I hate her, Harriet thought.
What shall I do? she wondered.
I will have to go through with it, she decided.
I hate her, she thought again.
Harriet, seated on Mrs. Smith's lawn, stared as malevolently as her fifteen-year old eyes would let her at Mrs. Northrup across the street. Mrs. N, standing at the entrance of the Masonic Temple, chattered away sociably as she greeted people at the door, her large eyes bubbling behind thick slices of glass, her solid body swaddled in a frail iridescent taffeta. Harriet hoped somehow to wither her to ashes and salt so that her twittering voice would become part of the front lawn, but to no avail. Harriet's blue-violet eyes unnarrowed from their slivers and she slumped into her hips as she exhaled. It was no use. She would have to play that piano tonight. Her hands, nestled together like nervous pigeons, plucked grass and tossed it away.
The whole idea had been stupid to her from the start. For as long as she could remember she had been digesting Mrs. Lavolier's piano lessons, from the time her parents had plopped her on a piano stool in Mrs. L's living room and told her, Mrs. L, to teach her something. Her mother had been concerned mostly with class and grace; her father had simply given in to her mother's strategy. Under Mrs. L's odd instruction (the highly arched fingers, the exaggerated movement of the arms, that croaking, "Do it until it feels as if you are not doing it,") the strategy had worked too well. By the time she had put in the required number of recitals and benefit performances, she had grown into an awkward, thin-thick kind of girl, her slopes and curves never quite balancing out. Always reserved, her shyness misinterpreted as aloofness, she had not magnetized the friends in quality or quantity her mother had wanted her to attract. Instead, she spoke to the piano, learned its tongue, reflected back her own dreams in its embracing tones, and carried, with covetous pride, a small glass secret cushioned deep inside her. Only when she played did the glass shimmer.
And now this! Mrs. N was not a demon, she knew, and she really didn't hate her, but this thing she'd arranged was another of her half-cooked ideas everyone would laugh at. Like the time she invited her artist friends to show their works and the people in the town thought the canvases, filled with feathers, iron filings, coffee grounds, bits of rope, stuff people threw away in their garbage, was junk. They would all be laughing at her.
And now this! Harriet sunk even deeper into a slouch as she mulled over what tonight's performance would be like. Mrs. N had gotten the marvelous idea that it would be very educational to have a recital where she, Harriet, would bang out a few classical pieces on the piano, and then David, a keyboard man for a local band, would play some modern music, so that the crowd could compare and be simply awed by the exciting changes music had gone through in the past two hundred years. She did not want to play straight man for anyone, especially someone from a rock and roll band. Good evening, Abbott. Good evening, Costello. Let's take a look at the organ grinder's monkey.
She tossed a look at Mrs. N planted opaquely like a Greek statue in front of the Temple, let her hands rest a heartbeat in the folds of her skirt, sighed, got up, and crossed the street. Mrs. N, noticing her, heaved herself down the steps and exclaimed, to everybody and nobody, "Here's our little wunderkind!" Harriet winced when Mrs. N yoked a heavy arm around her shoulders and squeezed her into a bosom that oozed a thick aroma of lavender.
"It's getting time," she said. "Shouldn't you be warming up or something?"
"Well, yes, I suppose I should."
"Go on, then, go on!" giving her a shove towards the door. "We must be ready, mustn't we?"
Harriet stumbled up the steps, Mrs. N's lavender still coiled in her nose. She eased through the doors into the foyer where Mrs. Lavolier was handing out programs. "A lot of people in there," Mrs. Lavolier remarked. "Seems like Rebecca hit something this time." She fanned herself with the programs, wisps of grey hair flicking around her temples. "You do a good job. I don't turn out trash." Harriet's smile froze to her teeth. She walked down the aisle to the stage, trying hard not to look at the crowd. She suddenly wanted to be underwater.
Backstage she saw what had to be David standing in the exit door smoking a cigarette. Tall, at least six-two, and thin, he gathered his hair in a pony tail that hung halfway down his back. The hand holding the cigarette was big, the tendons raised thickly along the back of it. It looked like a hand that had swung pickaxes, not piano keys. He wore a pale blue workshirt, sleeves rolled up, jeans, and sneakers. Suddenly her kilt skirt and frilly blouse felt very awkward and she didn't want him to notice her. Of course he noticed her.
"Well, here you are," he said, crushing out his cigarette. "My name is David, David Braden." His smile lifted the soft ends of his mustache. He held his hand out to her and she timidly took it, unable to raise her eyes off his shirt pocket and meet his gaze. Prickles ran all over her skin. "Your name is Harriet, correct?" She liked his voice -- she imagined that if she closed her eyes it would be the voice of a cultured man, wealthy perhaps, well-read and gentle. He laughed and she leapt up to look at him. "Harriet, right?"
