Moonlight Blues
A short story
This story was first published in The Rialto Books Review Vol. 23.
Leigh Carlton pulled the coffee from the cupboard with two hands and placed it on the counter next to the coffee maker. He swung open the filter basket, inserted a filter, then opened the coffee.
The pungent earthy smell of coffee filled his nostrils. His hands shook. He wedged the handle of the spoon between his fingers, his stern, aged face wrinkled in concentration.
One scoop.
Two scoop.
Three scoop.
His fingers slipped and coffee grounds spilled on the counter and scattered across the clean, white surface.
Dammit.
A discordant mess. He hated that.
Three scoop again.
Four scoop.
Five, six, seven, eight. He liked it strong.
Leigh closed the filter basket and swung the pot under the faucet, filling it almost to the top. He poured the water into the reservoir, stuck the pot under the basket, and hit the on button.
He carefully swept the bits of coffee together with the edge of his hand even though it trembled, and brushed the grounds into his upturned palm, then rubbed his hands together over the sink, fingers slapping against each other.
He sat down on the stool and watched the indicator light on the coffee maker. It stared back at him. The machine gurgled and churned, steam rising from the top, and first in drops, then in lovely black gushes the coffee fell into the pot.
The coffee splashed.
The light shone, like a spotlight bright and focused on him alone, alone on a stage.
In his mind, Leigh saw the stage with its worn wooden beams tread by thousands of feet, the theater filled to bursting, the lights too bright for most, but just right for him. They always had been.
The stage hadn’t felt like home. Home was comfort and warmth and ease. The stage was excellence and self-transcendence and pressure, the kind of pressure that makes a diamond. But the stage and each performance also brought release, the release of displaying the product of years and years of practice, of producing art in real time for an audience, of creating something that would ring out true in every note and then cease to exist except in the memories of everyone that had heard it.
It had been sublime.
The coffee maker chimed.
Leigh refocused his eyes. The light still stared back at him.
He scooted a mug over, the base scraping on the countertop, and with both shaking hands picked up the coffee pot and poured.
The coffee steam wafted up to his nose, enlarged with age.
He remembered a thousand cups of coffee always drunk before a performance, a little jolt to the system to keep the mind alert and the fingers fresh.
He replaced the pot and raised the mug from the counter. His dull leaden fingers twisted under the weight and the mug shattered sending hot coffee and shards of ceramic across the floor.
Leigh stared down at the mess.
He reached for the dustpan and little broom under the sink. He kneeled down on the tile. Something sharp poked his knee. He shifted his weight and started sweeping foot by foot a little bit at a time.
Bits of the mug tinkled into the copper dustpan where the mix of ceramic and coffee made a revolting slurry.
Like an infant on all fours he scooted around the kitchen muddying his pant legs with coffee. Bit by bit, brush by brush he cleaned the floor. He hooked the handle of the mug, still in one piece, with his fingers and deposited it in the dustpan.
With the mug brushed into the garbage he used a mass of paper towels to clean the coffee off the floor: first dry to soak up the coffee then wet to clean the remnants then another brush to get any final bits of ceramic.
He stood up, reached for the cupboard, and grabbed another mug.
Two hands on the coffee pot. More coffee poured in the new mug.
Two hands on the mug, most of his right hand shoved into the handle so it hung across the back of his hand.
He sipped the scalding hot coffee without even noticing the extreme heat. The warmth ran through his body and settled in his belly.
He sighed in appreciation.
The doorbell rang.
Leigh looked at the clock. Ten o’clock already.
He walked from the kitchen into the living room and set the coffee down on the table then headed down the hall to the door.
He took a moment, put a gentle smile on his face, and opened the door.
A woman and a little girl were standing in the hall. The woman was in her thirties with short curly brown hair. She wore jeans and a heavy coat and a slightly harried expression on her face.
The little girl was about ten years old. She wore tennis shoes and a sweatshirt with words printed that Leigh couldn’t make out. Her dark brown hair was up in a ponytail and her eyes were on the ground.
