Practice
How could he have ever forgotten the old road? Sara sat next to him, volumes of maps in her hands, a hawk perched, looking for that first show of weakness; waiting for the white flag to go up. He rolled slowly along the empty street, peering down row after row of red brick houses. Molly squirmed in the back seat, patting out some empty, fragmented rhythm on her naked knees.
"I'm going to find it," he said. "I never drove here before."
She nodded, a thin, tired smile on her lips. Dan needed to believe her patience wasn't drying up; that she understood why he had to do this. So he did.
"There," he said. "That's it."
He pulled the car up along the curb next to the old house. The big oak tree in the front yard looked the same to him, long strokes of color along the rims of its branches; it was the end of summer, and the leaves were already beginning to change. The house had a new coat of paint on it, but was otherwise as he remembered it. There was the swinging bench on the front porch, the long studio window, the regimental line of bird feeders. He peered up at the doorway; a large metal plate still hung above the bell: LESSON IN PROGRESS - PLEASE DO NOT RING.
"This is it," he said again, more to himself than to his wife. Sara didn't say anything.
"Daddy," Molly cried, "I'm too tired."
"You've just been in the car too long," he said. "Why don't we get out and take a look around?"
"Watch the traffic," Sara said.
Dan got out of the car and opened the back seat, pulling his daughter out. She would be six in two weeks, but he could still see her fresh from the womb, gray and blue and pink, draped in blood and water; she had screamed so loud it had frightened him. He held her close, tightly, stroking her long brown hair, and then at arm's length for inspection. Their hasty lunch had left artifacts on Sara's favorite summer dress: a long, thin ketchup trail was now scribbled along the sleeve.
"If I'm remembering right," he said, carrying Molly over to the grass, "there's a great big blackberry bush down this path a little bit." He pointed down the alley. "You want to go pick blackberries with Mom while Daddy goes inside for a few minutes?"
"Okay," she nodded, curiosity warming her to the idea.
Dan put his daughter down on the grass and walked back to the car, opening Sara's door. "Just head down there a little bit; you'll see a blackberry bush," he said. "They're safe to eat. I only need a few minutes."
Sara didn't say anything; she walked over to Molly, took her hand and walked away from him down the path. Molly looked back at him once, blankly, her efforts concentrated on keeping the pace. His wife didn't look back at all. Dan sighed, rubbed his temples. He walked up to the doorway.
As he stood before the door, he felt trapped; he couldn't remember a time when he had waited for someone to let him into this house. There was no sound of movement from the studio; no lights were lit. After a moment's thought, he slowly opened the screen door - winced as it creaked noisily - and knocked softly on the door. When no one answered, he opened the door that had never been locked.
The music studio was frozen in time. The computer station stood next to the door (although he noticed that she had finally upgraded to a newer system), and the listening station was still catty cornered to it. The walls were lined with bookshelves filled with ancient music books of every shape and size. Of course, the parlor was more or less completely occupied by a grand piano, enormous and black, even now seeming new. No object in the house, nor in the world, he believed, was as treasured as this.
She was sitting in her chair against the far wall, immersed in some manner of paperwork. He cleared his throat, and she started, looking up at him, a smile growing on her face.
"Daniel," she said. "Daniel Green." She turned in her chair, stood and walked across the room, embracing him. "Welcome home."
"Mrs. Landry," he said, smiling back at her. "It's good to see you."
"It's Carol now, young man," she said, nudging him with her elbow. "You had better call me by my first name."
"That's going to take some getting used to."
She laughed. "You're a fast learner. I'm sure you can handle it."
"How have you been, Carol?"
"Old," she said, "and tired. Look there." She pointed at the stack of papers she had been working on at her desk.
He crossed the room and thumbed through them. "These are all your current students?"
"I was trying to figure out who I can let go, when you walked in. I've been trying to cut back."
"I think you were trying to cut back when I first started taking lessons."
"Well, it's serious business today. Now, come and sit, and tell me about yourself. Stop! Not there...over there." She pointed at the piano bench. "I want to hear my years of hard work drilling basic theory into your skull paying off in a minute here. But first I want you to tell me about those two lovely girls under my window there."
Dan turned, looking across the yard at them. "That's my wife, Sara, and our daughter Molly. She's almost six years old."
"How lovely she is," she sighed. "Starting piano lessons this year, I hope?"
He winced. "She's into figure skating right now. I'd love for her to play, but it just hasn't been her thing so far."
"She'll come around," she said. "She's your daughter. It's in her blood. You just wait and see."
They sat together in silence for a moment, watching Sara and Molly out among the blackberries. Sara's shoulders looked more relaxed; her face was a little brighter. She snuck up behind Molly, tickling her, and Dan could swear he heard her laughter mingled with his daughter's.
"Your wife is very beautiful. How did you meet her?"
"In college," he said. "Nothing too romantic. We were both alone and a mutual friend thought we would go great together. She was right. I guess."
"How long have you been married?"
"Almost eight years now."
"Eight years," she said. "Does she work?"
"Yes," he said. "More than enough for both of us."
"And what do you do these days, Daniel?"
