The Stolen Child(22)

I played every chance I could get. Over the next few years, I spent hours each day at the keys,

enthralled by the mathematics of the notes. The music seized me like a river current pushing my

conscious self deeper into my core, as if there were no other sound in the world but one. I grew my legs

an inch longer than necessary that first summer in order to better reach the pedals on the upright. Around

the house, school, and town, I practiced spreading my fingers as far apart as they would go. The pads of

my fingertips became smooth and feather-sensitive. My shoulders bowed down and forward. I dreamt in

wave after wave of scales. The more adept my skill and understanding grew, the more I realized the

power of musical phrasing in everyday life. The trick involves getting people to listen to the weak beats

and seemingly insignificant silences between notes, the absence of tones between tones. By phrasing the

matter with a ruthlessly precise logic, one can play—or say—anything. Music taught me great

self-control.

My father could not stand to hear me practice, perhaps because he real-ized the mastery I had

attained. He would leave the room, retreat into the farthest corners of the house, or find any excuse to go

outside. A few weeks after Mom and I bought the piano, he came home with our first television set, and

a week later a man came out and installed an antenna on the roof. In the evenings, my father would

watch You Bet Your Life or The Jackie Gleason Show, ordering me to keep it down. More and more,

however, he simply left alto-gether.

"I'm going for a drive." He already had his hat on.

"You're not going drinking, I hope."

"I may stop in for one with the boys."

"Don't be too late."

Well after midnight, he'd stagger in, singing or muttering to himself, swearing when he stepped on

one of the girls' toys or barked his shin on the piano bench as he passed. Weather permitting, he worked

outdoors every weekend, replacing shutters, painting the house, rewiring the chicken coop. He was

absent from the hearth, unwilling to listen. With Mary and Elizabeth, he played the doting father, still

dandling them on his knees, fussing over their curls and dresses, fawning at the latest primitive drawing or

Popsicle-stick hut, sitting down at the table for tea parties and the like. But he regarded me coldly, and

while I cannot read minds, I suspect he felt at odds with my passion for music. Maybe he felt art

corrupted me, made me less a boy. When we spoke, he would chastise me for a neglected chore or

chide me for a less than perfect grade on a test or essay.

As he drove me home from the trolley station one Saturday, he made an effort to engage and

understand. On the radio, a football game between the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame and Navy unfolded.

One of the teams scored a touchdown in a spectacular fashion.

"How about that? Did you hear that?"

I looked out the window, tapping out with my right hand a melody on the armrest.

"Do you even like football?" he asked.

"I dunno. It's okay."

"Do you like any sport at all? Baseball? Basketball? Would you like to go hunting someday?"

I said nothing. The very thought of being alone with Billy Day and a shotgun frightened me. There

are devils out in the woods. We let a few silent miles pass beneath us.

"How's come it's nothing but the piano night and day?"

"I like music. And I'm good."

"You are that, but honestly, did you ever stop to think you could try something else for a change?

Don't you know there's more to life than music?"

If he had been my true father, I would have been eternally disappointed in him. The man had no

vision, no passion for life, and I was grateful that we were not actually related. The car passed through

the shadows of trees, and the glass in the window darkened. I saw in my own reflection the mirrored

image of Henry's father, but I only appeared to be his offspring. Once upon a time, I had a real father. I

could hear his voice: "Ich erkenne dich! Du willst nur meinen Sohn!" His eyes danced wildly behind

his owlish spectacles, and then the phantom memory disappeared. I sensed Billy Day was watching me

from the corner of his eye, wondering what on earth happened? How did I get this for a son?

"I'm thinking that I'm starting to like girls," I volunteered. He smiled and tousled my hair. He lit

another Camel, a sure sign he was content with my answer. The subject of my masculinity never came up

again.

A basic truth had escaped by accident. Girls hovered on the surface of every situation. I noticed

them in school, ogled them in church, played to them at every concert performance. As if they jumped

from the shadows, girls arrived, and nothing was ever the same. I fell in love ten times a day: an older