“Good morning, Mr. Carlton,” the woman said.
“Good morning, Mrs. Franks. Tuesday again? The weeks go by faster and faster. I trust it didn’t take long to get here?”
Mrs. Franks smiled at his usual joke. “No traffic on the stairs today.”
“Good, good.” Leigh shifted his gaze. “Hi, Cassidy. Ready for your lesson?”
“Yes,” the little girl said in a small voice.
“Well come on in.”
They followed Leigh down the hall into the living room.
“Mom, you can have a seat wherever you like, as always.” He indicated a sofa and an easy chair with matching brown leather.
“Thank you. Give me your coat, Cassidy.”
Leigh led Cassidy to the piano. “Why don’t you start warming up while I have some more of my coffee.”
Cassidy sat at the piano and started playing scales.
Leigh bent over the wooden coffee table and reached for the mug. He knew that Mrs. Franks was respectfully ignoring him and pretending to be looking for something in her purse.
People weren’t quite sure where to look when they thought you might drop something or cause some other slight accident. They wanted to keep an eye on you without, generally speaking, making it obvious they were keeping an eye on you.
Right hand through the handle. Left palm under the mug.
He straightened and sipped.
“That’s enough C Major. Let’s try D Major.” Leigh listened. “Try that again. Don’t forget C is sharp. Good.”
Leigh sat down in the chair.
“Alright, let’s get the book out and start from where we were last time. How did practice go?”
Cassidy spoke without turning to face him. “It was okay, I think.”
Leigh smiled a little, observing throughout the white space on the pages the girl’s notations, underlining, arrows, and other marginalia. “Alright, from the beginning then.”
The melody of the simplified version of Bach’s Prelude in C Major filled the room. Leigh closed his eyes and listened. The notes came with halting confidence. Simple, formal, yet clean. Over and over the repeating melody he adored showcasing Bach’s wonderful Baroque composition, the notes evoking in his mind an image of a brilliant sunrise over a harbor, the light playing on the rigging and sails of a three-masted ship and the fisherman, dwarfed by the man o’war, casting his net into the sea.
The song ended. He opened his eyes.
To his right, Mrs. Franks was smiling at Cassidy.
“No corrections for you this time, Cassidy. Wonderful playing, but more practice will always make it better. It’s time for a new piece, I think. What’s the next one?”
Cassidy turned the page in her book.
“Minuet in G Major. Bach.”
“Good, good. Take your time. Look it over then take it from the top.”
There it was, that wonderful Baroque formality and the light airy playful melody evoking a richly gilded and paneled room in a palace in Vienna and aristocracy and powdered wigs and finery of every sort.
Thirty minutes later Leigh was ushering Mrs. Franks and Cassidy out the door with words of encouragement for practicing.
He sat down again in the living room. Walnut coffee table. Bookcases along the wall filled with rows and rows of sheet music, CDs, and records.
He sipped his coffee.
The oak upright piano was sitting against the wall directly opposite him, bench now empty. It stared at him. The keys grinned terribly.
He rubbed his temples with his leaden fingers then passed a hand over his wrinkled face. He folded his hands in his lap and leaned back, closing his eyes.
He opened his eyes. The keys still leered at him, bright black and white teeth that said, ‘What’s the matter, Leigh?’
“You already know.”
He dozed for a bit. When he woke, he checked the clock.
Eleven thirty-five? Late again.
A hurried knock at the door.
“Hi, Mr. Carlton. Sorry I’m late.”
“You’re late, Jordan,” Leigh said to the young man with curly black hair and a broad, kind face wearing an apologetic expression.
“I know. I said I’m sorry.” He hurried past Leigh, threw off his coat, and settled at the piano.
Leigh sat down again and closed his eyes.
Jordan began playing elaborate scales.
“Enough of that,” Leigh said without opening his eyes. “Play it.”
The third movement of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata poured from Jordan’s fingertips, a soaring rush of notes, the right hand a blur, the left nearly as fast providing the base for the song.
