We're sitting in the music room—that is, Marj's bedroom with a piano shoved beside the bureau, a violin propped against the wall (I only told him it was a music room)—and he says, this is nice. Is it? I ask, looking around. I suddenly feel silly in my maroon tulle dress. It's only Thanksgiving. Everyone else is wearing sweaters and jeans.
Yes, it is, he repeats, nodding and politely feeling the neck of the violin, probably trying to look interested. He asks if I play either of the instruments—I guess he means the secondhand piano or Marj's sixty-dollar, half-size violin. I say yes, piano. Play something, he suggests.
I am eager to show him what I can do. I sit on the bench, my maroon tulle making a pretty skirt over the stripped wood, if I do say so myself, and play. I play “Joy to the World,” like I learned from my A-B-C sheet music book. You only play with one finger? he asks, and I nod with a big grin, thinking that he is complimenting me. I can play Chopsticks, too, I tell him. How about “Heart and Soul”; do you know that one? he asks. I don't.
He sits next to me on the bench, trapping part of my tulle skirt under his khakis. He lays his fingers on the keys and, all of a sudden, Marj's room is filled with a full sound, a sound like music on the radio or from a cassette tape. I gape at him.
Then, he takes my fingers in his large hand, puts them on the right keys and says, push down. I hear that full sound. That's called a chord, he says, and smiles. His teeth are white. Did you learn that in college? I ask. He laughs and says no, he learned it when he was my age. Then, he pulls my sweating fingers up from the right keys, and puts them on other right keys. I push down. He shows me a third chord. I push down. Now do that over and over again, he says.
I play these chords, one, two, three, again, while he jabs out a light melody and sings in a talky voice: Heart and soul, I fell in love with you, lost control, the way a fool would do...
Madly! I suddenly scream, remembering Mom playing this same tune on the piano. And we say because you held me tight together, our voices getting louder and worse. I watch his dimples, moving with each word, forgetting to sing too.
Beaming, he sings the last line—and stole a kiss in the night—in a high, mousy voice to tease me. He leans in and plants a dry kiss on my nose. I raise my eyebrows and smile. I kiss him back, on his cheek, his stubble rubbing against my small, pink mouth.
Kent! Bethie! Time to eat! Mom calls. Kent lifts me by my waist off the piano bench and sets me on the carpet. I follow him to the dining room where he sits with his girlfriend, Alison. I try to sit on the other side of him when, infuriatingly, Mom directs me to the little card table in the living room where the other children are.
Where have you been? Marj asks me, visibly irritated that I have delayed the meal. She is eating green beans with her fingers, as if it's OK to eat before grace so long as you don't use a fork. I eye her with distaste—then smile, remembering. And I tell her, the music room. |
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