Memories, Chapter 20 - The House On Carter Avenue
CHAPTER 20
THE HOUSE ON CARTER AVENUE
Every bus in Biloxi looked alike–tan, green, and dusty–except after a good rain when they sported dark oily stripes that lasted for a few days. The only way to tell them apart was the outside routing sign. In Biloxi, it read either "POINT CADET", or "GULFPORT", or "CAILLAIVET" or "KEESLER"–depending on whether you wanted to go East, West, North/South or onto the Air Force Base. "GULFPORT" was my bus. The driver was a young man whose hair was thick but prematurely gray. He looked a lot like Paul Drake—Perry Mason's assistant on the TV show, and I was fascinated by the resemblance. One afternoon while dropping my money into the coin collector, I asked him if he was related to Paul Drake.
"Sure, kid. Now, move to the back, sit down and be quiet." –was all I got in return. So much for meeting famous people on a Biloxi city bus.
The bus ride was boring. Everything was always the same—the same people carrying the same brown paper shopping bags–getting on and off at the same places–usually sitting in the same seats. And the inside of the bus was always the same. Dirty! Soiled foot worn black rubber mats lined the aisles. Small piles of litter were scattered everywhere–cigarette butts, empty match books, scraps of paper, and bits of smashed popcorn from the Kresses' 5 and 10. Winter afternoons were the worst for riding the bus–its captive air reeking with stale cigarette smoke and sweaty day workers headed home for the evening. But today the weather was perfect and several windows were ajar. It was nice to smell the fresh clean air–though it whistled loudly through the half-open windows making conversation impossible. What difference did it make? The talk was always the same.
I daydreamed a bit until I felt the bus slowing on its decent down Porter Avenue—bouncing and rocking all the way down. It was time to get ready—home was less than a mile away. The traffic light was still green when the bus reached the beach intersection. It slowed, turned, and began the gentle incline up West Beach Boulevard.
The bus's engine droned and vibrated while the driver frantically shifted gears; the bus lurched unevenly—testing everyone's patience. Sometimes the vibration was so bad, the sliding windows began rattling like they were going to fall out. Then someone would pound the frame with their fist—or slam the offensive window shut.
Mary Helen sat in front of me. I peeked over the edge of the high backed seat. She stared at her "music"(which was “Greek” to me)—her tiny fingers tapping out patterns on an invisible keyboard. She was in another world—totally unaware of my staring, the noise, and the grime that surrounded her. I felt a little bit envious.
I sensed the bus nearing the old Biloxi Cemetery, and reflexively reached up and yanked the cord—signaling the driver for my stop. “DING!” The bus slowed, coasted, and finally crawled into the parking bay before the old Father Ryan house. The bus halted with a jolt causing the passengers to recoil in unison. Re-gathering my books, I stood as soon as the doors flapped open. But instead of careening down the aisle, carelessly bumping the other riders as usual, I held back and let Mary Helen lead the way.
At the front of the bus, she descended the metal stairway slowly, gracefully. She stepped out like a dainty princess leaving her carriage taking care to modestly hold her dark blue pleated skirt below her knees. Still clutching her "music" tightly to her chest she smiled ever so faintly as if to let me know that she was leading, and I was following—for a change.
We paused on the sidewalk to shift our books as the bus doors wheezed and flapped shut. The diesel engine whined briefly, and let out a bellowing roar as the bus lurched forward like a sprinter into the passing traffic. In seconds, it had vanished—leaving a dark exhaust billow suspended in its place. A sudden Gulf breeze enveloped the hazy cloud and nudged it up Carter Avenue.
"There. That's where we're going." Mary Helen pointed towards the top of the hill.
Almost hidden from view, the old house lay among centuries old oaks. Their gnarled and twisted gray limbs reached towards the house caressing the weathered dark green siding – the drab colors blending into a single green-gray patch-work quilt. A single magnolia tree—twice my height—grew beside the house—its base strewn with a thick tan carpet of dead leaves—undisturbed for years. As if trying to compete for attention with the massive oaks, the dwarf magnolia flaunted dozens of white blossoms—sprawled wide revealing a brilliant center splashed with yellow and red. The delightfully sweet magnolia fragrance filled the air.