With his eyes closed, Leigh saw his fingers playing, saw each note in his mind.
Discord arose.
“No, no. Stop. Stop. What did you do?”
Leigh watched Jordan’s back.
“I don’t know.”
“Do it again.”
Leigh stood up and paced behind Jordan, not watching but listening, hands clasped behind his back.
“No. What was it this time?”
“Measure sixty-seven?”
“Is that a question?”
Jordan began playing again without answering.
Leigh shook his head. What a shame. What a waste. The kid was brilliant but he didn’t practice and he had a terrible attitude. That was not the respect he would have shown his teacher. Maestro Bernini would have whipped his fingers with his baton and kept doing it until he got it right.
Too soft. He was too soft.
“Start over.”
Jordan played again.
“No, you’re missing that same note every time. Look at the page. For God’s sake, slow down if you can’t handle the tempo. You would be able to if you had practiced.”
“I did practice, Mr. Carlton.”
Leigh loomed over Jordan. “No audience, no audition board, no one from Julliard cares whether or not you practiced or how earnestly you practiced. Either you do it right or you don’t.”
“I’m trying.”
Leigh sat down again. “Try harder.”
He played again, the music soaring. Leigh loved that song.
Finally, he played it right.
“Again.”
Jordan turned to look at him. “I thought I had it that time.”
“And I’m telling you to play it again.”
Jordan whirled around and began pounding the keys.
Leigh winced at the sound. The notes were right but they were harsh, not at all the right temperament. He ignored Jordan’s playing and let his gaze wander around the room. He studied the picture on the wall between the windows. A shepherd tended his flock amid arching ruins overgrown with trees and scrub. Deep greenery extended beyond to the shores of a river approaching a distant city. An artist’s vision of a city that probably never existed.
A vision of a shepherd and his flock. The shepherd, crook in hand. He probably had a sling for driving off wolves. A sling he’d whirl and whip, fingers twirling, wrist twisting.
The sound of a voice instead of music brought him back.
“Mr. Carlton, can you help me with this part?”
“Play it again.” He listened. “The transition in 105. You have to get through it faster.”
“Faster? I don’t think I can.”
Leigh sprang up. He went to the bookcase, grabbed a CD, fumbling with the case, and put it in the player.
“Listen.” They listened until they came to measure 105. “See? That’s me playing at forty so it can be done and if my old fingers could do it I certainly expect yours to be able to.”
Jordan stared at Leigh.
“What?” Leigh said. “Something you want to say?”
“I’ve been coming here for three months, Mr. Carlton. Are you going to teach me at any point or just berate me?”
“Berate you? If you think I’m berating you, you’re weaker than I thought.”
“You just hate me because I can still play.”
“Aha, there it is. I hate you because of these?” Leigh held up his useless hands. “Sure, they don’t do much anymore. They certainly can’t play. But I could and I did. I did it all but you’ve done nothing. I think you hate me.”
Jordan looked dumbfounded.
Leigh continued. “You don’t understand what it takes and I don’t think you’re going to succeed. If you were going to put in the work you would have done it already, you would have hit that level of commitment.”
Jordan turned away from the piano and rubbed his hands on his pant legs. He intertwined his fingers and cracked his knuckles.
“Yeah, you did it all. You played all the big places. You’re famous. And no, you can’t play anymore. I have to imagine that’s terrible. I wouldn’t want to trade places with you. But you could at least try to not be a prick. There’s always another challenge. Teaching could have been yours. But you’re too bitter, too angry, and too self-centered to teach instead of torturing. I wonder why you’re doing lessons alone in your apartment instead of at some great institution? Could it be because everyone you work with ends up hating you? You were a great pianist, one of the best in the world, but you’re a sadist, Mr. Carlton, and you shouldn't be entrusted with raising cockroaches.”
Leigh smirked. “How long have you been practicing that speech?”
“Goodbye, Mr. Carlton.”
Leigh spoke to Jordan’s retreating back. “Good luck failing.”
“Good luck dying alone.”
