Chapter 11 CHAPTER 11

The end, when it arrived, proved both timely and apt. Not only had I learned everything Mr. Martin had to offer, but I was sick of it all—the practice, the repertoire, the discipline, and the ennui of eighty-eight keys. By the time I turned sixteen, I began looking for an excuse to quit, a way out that would not break my mothers heart. The truth is that while I am a very good pianist, great even, I was never sublime. , by far the best in our remote hamlet, no doubt our corner of the state, maybe the best from border to border, but beyond that, no. I lacked the passion, the consuming fire, to be a world-class pianist. forward, the alternative was dreadful. To end up like old Mr. Martin himself, teaching others after a second-rate career? I would rather play in a bordello.

Over breakfast one morning, I opened with this gambit: "Mom, I dont think Im going to get any better." "Better than what?" she asked, whipping eggs. "At the piano, at music. I think its as far as I can go." She poured the mess into a skillet, the eggs sizzling as they hit butter and hot iron, and said nothing while she stirred. She served me a plate of eggs and toast, and I ate them in silence. Coffee cup in hand, she sat across the table from me. "Henry," she said softly, wanting my attention. "Do you remember the day when you were a little boy and ran away from home?"

I did not, but I nodded in the affirmative between bites. "It was a bright day and hot, hotter than Hades. I wanted a bath to cool off. The heats one thing I cant get used to. And I asked you to mind Mary and Elizabeth, and you disappeared into the forest. Do you remember that?" There was no way I could remember, but I nodded my head as I swallowed the last slug of orange juice. "I put the girls to bed and came back down, but you were gone." Her eyes welled up as she recounted the experience. "We looked over hill and yon but couldn't find you. As the day wore on, I called your father to come home, and then we telephoned the police and the firemen, and we were all looking for you for hours, calling out your name into the night." She looked past me, as if reliving the experience in her minds eye.

"Any more eggs, Mom?" She waved her spoon toward the stove, and I helped myself. "When it grew dark, I grew afraid for you. Who knows what lives out in that forest? I knew a woman once in Donegal whose baby was stolen from her. Shed gone out to pick blackberries and left her child sleeping on a blanket on a bright summer day, and when she came back, the baby was gone, and they never did find it, poor thing, not a trace. All that remained was an impression left on the grass." I peppered my eggs and dug in. "I thought of you lost and wanting your mother, and I couldn't get to you, and I prayed to God that youd come home. When they found you, it was like a second chance. Quitting would be throwing away your second chance, your God-given gift. Its a blessing and you should use your talent."

"Late for school." I mopped the plate clean with a heel of bread, kissed the top of her head, and exited. Before I made it down the front steps, I regretted not being more forceful. Most of my life has been ruled by indecision, and I am grateful when fate intercedes, relieving me from choice and responsibility for my actions. By the time of the winter recital that year, just the sight and sound of the piano made my stomach churn. I could not disappoint my parents by quitting Mr. Martin altogether, so I pretended that all was well. We arrived early, at the concert hall, and I left my family at the door to find their seats while I moped about backstage. The folderol surrounding the recitals remained unchanged. In the wings of the theater, students milled about, mentally preparing for their turns, practicing their fingering on any flat surface. Mr. Martin paced among us, counting heads, reassuring the stage-frightened, the incompetent, and the reluctant. "You are my prize pupil," he said. "The best Ive ever taught. The only real piano player in the whole bunch. Make them cry, Henry." And with that, he pinned a carnation on my lapel. He swirled and parted the curtains to the brightness of the footlights to welcome the assemblage. My performance was the grand finale, so I Had time to duck out the back and smoke a Camel pinched from my fathers pack. A winters night had fallen, clear and cold. A rat, startled by my presence in the alley, stopped and stared at me. I showed the vermin my teeth, hissed and glowed, but I could not scare it. Once upon a time, such creatures were terrified of me.

That frozen night, I felt entirely human and heartened at the thought of the warm theater. If this was to be my farewell performance, I resolved to give them something to remember me by. I moved like a whip, cracking the keys, thundering, floating, the right pressure on all the partial notes. Members of the audience began rising from their seats to lead the applause before the strings stopped humming. Enchanted, they showered their huzzahs, so much so that I almost forgot how much I hated the whole business. Backstage, Mr. Martin greeted me first, tears of joy in his eyes, squealing "Bravo," and then the other students, half of them barely masking their resentment, the other half consumed with jealousy, acknowledging with grudging graciousness that I had outshone their performances. In came the parents, siblings, friends, neighbors, and assorted music lovers. They clumped around the players, but I drew the largest crowd, and I did not notice the woman in the red coat until most of the well-wishers had vanished.

My mother was wiping lipstick from my cheek with a wet handkerchief when the woman meandered into my peripheral vision. She appeared normal and pleasant, about forty years old. Her deep brown hair framed an intelligent face, but I was perplexed at the way her pale green eyes had fixed upon me. She stared, scrutinized, studied, and pondered, as if dredging up an inner mystery. She was an utter stranger to me. "Excuse me," she said. "But youre Andrew Day?" "Henry Day," I corrected her. "Right, Henry. You play wonderfully." "Thank you." I turned back to my parents, who intimated that they were ready to go.

