When Beth came to the front door to see who rang the doorbell, she thought she’d been pranked. Looking out the window, she saw no one. When the doorbell rang a second time, she flung it open in frustration. Before her stood Eunice Jacobsen.
Beth remembered briefly meeting the octogenarian at the Christmas soiree she hosted for the Lexington Historical Society. The four-foot tall woman, stooped with age and topped by a six-inch beehive of white hair, surveyed the front porch while she waited. Beth realized she had overlooked the petite woman when she first peered out the window.
“Beth Kozera?” the old woman inquired loudly.
Beth startled at her thunderous voice. “Yes. I’m Beth.”
“Eunice Jacobsen. We met at the Christmas party.”
“Yes, Mrs. Jacobsen. Hello. Won’t you please come in?”
She opened the door wide to the little woman who crossed the threshold, a wooden cane in her left hand. A deadly combination of Aqua Net hairspray and Chantilly Lace perfume swirled around her.
“So, you’re the one in charge here?” she asked, craning her neck to study Beth.
“Uh, yeah, I guess I am. How can I help you, Mrs. Jacobsen?”
“I came to help you,” she responded, pointing a gnarled finger to emphasize the last word. “You’re new here, but I’m not. I’ve been teaching piano lessons in Lexington since 1968. When I saw Stratton House at Christmas, I knew.”
“You knew what, Mrs. Jacobsen?”
“Eh?” she asked, furrowing her eyebrows and leaning in.
Beth repeated louder and slower. “I said, you knew what?”
“I knew my piano belonged here.”
“Your piano? I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
“A piano. This house needs a piano,” Mrs. Jacobsen said, thumping the pine floor with her cane and turning her back on Beth to enter the front parlor, with its twelve-foot ceilings and wide walnut moldings. The little stooped woman squinted around the large room, shuffled to the front window, and turned back to survey the parlor from her new vantage point. Clasping her cane with both hands, she nodded. “Right there! It should go right there.” She pointed at the corner furthest from the paneled pocket doors.
“What should?” Beth asked.
“My piano.”
“I’m sorry. Your piano?”
“Well, one of them. I’m not getting any younger, and my own daughter doesn’t know the value of it,” Mrs. Jacobsen said, surveying the room. “But, it belongs in this house.” Her gaze focused on Beth. “So, what do you say?”
Beth hesitated, stalling for time. What kind of piano could it be if the woman wanted to give it away?
“Mrs. Jacobsen, that’s very generous, but I’m only the caretaker. I can’t decide whether to add more furniture to the house.”
“Furniture! Did you call my piano furniture? Now, young lady, you and I don’t know one another, so I’ll forgive your ignorance, but do not call a piano ‘furniture’ in my presence. A piano, music, is proof that man possesses the potential to escape his animal origins and ascend to the heavens of the god that made him.”
“Well, yeah, uh… would it be possible for me to see the piano before I make a decision?”
The woman squared her shoulders and put her fingers to her chin, as if to give the question the due reflection it deserved. Finally, she said, “Certainly. That’s a reasonable request. When would you like to see it?”
The next afternoon, Beth parked in front of a small, light-yellow cottage across the street from the local middle school. A small sign hung by the front door. “Eunice Jacobsen – Piano lessons for all ages. Inquire within.”
Beth rang the doorbell. The opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony chimed.
“Ah, there you are,” Mrs. Jacobsen said, opening the front door. “And right on time. I like that. I can’t abide a tardy visitor nor an early-bird neither.”
Beth followed the little woman into a room off front door, toward a black Yamaha piano with a beginners music book open on the stand.
Beth shrugged. A piano at Stratton House might be a good idea. Brides on a budget could simply hire a pianist to provide music.
She stepped over and examined it. She didn’t know anything about them, but this one seemed to be in good shape. She reached out and touched it, feeling its faux ivory keys. She turned to see Mrs. Jacobsen, eyebrows furrowed, scowling at her.
“What are you doing, dear?” the old woman asked.