A clever little quip. Maybe he had underestimated Jordan. Maybe, but clever quips don’t make great pianists. Talent and practice do that.
Jordan walked out leaving the door open behind him.
Leigh got up, slammed the door, then returned to the living room. He sipped the coffee even though it was room temperature now, the worst kind of coffee, but he drank it anyway.
He sat and brooded. He held up his hands in front of him, both drooping at the wrist. He wiggled one finger at a time. Thumb, index, middle, ring, pinky. One hand, then the other. He strained, tensing his arms and shoulders. His back ached. Each effort elicited only a small response. This was enough to struggle through daily tasks, but it would never come close to allowing him to play again.
On his way to the kitchen, Leigh checked the clock. Just time for a quick lunch before his appointment.
He ate his turkey on rye in silence sitting at the kitchen table staring at no particular part of the white wall. The food struggled going down and he looked at the remaining half of the sandwich with distaste.
He got up, put the remainder of the sandwich in the fridge, then put on his coat and left, making sure to lock the door behind him.
The narrow window let little light into the hallway. He took the stairs down three flights to the bottom, taking each step slowly.
Out on the street the sky was overcast and he put on his hat with difficulty to protect his ears against the fall breeze that already held the bite of an early winter. His ears felt the sharp wind but on his hands he hardly noticed anything. To wish for pain and discomfort, that was an interesting feeling.
He trudged along at the pace allowed by his eighty years in the kind of absentminded yet careful, unselfconscious yet focused manner of the elderly.
People walked past him from behind and walked past coming toward him, the swirl of New York’s humanity moving along at breakneck speed. Cars whizzed by honking and taxis weaved to and from the curb depositing fares and swallowing new ones to be whisked off to far flung parts of the city.
He was used to being ignored in the city, as most New Yorkers are, and he liked it that way. People all around and everyone minding their own business. No one bothering themselves about an old man with crippled hands.
He pulled his collar up and continued a few more blocks passing one shop after another of insurance agents, repair shops, burger joints, electronics stores, bodegas, yoga studios, record stores, and the rest of the vast melange that characterized most New York streets. Not all the shops were open, of course. Many featured old names, for rent signs, and locked metal gates, just some of the indications of the city’s decline.
Leigh stopped at a red light.
A man with a bushy beard dressed in a suit and tie, apparently the forgotten fourth member of ZZ Top, was playing jazz guitar at the corner. There was a hat next to the amplifier.
Leigh watched his fingers dance, first slow, then flashing up and down the neck. He studied the man’s fingers until they blurred, until people started walking around him standing there in the middle of the sidewalk.
They were medium sized palms with long fingers, perfect for a variety of instruments.
He stared hungrily at the hands. Maybe he could kill the man and steal his hands, attaching them to the stumps of his wrists like some kind of Frankenstein’s monster.
“If you like what you hear, you can leave something in there,” the bearded man said, nodding toward the hat.
“Who said I like it?”
“You’re listening, aren’t you? Been standing there for five minutes.”
“And you expect me to pay you for that?”
“That’s what people generally do.”
“Do they? What people?”
The guitarist looked confused but kept playing. “People on the street.”
“They shouldn’t encourage you. I don’t like beggars.”
“This isn’t begging. It’s my job.”
“Why don’t you get a real job?”
“Excuse me? I can’t be a musician now? Is that what you’re saying?”
“No, no, not at all. I mean, play at Lincoln Center. Somewhere you’ll be appreciated.”
“I’m appreciated here.”
“That hat’s pretty empty.”
He stopped playing. “That’s cause people like you stand around here criticizing me and keeping me from playing. How about you leave? I’m not playing for you anymore.” He took a step forward. “Leave before I break your face.”
“No respect for your elders, huh?”
“Not when they’re assholes.”
“Good luck with your begging,” Leigh said.
He stopped at the corner, waited for the light, then crossed, still thinking about the busker. Great hands. He’d kill for those hands.
Maybe Jordan was right. Maybe he was a sadist.
