The Piano Player

ecky stared at the black, satin finish of the baby grand. She let her hand glide over the bleached keys, let a few odd notes sound. She looked around. The showroom of the music store was relatively empty. Not many people to bother, she thought. Becky clacked her fingernails together and sat down on the bench. With a breath and the drop of her eyelids, Becky started into the Moderato Cantabile section of Chopin's Fantasie-Impromptu. She let her hands caress the keys, stroking out that wonderful, rich, Steinway sound.

"I love the way you play," Alex had once told her. That was ages ago, back in high school. Becky was thirty-four now, still single, but deeper now. Crows had landed by her eyes, leaving little footprints. Lines of wear ornamented her face, little valleys that concealed her sorrows and regrets. So much had happened since Alex had told her how much he enjoyed her music.

Becky stopped playing abruptly and rose from the bench. She sniffed. What a life, she thought. What a life. She walked towards the exit. An employee, coming in from a break, held the door open for her. She didn't notice.

"Alex?"

"Yes?"

"Do you love me still?"

"Of course. What a question. You know it."

Becky shook herself out of her reverie, back to her heavy-bottomed glass of vodka. Seeming not quite as full as it used to be, she filled it again. She tossed in another slice of lime. That makes it classy, she thought with a sardonic chuckle. What had happened to her? She remembered back to high school, when she had loved the piano so much. She remembered practicing fiercely for hours at a time on her little upright. How many times had those old strings received a wallop from the hammers? They had rung with the music of the ages, all the classics. Her family's old piano, bought by her father, had stood up to Beethoven piano concerti, Rachmaninoff preludes, and Chopin etudes with aplomb. She and her little upright piano; that's all it was in those days. An evening of solitary practice could sweep away the nastiest of mental cobwebs. It freed her, it let her forget. These days, her bottom-heavy glass of vodka let her forget better.

Becky sat at her kitchen table until she noticed her glass was empty again, then set it by the sink and put away the bottle. She had lost her connection with music long ago. No matter, she was a working woman now. She had to pay for things. There were those nasty slips of paper that came in the mail and commanded her money. She was in a new phase in her life, a phase that didn't need harmony and counterpoint anymore. She walked into her bedroom, slipped out of her robe. She kicked her slippers off her feet, one at a time. Flopping back on her bed, she felt a draft pass through her nightgown and chill her. Yes, that was the way she felt now. Now her life seemed normal enough, but it had a draft, an unwanted current of discomfort. When did it all end? she thought. When she had lost her connection with music, she had lost her connection with part of her sanity. She had lost her connection with life. Becky knew how she had lost it. Men and growing-up hadn't left enough room anymore.

"No, mom, I'm not practicing today!"

"Becky, you have to! Your teacher said you have to practice two hours every day if you want to get ready for ...whatever contest you're doing! How are you going to get those pieces prepared in time? Now, I may not know much about music, but I know that you aren't sounding as good these days as you did before."

"Thanks a lot, mom. I'm glad you think I play like shit."

"Becky, don't go off on your dramatics now. I didn't say that and you know it."

"Bye mom. I'll be home... later."

"Becky...."

She stared at the ceiling of her bedroom. It was painted white. White for purity, right? Becky thought. After Alex, all the men had been the same. They all smelled the same, they all acted the same, they all looked the same with their pants down. Becky sometimes felt cheap, the way she picked up guys and used them to satiate her libido, but she was a woman, goddamnit! She needed to feel that she could give someone happiness. She needed to feel that she was loved, for however long he lasted. After it was all over, she didn't care if she ever saw the man again. The next morning, she felt awkward if he was still there. How many times had she feigned sleep until the man, whoever he was, was gone? She didn't know.

Damn Alex. She hardly knew what to feel about him. They had shared so many exciting moments together. He had been everything to her. He was the world and more. His short, fluffy blonde hair; his beautiful eyes, eyes that harbored his entire soul; his goofy smile, somehow a little broader on the left side of his face; his right pinkie, of which the tip had been severed in an accident when he was young; the little details were what had made him so special to her. Sure, he was attractive. Everyone said so, especially her mother. But that wasn't really what drew her to him. He had a charm, a spunk in his personality. The way he looked at her when he would pick her up, as if to say "You think you've had fun before? That was nothing, come with me," that was what she had loved about him. They had spent so much time together that even a weekend apart seemed somehow awkward and incomplete.

