The bus was late, today of all days. Might not make it before Bailey\u2019s closed at 5:30, better walk instead. Each footstep on the rain-soaked cement mocked him like a giant pocket watch in slow motion\u2014step, tick; step, tick; step, tick. He felt he\u2019d gladly sell his soul to the devil to buy a few minutes.<\/p>\n
He half-walked, half-stumbled past each familiar landmark\u2014the old Vietnamese woman with her flower stand, 5:05; Mrs. Kasick walking Tony, the deaf poodle, 5:07; Abraham and Mohammed arguing politics over espresso at the caf\u00e9 on 15th and Broad, 5:08; the jazz trio practicing in the basement of the old Freemont Hotel, 5:10. And finally at 5:15, there it was, the shining beacon that burst through the fog of his anxiety, the plate glass window of Bailey\u2019s as it mirrored the orange and cobalt layers of twilight behind him.<\/p>\n
But would she still be waiting? What if someone had gotten there first and fallen in love as he had? Although she\u2019d arrived several weeks ago, the minute he\u2019d laid eyes on her bewitching curves he knew in his soul they were destined to be together. Each night thereafter, her black and white contours transformed his dreams like something out of Casablanca.<\/p>\n
He tremblingly crossed the threshold, held his breath, and cast a gaze toward his prize. Horror of horrors\u2014she was gone. She had been right there, in the corner like a shrine, below the stained glass panel with the blue and gold angel, his good-luck omen. As he marched over to the sales desk to demand the name of the infidel who\u2019d stolen his treasure, he caught a glimpse of her, looking forlorn in her unaccustomed spot next to the men\u2019s room.<\/p>\n
He approached her reverently. His ink-stained hands caressed the smoothness of the lid and almost shook as he ran a finger silently across the keys. He sat down at the bench and tried the pedals.<\/p>\n
Benton Bailey, Jr., materialized almost magically next to him. \u201cHow are we doing today, Mr. King?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou moved her.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWe had to rearrange inventory to make room for a new shipment. But she\u2019s still here, waiting as usual. I was afraid you weren\u2019t going to make it today. You\u2019ve really taken a shine to this one, haven\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThe Yamaha wasn\u2019t quite right. This little Steinway, though…\u201d His voice trailed off, choked with emotion. \u201cMr. Bailey, sir, I think I\u2019ve decided to take her.\u201d<\/p>\n
Bailey\u2019s smallish eyes widened, and with his needlepoint nose and jaw hanging open, King thought he looked a little like a cod. King carefully counted out a wad of hundred-dollar bills. \u201cWill this be enough for the down payment?\u201d<\/p>\n
Bailey beamed, \u201cThis is plenty for a down payment. But I thought your wife\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cShe\u2019ll get used to the idea.\u201d<\/p>\n
He knew what her reaction would be. The blazing eyes of a Chinese dragon, disapproval oozing out every pore, hands on her hips where he swore they\u2019d become permanently affixed as if by superglue. Her state of perpetual anger had transfixed her face into a wreath of wrinkles, all pointing downward toward the eternal fire and damnation where she was certain he was headed.<\/p>\n
In his wallet he kept a picture of her from the days when they were dating, the blue-eyed smiling nymph with the auburn hair and a wicked sense of humor. He looked at it from time to time to remind himself that the demon now haunting his days had once possessed human form.<\/p>\n
*****<\/p>\n
On the walk home he felt like dancing. Let them mock. Tell him what a fool he was. He knew the angel in the stained-glass window wanted him to have the piano, and you just don\u2019t argue with divine intentions.<\/p>\n
When he was eight years old, he\u2019d wanted a piano, or at least piano lessons. But his father refused. He said \u201cmusic is for pansies\u201d and forced his son to play football instead. And how King hated football. He could still taste the resentment filling his fragile boy psyche with acid memories that ate away at his self-confidence far into his adult years. Even now, as he longed to feel the cool sensuality of the ivory and ebony keys underneath his fingertips, he imagined his father\u2019s stern lectures raining down on him from the cloud tops above.<\/p>\n
Disapproval, disappointment, disillusionment. The three daughters, he called them, the fruit of his sorry existence. His flesh-daughters, Rachel and Ren\u00e9e, were their mother\u2019s creation, springing like lemon trees from the manure-laden soil she\u2019d so thoughtfully provided.<\/p>\n
