Like thieves in reverse—bringing something into the
house my father didn’t own or want, the movers unloaded the 450-pound beast off
the truck into our narrow hallway, swearing, sweating, and ordering him to quit
deliberately blocking their way.
“It’s mine,” my mother said. “I got it for free.”
Free plus a $295 delivery bill, plus tax, plus a
surcharge for delivery obstacles. At first, my father refused to pay. The more
he raised the pitch of his voice, the more they raised theirs. The shouting
continued until, finally, he paid them what they were owed, then slammed the
door. Sometimes he’d slam a door and, if it didn’t make too much noise, he’d
slam it again which he did that day as the movers were leaving.
That’s when the shouting began. My father ranted about
our debt, about the meaningless job that gave him sciatica and migraines, about
the fact that once again without consulting him, she’d squandered money they
didn’t have. My mother repeated, “I got it for free,” dragging out the letter
E. They continued shouting while they moved two bulky living room armchairs to
the basement because the piano was now in their place. I offered to help, but
he said I’d only be in the way. They carried on fighting until my father went
upstairs to their bedroom and slammed that door.
My mother spent days cleaning and polishing the piano
so that it no longer looked like it had been stored in someone’s shed. After
scrubbing the old keys for hours, she removed the mold, though the bleach
dulled the ivory and did nothing to improve the tuning. My father said he’d be
damned before he’d pay a tuner’s hourly wage that amounted to more than what he
earned with his measly post-office clerk salary. As for lessons, he told her
she’d have to find a better-paying job.
I gave her two books borrowed from the school library,
one on how to read music and the other how play the piano. She patted me on the
head and said music came from the soul, not a book. Although only nine years
old and no expert, I was certain that, with fingers randomly spread on the
keys, the sound she produced wasn’t music. Each time she played, the noise
resonated through the adjoining wall of our duplex riling a dog, making it
howl.
Now and then, the neighbours would pound on the
adjoining wall and my mother would either play more softly or stop altogether.
Once, when they pounded on our door, my father went berserk, hands in the air,
shouting, “Leave us alone.” He told them the dog should be outside hunting
rabbits rather than in their house eavesdropping, then slammed the door. I
tried to lighten the mood. “You got a sunburn,” I said. He replied in a
staccato voice, “Leave. Me. Alone.” He went upstairs where he slammed the door
so hard, the dishes rattled in the kitchen.
They divorced after a year of cacophony originating as
much from his temper as from her lack of musical talent. Our house sold on a
condition set by my father that we would not be responsible for moving the
piano with the rest of our belongings. I felt guilty that we’d left behind a
house haunted by a piano and sure to ruin the new owners’ lives as it had ours.
Over the next ten years, I saw less and less of him. Each time, I’d make sure
to tell him we were pianoless, in case he wanted to come back—an offer he never
took up. His heart gave out not long before his planned retirement, and he died
with a smile knowing he’d finally evaded the debt collectors.
In high school, I worked various jobs to supplement my
mother’s income. Later, as a full-time mechanic, I supported her until,
eventually, on a doctor’s recommendation, she moved to a long-term care
facility. She was assigned to what they called the wanderers’ ward with a
special bracelet that notified staff of her whereabouts. The bracelet was
hardly warranted since she never went anywhere but to her room and to the
ward’s self-playing piano, donated by the family of a late resident. Staff
would ask what she’d like to play, and with help of an iPad, my mother suddenly
became an accomplished pianist.
Up until her death at seventy-one, I visited often,
clapped, cheered, gave standing ovations, and demanded encores. Sometimes she’d
glance over her shoulder, hands off the keys, piano still playing, and say to
me, “Billy, tell that mutt next door to go lie down.” I’d picture, not the
beagle, but my father’s crimson face, and I staring at him, trying to think of
something funny to say to change his mood.