Maybe she saw my profile, or perhaps the simple act of turning away set off something in her brain, but she gasped and drew her fingers to her mouth. "Youre him," she said. "Youre the little boy." I squinted at her and smiled. "You are the one I saw in the woods that night. On the road? With the deer?" She started to raise her voice. "Dont you remember? I saw you on the road with those other boys. It must have been eight or nine years ago by now. Youre all grown up and everything, but youre that little boy, no doubt. I was worried about you." "I dont know what you are talking about, maam." I turned to go, but she grabbed my arm.

"It is you. I cracked my head on the dashboard when I hit the deer, and I thought you were a dream at first. You came out of the forest—" I yelped a sound that hushed the room, a pure raw cry that startled everyone, myself included. I did not realize my capacity for such an inhuman noise still existed. My mother intervened. "Let go of my son," she told her. "Youre hurting his arm." "Look, lady," I said, "I don't know you." My father stepped into the middle of the triangle. "What is this all about?" The womans eyes flashed in anger. "I saw your boy. One night I was driving home from the country, and this deer jumped right onto the road in front of my car. I swerved to miss her, but I clipped her with my bumper . I didnt know what to do, so I got out of the car to see if I could help."

She shifted her attention from my father and began addressing me. "From the woods comes this boy, about seven or eight years old. Your son. And he startled me more than the deer did. Out of nowhere, walks right up to the deer like the most natural thing in the world; then he bent down to its mouth or nose or whatever you call it. Hard to believe, but he cupped his hand over her muzzle, and breathed. It was magic. The deer rolled off her side , unfolded her legs, stood, and sprang off. The most incredible thing thats ever happened to me." I realized then that she had experienced an encounter. But I knew I had not seen her before, and while some changelings are willing to inspire wild animals, I never engaged in such foolishness.