A double wide porch clung precariously to the front of the house. Spaced evenly along the porch's edge, plain square gray columns supported a canopy of rusty corrugated tin. At one end of the porch a drab rough-hewn glider hung from the ceiling rafters. It rocked lazily—moved by invisible hands—gusts from the white-capped Gulf waters beyond the beach highway. A broad stairway dangled from the porch's edge; its steps, rotted and crumbling, descended into an enormous front yard that sloped gently towards the roadway.
The yard was unkempt, and the brutal spring rains hadn’t helped its looks. Everywhere there were run-off ruts gouged deeply into the scrub grass—exposing patches of gray sandy soil. Even the weeds fought to grow in the barren soil. Small mounds of leaves and bits of branches lay strewn about from some past storm. On one side of the yard, lay a bed of discarded rotting leaves. Randomly spaced, neglected camellia bushes huddled together, cowering beneath the intimidating oaks.
Above, the dark gray Spanish moss spilled from the heights of the giant oak trees. Thick garlands cascaded and draped from branch to branch and branch to ground. Small bundles of the stuff had fallen onto the house—now growing on its own—creating a delicate fringe-work along the tin roof's edges. The moss ends played with each passing eddy—waving and twisting, like tiny living creatures dancing to some inaudible tune.
Along the perimeter of the roof, decaying wooden rain gutters hung loosely—in places separated—from the roof's edges. The clogged and broken gutters, now housed miniature forests of ferns and tiny oak seedlings that peered out from within soil laden troughs.
For years—too many years to remember—the tree and the house had grown old together – almost becoming one entity—inseparable survivors of the ravages of time.
As we walked, Mary Helen turned to ask, "Shouldn't you tell your mom where you're going?"
"No, it's OK, I won't be too long. I'll explain when I get home."
“Well, if I were you, I would tell MY mom first."
"It's OK”, I said sharply.
We trudged up the hill. A short concrete walkway lay half hidden beside the house and led to a three stairs. Reaching the top, the porch groaned and creaked underfoot. I followed Mary Helen closely – avoiding the patches of tin that had been nailed over the dangerously rotten spots. Mary Helen paused at the front screen door. The chalky white frame supported a few chards of brittle screening—hardly any protection from Biloxi's notorious mosquitoes! Suddenly, I felt a bit wary. Where was I going? What kind of person lived in a place like this? Menacing scenes from Hansel and Gretel popped into my head
"Now, you have to let ME do the introductions. Mrs. Howe is MY music teacher." Mary Helen demanded.
I thought: "Geeeeee, girls can be sooo bossy… but I have to be on my best behavior—after all I am the guest.”
She tugged at the door. Its rusty hinges cackled. Mary Helen turned to warn me, "Don't let the door slam. Mrs. Howe doesn't like doors slamming—especially when she's teaching."
We stepped into a long hallway littered with bits of cracked aging linoleum. I spotted another screen door at the far end leading to a yard. Overhead a single light bulb hung suspended—within arm's reach. In the bulb’s harsh glare, the dirty cracked plaster walls looked like ancient ruins—bits and pieces of paint, plaster, and leaves littered the floor.
The light bulb caught my attention—the tarnished brass socket with its twisted wires covered in spotted yellow cloth – the wires disappearing upwards to a mildewed ceiling – stretching to the side walls and trailing down the hallway. Stubby white glass insulators held the wires in place along the walls—evidence that the house predated electricity. The light bulb jerked erratically – hit by a sudden draft rushing through the breezeway.
Mary Helen turned to the right, and opened another screen door. This one was freshly painted—its screening perfectly intact. Inside, a dark paneled door with a bulbous porcelain doorknob guarded the entrance. Mary Helen gave two polite knocks, twisted the knob, and opened the door for us both. I was careful not to let the screen door slam.