"Yes, Harriet Kolodin." She took her hand back. The silence thickened.
"I hear you take classes with old Mrs. Lavolier? So did I, before you were born." She glanced up at him in quiet amazement. "She taught me everything I know, and she taught me some things I didn't learn until later." Somehow the images didn't go together, the long hair and jeans with the fussiness of Mrs. Lavolier, and Mrs. Lavolier hadn't mentioned his name (out of shame, perhaps?), but there it was. "Of course, I never turned out how she wanted me to." He smoothed the ends of his mustache. "But we get along. I owe her a lot."
"So do I, I guess." She couldn't think of anything more to say, though she wanted to very badly. "I owe her a lot, too."
"Yeah." He glanced over the top of her head to the piano on stage. He nodded towards it. "What're you going to play?"
"Some pieces by Chopin."
"Oh yeah? Which ones? See if they're the same ones she palmed off on me."
"Well, one of the Etudes, number eleven. One of the mazurkas, and the 'Marche Funebre'."
"Yup, the same ones. I must have lived those pieces when she gave them to me. Ate, drank, and slept those pieces."
The silence fell between them again.
"Look, I'm going to take a walk and get my mind set. I'll see you afterwards." She took his outstretched hand and the tingle hadn't left it when he walked out the door into the back alley.
The same pieces. They at least had that in common. Her mind raced back to an afternoon almost a year ago when she sat in Mrs. Lavolier's dusty living room, the piano gigantically sitting in half of it, the air thick and quiet. She was fourteen then and quite proud of her talent. Primly seated on the piano bench, her skirt spread around her like a fan, she waited calmly for Mrs. Lavolier to begin. She had believed, at that moment, that she could play anything Mrs. Lavolier set in front of her.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Lavolier rummaged in a large file drawer where she kept her sheet music. It was in no particular order except her order; dust motes flew like rockets in the quiet air. Finally, lifting a sheet out, she rammed the drawer back in and toddled over to the piano. "Here, begin with this," she said.
Harriet looked at the name. "How do you pronounce it?"
"Sho-pan. Not Choppin." She added, "He was Polish."
"Was he good?"
"Play him."
She looked at the title: Etude 11. And his name. Nothing else. She flipped off the cover sheet, placed her hands on the keys, straightened her back, and, as she always did with new pieces, squinted at the notes. The first few bars seemed easy -- single notes with the right hand. The chords following were a little tricky but not difficult. She finished the last chord in the measure, prepared to lift her hand for the next note, and stopped. She squinted at the notes even harder. They did exactly what the saw them do -- run up and down the keyboard without any logic at all. Her hands were expectantly frozen over the keys, but instead of bringing them down, she nestled them in her lap and stared at the music. She glanced at Mrs. L. Mrs. L half-smiled and left the room.
She worked for three more hours that night and got through two lines. By the next day her hands had forgotten and she had to re-teach them. Occasionally she played something light to reassure herself that she could still play at all. The lessons went slowly. At times she wished the man's name had not been engraved on her mind, at times she was speechless over his genius. He was a wall to her, one just large enough so that, if she stood on her toes, she could just touch the top to know there was in fact a top to get over. Yet he was also a wall that grew taller with every note she learned. She read biographies of him, pictured in her mind the thin, polished gentleman who seduced the people of Paris and who died sick and disheartened, and wished she could have been there, immersed in the thrill of the crowds, in the dismay and mourning of his death.
One day, in the fall, she sat at the piano in the living room, the November light square and dusky on the windows. Mrs. L had gone out for the evening but had left the key for her under the mat. The house was still; the only light came from the lamp over her music. It was the etude, the one she had started with. She opened the music and, with scarcely a glance, her hands commenced. Scant minutes later, the final notes reverberated off the polished wood and Harriet sat here, alone, her face in her hands, crying. For a moment it seemed as if he were in the room with her, one of the audience of fashionable Parisiennes, and she glowed in the light of his approval. Then the moment slipped and she saw the heavy piano, the dark room, heard the husky clock in the hallway, smelled the fadedness of the house. She snapped the light off, gathered herself into her bulky sweater, locked the door, put the key under the mat, and briskly walked the halfmile back to her house, imagining a boulevard filled with carriages and gaslamps.
She peeked out the curtains to see how large the audience was. All of the folding chairs were filled and people stood along the back wall. Her hands were sweating, as they always did before a performance. She wondered where David was and suddenly wanted an encouraging word from him, for him to say that everything was going to be fine. Instead, Mrs. N bustled through the door in a cloud. "We're almost ready," she said in a stagy whisper. "Where's David?" As if summoned, he appeared at the exit door, a big smile on his face. "Well," Harriet heard her say, "let us commence."
