Piano Lessons
by Daniel R. Snyder
Lorraine is once again trying to teach
me the piano. Not play, really, just do a song with her. She
sits in front of the black Steinway, shoulders leaning in, both hands lightly
touching the keys, and I’m beside her on the bench. She wants me to
play the high notes while she plays the low. I haven’t a clue what
I’m doing, but I’m enjoying the smell of her perfume.
She’s a small girl, blond, very pretty,
a couple of years older than me, but she doesn’t look forty-one. I’ve
known her for years. She reminds me a little bit of a girlfriend I
had when I was nineteen. Her name was Debbie and she wanted to be a
concert pianist. We broke up because she thought she needed to pursue
her career in New York. I saw her back in town a few years ago, playing
in a club but looking tired and worn, and she had gotten fat. Lorraine
will never look like that. The only thing that’s changed about her
over the years is a few lines around her eyes, but they only show when she’s
smiling, and when we’re together, she smiles a lot.
My left shoulder is pressed tightly
against her right, and I can feel the rhythm of her breathing. She
laughs at my fumbling attempts to play the right notes and takes my left
hand.
“Not like that, stupid.” She presses my fingers into the keys. “Like this.”
I laugh too, and she turns her head
and kisses me on the cheek, her lips soft and smooth, her breath smelling
faintly of Amaretto.
It’s a small penthouse, crowded, and
the air is smoky. A bleached blond and a redhead are kissing at the
buffet table, leather miniskirts and tight tank tops stretched over bodies
that probably made a plastic surgeon rich, but they look happy.
On the white leather couch sits an
odd looking quartet--Mike and Lisa and an older couple. Mike’s hand
is running across Lisa’s back while her fingers seem to be playing scales
up and down his chest. They’ve been together for about two weeks, and
they’re sure they’re in love. Maybe they are.
“Are you going to play, or what?” Lorraine asks.
“It’s hopeless.” I get to my
feet, place a hand on her shoulder, and kiss the top of her head. “I’m
never going to get this figured out, anyway.”
“You’re probably right.”
“Besides, I have to find Carrie.”
“Why?”
I’m not really sure why, except that
she came with me, and right now I don’t know where she is. Mike and
Lisa are still at it on the couch. The older couple beside them, a
man wearing a black tuxedo and a woman in a black evening dress, argue about
something while the man cuts lines on the mirrored coffee table, laying them
out like a musical staff. Glassy eyed but in perfect harmony, they
lean forward and put silver straws in their noses. When they finally
come back up, the man pinches his nose and smiles, staring at the two girls
at the buffet table.
“You used to look like that,” he says.
After wiping her finger across the
table and rubbing her gums, the woman takes a deep rasping breath and exhales.
“Asshole.”
“When did you turn into such a bitch?”
“Let me see,” she says, running thin
fingers through her short gray hair. “Maybe it was when you stopped
looking at me like that.”
A movement of people crosses in front
of me, and for a moment I lose sight of the older couple. A few seconds
later, the woman is gone, and the man begins laying out new lines.
Lisa is now running her fingers through Mike’s hair.
I scan the room for Carrie, consider
calling for her, but she wouldn’t hear me over stereo. Someone put
on a new CD. Liza Minelli I think, or it could be Barbara Streisand.
Stepping away from the piano, I feel a tug on my sleeve.
“You coming back?” Lorraine asks.
“Always.” I pat the back of her hand and head for the kitchen.
It’s a mess, counters littered with
bottles and cans and ashtrays. It’s crowded in here too, and hard to
hear over the cacophony of clanking dishes, slamming cabinet doors, and people
talking too loud. I don’t see Carrie, so I walk over toward the island
to fix myself a drink.
“Rob!”
A baritone voice from the other side
of the room. It’s familiar but I can’t quite place it until I see him
approaching. It’s Steve. This is his penthouse. We’ve known
each other for quite a while. Not friends, exactly, but still a long
time. He reaches me. There’s a drink in one of his hands.
With the other, he hands me a joint. I take a hit.
“How you been, Steve?” I give him back the joint.
“Good. You?” He sets the joint in an ashtray.
“Fine.”
“Come alone, Rob?”
“No. With Carrie.”
He takes a sip of his drink. “Where’s Lorraine?”
“At the piano last time I saw.”
“Figures. Want a drink?” He reaches for a bottle. “Rocks, right?”
Without waiting for an answer, he reaches
into a tin bucket, drops ice into a tumbler, splashes Chivas into it, and
then hands it to me.
“So where’s your wife?” I take a sip.
“In the bedroom with a couple of friends. Want to join in?”
“No thanks. Not my thing.”
“Three at a time.” He reaches
for the joint and takes a huge drag and rolls his eyes toward the ceiling.
“God, I love that woman.”
“I’m sure you do, but I prefer it one-on-one.”
“You’re divorced. Live a little.”
“I better go find my date.” I
tip back the rest of the Chivas and set the tumbler on the littered countertop.
“Thanks for the drink, Steve.”