The room was dim – almost dark. I found myself facing a wall of dusty windows—tightly shut, and cloaked by a thick hedge outside. I was briefly blinded by the pinpoints of light that managed to pierce the dense growth. By degrees, as my eyes adjusted, the darkness lifted, and I strained to make out the room's contents. Old furniture lay about—meticulously arranged in the small room: a couch, two chairs, a desk, and a black upright piano that commanded the largest share of space. A cut linoleum rug lay in the room's center—its surface scarred and pocked with wear. Nearest the couch was a door frame draped with a flimsy remnant of faded chintz cloth modestly concealing the room within. The cloth stirred, then parted, and a bent shape appeared and shuffled into the room.
"Oh, Mary Helen, I've been waiting for you. I see you brought a friend." A faceless form spoke from the shadows, obviously the voice of a very old lady.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Howe, the bus was late. This is Fred Klein. He's from my school, and he wants to know more about piano lessons," Mary Helen said.
The old lady answered kindly but with an air of firmness in her voice, "Well, it was very nice of you to bring him today. I'm glad to meet you, Freddie. We'll get started now. Please take a seat on the couch over there, and you must promise not to interrupt our lesson or make any disturbances. If you get bored, you may leave at any time."
"Freddie?" I thought. "Freddie! I hate being called that." I sulked over to the couch settling at the end nearest the piano. The heavy knitted throw cover puckered and sagged from the arm rest. I replaced it as best I could. Below, I felt the sharp edges of springs protruding from the worn cushions. While Mrs. Howe and Mary Helen flipped through the books reviewing the last lesson, I scanned the dark room. They say you can tell a lot about people—by the way they furnish their houses, and I was really curious to learn more about this old lady—the first piano teacher I had ever met.
My eyes strained—adapting to the darkness that seemed to suck up the every detail within the room. There were no colors, only gray shapes. I felt the room growing uncomfortably stuffy. Why was it so warm? I leaned over the couch's side, and found the source. Heat waves billowed from a gas space heater. Its honeycombed porcelain plates glowed cherry red—immersed in flickering blue flames. Although it was April, and the weather was perfect, the room began to feel more like mid-summer. I quietly removed my light sweater, and sat on it—attempting in vain to cover a pesky spring that had broken through the seat cushion. I noticed the wall beside the entrance doorway.
Half embedded in the wall, a neat column of reddish gray bricks formed a chimney. At the base, a small tile hearth jutted out into the room, and near the chimney's top a round metal disk covered a flue—telltale traces of an old wood-burning stove. In the room's opposite corner a short black wooden cabinet proudly displayed stacks upon stacks of sheet music. The shelves were full to the point of almost spilling over.
Outside a passing cloud eclipsed the feeble sunlight. The room grew darker. The lamp at the piano's top edge spotlighted its host—the room's principal character—the piano. Looking like some alien's toothless grin, the short black keys receded among the longer dull yellow ivory keys. The key heights were slightly uneven—signs of wear and age. The dull yellow glare from the keyboard radiated into the room but was quickly consumed by the darkness. On the wall behind the piano, the reading lamp threw tall shadows creating a surreal audience—hovering about, waiting for the mighty one to speak.
Mrs. Howe curled forward from the straight-backed chair at Mary Helen's side. She spoke softly, her head cast down while carefully turning the pages with the strange runes... Outside, the cloud moved on, and brilliant sunlight streamed into the room for a few moments. I strained to get a glimpse of the old lady. She wore a light cotton print dress and house-slippers. Her hair was tied up in a red bandanna, firmly knotted at the back. Wisps of yellowish white hair peeked out the top and bottom of the bandanna—puffing out above the sides of her black framed glasses. Her face was so incredibly wrinkled it seemed to be melting. The loose skin draped along her jaw line—the soft folds shaking whenever she spoke or moved. Her voice was gentle. Clear. Calm.
Something brushed against my leg. I felt a cold wet sensation against the back of my hand. I jumped and let out a gasp—more embarrassed than frightened for making a sound. The old lady turned and smiled.
"It's all right. That's Poochie. She just wants to make friends. Now, Poochie, you go lie down!" she commanded gently. A small, pudgy, black, long-haired cur with a white bib stared up at me from the darkness. You could tell she was an old dog by the way she moved. I scratched her head—it was soft and silky. She stood there, perfectly still for a few seconds while I stroked her back. The faint scents of dog odor and lilac dusting powder arose from her thick fur. Having enough attention, she looked up, smiled, gave me another lick, then turned and hobbled away. Moving slowly across the linoleum, her long claws tapped out faint clicks that echoed through the room. At last, she snuggled onto the pillow beside her mistress.