Would a sadist ask if he was a sadist?
He stopped in the middle of the next block in front of a sad-looking pet shop. The glass door to the left of the shop was almost completely papered over but in the middle, just visible, it said Dr. Jack Kimber, MD. Leigh opened the door and mounted the rough steps.
Bright light lit the drab waiting room. Dim light would have been better. Then it would be harder to see what it looked like.
There were four chairs, only one of which was occupied by a bushy-haired woman buried in a parka. An end table displayed aged copies of Time and Better Homes & Gardens.
Leigh approached the window.
The aged secretary slid back the glass.
“Name?”
“You know me, Loretta.”
“Doc says I have to ask everyone.”
Leigh rolled his eyes. “Leigh Carlton.”
“Have a seat, Mr. Carlton.”
Leigh sat down, trying to avoid making eye contact with the dumpy brown haired woman in the parka.
“Come here often?” she said.
“What?”
“The doctor’s office.”
“I try not to.” Leigh looked away.
“I’m here all the time, you know. It’s my back. I have fused discs, that’s what the doctor says anyways. And my hands,” she held them out and flexed her fingers, “my arthritis is getting worse. It hurts to knit but I still manage.”
Leigh grimaced. “How nice for you.”
“It isn’t. It’s not nice at all. It hurts.”
“I meant that you can still knit.”
“Well, I can but it hurts.”
“Pain is how you know you’re alive.”
She looked puzzled. “Pain doesn’t mean you’re alive, it just means you’re in pain.”
“But at least you can feel.”
“I disagree.”
“I don’t,” Leigh said, removing his hands from his pockets and holding them out in front of him. They dangled like two dead turbots—flat, spotted, and limp.
“Oh, well I—I—I don’t know what to say. You can’t move at all?”
This lady couldn’t help herself.
“A little.” Leigh wiggled his fingers for effect.
“Oh, well at least you have that.”
“Oh, yes, at least I have that and my health.”
“Your health? But aren’t your hands—I mean, you’re otherwise well?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well I’m sure you take solace in knowing there are others who have it worse.”
“Not really.”
“I do, I mean, how else can you go on. It’s not that I take pleasure in knowing there are people out there who have it worse than me, it's just that I realize and remind myself that there are such people and that I could be much worse off than I am which helps me get by.”
Leigh narrowed his eyes. “Does it really?”
“Yes, it does.”
Leigh let her have the last word. He stared moodily at the peeling wallpaper.
The door opened. “Mr. Carlton,” the nurse said.
Leigh followed her back to the room, sat on the exam table, and let her take his blood pressure. The nurse walked out leaving him rubbing his arm where the cuff had been.
He got up and paced as fast as his ancient legs could move him. He took off his hat and paced. Then he took off his coat and paced some more.
The boring surroundings of the exam room blurred, the usual table, chair, desk, stool, computer, sink, and assortment of instruments on the wall becoming a flat off-white blur.
There was a knock and the door opened behind him. A large man entered. He had graying hair and thick glasses which sat atop a commanding nose.
“Hi, Leigh. Good to see you. Have a seat.”
Dr. Kimber sat at the computer and clicked and typed.
“So, how have you been?”
“Other than my hands?” He raised them up. “Fine, I guess.”
“Sleeping?”
“Not really.”
The doctor chuckled. “We don’t really at our age, do we?”
“Our age? What’re you, fifty-five? Sixty? That’s not our age. You’re young enough to be my son.”
Kimber shrugged. “I’ll be there soon enough.”
He got up and pulled the stethoscope from around his neck. He listened to Leigh’s breathing and his heart.
“Everything sounds good.”
“Quit stalling. What about the test results?”
Kimber sat down at the computer, looked at the computer screen, and started scrolling. “I’ve got them.”
“And?”
“I don’t think you’re a candidate for surgery. I’m sorry, Leigh.”
“Why not?”
