IT HAD BEEN NEARLY A month since the old bawdy-house piano had begun to repair him. It had found him in the barn in which it had lived in retirement for eighty years; and it had cottoned to him from the beginning, seeing in him a man in ruins, to be sure, yet a salvageable man and one well worth saving. I will make you whole, it had promised. Nor had that solemn promise been a falsification or an exaggeration, though the old piano was capable of both and not unaccustomed to either—had not been unaccustomed to them, that is to say, many years ago when it had pursued an active career.
It had climbed piece by piece onto the rancher’s stake-bed truck with alacrity, asking only for shelter from the broiling sun and the open air, having been accustomed to neither at any time during a long and thoroughly disreputable existence. The rancher had pushed back his hat and wiped his brow with a red neck-rag, saying, “Wasn’t as heavy as I ’spected,” and grinned, and added, “If I’d a known we could do it, me and the boy’d a got it out a there and throwed it in the crick.” He had the buyer’s hundred in his pocket already, in a money clip with an old silver dollar on the front.
The man that the old piano planned to save had wiped his own face on the sleeve of his white shirt, and said something like, “What a waste that would have been, Mr. Applefield.”
“You call me Bob, Mr. Johnston.” That was not because of the hundred, but because they had worked together taking apart the old piano and getting its pieces onto his truck; it was something that money could not buy.
“Jeff,” the buyer had said, and held out his hand; and the hand that had clasped it had been as hard and strong as a leg trap. “You say it was your grandfather’s?”
The rancher had nodded. “Used to be in the parlor when I was a kid. He couldn’t play or gran’ neither, but they’d put on the rolls sometimes. That old bag I give you? You can do either way. Play it yourself or those old rolled-up songs. Let’s get out a this sun.”
“I wonder if we shouldn’t put something over it, a blanket or some sort of cover. I’d hate to have it damaged while we’re moving it.”
“I got a tarp in the barn,” the rancher had said. “Come on, we’ll put that over her and tie it down.”
When they had found the tarpaulin and were spreading it: “He always said he took it for a bad debt.” The rancher had chuckled. “You ask me, he laid out cash for old times’ sake. Gran’ didn’t like the pictures, so he painted over them black, like I showed you. Don’t know if you can get that off without gettin’ them off, too.” They had discussed this before.
“It can be done,” the buyer had declared. “There’s an art to it.” He had not added that he did not know that art.
In the rust-holed tan Buick that had been their second car while he and Isca were together, he had led the rancher to the high white house she had chosen; together they had carried all the pieces, the shabby gladstone, and the stool onto the sunporch facing the Gulf. There they had shaken hands once again; and then he had been left alone with it, rubbing his jaw and waiting for the old piano’s next instruction.
He had gone into the den and poured himself a drink from the cut-glass decanter he used to water for Isca’s sake, and had sat down in his reading chair to ponder the matter.
The team picture taken the year they had won the trophy had been on the wall opposite. Studying it as he sipped, he had discovered that he could no longer distinguish his own face. His eyes were going; it would be bifocal time soon.
He had risen and walked across the room to look at the picture—really look at it—for the first time in years. He could name the whole crew still, but how stiffly they had posed with their oars! How young, how very young they had been!
The pictures first. Why not? If he didn’t like them, he would have to do something about them, which might take some time; it would be best to know about that from the beginning. The first step, presumably, would be to wash the entire case, and the keys, with warm water and mild soap, giving special attention to the paint-smeared areas on the front and sides. A restorer of paintings, he felt sure, would begin by removing any surface dirt water and soap could take off. He had set aside his half-finished scotch and gone to work.
There was a great deal of surface dirt, as he had soon discovered. Somewhat later, he had also discovered that two fair-sized flakes of black had fallen from the largest of the painted-over spots, revealing flesh pink and what seemed to be gilding. A little teasing with his fingernail and the old piano shook off more chips of black, revealing mottled green, a nearly black brown, dusky purple, and more pink. “Wait till I finish with the rest,” he had told the spots.