Mrs. Howe returned to the book. She paused, and stopped at one page. Taking a deep breath she began to tell the story of the boy composer—how he wrote it, night after night on the roof by the moonlight.
"You must think of these things, Mary Helen, as you play, and you will feel what young Beethoven felt those nights under the stars," she explained.
At last, looking up at Mary Helen, she smiled and handed her the open book. As she leaned towards the light, I saw the old lady clearly. Her teeth were clean and shiny but slightly yellowed, uneven and widely spaced. Deep blue watery eyes gazed from beyond her thick glasses. Something told you she was totally dedicated to music and to teaching. Maybe it was the way she spoke—the way she reverently handled the music book. Every movement betrayed her intense love of the composition and its composer.
Skeptically, I watched Mary Helen carefully positioning her fingers over the keys. Once in place, she leaned to the side looking towards the floor, straining to reach the foot pedals below. Then she sat upright—frozen in perfect form. She began.
The music came forth—irregular at first. Then it flowed from the tips of Mary Helen's slender fingers. It filled the room with melancholy sounds that drifted then swirled about summoning images from the darkness. I felt the house reverberating and awakening. The doleful sounds escaped from the room and seeped into the old house's darkest recesses—awakening spirits' memories and feelings lost and long forgotten. I was entranced, mystified, amazed, and a bit frightened. How was it possible for these beautiful sounds to be captured in writing—a mass of jumbled lines, spots, and squiggles on a sheet of paper?
I listened and watched in disbelief. The tiny girl I thought I had known—was now possessed. The room's darkness intensified as the silhouette at the keyboard took full command of the giant instrument. Her delicate form swayed imperceptibly—her finger tips caressing the immense keyboard—reflexively landing on each key with precision and grace. The music poured forth—then soared out in song—a song without words created centuries ago.
Soon, too soon—the music began to die—slowly at first. A faint chord sounded—followed by an almost imperceptible echo. Mary Helen remained motionless—her tiny fingers frozen to the keys. The house resonated, sighed, and then there was peace. Poochie raised her head, looked about, then returned to her slumber.
Mrs. Howe spoke with a slight tremble in her voice.
“Beautiful...
Always... Always, Mary Helen—Always remember what you felt today whenever you play this. That was perfect. Just perfect. I think this needs TWO gold stars."
Smiling with delight, the old lady turned to the desk nearby. She reached for a small cardboard box, opened it and removed two gold foil stars. Moistening each star, she pressed them firmly—almost with religious devotion onto the music's title page. I saw a tear escape from her eye. It began to roll—then dissipated among the deep wrinkles.
I sensed it was time to go. All of a sudden the spell was broken—that darn spring had worked its way through my wadded up sweater; and the room was growing unbearably hot. It was the right moment. I stood, and walked forward as quietly as I could—the linoleum crackled underfoot.
"Mrs. Howe? Excuse me, but if you don't mind, I really have to go home now."
She turned slightly towards me and asked, "Well, what do you think? Would you like to take piano lessons?"
"Me?" Startled at this unexpected invitation I found myself speechless – feeling frightened and anxious. After a moment, I found myself blurting out, "Yes! Oh, yes!"
She turned back to the desk, searching briefly for a pencil. Finding one, she held it up to the light to check the point. Satisfied, she moistened the tip, and carefully printed something on a slip of paper. Folding the paper once, she handed it to me. It was then I noticed her aging hands—bony, wrinkled, but ever so soft and delicate. A dull gold wedding band dangled loosely on her left hand. On her right hand she wore a single gold ring with a deep green emerald. I wondered if she could still play.
"Well here's my phone number. Tell your mom or dad to call me, and I'll discuss the matter with them," she kindly replied.
I thanked her once again. Leaving, I was very careful not to slam the screen doors. I paused to look up again at the light bulb. It was still dancing in the wind. Outside as I passed the window on the porch, I heard Mary Helen beginning another piece, and although I wanted to stay, something told me I would soon return.
