Every Note Played(22)
Richard’s father was the quarterback captain of his high school football team, division champions class of 1958, married to the prettiest cheerleader on the squad, and Pop Warner coach to two of his three boys. Walt Evans felt no pride or joy in his awkward skinny son who loved classical piano. He still doesn’t. Real men love Tom Brady, not Wolfgang Mozart. Although Richard hasn’t been back home in years, he’d bet that his brothers’ football trophies are still standing gleaming tall on the fireplace mantel in the living room, proudly on public display. His father is probably still bragging about Mikey’s one-handed touchdown catch that won the Thanksgiving Day game against Hanover High. Richard’s many piano competition awards were kept in his bedroom, hidden, private. If they haven’t been thrown away or donated to the YMCA, they’re now most likely in an unmarked cardboard box in the attic.
Growing up, Richard felt his father’s disinterest in him as disdain, disgust, dishonor. He’s not sure Grace’s experience of her father is much better. She had two highly trained pianists for parents, and no matter how he and Karina sold it, zero interest in the piano. She loved sports. Soccer and volleyball. Oh, the irony. For the first time in his life, Richard empathized with the disappointment his father felt in him. But he swore he wouldn’t pick up the thread in the pattern his father had woven, that he wouldn’t in turn reject his daughter. She could love anything she wanted, even if it involved nets and balls instead of strings and keys.
He understood this, yet her nonmusical interests created real distance between them. They literally had no common ground—she was on a field or a court, and he was in a practice room or on a stage. The demands on his time, both rehearsing and performing, kept him from being home much, and when he was, he had trouble relating to her. He’s always loved her, but they were never close.
Then he and Karina split. Karina lobbied hard for Grace’s allegiance, disclosing all of Richard’s many sins. He hated Karina for doing that, accused her of stealing his only daughter’s love, and threatened to reveal his side of the story. But in truth Karina didn’t need a smear campaign to secure Grace’s love and loyalty. Karina already had it. And pointing out the rotting heap of trash on Karina’s side of the street wouldn’t have served to clean up his.
Hidden behind the photo from Grace’s graduation is a picture of Richard and Karina on their wedding day. He almost didn’t bother taking it with him when he moved out, and he almost tossed it in the trash when he needed a frame for Grace’s graduation picture. He and Karina are holding hands and smiling in the photo, young and in love, assuming everything will work out for them. Oblivious. He thinks of how far they strayed from the life he wanted in that photograph, of what she stole from him, of the second chance at happiness that he’ll now never have, and a wild anger snakes through him, coiling in the dark emptiness of his stomach. If he could use his hands, he’d remove that hidden wedding photo from the frame and rip it to shreds.
He needs something to do, something to distract him from the bottomless sorrow and anger inside his gut, from the tortured thoughts circling like vultures in his head. He can’t use the computer until Bill affixes Richard’s Head Mouse, a reflective-dot sticker stuck to the tip of his nose. Well, he could go “old school” and peck at the keys with a pen held by his teeth or with his big toe as he did before getting the Head Mouse, but he doesn’t feel like it.
He considers watching TV. The remote is taped to the hardwood floor where he can press the on-button with his big toe. Once the TV and cable are on, he can press the voice-command button with his toe and say, “Channel Five.” He could watch CNN or PBS or a movie, but it’s too passive.
He wants to run, scream, cry, punch something, break something, kill something. Instead, he sits on the couch, powerless, laboring to breathe, staring vaguely at his pathetic reflection in the glassy black TV screen. He tries to imagine the life he might’ve lived if he hadn’t met Karina, if he had forty more years, if he didn’t have to sit here alone for two hours with no hands, if he didn’t have ALS. His breathing eventually settles as he stares and waits. He thinks of nothing coherent for a long time.
He’s playing Debussy’s Préludes in the TV screen as he falls asleep.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Richard is awakened by the sound of a key at the door. He looks to his left wrist for the time, an obstinate and futile habit. He hasn’t worn a watch in six months, since the fingers of his right hand lost the strength and dexterity to work the latch on the band. His eyes find the time on the cable box as the door opens: 9:00 on the dot. Ever punctual.
“Mornin’!”
Bill bursts into Richard’s condo, whistling an upbeat song Richard doesn’t recognize, jingling a metal ring of keys like a tambourine. The kitchen and living room lights flick on, and Richard squints against this assault on his senses. Bill puts something in the refrigerator, places an earth-friendly grocery bag on the counter, removes his hat, and hangs his coat on the back of one of the bar chairs. He’s all movement and high energy, a diametrical contrast to the silent inertia he entered. He walks past Richard and lifts the window shades.
“Let there be light!” he says in a dramatic stage voice as he does every morning. “Where you at with the BM?”
“Nothing yet.”
Bill smiles and heads toward the kitchen. Richard can’t imagine how this answer can be a cause for joy, even considering Bill’s often-inappropriate sense of humor. Richard assumes he must’ve misunderstood and is about to correct him when Bill pulls a small white bottle from the bag on the counter.