The case had been deeply scratched here and there, he had found, though the underlying wood was so dark—walnut?—that the scratches were not very visible. To sand and refinish the whole case would destroy the concealed pictures, obviously. In the workshop that he had never quite finished setting up in the garage, he mixed a few drops of ebony stain into varnish. Sanding smoothed the worst of the gouges. As he touched them up, he had resolved to give the entire case a good coat of wax as soon as the black paint was gone.
More than half asleep that night, the dismantled piano had been conscious of him as it might have been of another person in the barn, more conscious of the rolling waves on the other side of Route 87. It had remembered the waves, once having dwelt long near the sea, and had at last returned to it. Strange, the old piano thought, to consider that they had never stopped during the long, long time that it had been away. Its strings were out of tune and many had been broken; but it had hummed to itself just the same, as it had in the barn when the moon had peeked through chinks in the roof.
She’s gone into the tailor shop and dressed in men’s array;
Shipped on board a man-o’-war, conveyed herself away.
“Before you step on board, sir, your name I’d like to know.”
With a smile upon her countenance, she answered, “Jack Monroe.”
Upstairs, lying on his back in the bed that had held them both, he had been conscious of the old piano on the sunporch as he might have been of a woman moving about the house.
A woman who sang softly to herself … .
It was impossible, of course, that it should play—still more that it should play itself. Its action was in one place, its massive cast-iron frame (by far the heaviest thing they’d had to move) in another, its keyboard in a third. The brass works that read its rolls and moved its keys accordingly were (he recalled with momentary amusement) sitting dirtily on the glider.
Perhaps it was the night wind playing among the strings—or more likely, somebody in the house down the road playing a working instrument—or more likely still, a radio somewhere. An aeolian harp. That was what they called them. Aeolus had been the god of the winds.
With no sense of dislocation, he had found himself astride the heaving topgallant yard of a Nelsonian seventy-four, where the wind had waked a thousand discordant tones in the rigging, from the deep thrum of the forestay to the high-pitched squeaks of the tackle blocks, howling its song to their accompaniment. Far off and obscured by the crests and the driving spray, a pink spark had flickered, speaking like a signaling lantern of brandy, strong beer, and Barbados rum, of hot meat pies, cold ham with mustard and mammoth slabs of soft, fresh bread, of willing girls with curls and laughing eyes, and wild dancing that left you both sweating and out of breath as the whole room shouted for more.
Take your lady by the hand,
Twirl her ’round a smidgin,
Make her foot us one more reel,
Scatter her religion.
Ten mile away in the blue-gum swamp,
Snake lake lies wide and sunny.
’Twas there I hooked my lady, boys.
’Twas there I tasted honey!
Waking, he had thought of Isca and wept.
In the morning the piano had suggested that he wash its face with turpentine. There had been none in his shop, so he had driven into town and bought two cans at a hardware store, buying his breakfast, too, at a nameless café a block from the docks, where his ham and eggs and whole-wheat toast had been served by a woman younger than Isca, darker, shorter, and more slender, who had reminded him of her just the same. When she had noticed his stare across the not-very-great width of the serving room, she had winked—then ignored him resolutely for the remainder of his meal, making certain (or at least, so it had appeared) to be absent when he was ready to pay. He had left his bill and too much money on the table.
That had been in July.
Now it was August, and Dolores lay beside him where Isca had lain; the first light of day peeped beneath the dark green windowshades that had come with the house. Immobile, with eyes resolutely closed, he heard her wake and slip out of bed and into her robe—the quick, soft patter of her barefoot steps. Old pipes clearing their throats before they spat water into the bathtub.
He rolled onto his back and clasped his hands behind his head. Better, far better, to lie here. To feign sleep until she had bathed and renewed lipstick, perfume, and powder. She would start breakfast. He would hear the distant clatter of pans and the filling of the coffeepot, get up, wash, and go downstairs.
He stood beside Isca in the bow of a riverboat, watching unpeopled and densely wooded banks creep past to right and left, listening to the rhythmic splashings of the sidewheels; braced, both of them, for the blast from the steam whistle that would welcome Cincinnati or Omaha, St. Louis or Memphis, where she would disembark and he remain. His shell passed their boat, racing upriver. That was the way life was: you rowed upstream as hard and fast as you could until you were too tired to row any more.