-----------
THE HOUSE ON CARTER AVENUE
Every bus in Biloxi looked alike–tan, green, and dusty–except after a good rain when they sported dark oily stripes that lasted for a few days. The only way to tell them apart was the outside routing sign. In Biloxi, it read either "POINT CADET", or "GULFPORT", or "CAILLAIVET" or "KEESLER"–depending on whether you wanted to go East, West, North/South or onto the Air Force Base. "GULFPORT" was my bus. The driver was a young man whose hair was thick but prematurely gray. He looked a lot like Paul Drake—Perry Mason's assistant on the TV show, and I was fascinated by the resemblance. One afternoon while dropping my money into the coin collector, I asked him if he was related to Paul Drake.
"Sure, kid. Now, move to the back, sit down and be quiet." –was all I got in return. So much for meeting famous people on a Biloxi city bus.
The bus ride was boring. Everything was always the same—the same people carrying the same brown paper shopping bags–getting on and off at the same places–usually sitting in the same seats. And the inside of the bus was always the same. Dirty! Soiled foot worn black rubber mats lined the aisles. Small piles of litter were scattered everywhere–cigarette butts, empty match books, scraps of paper, and bits of smashed popcorn from the Kresses' 5 and 10. Winter afternoons were the worst for riding the bus–its captive air reeking with stale cigarette smoke and sweaty day workers headed home for the evening. But today the weather was perfect and several windows were ajar. It was nice to smell the fresh clean air–though it whistled loudly through the half-open windows making conversation impossible. What difference did it make? The talk was always the same.
I daydreamed a bit until I felt the bus slowing on its decent down Porter Avenue—bouncing and rocking all the way down. It was time to get ready—home was less than a mile away. The traffic light was still green when the bus reached the beach intersection. It slowed, turned, and began the gentle incline up West Beach Boulevard.
The bus's engine droned and vibrated while the driver frantically shifted gears; the bus lurched unevenly—testing everyone's patience. Sometimes the vibration was so bad, the sliding windows began rattling like they were going to fall out. Then someone would pound the frame with their fist—or slam the offensive window shut.
Mary Helen sat in front of me. I peeked over the edge of the high backed seat. She stared at her "music"(which was “Greek” to me)—her tiny fingers tapping out patterns on an invisible keyboard. She was in another world—totally unaware of my staring, the noise, and the grime that surrounded her. I felt a little bit envious.
I sensed the bus nearing the old Biloxi Cemetery, and reflexively reached up and yanked the cord—signaling the driver for my stop. “DING!” The bus slowed, coasted, and finally crawled into the parking bay before the old Father Ryan house. The bus halted with a jolt causing the passengers to recoil in unison. Re-gathering my books, I stood as soon as the doors flapped open. But instead of careening down the aisle, carelessly bumping the other riders as usual, I held back and let Mary Helen lead the way.
At the front of the bus, she descended the metal stairway slowly, gracefully. She stepped out like a dainty princess leaving her carriage taking care to modestly hold her dark blue pleated skirt below her knees. Still clutching her "music" tightly to her chest she smiled ever so faintly as if to let me know that she was leading, and I was following—for a change.
We paused on the sidewalk to shift our books as the bus doors wheezed and flapped shut. The diesel engine whined briefly, and let out a bellowing roar as the bus lurched forward like a sprinter into the passing traffic. In seconds, it had vanished—leaving a dark exhaust billow suspended in its place. A sudden Gulf breeze enveloped the hazy cloud and nudged it up Carter Avenue.
"There. That's where we're going." Mary Helen pointed towards the top of the hill.
Almost hidden from view, the old house lay among centuries old oaks. Their gnarled and twisted gray limbs reached towards the house caressing the weathered dark green siding – the drab colors blending into a single green-gray patch-work quilt. A single magnolia tree—twice my height—grew beside the house—its base strewn with a thick tan carpet of dead leaves—undisturbed for years. As if trying to compete for attention with the massive oaks, the dwarf magnolia flaunted dozens of white blossoms—sprawled wide revealing a brilliant center splashed with yellow and red. The delightfully sweet magnolia fragrance filled the air.