“From what the surgeon said, there’s a low probability that surgery will help at all. It might actually ruin the mobility you have. Another thing is your age. You might not even wake up from the anesthesia. Age counts against you for healing, too. When you’re younger you heal a lot faster. It would take months to heal during which time you’d have almost no use of your hands.”
“I have almost no use of them now.”
“I know and I’m sorry.”
“So that’s it? What am I supposed to do?”
Kimber fixed his eyes on Leigh. “Accept it. Be glad for what you have left and move on. You’re eighty. Be glad for what you have.”
“If I can’t play I don’t have anything. How would you feel if you couldn’t practice medicine?”
Kimber shrugged. “I’d probably go fishing.”
“I can’t fish, doc.”
“Have you tried?”
“Seriously? I’m not just feeling sorry for myself here. There’s a lot I can’t do. I can barely make coffee in the morning.”
“I’m sorry but sometimes you just have to move on.”
Leigh scoffed. “So it’s just a job then. Piano is all I have, all I’ve ever had.”
“I’m not changing the world here.”
“And it’s always just been a job?”
“Leigh, I’m sixty-two. Maybe I thought I was going to change the world when I was twenty and I was really passionate about medicine but that was a long time ago. I’m a good doctor. I care for my patients. But this isn’t all I do with my life or want to do with my life.”
“I pity you, then.”
Kimber shook his head. “I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear and that you’re upset.”
Leigh laughed bitterly. “That’s an understatement.”
“I’m sure it is but there’s nothing else I can tell you. Otherwise you’re healthy. The issue is limited to your hands and it shouldn’t spread.”
“Well, thank God for small miracles.”
“You let me know if there’s anything else I can do, okay?”
Leigh nodded.
“Take care, Leigh.”
Dr. Kimber left, closing the door with a quiet click.
Leigh sat there for a moment staring at the closed door. He didn’t feel ready to get up. His legs and shoulders felt heavier than usual. Everything was heavy and slow at his age but now he felt like he was being dragged down by some extra gravity located squarely under his feet.
Leigh struggled to his feet, grabbed his hat and coat, and walked back to reception.
“What’s the damage, Loretta?”
“Just a ten dollar copay today.”
Leigh handed over a neatly folded twenty, grabbed the change, and left.
He walked with no destination in mind. He felt sick. Utterly defeated. The shred of hope that had been keeping him going had turned into a mass of anguish, a lead tumor in his belly.
It was still overcast outside, the clouds dark and menacing. The air smelled sickly, like the gray clouds had drifted down to the ground unseen and poisoned the air with their smog.
He crossed the street at the light and passed the bearded busker, still in the same spot, still playing.
Leigh stopped and turned. He stared at the busker, who was fixated on the guitar. Fingers flying, he didn’t look up.
Leigh dropped the ten dollar bill he had gotten as change in the hat next to the guitarist’s amp.
The busker noticed and looked up. Words began to form on his lips but as he met Leigh’s gaze they didn’t come out. Surprised, he raised his eyebrows and frowned.
Leigh shrugged. “You do play well, ZZ Top.”
He turned and walked away. The busker said something but he didn’t stop to catch it.
Although he didn’t want to go anywhere or be anywhere his feet brought him home. His feet felt heavy and tired. He took the stairs slowly.
Outside the door to his apartment he dropped his keys. He had to stoop to pick them up.
He put the key in the lock with some difficulty then stopped. Placing the key back in his pocket he tottered back down the stairs.
Back out on the street where he took a left this time, walked one block, and turned into a doorway under a sign that read ‘The Blue Boar.’
The room was dimly lit. The bar ran along the left wall, tables along the right. Pictures, posters, postcards, and other memorabilia papered the walls. A man in a heavy brown coat sat at the near end of the bar. A couple with their heads together sat at the other end. Otherwise, the place was empty.
Leigh hitched his slacks, took off his hat and coat, hanging the coat on the back of the chair, and sat down at the bar. The mirror behind the bar was blocked by rows and rows of liquor bottles. Leigh was grateful. He didn’t feel like seeing the old man in the mirror.