"I got a real good look at the boy in my headlights," she said, "although not so good at his friends in the forest. It was you. Who are you really?" "I don't know her." My mother, riveted by her story, came up with an alibi. "It cant be Henry. Listen, he ran away from home when he was seven years old, and I didnt let him out of my sight for the next few years. He was never out by himself at night." The intensity melted from the womans voice, and her eyes searched for a sign of faith. "He looked at me, and when I asked him his name, he ran away. Since that night Ive wondered..." My father spoke in a gentle tone he seldom used. "I'm sorry, but you must be mistaken. Everybody has a double in the world. Maybe you saw someone who looked a bit like my son. Im sorry for your troubles." She looked into his eyes, searching for affirmation, but he offered only the solace of his calm demeanor. He took the red coat from her arm and held it open for her. She slipped inside it, then left the room without a word, without looking back .In her wake trailed the remnants of anger and anxiety. "Did you ever?" my mother asked. "What a story. And to think that shed actually have the nerve to say it." From the corner of my eye, I could see my father watching me, and the sensation unnerved me. "Can we go now? Can we get out of here?" When we were all in the car and out of the city, I announced my decision. "Im not going back there. No more recitals, no more lessons, no more strangers coming up to me with their wild stories. I quit." For a moment, I thought my father would drive off the road. He lit a cigarette and let Mom take over the conversation. "Henry, you know how I feel about quitting...." "Did you hear what that lady said?" Mary chimed in. "She thought you lived in the woods." "You don't even like to stand next to a tree." Elizabeth laughed. "This isn't about your feelings, Mom, but mine." My father stared at the white line in the middle of the road. "You are a sensitive boy," my mother continued. "But you cant let one woman with one story ruin your life. You dont mean to tell me you are going to quit eight years of work on the basis of a fairy tale." "It isn't the woman in the red coat. Ive had enough. Gone as far as I can go." "Bill, why don't you say something?" "Dad, Im tired of it. Sick of practice, practice, practice. Tired of wasting my Saturdays. I think I should have a say over my own life." He drew a deep breath and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. The rest of the Days understood the signal. Quiet all the way home. That night I could hear them talking, make out the ebb and flow of a loud and emotional confrontation, but I had lost all ability to eavesdrop from a distance. Once in a while I heard a "goddam" or "bloody" explode from him, and she may have cried—I suppose she did—but thats it. Near midnight, he stormed out of the house, and the sound of the car pulling away left a desolation. I went downstairs to see if Mom had survived the ordeal and found her calmly sitting in the kitchen, a shoebox open on the table before her. "Henry, its late." She tied a ribbon around a bundle of letters and set it in the box. "Your father used to write once a week while he was over in North Africa." I knew the story by heart, but she unwound it again. Pregnant, with a husband overseas at war, all of nineteen at the time, she lived with his parents. She was still alone at the time of Henrys birth, and I was now almost as old as she had been through the whole ordeal. Counting my life as a hobgoblin, I was old enough to be her grandfather. Untamed age had crept into her heart. "You think lifes easy when you are young, and can take almost anything because your emotions run so strong. When youre up, youre in the stars, and when youre down, youre at the bottom of the well. But although Ive grown old—" She was thirty-five by my calculations. "That doesn't mean Ive forgotten what its like to be young. Of course, its your life to do with what you choose. I had high hopes for you as a pianist, Henry, but you can be whatever you wish. If its not in your heart, I understand." "Would you like a cup of tea, Mom?" "That would be grand." Two weeks later, during the afternoon before Christmas, Oscar Love and I drove into the city to celebrate my newly won independence. Ever since that episode with Sally, I had a question or two about my capability to have intercourse, so the trip was not Without apprehension. When I lived in the forest, only one of those monsters could do the trick. He had been captured too late in his childhood, at the cusp of puberty, and he gave the poor females nothing but trouble. The rest of us were not ready physically to perform the act. But I was ready to experience sex that night. Oscar and I tipped back a bottle of cheap wine. Thus fortified, we approached the house at dusk as the girls were opening up shop. I would like to report that losing my virginity was both exotic and erotic, but the truth is that it was mainly dark, rough, and over much more quickly than I had expected. She was fair-skinned and past her glory, the crown of platinum hair a come-on and a ruse, and among her several rules for the duration, no kissing. When I displayed a tentative uncertainty as to where and how to go about the act, she grabbed me with her hand and pushed me into position. A short time later, all that remained was to get dressed, pay the bill, and wish her merry Christmas. When morning came with gifts around the tree and the family lounging in pajamas and robes, I felt on my way to a brand-new life. Mom and the twins were oblivious to any change as they went about their cheerful tasks, offering genuine affection and consideration of one another. My father, on the other hand, may have suspected my debauch of the night before. Earlier that morning, when I came home around two oclock, the living room smelled of Camels, as if he had been waiting up for me and only gone to bed when Oscars car pulled into the driveway. Throughout that drowsy holiday, my father moved about the house the way a bear moves through its territory when it smells the presence of another male. Nothing said, but wayward glances, brusqueness , a snarl or two. For the rest of our time together, we did not get along. A year and a half remained in my high school career before I could get away to college, so we circled one another, barely exchanging a sentence on our rare encounters. He treat ed me like a stranger half of the time. I recall two occasions when he stepped out of his inner world, and both times were unsettling. A few months after the scene at the winter recital, he brought up the matter of the woman in red and her strange story. We were tearing down my mothers henhouse, having sold the birds and got out of the egg and chicken business after turning a handsome profit. His questions arrived in the intervals between the prying crowbar, squealing nails, and tearing lumber. "So, you remember that lady and her story about the boy and the deer?" He ripped another plank from the frame." What do you make of that? Do you think such a thing could happen?" "Sounded incredible to me, but I suppose it might have happened. She seemed pretty sure of herself." Grunting with effort, he tugged away at a rusty nail. "So it might be true? How do you explain her thinking it was you?" "I didn't say it was true. She seemed convinced it happened, but it isn't likely, is it? And anyway, suppose something like that did happen to her, she was wrong about me. I wasn't there." "Maybe it was someone who looked like you?" He threw his weight into it, and the rest of the wall crashed down, leaving only the skeleton stark against the sky. "Thats a possibility," I said. "I reminded her of someone she saw once upon a time. Didnt you tell her that everyone has a double in the world? Maybe she saw my evil twin?" He eyeballed the frame. "This'll tumble down with a few good kicks." He knocked down the frame, loaded it up in the back of a truck, and drove away. The second occasion occurred about a year later. His voice woke me at first light, and I followed the sound from my bedroom and through the back doorway. A feathery mist rose from the lawn and he stood, his back to me, in the middle of the wet grass, calling out my name as he faced a stand of firs. A dark trail of footsteps led into the woods ten feet in front of him. He was stuck to the spot, as if he had startled a wild animal that fled away in fear. But I saw no creature. By the time I drew near, the diminuendo of a few raspy calls of "Henry" lingered in the air. Then he fell to his knees, bent his head to the ground, and quietly wept .I crept back into the house, and pretended to be reading the sports page when he came in. My father stared at me hunched over the newspaper, my long fingers wrapped around a coffee cup. The wet belt of his robe dragged along the floor like a chain. Soaked, disheveled, and unshaven, he seemed much older, but maybe I had not noticed before how he was ag ing. His hands trembled as if palsied, and he took a Camel from his pocket. The cigarette was too wet to light despite his repeated attempts, so he crumpled the whole pack and tossed it in the trash can. I set a cup of coffee in front of him, and he stared at the steam as if I had handed him poison. "Dad, are you all right? You look a mess." "You." He pointed his finger at me like a gun, but thats all he said. The word hung in the air all morning, and I do not think I ever heard him call me "Henry" again.