Mrs. N shot out onto the stage and immediately the hubbub in the audience quieted down; only the rustle of programs used as fans stirred the air. "This evening we are privileged to present something unique for you." Harriet noticed that the more Mrs. N spoke, the more British she sounded, her voice tight and clipped. "In the past we've done some interesting programs and I have appreciated your support. And, as indicated here tonight by your presence, my efforts to bring you something different and good are not wasted. You'll notice in your programs that tonight we are presenting a comparison -- old versus new, classical versus modern. It is the purpose of art to show us where we have been as well as where we are going." She made a sweeping gesture with her arms, as if she were a priest giving benediction, and announced, "Without further delay, I would like to present to you our own Harriet Kolodin."
Applause edged out from the audience, a few catcalls from the boys in the back. Harriet walked resolutely onto the stage and faced the crowd. The glare from the footlights blinded her and all she could see was darkness. She blinked hurriedly, like a rabbit caught by a flashlight, and announced, in a thick voice, what she was going to play. A few people clapped; that only made the silence heavier. All their eyes felt like a thousand flies crawling across her face. She turned on her heel, shutting them out and away, sat on the bench, straightened her back, and began to play.
The etude went quickly. She was not pleased with it; she felt she was taking it for a walk, not playing it. But, she thought, they wouldn't know the difference, only Mrs. L, maybe David. She suddenly hated them for their ignorance, hated herself for being put in this stupid position; she wanted to slam the cover down and walk off the stage, leave them gasping with their stupid mouths open. A butterfly pinned to the wall and still wriggling looked better than she did. She even made a motion to rise from the bench, but she happened to glance into the wings and David, looking her straight in the eyes, gave her a thumbs-up. She sat back down and before she could catch her breath her hand reached for the mazurka. Her fingers bounced, striking, caressing, clear and crisp and exact. She let the applause drift over her as she peered once more into the wings. He wasn't there. He wasn't there. She played the funeral march just to get it done with.
The final applause was polite, perfunctory. She bowed tightly with her head and shoulders and heard the clapping dies as she disappeared from the stage. Mrs. N grabbed her and hugged her; Harriet went limp, letting herself be jostled. All she could hear was the static of Mrs. N's dress, then she was gone, off to do the introduction for David. David took her hand and congratulated her. "Not bad, not bad at all. You've got it. Not bad." Then he, too, disappeared. Harriet stood there, her hands demurely against her skirt, a lump as thick as a fist in her throat. The light shook off him and the stage was warm with his presence.
She slipped out the exit door and down the side aisle to the back wall where she could stand by herself. His lean figure moved back and forth as he explained what he was going to do. "You just heard some of the best piano music ever written done pretty well, if I might say so." He paused. "But that's not the only piano music." He walked to the edge of the stage. "How many of you are in high school?" Hands shot up, murmurs rose. "Know who Keith Emerson is? Rick Wakeman?" Some scattered applause. "Yeah, they're good, but it ain't classical." He moved to his left. "How many of you out there remember Neil Sedaka when he was first famous? Or Jerry Lee Lewis?" Some people put up their hands, others chuckled. "Quite a while ago, for some of you, huh? How many of you remember Duke Ellington or Eubie Blake or Gershwin?" Fewer hands this time, a lot of buzzing talk. "It's all piano, but it ain't classical. That's the point here -- keeps changing. Let me show you."
He strode to the piano and sat heavily on the bench. "Way back in the time of the dinosaurs, black musicians started jazz, all kinds of it. Boogie-woogie is a fun kind of music. It starts off with the left hand, a walking bass they call it." The bass notes growled out of the piano. "Now, the left hand keeps going while the right hand plays something light and bluesy, like someone growling and laughing at the same time." The right hand tickled the upper keys. "That's boogie-woogie with a thousand variations. Then there's straight blues," he riffed out some blues chords, "ragtime," the first bars of Maple Leaf Rag, "big band," some measures of Little Brown Jug and In the Mood, "Duke Ellington," some Satin Doll, "and a whole lot more," a crash of chords.
"But more of you remember..." And he paused dramatically, and Harriet sensed the crowd pause with him, waiting for him to lead them on. "Rock and Roll!" He got up from the bench and approached the edge of the stage. "Could we have the houselights on, please?" Someone somewhere flipped them on. "Good, now I can see you. Can't hide anymore. Now, most of you parents don't like rock and roll. Is that true?" Some nervous laughter. "Well, what do your sons and daughters say?" Loud clapping, hoots, hollers. "Parents, remember, you were fifteen once. For some of you, that puts you right back in the company of Buddy Holly, Bill Haley, Little Richard. Remember those crazy screamers? And you loved it! For some of you out there who are hyped on MTV and punk and heavy metal, here is what your parents used to listen to. Microphone, please!" Mrs. N, smiling crazily, brought out the microphone. David tapped it to test it. "Thank you, Mrs. Northrup. Give her a hand." A blush crept over Mrs. Northrup's face, and she hustled giddily offstage.