Isca had her bottle out. She drank deeply and offered it to him. He accepted for old times’ sake, but the vodka was weaker than water. “God, but we used to have some fun,” she said. He sensed that she was about to say What’s happened to us? and cringed; but she did not. He returned the bottle, and she drank what remained and threw the empty into the river. That was wrong, because she had always left the empties where he would find them, each a small triumph over him.
His eyes opened, staring at the flat white ceiling. There was a piano somewhere on the boat, a piano at which someone was playing “Oh, Susanna!”
I come from Alabama with my banjo on my knee,
I’m going to Louisiana, my Susanna for to see.
He got up and went into the bathroom. When he came out, it was nearly over.
The buckwheat cake was in her mouth,
The tear was in her eye,
Says I, “I’m comin’ from the South.
Susanna, don’t you cry.”
Oh, Susanna!
Oh, don’t you cry for me,
For I come from Alabama with my banjo on my knee.
He went downstairs and onto the sunporch, where Dolores was taking the roll out of the piano. She grinned at him. “That got you up. I figured it would. Mushmelon, sausage, grits and sawmill gravy. Coffee. That all right? Pretty near done.”
“Sure,” he said. “Just don’t overcook my melon.”
“This is that piano you’re always talkin’ about, I guess. I played some on it, but it didn’t take to my playin’. Then I figured out how to work those rolls.”
“I tuned it myself, so it’s badly out of tune, I’m sure.”
“It’s in tune, all right. Only it’s got that gritty, low-down bass that don’t go with the stuff my teacher taught me.” She sat down on the stool. “Those etudes and all that. This here’s a Country-and-Western instrument, for sure.” She patted it as she would a dog. “You goin’ to sell it?”
“I don’t know,” he said. The truth was that he had never considered selling it, though he might have to. “I’m not quite finished yet. Perhaps I never will be.” It seemed better not to mention that there had been times when only the thought of work not done had kept him going.
“Seems like it’s finished.”
“I put it together because I’d finished with the action,” he explained. “All the felt had to be replaced, and a few of the rods.” He coughed apologetically. “They should be spruce, but I used oak dowels because that was all I could get.”
The old piano suggested that Dolores put on another roll, and she asked dutifully, “Okay if I try another one?”
“Of course, any that you like. Some had been damaged, I think by rats, but I’ve repaired them. There were only two I had to throw away.”
She nodded, only half listening, pulling out rolls and reading titles.
“It plays by itself at times,” he said. “When I’m here in the house alone, turning itself on and off.”
She threaded a roll and closed the cover. “You’re kiddin’ me.”
“Perhaps I am, a little. I’m afraid I haven’t got it set up quite right.”
“What’s this picture?” She tapped it with a fingernail. “I guess I ought not to ask, but you can’t help seein’ it.”
He laughed. “No, you can’t. It’s Pan observing a wood nymph—at least, I suppose she’s a wood nymph, though I’ve never thought of them as blondes. That’s Pan, with the horns, parting the vines.”
Dolores leaned closer, studying the picture. “Likes them heavy, don’t he? He looks like the devil.”
“He isn’t though. He’s a nature god, the god of flocks and herds, forests and meadows. I like it because it’s a comic depiction of Isca’s name, if you think about it.” Too late, he realized his mistake. “Isca means ‘God’s watching.’”
“Come on,” she said, “I smell that sausage.”
Midway through breakfast, he put down his coffee cup and cleared his throat. “I should have told you right away—last night, but I didn’t want to spoil it. She’s coming today.”
Her eyes would not meet his. “To stay?”
“No, certainly not.” Isca would, he knew, if he begged her; stay until she got herself together and got her hands on more money. Aloud he said, “She’s piled up the Mercedes. She told me last night. A friend—a boyfriend, I imagine—is going to drive her out here.”
“What time?” Dolores glanced at the kitchen clock. It was eight-thirty.
“Nine, she said.” There were several bites of sausage left and a good deal of grits; but he found he had appetite for neither. “It won’t be much before noon, really. She won’t get up before eleven.” He swallowed the last of his coffee. “Just the same, you’d better let me drive you home.”
