Mom died. I’d watched him go for it at the bar sometimes. But this was the first time he’d brought someone to the house. In Mom’s bed. I never expected him to stop living or anything, and it was perfectly normal for him to be with other women, but like this? It felt all wrong.
I stood up straight and listened. Grunts, groans, and profanity assaulted our ears. My palms went slick. There was no way I’d be able to sleep up there. My room was right across the hall, and our walls were thin.
Oscar played with the salt shaker on the table. “How could he do that with someone else where she slept?”
Dad was self-destructing, that’s how.
“What are we going to do?” he said.
I poured myself a huge glass of chocolate milk and drank half of it down. “I don’t know what you’re going to do.” A decent burp crawled out of my mouth. “But I’m sleeping in the basement.”
Oscar stood up. “There are two sofas down there. I’m coming with you.”
“I call the maroon one.”
“Whatever, Vance.”
We got settled on our sofas and eventually the only sound was our breathing. I tossed and turned. I didn’t like the quiet. Hadn’t liked downtime since Mom died—it was too easy to get lost in the bullshit sadness of it all. I’d rather keep moving and talking and partying. And living. Way more fun.
I could tell Oscar was asleep. His nose made this little whistle. Normally I found it to be the most annoying sound in the world, and I’d typically throw a pillow at him to make him stop. But I didn’t. I lay in the dark and listened to that whistle for a very long time.
Each whistle-y exhale lowered my heart rate. It took me back to when we were little and we’d fall asleep down here. On the weekends, Mom and Dad wouldn’t even try to bring us up to our rooms. They’d just leave us be. They were too busy having fun up there dancing and drinking wine.
Those memories made me ache, like, my brain hurt. Everything was so destroyed. I readjusted my position again and turned on my side. My brother slept on his back, and I watched his chest rise and fall. Maybe being with Oscar back then didn’t suck that much. We used to spread out our Yu-Gi-Oh! game mat down here and duel with our cards for hours. Oscar had way better monster cards than me so he’d win a lot. Now that I think of it, I don’t know why I even liked playing Yu-Gi-Oh! with him. I hate losing almost as much as I hate the quiet.
So being in the basement with Oscar and his quiet-crushing nose whistle felt safe, like when I had two parents and my world was innocent. Back then, death meant nothing to me. I didn’t fear it. I didn’t think about it.
Sometimes after mom died, I wondered if Death had me and Oscar and Dad trapped, like he was trying to choke the last bit of life from us.
Oscar
Jacque continues softly running her fingers along the keys. The piano is silent. My head is screaming.
“The day I saw you is such a clear memory,” she says.
What? I may explode all over this Common Room. All over the books. All over the sofas. All over that piano.
She turns and looks at me. We lock eyes. Blood rushes to my face. I want to run away, but she’s talking. “I remember your mom too. She had such a pretty smile. I’m so sorry about what happened.” She drops her chin.
Even if I were a normal conversationalist, I don’t think I’d have a response to those kind words.
Jacque crosses her arms and continues looking at her lap. “I’m also sorry I didn’t go to her funeral. It was so…selfish.”
She doesn’t even know me. Why is she pouring out apologies like water? I’d never have expected her to show at Mom’s services. I probably would’ve collapsed if I’d seen her there.
“I was afraid, you know?” she says. “It would’ve been my first time at a wake.”
I should tell her it’s okay, not to stress about it, but she’s talking to me with genuine sincerity. I don’t want her to stop. Ever.
Her leg bounces just like it did in sculpture class. “I’ve wanted to apologize to you for a while, but…” She takes a big breath. “Yeah. I guess we’ve never talked before, so it would’ve been kinda strange. We’re talking now though. So…I’m sorry.”
I nod. “It’s all right.”
She uncrosses her arms and sits on her hands. “That song you played was incredible. You’re really good. I hated piano. I’m too much of a daydreamer. You have to be so disciplined to play. So determined. It just wasn’t my thing. My father forced me to take lessons. That day was my last time at Mrs. Gramble’s studio.
“I cried the whole car ride home, then while I did my homework, all through dinner, in the bath, even when my dad tucked me in. The tears worked.” She laughs. “He let me quit. I think that’s why I remember that day so clearly. It was the first time my dad gave in on something he was determined to make me do. The feeling of power I had, at nine years old…” She drops her eyes, and her chest lifts as it fills.
I’m shell-shocked, my mouth superglued.
“You know what I love though?” She looks up and waits for my answer.
Damnit. Heart speeding. Mouth still not working. I shake my head.
She swallows and scrunches up her nose. “You’ll probably think this is so random and that I’m a weirdo, but…” Her voice trails off, and she swings her gaze.
If anyone in this room is a weirdo, it is not Jacque Beaufort.
She says, “I love when someone doesn
’t care what other people think and they just are who they are.”
Why is she telling me this? Is she describing what she thinks of my brother? Is she going to ask me to put in a good word for her with Vance?
“My mom is like that. She’s got this quiet confidence, this pride. She just believes in herself. God, I want to be like that. She’s the polar opposite of my dad. He’s not a jerk or anything. Just intense.” She lowers the cover on the piano keys and laughs. “Sorry. Wow. That was a total TMI moment.”
Vance is back and standing in front of the piano. He’s blocking my view of her. “What are you still doing here, Beaufort?”
“I was on my way out when the music filled the dead silence,” she says. Vance must make a face because she fumbles, “Oh right. Bad word choice, Irving. I shouldn’t have said ‘dead’ silence.”
“Whatever, Beaufort. Don’t sweat it.” He thumps the top of the piano with his fist.
I hate how a lot of the athletes at school address each other by their last names. It seems impersonal. Looking someone in the eye, saying their first name—really seeing them—is how human interaction should be done.
Does Jacque really see me?
As Vance passes—without looking at me—he says, “They’re done with Dad, and they want to say good-bye. Let’s go.”
I get up and look toward the piano. Jacque’s gone. Of course she is.
Vance doesn’t wait for me to walk with him so I don’t even try to catch up. I’m ten steps behind. When I walk into the room, he’s already shaking Joey’s hand. Billy wipes his cheeks with the heels of his hands.
Joey extends his hand to me, and I take it. “We’re real sorry, Oscar. You know that me and Bill will do anything for you guys. All you have to do is ask. He loved you guys. I know he did. He really did.” He turns to Bill. “Right, Bill?”