Harriet plastered herself as close to the wall as she could, upset by the betrayal she saw, wanting to leave and be done with the humiliation, but drawn by David's presence into the circle he had created. She could not make herself leave the tall man onstage who was weaving these people into a crowd.
"Who here used to jitterbug?" His voice shot out of the speakers. No hand went up. "C'mon, I know you can do it." He pointed into the audience. "Mrs. Ticknor, how about you?" Everyone's head turned. Abby Ticknor blushed to the edge of her salt and pepper hair. "C'mon Abby, I know you can jitterbug. What about the time at Mary's wedding? I played there and I saw you dance." Everyone laughed. Her husband leaned over and whispered something to her. Abby rose, standing over him, and said clearly, "Larry, I do too know how to do it!" Some of the boys in the back catcalled and she blushed again. Sliding into the aisle before Larry could pull her back, she ran up onstage. David offered her his hand. "Abby here is a prime jitterbugger. Watch." David, positioning himself opposite Abby, gave a gentle tug on her hand. Abby immediately turned into him, then away. Together they twined and untwined and the audience clapped in rhythm until, quite flushed, Abby stopped in a flurry of giggles. The audience's smile washed over her generously. David motioned for Larry Ticknor to come up; the noise crescendoed. Pulling his sportscoat around him, he walked with a jerky dignity onto the stage. Abby, looking like a young girl, reached out for her husband's hand. With a sheepish smile he took it, and while David played a dance tune, they jitterbugged to the crowd's acclaim. In a flutter of final notes, Larry embraced Abby and David pounded the song shut.
David asked for two teenagers. A bustle of bodies in the back row, and then suddenly two were ejected into the aisle. Pushed on by the whistles of their friends, they sauntered onto the stage. David perched himself on the piano bench, played a few bars of a disco tune. "Can you dance to that?" They tried a few moves and said yes. "Go to it then." Just as if they were a younger photograph of Abby and Larry, the boy and girl twisted, dipped, shuffled, and whirled while the crowd clapped a slightly off-beat percussion. With his left hand still doing the bass, David motioned to Larry and Abby to dance and suddenly the two people blended into four, all doing the same moves with variations, themes winding around themselves and into the audience like a net. When David finally finished the song and the four people stood there in the light, sweat shining on their foreheads and a smile dazzling across their faces, an ovation of hands threw up glory to them and for a moment they were immobilized and giddy.
"That's what rock and roll's all about. It's music for ordinary people, which most of us are. It isn't for here, like classical music," he pointed to his head, "but for here," he jabbed at his solar plexus. "It's what we feel, not what we think. Who wants to hear more?" They all did. "All right! I'm going to show you rock-and-roll before it used up all its energy." He looked at the crowd. "Jerry Lee Lewis -- he's always been in a lot of trouble, but, boy, could he sing. He had a hit song called Whole Lotta Shakin' Goin' On. And when he sang, there was always a whole lotta shakin'." He hit a chord and then said, "He rarely sat down." He kicked the bench out of the way; it skittered off and sat like a patient dog. "Here we go!"
By the time he finished the song and swung into Little Richard's Good Golly, Miss Molly, people were dancing in their seats and in the aisles. As he sang, with his head tilted back, hands chiseling the keys into music, happiness jumped over his face and body. He pulsed with the music and when he dropped his smile into the audience, ripples of energy charged back to him, buoyed him up, floated him away. He slowed them with Fats Domino's Blueberry Hill, and wound them up for the evening with Little Richard's Lucille. When he walked to the edge of the stage and bowed, the acclaim thundered to him. He wished them a good-night and left. Mrs. Northrup appeared, motioned for him to return. He did and danced a little jig with her. She stood there beaming, soaking up his color like a vacant canvas. No one asked Harriet to the stage.
Soon the noise fell, clothes rustled, chairs scraped, conversations were whispered, as everyone moved to the exits. The evening was sultry but cool and the full moon glowed like ivory. The town was quiet. She ran out the door and across the street and slipped into the shade of the huge oak tree on Mrs. Smith's lawn. She watched the people file out of the Temple. She could feel the tears gathering inside her, but she would not let come, not yet. Then she stared at the moon and as its whiteness blurred and streaked, the anger and shame of the betrayal washed over her and she spread her fingers, long and pale, on the dark ground around her. Soon the street was silent and empty except for her, a dim figure underneath the tree, noiselessly running her fingers over the mute ground.