“What’s she comin’ for, if she’s not goin’ to stay?”
He did not reply.
“Your car, isn’t it? She wants your car, Jeff. You goin’ to let her take it?”
“Not if I can help it.”
Her fork clattered to her plate. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means what I said. I won’t let her take it unless I have to.”
She patted her mouth with a bright paper napkin, a moment that would remain in his mind for years to come. “You don’t want to give it to her.”
“No. Of course not.”
“She’ll wreck it like your other one, won’t she? Maybe kill herself.”
He shrugged miserably.
“Listen here, Jeff.” She reached across the table to him, her eyes, big with sincerity, fastened upon his own. “I got a way. I was wantin’ to ask. I couldn’t figure out how, only this makes it fit perfect. I got to take Jimmy to the doctor today.”
Jimmy was her son.
“This afternoon. Two o’clock. So you lend me your car, all right? That way she can’t get it. It’ll be gone, and you can tell her somebody stole it. Or anything you want. I’ll bring it back around six and cook your dinner.”
There was a distant click from the sunporch.
“All right,” he said.
She held out her hand. “You let me have those keys.”
He took them from his pocket and handed them to her, and basked in the glow of her satisfaction.
She stood, wiping her hands on Isca’s apron. “I’ll stay and wash these dishes for you, if you want me to. Won’t take a minute.”
“No,” he said. He was listening for the first bars of the music. “I can do them.”
“You leave them. I’ll wash them for you when I come back tonight. Maybe you ought to show me, you know, where things are. The ashtray and the wipers and all that.” Her eyes were shining with excitement; he wondered whether she actually had a license.
Outside, he opened the car door for her. “You’ve seen me drive it. It’s a perfectly ordinary three-speed transmission, with power steering and power brakes.” He pointed. “The air-conditioning will come on as soon as you start the engine. See there?” He showed her how to turn it off, how to adjust the fan, and various other things.
“Jeff …” She kissed him. “This is just so nice of you.”
Music sounded from the sunporch, fifty feet away.
Once I had two lips
As red as the rose.
Now I’m as pale as
The lily that grows.
“ … for Jimmy. Jeff, I just got to pay him.”
“How much?”
“Five hundred, Jeff? Please?”
He shook his head. “I haven’t got it.”
“Three hundred, then. Jeff I got to give that doctor somethin’.”
Like the flower in the garden,
All the color has flown,
Don’t you see what I’ve come to,
For loving such a one.
It was, he decided, pretty reasonable for what he’d had. They went back into the house, and he wrote her a check in his den to the tinkling music of the old piano.
“Jeff,” (she held his check, the keys to the Buick, and both his hands in hers) “you’re goin’ to get this back. Never doubt it. I will repay you.”
It was at that moment that he truly understood that he would never see her again. He kissed her good-bye, and stood on the sunporch to watch her back briskly out of the driveway and pull onto the state highway. She waved, but there seemed little point in waving back.
So it’s tie a yellow handkerchief
In remembrance of me.
Wear it around your neck, love,
In flash company.
Flash company, love,
Like so many more.
If it hadn’t been for flash company,
I’d never been so poor.
It was the sage, kindly voice of an old friend lecturing him. He opened the piano and removed the roll. Dolores had cost three hundred and an old car worth, perhaps, five hundred more. And Dolores had been a lot more pleasant. Isca had run something between a quarter million and three hundred thousand, as closely as he had been able to calculate it; and Isca had become a nightmare that had dragged on for years.
He was learning.
Rubbing his jaw, he contemplated the old piano. Dolores had been right about the growling bass, and it was in tune, to his ears at least. That growl was from the soundboard he had made, largely by guess, from one-eighth-inch plywood.
He opened the top and looked at it, rubbing his hands. Beyond any question, he could contrive something better now.
As he went out to the garage to get his tools, it occurred to him that the Buick was registered in Isca’s name as well as his own. Some good—or some entertainment, at least—might come of that.
The rowdy, joyous song of the old piano floated along the driveway from the sunporch. When he paused to listen, he could just distinguish the sound of laughter and the cheerful cadence of dancing feet. As he pushed a favorite screwdriver into his hip pocket, he began to whistle.