War Chest – 14 – Barbara Trachtenberg
Our baby grand is on its side, a dead elephant. No keys, strings, hammers, no lid to keep it safe. We pack a CARE box for Bandi. He’s out of prison. (He did something wrong, but it’s a secret.) Mommy says, If you push the button on the vacuum cleaner…Happen. Happen.
Alone. Uncle Ed, Mommy Daddy, grandmom grandpop, brother uncle were all here. Dirty walls, red fallingdown curtain, honeysuckle by Daddy at his Inquirer. By the sofa. By the window. Ringaroundarosy. All fall down. Keys are ivories, broken like Grandmom’s tooth. No bench for Uncle Ed to slide on to play us his new song.
(Organs missing for all to see.) Daddy’s key bleeds the radiator and I help. He dies on my birthday like I asked him to. So I could drive back to be with him when my grey hair started and my kids were little. Does a piano remember? An elephant on its side?
Uncle Ed from Brooklyn in his War uniform slides on the bench, plays us his song. He looks like a movie star, the kind that doesn’t smile. He won’t shoot a gun, but he learns how to. ******Everyone missing. Keys to radiators keep us warm. A piano held our family. Happen. Pianos in big buildings are locked. The key is to open them for families to be together. Not even children can hum a song without a key.
Who plays it now? Listens, slides onto the bench to play for the children. Where is the family? The center of a family who moves around it, talks about it, asks to play and plays for, listens to, polishes and cares for. Pencils that wrote fingering lay under strings. There are no strings. Daddy in the chair in the living room. Mommy cooking singing playing. Mommy wears a fox when she dances with Daddy. It has eyes and a scary nose. Don’t touch.
Grandpop plays with fat fingers, Butzi tarka. A cow, no ears, no tail, he had a cold, his grandmom sewed a pair of pants but he didn’t wear them so he had to go to bed. When I pull Grandpop’s ear he mouthfarts. The other ear, he pops! When my fingers comb his long hair I see no hair underneath. It tickles! We play cardgames and love War. My boys are under the piano or playing the Peacherine Rag. Me in white hair. They get older and play The Blues, Mom. You know. A progression. But my teacher always said Stop for mistakes. Some wrong notes sound good.
The piano lies on its side. Dead elephant in an ugly room. The key is missing. Red drapes broken. Daddy’s our listener. The Inquirer drops on his lap when I play and he hums. He loves me. I’m under the piano and Mommy plays in stinky stockings. Nagymama wipes hands on her apron and watches. She makes matching skirts for Mommy and me. Her thumb is black and blue from the Singer. This red drape is crooked. The walls are dirty.
Nagypapa gets sick and we make a surprise for their anniversary in the Hungarian restaurant. Sssh. The tip of his nose sticks up from the long box in the strange room. It’s silly. Daddy gets lost. He wears clothes Mommy picks out for him. He cries at the seder: I never knew my father. Uncle Ed gets a bump. Big as a grapefruit. We sit with him in his white gown and sing his songs back to him. He doesn’t smile. Mommy waves her arms wide from her wheelchair. Long ago everyone had a piano.