The trio of harpies, wife and daughters, were waiting when he climbed the three flights to his apartment. He\u2019d hoped when he married them off, his children would move away and make a new life with husbands and children. And move, they did. About half a mile. He secretly wondered if the reason they spent so much time with him and their mother was at the encouragement of the exasperated husbands wishing for some respite of their own.<\/p>\n
Rachel and Ren\u00e9e shared everything with their mother, including laughing away his dream of owning a piano. And so with great pleasure the first thing he told them coming through the door was, \u201cI made a down payment on a piano.\u201d<\/p>\n
Silence. The ambient temperature seemed to drop ten degrees. Rachel chimed in first. \u201cYou\u2019re kidding, aren\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n
He shook his head, sat down in his favorite chair, and grabbed the Times<\/em>.<\/p>\n Renee was next. \u201cOh, Father, you can\u2019t be serious. You don\u2019t even know how to play the piano.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll learn.\u201d The sports section needed some revamping, he thought, as long as they didn\u2019t take out his favorite horseracing. The writing just wasn\u2019t what it used to be, at least the non-football part. He never looked at the football scores.<\/p>\n His wife took her turn at bat. \u201cWe\u2019ve talked about this hundreds of times. We can\u2019t afford it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ve saved some money.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou mean to tell me you\u2019re wasting our savings on a measly piano? How about retirement? Vacations? Something to leave the kids when we\u2019re gone? For God\u2019s sake, we need a new couch.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI started a piano fund when I was a boy and I\u2019ve added to it every year. I put it in a savings account, it accrued some interest, it\u2019s not a fortune, but it\u2019s enough. Checks from my high school days working at Carl\u2019s Grocery, a Christmas bonus here and there, proceeds from the sale of the old rust-bucket Chevy and some spare change. They\u2019re going to deliver it next week.\u201d<\/p>\n They chimed in all at once.<\/p>\n \u201cWhere are we going to put it?\u201d (Wife)<\/p>\n \u201cYou know, you\u2019ve been getting a little senile lately.\u201d (Rachel)<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019ll bother the neighbors. And you\u2019ll be the laughingstock of the block.\u201d (Ren\u00e9e)<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re too old to learn to play the piano.\u201d (Wife)<\/p>\n Too old to learn to play the piano? That was the final straw. He dropped the paper, drew himself up to his full five-feet-nine, while a force like Mount St. Helens erupted in his veins.<\/p>\n He did not shout. His voice was almost a whisper, but it carried to the darkest shadows in the cobwebbed corners. \u201cFor fifty years I\u2019ve been listening to people tell me how to run my life. You\u2019re aiming too high, they said. You\u2019re not smart enough to be an attorney, they said. You need to settle down and get married, they said. And I did what was expected. I\u2019m an honest man who\u2019s worked hard providing for you three.\u201d<\/p>\n He was just getting warmed up, his lungs working like the bellows of the tracker organ at St. Paul\u2019s Episcopal. \u201cThere comes a time in every man\u2019s life when he should run with the wolves, fly with the eagles.\u201d His wife would say he was full of clich\u00e9s, if not something worse, but he didn\u2019t care.<\/p>\n He paused and jabbed his finger in the air like a conductor\u2019s baton. \u201cThe piano will go over in the corner where the television is now, and if any of you don\u2019t like it, you can simply leave. I pay the rent, I put the food on the table and I don\u2019t want any more arguments.\u201d<\/p>\n He sat back down in his chair and resumed reading. There were whispered exchanges behind him, and then the door closed gently. His wife settled on the sofa and pulled her knitting from its basket. The only sound was the clicking of her needles.<\/p>\n He got up, turned on the radio and was pleased to hear a Beethoven piano sonata. Another fine omen. Victories were few and far between in his life, but he had the feeling the angel in the window at Bailey\u2019s was watching over him. The piano would look quite at home in that corner. Like a proud black thoroughbred after winning the Kentucky Derby.<\/p><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" The bus was late, today of all days. Might not make it before Bailey\u2019s closed at 5:30, better walk instead. Each footstep on the rain-soaked cement mocked him like a giant pocket watch in slow motion\u2014step, tick; step, tick; step, tick. He felt he\u2019d gladly sell his soul to the devil to buy a few … <\/p>\n