Madsen drawled, “the women of Grayson House hate the idea of giving up their beloved passion play.”
I asked what that meant.
Mr. Madsen shook his head. “Never mind. Look, Matthew Waterston didn’t get away from anybody. And your family doesn’t hate painters. A person’s profession grows out of who he is, not the other way around. Now, hold on. Matthew Waterston was a very good person. Even so, very good people do bad things sometimes.”
“But if it wasn’t Matthew Waterston who broke them, then I don’t know w ho it was that got away from the women! Earl said you’d know, that you know everything—and I need to know! ” I began to hum.
Mr. Madsen got to his feet. “Come, Francis.” I dutifully followed him back inside the schoolroom, plopping myself down on the piano bench, prepared to take my punishment for being a sassy-mouth. “Turn around. Face the piano.”
I complied, wondering if he’d whip my head. If you hit the crown just right, there was never any blood.
“Now put your hands on the keys. That’s right, thank you very much. I once knew a boy who could play so beautifully, the angels sang. His name was Jamie—”
Jamie.
“Would you like to do that, Francis? Would you like to do what Jamie did? Would you like to make angels sing?”
I could hardly breathe, let alone answer. I fingered the piano keys, making out the little tune I’d been humming, and then I thought of Grandmother telling Lothian to turn her damn RCA off, that the Casa Loma Orchestra’s “Casa Loma Stomp” washeathen. I wondered if I could make a piano play heathen music. The idea sent a shiver down my spine. Forget everybody’s stupid Jamie. I’d something else in mind.
“Could I be heathen?” I asked, swiveling around on the piano stool. Mr. Madsen was glassy-eyed. “Mr. Madsen?” His eyes cleared.
“Heathen? You mean loud and fast? Angels don’t need to hear loud and fast, Francis. They need to hear heart and soul. Now, you know that little tune you were humming? Do it again. Yes, that’s right. Put your spider hands back on those keys. Yes, and now reach, thank you very much.”
Music became my fare for a disconnect from the women. I no longer felt Lothian’s cold hands or sharp teeth, or heard Grandmother’s reprimands, or Stella’s piercing shrieks. Even Earl was no longer a thorn in my side. I’d found my niche, unbeknownst to any of the women, or to Earl, who was keeping a distance from his embarrassment of a brother. I practiced the piano after school when no one was around, increasingly oblivious to the outside world, existing only for the moment my long fingers produced a consistent sound, one soft enough for Mr. Madsen but heathen enough to express all the fury in my soul.
I kept my music lessons secret for well over a year, until I’d sharpened my skills to the point where I felt invincible—and then I told Mother. I intuitively felt she’d be pleased. I was right.
“How wonderful!” she exclaimed, spiking a thrill of pride in my chest. “We’ll tell the others at dinner. And I hope you’ve been a perfect gentleman, Francis, showing Mr. Madsen your appreciation for teaching you piano?”
But when I made the announcement that Mr. Madsen had taught me to read music and that I played the piano at school, and that I could even play the Prelude in C-sharp minor with hardly any mistakes, my aunts let out little cries and my grandmother slammed her fork down on the table. I felt a twitch of the old fear. But Mother was smiling.
“I don’t believe it,” Grandmother said. I thought maybe she meant she couldn’t believe I could play so complicated a piece, but I could and what’s more, Mr. Madsen knew I could. More than once I’d caught him looking at me with amazement.
But that was it, all that was said. Which was good enough—and the rest of that evening passed in precious silence, which puffed me up with new pride, and with good reason; I’d beaten the devil. I’d shut the
I asked what that meant.
Mr. Madsen shook his head. “Never mind. Look, Matthew Waterston didn’t get away from anybody. And your family doesn’t hate painters. A person’s profession grows out of who he is, not the other way around. Now, hold on. Matthew Waterston was a very good person. Even so, very good people do bad things sometimes.”
“But if it wasn’t Matthew Waterston who broke them, then I don’t know w ho it was that got away from the women! Earl said you’d know, that you know everything—and I need to know! ” I began to hum.
Mr. Madsen got to his feet. “Come, Francis.” I dutifully followed him back inside the schoolroom, plopping myself down on the piano bench, prepared to take my punishment for being a sassy-mouth. “Turn around. Face the piano.”
I complied, wondering if he’d whip my head. If you hit the crown just right, there was never any blood.
“Now put your hands on the keys. That’s right, thank you very much. I once knew a boy who could play so beautifully, the angels sang. His name was Jamie—”
Jamie.
“Would you like to do that, Francis? Would you like to do what Jamie did? Would you like to make angels sing?”
I could hardly breathe, let alone answer. I fingered the piano keys, making out the little tune I’d been humming, and then I thought of Grandmother telling Lothian to turn her damn RCA off, that the Casa Loma Orchestra’s “Casa Loma Stomp” washeathen. I wondered if I could make a piano play heathen music. The idea sent a shiver down my spine. Forget everybody’s stupid Jamie. I’d something else in mind.
“Could I be heathen?” I asked, swiveling around on the piano stool. Mr. Madsen was glassy-eyed. “Mr. Madsen?” His eyes cleared.
“Heathen? You mean loud and fast? Angels don’t need to hear loud and fast, Francis. They need to hear heart and soul. Now, you know that little tune you were humming? Do it again. Yes, that’s right. Put your spider hands back on those keys. Yes, and now reach, thank you very much.”
Music became my fare for a disconnect from the women. I no longer felt Lothian’s cold hands or sharp teeth, or heard Grandmother’s reprimands, or Stella’s piercing shrieks. Even Earl was no longer a thorn in my side. I’d found my niche, unbeknownst to any of the women, or to Earl, who was keeping a distance from his embarrassment of a brother. I practiced the piano after school when no one was around, increasingly oblivious to the outside world, existing only for the moment my long fingers produced a consistent sound, one soft enough for Mr. Madsen but heathen enough to express all the fury in my soul.
I kept my music lessons secret for well over a year, until I’d sharpened my skills to the point where I felt invincible—and then I told Mother. I intuitively felt she’d be pleased. I was right.
“How wonderful!” she exclaimed, spiking a thrill of pride in my chest. “We’ll tell the others at dinner. And I hope you’ve been a perfect gentleman, Francis, showing Mr. Madsen your appreciation for teaching you piano?”
But when I made the announcement that Mr. Madsen had taught me to read music and that I played the piano at school, and that I could even play the Prelude in C-sharp minor with hardly any mistakes, my aunts let out little cries and my grandmother slammed her fork down on the table. I felt a twitch of the old fear. But Mother was smiling.
“I don’t believe it,” Grandmother said. I thought maybe she meant she couldn’t believe I could play so complicated a piece, but I could and what’s more, Mr. Madsen knew I could. More than once I’d caught him looking at me with amazement.
But that was it, all that was said. Which was good enough—and the rest of that evening passed in precious silence, which puffed me up with new pride, and with good reason; I’d beaten the devil. I’d shut the
Similar Books