Once her and Alex had gone to a carnival. It was cloudy. Rain was in her nostrils. Alex had won a giant stuffed gorilla for her. It must have been the most cheaply made stuffed animal ever to grace the earth, but Becky was still proud of it. Then it started to rain, and the sawdust inside the gorilla's synthetic skin began to saturate, clumping together and ruining the ape. She and Alex ran back to the parking lot, and they fixed the pathetic gorilla on top of someone's van. King Gorilla on his Chrysler dais, Alex had said. They both giggled, proud of their naughtiness. Then he had pulled out a ring, a little plastic ring with a faux diamond. It was another prize of the carnival, and he had gotten down on one knee and asked her, not for marriage, but for a big kiss. Becky had laughed, and then they had kissed, a long kiss in the rain, another memorable moment.

Present-day Becky coughed, the scent of alcohol tickling her sense of smell. Alcohol was a bastard, but how could she blame Alex for becoming a drunk? What had she done in the aftermath of those shattering events of her late childhood? Her bottle of clear, Russian morphine was her religion now.

"Alex, what's wrong?"

"Nothing, baby, listen...."

"Alex, you're drunk again, aren't you?"

"Don't you start accusing me! It ain't anything so...."

"Alex, dammit, you've got to stop it!"

She had grabbed him by the collar with both hands, had shaken him.

"Hey!" was his angry holler, and he pushed her away. "Don't you touch me, bitch."

Becky remembered how that barb had stung. Alex had never, ever called her a name like that before. She had known that unless she played conciliator there were going to be problems. She laid a hand on his shoulder.

"Alex...."

He flung her arm away. "I said don't touch me!"

And then she had slapped him, hard, across the face. Her ring, the little plastic carnival ring, had traced a cruel slit across his cheek. She hadn't meant to hurt him, just to snap him back into a better state of mind. But he didn't care what her intentions had been, he was bleeding now, and he was angry and liquored up.

"You asked for it, bitch."

Then he hit her back. Unlike her, he meant to cause pain. The alcohol roared through his brain, and he hit her again. "There's only one thing you're good for, you know?" he said. Becky could hardly hear him, her head reeling from the blows. She faintly grasped that she had been pushed onto her back and her skirt was no longer around her waist. Alex loomed over her, thrusting himself forward again and again.

"Alex, stop...."

He smacked her hard across the face. "Don't you talk to me, you wench. Look what you did to my face, eh? Look at it!"

Becky did as she was told and saw his face over hers, a savage smile on his lips. His breath reeked strongly in her nostrils and his snickers and gasps bounced inside her ears. Her mind had left her body then, exhausted from sensory overload. Her memory ventured back in search of happy moments. Her ears began to hear a new sound, that gorgeous stream of notes from the second movement of Beethoven's PathŽtique Sonata. As the luscious melody flowed through her brain, she became suddenly relaxed and at ease. Her muscles unwound and her heart slowed to the rhythm of the music. Becky remembered back to when she had sat at the piano, and somehow her fingers had coaxed that lovely melody out of the keys, out into her world. Becky internally smiled.

Alex bore into her one final time, then abruptly got up. All he said was: "Get up." Then he walked out of the room.

Becky remembered where she was, remembered what had been done to her. She found her skirt and covered herself, blushing with anger. How could he have, how could he? Raped by the one she thought she had loved most. Becky, bleeding, bit her lip and adjusted the skirt around her hips. Her eyes hurt. They were dry, drained of all moisture. She looked around. In the corner of the room, on a small table, sat a picture of Alex from when he was four years old. His eyes smiled, and so did his lips, the slightly uneven smile that Becky had loved. Becky stared at the face for some time. Then she turned away and walked out of the room and out of the house, forever.

The air outside was warm. It clung to her, lapping at her skin. She began to walk, then to run, back to her home. She didn't know how long it would take. Long enough. It was a journey, back to her land of sanity, away from the chaos of Alex and relationships. She left behind many things that night as she set out for home. Her virginity. Her love. Her sense of trust. She had aged years that night.