A double wide porch clung precariously to the front of the house. Spaced evenly along the porch's edge, plain square gray columns supported a canopy of rusty corrugated tin. At one end of the porch a drab rough-hewn glider hung from the ceiling rafters. It rocked lazily—moved by invisible hands—gusts from the white-capped Gulf waters beyond the beach highway. A broad stairway dangled from the porch's edge; its steps, rotted and crumbling, descended into an enormous front yard that sloped gently towards the roadway.
The yard was unkempt, and the brutal spring rains hadn’t helped its looks. Everywhere there were run-off ruts gouged deeply into the scrub grass—exposing patches of gray sandy soil. Even the weeds fought to grow in the barren soil. Small mounds of leaves and bits of branches lay strewn about from some past storm. On one side of the yard, lay a bed of discarded rotting leaves. Randomly spaced, neglected camellia bushes huddled together, cowering beneath the intimidating oaks.
Above, the dark gray Spanish moss spilled from the heights of the giant oak trees. Thick garlands cascaded and draped from branch to branch and branch to ground. Small bundles of the stuff had fallen onto the house—now growing on its own—creating a delicate fringe-work along the tin roof's edges. The moss ends played with each passing eddy—waving and twisting, like tiny living creatures dancing to some inaudible tune.
Along the perimeter of the roof, decaying wooden rain gutters hung loosely—in places separated—from the roof's edges. The clogged and broken gutters, now housed miniature forests of ferns and tiny oak seedlings that peered out from within soil laden troughs.
For years—too many years to remember—the tree and the house had grown old together – almost becoming one entity—inseparable survivors of the ravages of time.
As we walked, Mary Helen turned to ask, "Shouldn't you tell your mom where you're going?"
"No, it's OK, I won't be too long. I'll explain when I get home."
“Well, if I were you, I would tell MY mom first."
"It's OK”, I said sharply.
We trudged up the hill. A short concrete walkway lay half hidden beside the house and led to a three stairs. Reaching the top, the porch groaned and creaked underfoot. I followed Mary Helen closely – avoiding the patches of tin that had been nailed over the dangerously rotten spots. Mary Helen paused at the front screen door. The chalky white frame supported a few chards of brittle screening—hardly any protection from Biloxi's notorious mosquitoes! Suddenly, I felt a bit wary. Where was I going? What kind of person lived in a place like this? Menacing scenes from Hansel and Gretel popped into my head
"Now, you have to let ME do the introductions. Mrs. Howe is MY music teacher." Mary Helen demanded.
I thought: "Geeeeee, girls can be sooo bossy… but I have to be on my best behavior—after all I am the guest.”
She tugged at the door. Its rusty hinges cackled. Mary Helen turned to warn me, "Don't let the door slam. Mrs. Howe doesn't like doors slamming—especially when she's teaching."
We stepped into a long hallway littered with bits of cracked aging linoleum. I spotted another screen door at the far end leading to a yard. Overhead a single light bulb hung suspended—within arm's reach. In the bulb’s harsh glare, the dirty cracked plaster walls looked like ancient ruins—bits and pieces of paint, plaster, and leaves littered the floor.
The light bulb caught my attention—the tarnished brass socket with its twisted wires covered in spotted yellow cloth – the wires disappearing upwards to a mildewed ceiling – stretching to the side walls and trailing down the hallway. Stubby white glass insulators held the wires in place along the walls—evidence that the house predated electricity. The light bulb jerked erratically – hit by a sudden draft rushing through the breezeway.
Mary Helen turned to the right, and opened another screen door. This one was freshly painted—its screening perfectly intact. Inside, a dark paneled door with a bulbous porcelain doorknob guarded the entrance. Mary Helen gave two polite knocks, twisted the knob, and opened the door for us both. I was careful not to let the screen door slam.
The room was dim – almost dark. I found myself facing a wall of dusty windows—tightly shut, and cloaked by a thick hedge outside. I was briefly blinded by the pinpoints of light that managed to pierce the dense growth. By degrees, as my eyes adjusted, the darkness lifted, and I strained to make out the room's contents. Old furniture lay about—meticulously arranged in the small room: a couch, two chairs, a desk, and a black upright piano that commanded the largest share of space. A cut linoleum rug lay in the room's center—its surface scarred and pocked with wear. Nearest the couch was a door frame draped with a flimsy remnant of faded chintz cloth modestly concealing the room within. The cloth stirred, then parted, and a bent shape appeared and shuffled into the room.
