10

Lani answered the door herself.

It was not the first time I had visited her large, ivy-covered house, but I did not do it often.

Her father was a heavyset man who always had a book in his hand. His hand swallowed mine for a moment. “It’s good to see you, Peter. So you’ve come to hear Lani play the piano.”

“Yes, sir.” I usually hated calling men “sir,” but there was something deliberate and serious about Mr. McKnight, and he made me respect him without any effort on his part.

Lani’s father could be very grumpy. He hated to answer the phone, and he always, even now, gave you the impression that you had interrupted a very complex train of thought. He was a man who valued his time, and he didn’t care to have his time abused by a skinny white kid with a dumb expression.

He had the same serious way of speaking that Lani had. Her mother had died of cancer years ago, when Lani was three. She could hardly remember her mother, but the loss seemed to make both father and daughter take things seriously, their words, and their actions, had weight.

“I wouldn’t want to be a nuisance,” I said.

“Young people can’t help being nuisances,” said Mr. McKnight. “You’re not so bad. You’re a quiet sort of young man. I think you could go along and not bother anyone.”

I hoped that I had been paid a compliment, of some sort. I wanted very much for Mr. McKnight to like me.

Mr. McKnight left us alone with the piano, a baby grand that was polished and very dark. The sight of it made me weak. It reminded me of a coffin.

“Your father always seems busy,” I said.

“He has many cases. Some attorneys only think about money, but he doesn’t. You better sit down and get ready. I practiced this all week.”

Lani put her hands on the keys, and the room changed.

It was the most beautiful music I had ever heard. It was a classical, formal composition that I did not recognize. She played for a long time. When she was done, she played one last note, discordant, arbitrary, it seemed. The last, deep note resounded for a long time.

“Was it all right?” she asked.

“It was beautiful,” I whispered. “I had no idea—”

“You thought I wouldn’t be any good?”

“Oh, I knew you could play. But that was not ordinary playing.”

“Mr. Farrar says I can be very good, but he says I’ll have to dedicate my life to it, and give up a lot of things. He has me practicing every single day. Not five days a week, and not when I feel like it. Every day.”

“It shows.”

“Thank you, Peter. I care about your opinion. Actually, Mr. Farrar quotes a famous music teacher named Suzuki. You don’t have to practice every day. Only on the days you eat.” As she did so often, she changed the subject at once. “Let’s go play catch.”

“I don’t have a glove.”

“I wish Mead would come back.”

She left the room, and came back with two gloves and a scuffed-up softball.

We stood in the backyard, tossing the ball back and forth. After a few tosses, Lani whipped the ball hard, stinging my hand. She buzzed the ball through the air in that underhand way softball pitchers use, and the ball arrived before I could see it.

I lobbed the ball back overhand until she complained, and then I threw it back still overhand, but with more power.

“All right!” she said, and she meant not just my throws, but everything, was all right as far as she was concerned.

A throw jammed my finger.

She was at my side at once. “Sorry,” she said.

“It was my own clumsiness.”

“That’s the problem.”

“My clumsiness?”

“The problem with softball. If I damage a finger, it could hurt my piano playing.”

On my way home, the One Stop was empty, except for a very elderly man behind the counter, reading a newspaper. I bought a jug of red wine. One Stop is a store where they don’t have twenty of everything, like a supermarket. They have one or two cans of cat food, one box of Brillo pads. The store is mostly empty, vacant shelves and worn wooden floors. But they have TV Guides, potato chips, and wine in quantity.

The red wine dissolved that place in me that was Mead. The dead, still-living thing.

And the fear and the guilt that surrounded it, an ugly aura, a puddle of light.