Becky got up from her bed and walked to the window. The air was warm here, too. The moon was out, and half of it shined diligently. There were noises and lights and city smells. Even though she was alone in her apartment, she felt part of a group. The urban air was charged with the essence of humans, all the people that were out, "making a night of it." Becky's eyelids dropped, and she could see all the animation of the city. There were happy couples on the streets, walking, talking about how bad some movie was. There were friends, sitting in restaurants late at night solely for the sake of each other's company. They were laughing, smiling. There were even ridiculous teenagers, determined to stay out as late as they could, determined to feel grown-up. An old couple stepped out of a drugstore. A woman sat outside a theater, smoking a cigarette. Becky sighed, and with the wipe of an eye she walked back to her bed.

"Becky?"

"Mom, what do you want? It's early!"

"Becky, wake up, I need to talk to you."

"Mom-"

"Becky, I have some bad news."

Becky sat up. "What is it?"

Her mother looked at the floor. "Becky, it's about Alex."

Becky's eyes became wider. She chewed one of her nails and looked at her mother.

"Becky, Alex is dead."

Becky's head spun. Dead? How could he be dead? She had just seen him, just last night!

"Mom," she began, her voice cracking with a prequel to a sob, "I...I don't understand...."

She began to cry. Her mother walked over to her and cradled her in her arms.

"Becky, Alex's mother phoned me. She said that when she got home last night, Alex was a wreck. He said you two had gotten in a fight. A big one. Well, Alex wouldn't tell her what happened, but he said 'I'm going to go look for her, she had to walk home.' So he got into his car and drove away. I guess he had been drunk, because his mother said that she found a drained bottle of bourbon after he took off."

Becky cried harder. Her mother continued:

"I guess the police must have called her later that night. Alex missed a turn and smashed into a tree. At a pretty high speed, too, I'm afraid. Someone who lived nearby heard the crash and went to see what had happened. Then they called the police and an ambulance. Alex's mother said that he was dead when they all got there."

Becky clung to her mother ferociously, to keep from spinning away into a void of craziness. Tears poured out of her, wetting her nightgown and that of her mother's. She was furious with him, furious of what he did to her, furious at him for driving after her. She was furious with alcohol, for it's allure and power of control. Her sobs heightened.

And now here she was, thirty-four and an alcoholic, unable to hold onto a relationship, lost to all that had once delighted her. She had fallen into a similar trap, taking an easy way out and now paying for it with her self-respect.

Becky, weary from her trip down memory lane, sunk back into her bed, wrapped the covers around her, and fell fast asleep.

The next morning, Becky woke up early. She showered and dressed, ate some breakfast, even read a bit of the newspaper. Then she walked to her storage closet and flung the doors wide open. The smell of age and dust greeted her. Back in the corner of the closet, on a little shelf, sat two piles of forgotten music books. Works by Beethoven, Mozart, Chopin, Debussy, contemporary and baroque masters, stacked in two unorganized towers. Becky grabbed a big book, the first volume of Beethoven Sonatas. She tucked it under her arm, closed the closet door, and escaped from her apartment. She ran down three flights of stairs, down to the garage. She stepped into her car and sped off, down to the music store.

She arrived just as the store opened. The interior of the store was lit brightly. The walls were painted a smooth shade of lavender. It was calming. Becky walked to the back of the store, to the piano showroom. The pianos were set up in rows, and Becky began to saunter through the aisles, plunking out notes on the instruments as she walked by. She examined the finishes. Some were very shiny, the layers of lacquer and polish forming a veritable mirror. Other pianos had a matte, natural wood finish. Becky sat down at one of the uprights. It was black, and it had a warm, satin shine to it. She pulled the Beethoven book out from under her arm and flipped to the second movement of Beethoven's PathŽtique Sonata. As her fingers met the keys, it all came back to her. The music flowed out of her like a river from it's source, pure and beautiful. The notes echoed throughout the showroom, the harmonics causing the strings of the other pianos to resonate slightly with Beethoven's genius. Becky felt at home again, after years of staying abroad. As the last notes faded into silence, Becky felt a breathe sweep through her body.

"You play well." One of the employees, a young man, had come up behind her to listen.

"Thank you," she said.

"Did you need any help with anything?" He raised his eyebrows as punctuation.

"Yes, actually, I would like to buy this piano."