"Oh, Mary Helen, I've been waiting for you. I see you brought a friend." A faceless form spoke from the shadows, obviously the voice of a very old lady.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Howe, the bus was late. This is Fred Klein. He's from my school, and he wants to know more about piano lessons," Mary Helen said.
The old lady answered kindly but with an air of firmness in her voice, "Well, it was very nice of you to bring him today. I'm glad to meet you, Freddie. We'll get started now. Please take a seat on the couch over there, and you must promise not to interrupt our lesson or make any disturbances. If you get bored, you may leave at any time."
"Freddie?" I thought. "Freddie! I hate being called that." I sulked over to the couch settling at the end nearest the piano. The heavy knitted throw cover puckered and sagged from the arm rest. I replaced it as best I could. Below, I felt the sharp edges of springs protruding from the worn cushions. While Mrs. Howe and Mary Helen flipped through the books reviewing the last lesson, I scanned the dark room. They say you can tell a lot about people—by the way they furnish their houses, and I was really curious to learn more about this old lady—the first piano teacher I had ever met.
My eyes strained—adapting to the darkness that seemed to suck up the every detail within the room. There were no colors, only gray shapes. I felt the room growing uncomfortably stuffy. Why was it so warm? I leaned over the couch's side, and found the source. Heat waves billowed from a gas space heater. Its honeycombed porcelain plates glowed cherry red—immersed in flickering blue flames. Although it was April, and the weather was perfect, the room began to feel more like mid-summer. I quietly removed my light sweater, and sat on it—attempting in vain to cover a pesky spring that had broken through the seat cushion. I noticed the wall beside the entrance doorway.
Half embedded in the wall, a neat column of reddish gray bricks formed a chimney. At the base, a small tile hearth jutted out into the room, and near the chimney's top a round metal disk covered a flue—telltale traces of an old wood-burning stove. In the room's opposite corner a short black wooden cabinet proudly displayed stacks upon stacks of sheet music. The shelves were full to the point of almost spilling over.
Outside a passing cloud eclipsed the feeble sunlight. The room grew darker. The lamp at the piano's top edge spotlighted its host—the room's principal character—the piano. Looking like some alien's toothless grin, the short black keys receded among the longer dull yellow ivory keys. The key heights were slightly uneven—signs of wear and age. The dull yellow glare from the keyboard radiated into the room but was quickly consumed by the darkness. On the wall behind the piano, the reading lamp threw tall shadows creating a surreal audience—hovering about, waiting for the mighty one to speak.
Mrs. Howe curled forward from the straight-backed chair at Mary Helen's side. She spoke softly, her head cast down while carefully turning the pages with the strange runes... Outside, the cloud moved on, and brilliant sunlight streamed into the room for a few moments. I strained to get a glimpse of the old lady. She wore a light cotton print dress and house-slippers. Her hair was tied up in a red bandanna, firmly knotted at the back. Wisps of yellowish white hair peeked out the top and bottom of the bandanna—puffing out above the sides of her black framed glasses. Her face was so incredibly wrinkled it seemed to be melting. The loose skin draped along her jaw line—the soft folds shaking whenever she spoke or moved. Her voice was gentle. Clear. Calm.
Something brushed against my leg. I felt a cold wet sensation against the back of my hand. I jumped and let out a gasp—more embarrassed than frightened for making a sound. The old lady turned and smiled.
"It's all right. That's Poochie. She just wants to make friends. Now, Poochie, you go lie down!" she commanded gently. A small, pudgy, black, long-haired cur with a white bib stared up at me from the darkness. You could tell she was an old dog by the way she moved. I scratched her head—it was soft and silky. She stood there, perfectly still for a few seconds while I stroked her back. The faint scents of dog odor and lilac dusting powder arose from her thick fur. Having enough attention, she looked up, smiled, gave me another lick, then turned and hobbled away. Moving slowly across the linoleum, her long claws tapped out faint clicks that echoed through the room. At last, she snuggled onto the pillow beside her mistress.
