Out of the Box(9)

“I’m so glad you found it,” Jeanette says, sitting on the cold concrete floor, fanning herself after the laughter subsides. “It’s yours if you want it.”

I stare at her. I’ve never told her how much I want to play the accordion—or something like one, anyway. Dad hates the accordion because his parents forced him to take lessons when he was a kid. Which is why I’ve never asked to learn. Since last summer, though, I’ve been sneaking CDs from the library, downloading foot-stomping accordion tunes onto my iPod and dreaming of playing them myself one day. It’s not something most teenagers dream about, I know, but I don’t really care. My music makes me happy.

I like the sound of the bandoneón even better than the accordion. It’s richer and more haunting somehow, and you can add all sorts of accents to the music by clicking your fingernails across the buttons, drumming on the casing or bouncing the bellows on your knee.

“I can’t believe you’re giving it to me.”

“Of course you can have it,” she says. “What am I going to do with it?”

“Sell it?” I ask. “It must be worth a fortune.” Much as I want this instrument, I know the money should go to the soup kitchen. That’s what Alison wanted to do with the basement stuff, wasn’t it?

Jeanette shrugs. “We didn’t pay much for it. We got it at a yard sale from a woman who kept complaining about all the junk her son brought home. Alison was about to tell her that this ‘junk’ goes for thousands on eBay when the woman said something racist about a customer who was trying to barter. Alison was so disgusted, she just paid the asking price and left.”

I laugh, because I can totally picture Alison’s polite smile getting tighter and tighter, rage blazing in her eyes. She didn’t get angry often, but when she did, everyone knew it.

“So it could be worth a fortune,” I say.

“A few thousand,” Jeanette admits, “but I think Alison would have wanted you to have it. The idea was to do something useful with our old stuff. Fundraising for the soup kitchen is one possibility. Giving it to someone who would really appreciate it is another.”

I nod, looking down at the instrument with its shiny black ends and round white buttons. I do appreciate it, and I can always give it back if I decide it should be sold. For now, it’s mine. “Thank you.”

I pack it away, smoothing the red cloth on top. Then I take it up to my room, lay it in the center of my bed and give it a pat before heading back down to rescue my aunt from a box of old socks.



“The basement?” Mom asks that evening during our nightly phone call. I settle into the worn armchair by the wall phone. My aunt is the only person I know who doesn’t have a cordless phone. Mom’s voice sounds tinny and very far away. “I can’t believe you’ve started already,” she says. “I thought for sure Jeanette would take a few months to work up to it.”

Which shows how little my mother understands her sister. When my aunt says she’ll do something, she follows through. No way am I going to point that out, though, because if I say this about Jeanette, Mom will think I’m saying she herself doesn’t follow through on things. (Which is true, actually, especially when she’s stressed out, but I would never say that aloud. My mom has a lot of great qualities, but it’s best to avoid talking about things that aren’t her strengths.) “It was raining too much to do anything else today,” I tell her. “You should see some of the stuff we found down there!”

For a second, I’m tempted to tell her about the bandoneón, but I stop myself. Depending on Mom’s mood, she might see it as a quaint passing interest, or serious competition for the violin, which she knows I hate. She knows how much Dad hates the accordion too, and since I’m not in the mood for another lecture about teenage rebellion, I say nothing.

“You sound like you’re having fun.” She doesn’t sound particularly happy about it.

“Oh, I am,” I say too quickly, then rush to cover up before her feelings get hurt. “I miss you though. Are you doing okay?”

There’s a long silence, and I can hear her swallow.

“What?” I ask. “What is it?”

Jeanette comes to the door of the living room with a kitchen towel in one hand. She scans my face, and I try to smile to show her that everything’s all right, but I can tell Mom’s on the verge of tears. The silence, and her swallowing, conjures up the image of her face, eyes scrunched together, lips pressed tight. I know she’s shaking her head. “It’s just so hard without you,” she says. “Your father disappears into his office all the time. Our agreement about chores has just fallen by the wayside.”