Chuck the bartender set a whisky and soda in front of him. “You’re early today, Leigh.”
Leigh took a sip and sighed with satisfaction. “Yeah. It’s been a hell of a day.”
Chuck raised an inquiring eyebrow.
Leigh gave him the short version of events.
Chuck nodded. “I didn’t want to say anything, but I noticed your hands. That sucks, man.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
“Be hard for me to do my job without my hands,” Chuck said, wiping a spot on the bar. “My dad was in construction. Hurt his back and couldn’t work anymore. It killed him. Literally. He didn’t find anything new to do, just walked into a bottle and couldn’t find his way out. He was smart. He could have done something else.
“He wasn’t just a laborer either. He worked his way up to foreman. He always loved math. He’d tell us about the algebra and the geometry he’d use every day on the job, test our math skills. He could have taught math or something but instead he just drank himself to death.” One corner of Chuck’s mouth twitched. “Pretty ironic that my dad died a drunk and I became a bartender.”
“Playing the piano isn’t the same as laying bricks. It’s not just a job, it’s my whole life.”
“That’s a choice you made to make piano your whole life. You didn’t decide to lose your hands but you have a choice about what to do now.”
“What I do now? I’m eighty.”
“You’re not dead yet. What else do you like to do?”
Leigh shrugged. “Read. I did like traveling when I was performing professionally.”
“There you go. Read, travel. Get away from this city.”
Using both hands, Leigh sipped his whisky and soda. “I don’t know. That sounds like a young man’s dream. I’m too old to travel much. Besides, no amount of traveling will get me away from these.” He held up his hands.
“Then maybe don’t try to,” Chuck said and went to serve a woman who had just sat down a few seats away.
Leigh watched the bubbles climb up the side of the glass, dragging, struggling, then popping into nothingness. They fizzed around the edges of the ice and propelled the cubes around the glass as if under their own power. He drank deeply, enjoying the bite of the whisky, the cool refreshing feel of the bubbles.
He signaled Chuck with a raised finger. Another glass appeared in front of him. He drank deep again then stared around the room. As he moved his head he could feel the alcohol swimming in his brain, a not altogether unpleasant feeling.
Time passed and a few more patrons had straggled in. Night fell outside.
In the back of the bar, a figure he recognized was sitting at the upright piano. He had forgotten it was Samantha’s night to play.
He turned back to his drink and took a sip, unsure of whether to stay or go. He felt a hand on his back.
“Hi, Leigh.”
Leigh looked up to see a young woman with short black hair whose rounded cheeks were emphasized by the smile reaching up to her eyes.
He returned her smile. “Hi, Samantha. I didn’t see you come in. How are you?”
“Fine, and you?”
“Been better. Give ‘em hell tonight, as long as it’s good hell.”
Always. Want to join me?”
Leigh shook his head vigorously. “No, no. I—I can’t.”
“You can play the bass part—”
Leight cut her off. “No.” He paused and softened his voice. “No, thank you but you go ahead and play.”
“Okay.”
Leigh tried to ignore the look of concern in her eyes.
She started with some blues, then moved into jazz, then played a couple classical pieces. Leigh tried to enjoy the music but found himself distracted. The rising chatter, the whisky gone to his head, the glances Chuck would shoot over at him all combined to make the black thing at the back of his mind rise up and threaten to swallow his brain.
He finished his drink, placed a twenty on the bar, and left, coat and hat in hand.
The cold air was bracing. It filled his nostrils. He walked with his white-haired head bowed and open to the night air.
His legs felt old and tired going up the stairs, the whisky having proved ineffectual in helping his mood from earlier and only making his head swim when he had probably needed clarity.
Back in his apartment, he sank into the easy chair and stared at the piano until he fell asleep.
After breakfast and a shower the next morning, Leigh picked up the phone and dialed.
“Mrs. Franks? I’m afraid I’m going to have to cancel Cassidy’s lesson next week. Yes, I’m sorry but I’m going to be traveling but I’ll be back the week after. Thank you. See you then. Bye.”