Mrs. Howe returned to the book. She paused, and stopped at one page. Taking a deep breath she began to tell the story of the boy composer—how he wrote it, night after night on the roof by the moonlight.
"You must think of these things, Mary Helen, as you play, and you will feel what young Beethoven felt those nights under the stars," she explained.
At last, looking up at Mary Helen, she smiled and handed her the open book. As she leaned towards the light, I saw the old lady clearly. Her teeth were clean and shiny but slightly yellowed, uneven and widely spaced. Deep blue watery eyes gazed from beyond her thick glasses. Something told you she was totally dedicated to music and to teaching. Maybe it was the way she spoke—the way she reverently handled the music book. Every movement betrayed her intense love of the composition and its composer.
Skeptically, I watched Mary Helen carefully positioning her fingers over the keys. Once in place, she leaned to the side looking towards the floor, straining to reach the foot pedals below. Then she sat upright—frozen in perfect form. She began.
The music came forth—irregular at first. Then it flowed from the tips of Mary Helen's slender fingers. It filled the room with melancholy sounds that drifted then swirled about summoning images from the darkness. I felt the house reverberating and awakening. The doleful sounds escaped from the room and seeped into the old house's darkest recesses—awakening spirits' memories and feelings lost and long forgotten. I was entranced, mystified, amazed, and a bit frightened. How was it possible for these beautiful sounds to be captured in writing—a mass of jumbled lines, spots, and squiggles on a sheet of paper?
I listened and watched in disbelief. The tiny girl I thought I had known—was now possessed. The room's darkness intensified as the silhouette at the keyboard took full command of the giant instrument. Her delicate form swayed imperceptibly—her finger tips caressing the immense keyboard—reflexively landing on each key with precision and grace. The music poured forth—then soared out in song—a song without words created centuries ago.
Soon, too soon—the music began to die—slowly at first. A faint chord sounded—followed by an almost imperceptible echo. Mary Helen remained motionless—her tiny fingers frozen to the keys. The house resonated, sighed, and then there was peace. Poochie raised her head, looked about, then returned to her slumber.
Mrs. Howe spoke with a slight tremble in her voice.
“Beautiful...
Always... Always, Mary Helen—Always remember what you felt today whenever you play this. That was perfect. Just perfect. I think this needs TWO gold stars."
Smiling with delight, the old lady turned to the desk nearby. She reached for a small cardboard box, opened it and removed two gold foil stars. Moistening each star, she pressed them firmly—almost with religious devotion onto the music's title page. I saw a tear escape from her eye. It began to roll—then dissipated among the deep wrinkles.
I sensed it was time to go. All of a sudden the spell was broken—that darn spring had worked its way through my wadded up sweater; and the room was growing unbearably hot. It was the right moment. I stood, and walked forward as quietly as I could—the linoleum crackled underfoot.
"Mrs. Howe? Excuse me, but if you don't mind, I really have to go home now."
She turned slightly towards me and asked, "Well, what do you think? Would you like to take piano lessons?"
"Me?" Startled at this unexpected invitation I found myself speechless – feeling frightened and anxious. After a moment, I found myself blurting out, "Yes! Oh, yes!"
She turned back to the desk, searching briefly for a pencil. Finding one, she held it up to the light to check the point. Satisfied, she moistened the tip, and carefully printed something on a slip of paper. Folding the paper once, she handed it to me. It was then I noticed her aging hands—bony, wrinkled, but ever so soft and delicate. A dull gold wedding band dangled loosely on her left hand. On her right hand she wore a single gold ring with a deep green emerald. I wondered if she could still play.
"Well here's my phone number. Tell your mom or dad to call me, and I'll discuss the matter with them," she kindly replied.
I thanked her once again. Leaving, I was very careful not to slam the screen doors. I paused to look up again at the light bulb. It was still dancing in the wind. Outside as I passed the window on the porch, I heard Mary Helen beginning another piece, and although I wanted to stay, something told me I would soon return.
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| Mrs. Anna Howe - at my first recital |
posted by FredK at 5:34 PM
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