He waves a hand toward the doorway,
spilling some of his drink. “You know where we’ll be if you change
your mind.”
Leaving the kitchen, I move back toward
Lorraine still at the piano and touch her shoulder. She looks up at
me, smiling, and continues to play. The old couple on the couch are
now leaning back, relaxing, smoking cigarettes, their earlier discord apparently
forgotten. Mike and Lisa are gone, as are the two girls at the buffet
table, but the room is still crowded.
“Did you find, Carrie?” Lorraine asks.
“Not yet. I’ll be back in a minute.”
Moving toward the hallway leading past
the spare bedroom, I notice the bathroom door is ajar, so I slowly push it
open to discover Carrie, fully dressed, sitting on the toilet, chin resting
in her palm. Tommy, tanned, dressed in sweatpants and a sleeveless
t-shirt as usual, is resting his hands on the sides of the sink, staring
into the mirror. His face is flushed, and there are tears on his cheeks.
“We were just talking,” Carrie says, tapping her fingernails on the glass in her hand.
“So I see. Sorry to interrupt.”
“It’s all right,” Tommy wipes his eyes. “We’re done.”
“So what’s up?” I ask.
“Nothing,” Carrie says.
“It’s all right, honey,” Tommy says. “I’m not embarrassed.”
“About what?” I ask.
“Brent dumped him today.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right.”
“Men are such fucks,” Carrie says. “I told him that he should go back to his wife.”
Tommy splashes water on his face, wipes
it with a thick towel, puts his hands back on the sink, and returns to studying
his reflection in the mirror. Carrie continues to drum like a metronome
on her glass.
“I just don’t get it, that’s all,” he says.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know.” Tommy’s voice
cracks. “Brent just said that it didn’t feel right between us.”
“Men. They’re just a bunch of--”
“Would you just shut up already?” I’m really tired of that refrain.
“What am I supposed to do, Rob?”
Tommy asks. “Take faggot lessons or something? Jesus. I’m
new at this, you know?”
“I’m telling you, you should--”
I turn toward Carrie and stare.
Her mouth drops open. She stands up and brushes the wrinkles out of
her dress. “Sorry, it’s--”
“Just leave us alone for a few minutes.”
“Fine.” She storms out the door, slamming it behind her.
I turn toward Tommy. “So what now?”
“I don’t know. Get my own place I guess. What about you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you and Carrie”
“Oh, that. I’m going to break it off with her. Go solo for a while”
“Good. When?”
“Soon.”
“Carrie’s a two-faced bitch. You should be with Lorraine.”
“Lorraine and I are just friends.”
“So you’ve said. Give me a hug?”
“Sure.” I wrap my arms around his shoulders. “I hope you two work it out.”
“Thanks.” Tommy pushes away and
wipes his eyes again. “So let’s go rejoin the party.”
Back out in the living room, I see
Carrie sitting cross-legged on the couch, drink in hand, talking to some
guy I’ve never seen before. She looks at me and glares, then returns
to her conversation. The CD is over, and I hear
Lorraine still playing. It’s a love song I think, but I can’t quite
remember. I walk across the room and sit beside her on the bench, and
I can feel the warmth of her body as our shoulders press together once again.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi, yourself. Come to try again?”
“Not tonight.”
“Oh.” She stops playing and looks me in the eyes.
“You know I’m no good at this.”
“You don’t give yourself enough credit.”
“Maybe so.” I clear my throat
and look at my watch. “It’s late. Got a ride home?”
“Paul is picking me up when he gets off work.”
“So how are things going with you two?”
“Fine.” Her eyes turn away as she places her hands back on the keys. “Really.”
I reach out and put my right hand over hers. “I’m glad.”
“He’s a good man.” She turns her hand over, and our fingers entwine.
“I have to go.”
“So soon?” She lifts her arm
and runs the back of her slender hand across my cheek, then wraps an arm
around my waist and puts her head on my shoulder. “You’re a good friend,
Rob.”
“You too.”
Motioning to Carrie, I head for the
front. She stands and goes into the spare room to get Mike and Lisa,
and a few minutes later, they all meet me in the foyer. We get our
coats from the closet and leave, riding quietly down the glass elevator,
listening to a violin concerto on the speakers. Outside, we hail the
small red clad valet, who runs off to fetch Carrie’s car. No one is
speaking.
When the car finally pulls up, Carrie
pushes me out of the way and grabs the keys. “I’ll drive.”
I shrug, tip the valet, and walk around
to the other side of the car. Mike and Lisa climb in the back seat.
Standing at the curb, I slip my hands into my pockets and look up.
It’s a clear and cool night. “I think I’ll walk.”
“Suit yourself.” Carrie disappears
into the car, slams the door, and pulls out. Mike and Lisa wave goodbye
through the rear window. The taillights swim off into the sea of cars,
and then I start to walk, slowly, heading nowhere in particular. Finally,
I stop in front of a music store and stand for a very long time, admiring
all the pianos through the window.
Originally Published in Whistling Shade
© 2006 Daniel R. Snyder
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