Beth removed her hand. “Oh. Uh, just looking at the piano. I think it would fit in the corner of the front parlor. I didn’t bring a measuring tape… ”
A peal of laughter burst from the old woman. “That’s not the piano for you. You thought I wanted to give you that? Oh, lands no. That’s nothing but my lessons piano. You’re cute,” she cackled. “I heard you were. Follow me.”
Mrs. Jacobsen turned and hobbled into the adjoining room. Sunshine from a large bank of windows shone down on the oldest piano Beth had ever seen, black and massive with four huge thick pillars for legs. The lid was propped open, exposing rusted ancient strings. The ivory keys were yellowed; a few were missing.
Beth didn’t know what to say. What would she do with this piano? She must say no.
“Uh, Mrs. Jacobsen, that’s very generous of you, but, uh, I think I must decline. I don’t even know how I would get it to Stratton House.”
“You hire movers! Gracious. No need to overthink things. The local moving company brought it to me. Now, that was several years ago. Maybe forty, or so.”
“Uh, can it be played?”
“It’s more of a show piece. Less of an everyday piano.”
What should I do? Should I tell the woman no? “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“And you won’t! These pianos aren’t made anymore. I had my grandson look it up on that computer. Mathushek, the company that made it, went out of business in the fifties. I don’t even know how many are left. This is a treasure, my dear. A treasure that belongs in your house.”
“But, Mrs. Jacobsen, it’s not my house. I’m only the executor of the estate.”
“Aren’t you the one who makes all the decisions?”
Beth felt defeated. This little gnome of an adversary wouldn’t hear no for an answer. “Well, yes, but this is a huge decision. This is a huge piano,” she said, sweeping her arms at the Mathushek, unable to keep the exasperation from her voice. She didn’t want to hurt this woman’s feelings, but this situation was impossible. How would she get it moved? Would the floor even support the world’s oldest and largest piano? This was madness!
“Go big or go home, I always say,” the four-foot woman trumpeted, her shoulders back, pride on her lined face.
The next day, Beth called Josh and asked him to inspect the flooring and supports for the front half of Stratton House. When he arrived, he was curt and aloof, answering in short sentences and asking few questions.
It had been several weeks since they’d seen each other on New Year’s Day, and intimate images of this man, now so withdrawn and distant, continued to play in her mind.
In the basement, Josh examined the brick walls and support beams with a flashlight. Beth stood next to him, looking around the dusty room. She avoided coming down here when she could. He assured her the floor would hold the piano.
“How are your boys?” she asked, trying to make conversation.
“How’s Charlie?” He scowled, his inspection of the basement complete.
“Fine. Sorry I asked,” she said, ascending the stairs. He grabbed her arm and pulled her into his embrace, kissing her with urgency. She tilted her head and opened her mouth. He grasped her face to bring her closer.
“Beth! Are you down there?” Myrna called.
They broke apart, and Beth turned to go upstairs. “I’ll be right there.”
“You shouldn’t marry him, Beth.”
“Oh. And are you asking me?” she said, looking down at him. “And how exactly would that work, Josh? Aren’t you the one who said women make a home and men make a living? I’ve supported myself my whole life. I could no more be a stay-at-home wife than you could see yourself as an equal partner in a marriage.”
“I’m rethinking what I said to you. Maybe… ”
“Maybe what, Josh?” Beth asked, her eyes blazing.
Myrna called, “Beth?”
“I’ll be right there. I have to go.” She hurried up the remaining steps.
“Maybe I was wrong,” Josh said, to the empty basement.
A week later, four muscled men brought in the piano piece by piece. First, the four tree trunk-sized legs. Then, the massive piano body itself, and finally, a small round bench with a red velvet padded seat.
After they left, Beth sat on the stool, as ancient as the piano. It creaked under her slight form. She plunked the middle C key and shuddered from the off-key note.
From the corner of her eye, Beth glimpsed Carrie’s portrait.
“Okay. Stratton House has a piano now, Carrie.”