Leigh returned to the kitchen table and sat down. He nursed his coffee for hours, reheating it occasionally on the stovetop as he sat thinking about nothing in particular and looking at nothing in particular.
He didn’t pack that day, or the next, or the one after. Each day he would sit in his chair staring at the piano thinking sometimes of when he had played in Rome or Tokyo or sometimes thinking about nothing at all.
One night he pulled a bottle of scotch from the cupboard, poured a generous dram, and carried the glass in both hands to the living room. He sat drinking and staring yet again at the grinning piano, the white and black teeth stretched from ear to ear like some deranged cartoon.
As he drank he began to grow angry at the piano’s mocking grin. He rubbed the stubble on his wrinkled chin with the back of his hand.
“Something funny?”
The piano didn’t answer.
“What’s so goddamn funny?”
Leigh knocked back the sliver of scotch left in the glass and set it down hard on the coffee table. He shuffled over and slammed a fist into the keys.
Discordant rending notes rang out.
He hit it again. And again.
He pulled out the bench and sat down. He stared down at the keys. They looked different, not a grinning mouth but a delicate ivory carpet with ebony inlay.
He placed one finger on middle C and pressed. The note hung in the air. He played it again, depressing the right pedal to extend the note.
Without thinking he started playing Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. Moving slowly and painstakingly he played the bass notes with both his index fingers since his pinky and thumb on his left hand couldn’t stretch to play the right notes. Holding the notes with the pedal he shifted both hands up to play the treble notes.
On and on he went like this, slower than the song was supposed to be played he eked out a recognizable version of the first movement, dark and haunting and sad.
The final note rang out. He held it until it faded away, then he got up, turned on the CD player, rewound to the beginning, and sat down in his chair, hands crossed in front of him.
He listened to the decades old recording of himself playing all three movements of the Moonlight Sonata, including the impossibly difficult third movement, one of the hardest of all pieces to play on the piano. Lightning fast, not a wrong note.
He studied his hands now. Old and failing, like the rest of him in many ways. But, they had done that, they had played and not just played but played better than any pianist in his lifetime. Gratitude welled up inside him, like one might feel toward a dying dog, a faithful friend who has been there for years, always reliable, who has done his job and must now rest.
He closed his eyes.
Leigh awoke to the sound of knocking at the door.
He straightened his shirt and ran his fingers through his thinning white hair.
He didn’t see anyone through the peephole but he opened the door anyway.
“Hi, Cassidy. What are you doing here?”
“It’s Tuesday, Mr. Carlton. My mom said you weren’t here but I thought I’d check.”
“Tuesday already? I’m sorry but I told your mom that I’m traveling this week.”
She looked confused. “You’re traveling? You don’t look like you’re traveling.”
He grinned. Cheeky kid.
“Yes, in a manner of speaking. I’m sorry but I can’t do our lesson today.”
She looked at the ground. “Oh, okay. It’s just, I’ve been practicing really hard.”
Leigh studied the girl.
“I—hmm.” Leigh thought for a moment. A struggle raged somewhere deep in him. “Tell you what—get your mom and come back in a half hour and we’ll have your lesson, okay?”
Cassidy brightened. “Okay. See you then.”
Precisely thirty minutes later there was a knock at the door.
“Good morning, Mrs. Franks. Cassidy. Come on in. Would you like some coffee?”
“No thanks, Mr. Carlton,” Mrs. Franks said.
Cassidy sat at the piano and placed the lesson book on the stand.
Leigh sat down in his usual brown leather chair, leaned back, and closed his eyes.
“Alright, Cassidy, let’s start with some scales.”
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, strictly a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance, perceived resemblance, or similarity to any other fictional works, to actual events or persons, living or dead, and any perceived slights of people, places, or organizations are products of the reader’s imagination. This fiction is the result of a partnership between a human writer and the character(s) he accessed with his creative subconscious as he raced through the story with them. No AI of any kind, generative or otherwise, was used in any way to write this story.
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