"I'm a salesman," he said, reddening. "No music in my life, I'm afraid."
She made a 'harumph' sound. "Well, there's nothing wrong with being a salesman, Daniel. And that's certainly no excuse to not have any music in your life. You still have an instrument?"
"Yes," he said, "my mother's. You heard, of course. She passed away this last Spring."
Carol nodded slowly. "Your mother was a great woman," she said, "and she lived an amazing life. I knew she would have wanted you to have it." She poked him hard in the shoulder. "But she also would have wanted you to play it. Out with it now, Daniel. Have you been practicing?"
"Erm…I suppose that depends on what terms you define practice by."
"Well, play something and we'll just see by what terms you define practice, Daniel." She reached over and lifted the cover, revealing the piano's long road of ivory.
Dan scratched the back of his head and ran his hand through his hair. He winced. "I don't, uh… I don't have anything memorized right now."
"Why don't you walk over to my wall there, then, and pick out something you can play?"
"But I—"
"No buts, Daniel Green! Did you really think you would make a clean getaway, here? March!"
He sighed, and shrugged in defeat. He peered over at the wall, searching desperately for something, anything he had played so many times years ago that he surely would not have completely forgotten it. His eyes fell on hidden treasure, and he walked across the room to grab it.
"Debussy," Mrs. Landry said, nodding her approval. "Will you be playing that
whole thing?"
"No," he replied. "Just the Sarabande."
He sat back on the bench and opened the tattered blue book, turning to the beginning of the piece. He grimaced as he surveyed the music.
"There are a lot more notes here than I remember there being."
She laughed. "Well, as long as you've been keeping your fingers in shape, I'm sure you'll do just fine. Watch the count."
"Okay," he said. He got his fingers in position for the first series of notes, silently planning an acrobatic strategy for the rest of the line. The first notes came out perfectly. The second notes did not. His fingers twitched on the keyboard, trying to find whatever sharp he had missed that had made the chord go sour.
"Just keep playing, Daniel. Your audience will notice a wrong note a lot less than a break in time. Don't stop."
He struggled through the first line with a string of broken beats and dirty chords, but as the piece went on, he found himself settling into the rhythm of it, remembering the movement of his fingers across the keys, the satisfaction of a measure well executed. By the time Mrs. Landry reached across to turn the page, he had the rhythm down and was barely missing any notes at all. His connection with the instrument, he found, had never faded.
He finished the piece with an added flourish, and Carol poked him again. "You never could leave well enough alone, Daniel," she said with feigned exasperation. "Now, was that so hard?"
He shook his head. "I've missed this," he said, "I really have. I always tell myself there's no room in my life for this, but…I don't know. Maybe there should be."
"It doesn't take much," she chided him. "Just a little practice a day is all you need to keep in shape. If it felt that good to play one piece, imagine how good it would feel to wrestle another new one down, or be able to play the Sarabande there without even glancing at the music."
"You're right, I know. Don't get me wrong; I still play a little every once in a while, but…I'm glad I came here."
"Why's that?"
He shook his head slowly, reached up and ran his fingers down the sheet of music in front of him. "I don't know," he said. "I guess you've helped me remember something I'd forgotten."
"Good," she said. "That's good." She stood abruptly. "Can I get you something to drink? When are your womenfolk going to come inside and meet the old lady?"
"I wish they could," he said, looking up at her. She really hadn't changed at all — frozen, just as she was, like the memory of this place he held now.
"I wish they could have met you."
The memory faded, and the room was empty and quiet.
He walked over to her empty desk, looking down at her roster of students. He placed the tips of his fingers on her chair and closed his eyes, feeling the loss wash over him at last.
"I guess I needed more practice than I thought," he whispered. "Goodbye, Carol."
Dan stood there a moment longer. The studio was hollow now; too empty, and too cold. He tapped his finger on the back of the chair, and found he could not bear the echo of it in this place, now. He backed away from the studio, back out onto the front porch, out into the world again.
He took a long breath of the changing August air, and walked along the front of the house towards the little alley. Neither his wife nor his daughter heard him coming; he stood at a distance, watching them. He saw his daughter again, emerging from the womb, and he saw her as she would be years from now, pale and angry. He could feel the threads of his marriage unraveling, coming back together again in desperation before coming cleanly apart again. He could see his mother as she lay frightened and dying, and smiling and young and whole, as she had been. Finally, he saw himself, as a boy playing baseball and hating it, as a businessman following in his father's footsteps, as a man wandering through life, uncertain, alone.
Dan lifted his hand up and braced himself against the wall of the house, feeling the ebb of time wash back and forth over him. Suddenly he rushed forward, taking Molly in his arms, startling Sara. He hugged her tightly; she rested her cheek on his face. He wanted to remember her forever, like this, the warmth of her against him, the beautiful and terrifying rhythm of her heart. Her fingers were stained with blackberries, crimson and violet.
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AUTHOR NOTES:
Matt Goodwin is a Creative Writing student at Marylhurst University. He lives in Beaverton, Oregon with his girlfriend Holly, Aubrey the dog and Bailey the cat.
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