Mashup
At home when I can’t sleep, I play the piano—happy pieces. Mendelssohn, the overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Fairies and harmless mischief and young love, and everything turning out all right in the morning. I may live in a dark basement apartment, but at least I can play whenever I want without disturbing my neighbors.
But here, one chord on the Rec Room piano would wake Shane. My new housemate—how odd.
Instead I stare at the ceiling, picturing the second floor. The main bedroom, hall, linen closet, powder room. And, right above me, Willa’s bedroom. Lavender quilt. Dried flowers on the walls. Posters of her J singers: Joan and Joan and Joni and Judy.
Jackie’s a J, she’d said to me once, thrilled.
Well, unfortunately I don’t have a J voice, I’d told her.
But you have a voice...
I try to imagine ripping those posters down, offering up her gauzy blouses and flowing skirts for strangers to paw. The thought alone of walking upstairs has me anxious.
What will I find up there?
But my piano craving is a physical need, strong as hunger, and there’s another option, besides the battered Rec Room upright, that I know I won’t be able to resist.
I creep down the hall, past Kate’s dark room off the kitchen, where Shane’s asleep. Down the cramped stairs to the studio, through the first door. I close it behind me, feel my way in blackness to the second, soundproofed door, which I push behind me until I hear it click.
The winking mixing board lights act as a beacon as I move toward the live room and the final door. Three doors, total.
I never came down here, never saw Angela or Willa visit, either. It was Graham’s domain, and still looks like him—the saturated colors of the rugs, the faux-medieval needlepoint tapestries on the walls, with patterns of deer and castles. But many of the instruments and mics and stands are new, and there’s evidence of Shane’s obsession everywhere—papers, books, liner notes he’s studying. Someone’s left her purple shawl on a chair.
It’s a relief; I prefer it this way.
In the dim light, I sit at the piano and play the Midsummer Night’s Dream overture I’ve been craving. Then a lullaby, a lazy riff on Brahms, or something I dreamed up. Sometimes I can’t tell the difference.
I transition to “Mockingbird,” and I sing. My thin, raspy voice has not improved much with time or practice, but I don’t mind anymore. Next up: “More Than a Feeling.” When I was in college, playing supper clubs for spending money, I always made good tips with Boston. I was on a merit scholarship, and I’d stopped cashing my father’s checks by then. I play the theme song from Fame. “Pop Muzik.” I play louder, pounding out “The Love Cats.” “This one goes out to you, Toby,” I say, pointing at the ceiling. My laugh turns into a yawn.
It’s miraculous, how much better I feel. I stand, instinctively open the bench seat to look inside. Sheet music, pencils, a busted metronome—nothing else.
I shut the lid.
“That. Was. Awesome.”
I spin around—Shane. Clapping. Grinning. Sitting behind a long Orange amp like it’s a café table and I’m the live entertainment. He’s in a rumpled T-shirt, his hair standing on end.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know what to do. At first I didn’t want to scare you. Then I didn’t want to stop you. You’re good! I’ve never heard anyone mash up Boston and Brahms.”
“So you fell asleep working down here?” I finally muster. Wait. He’s wrapped in the blanket from Kate’s bed. He’s got his pillow and book and everything in a little alcove behind the amp, on a neatly folded Persian rug he’s made into a sleeping mat. He didn’t drift off while working; he planned to crash down here.
“Oh, yeah...” He pulls his blanket tighter around his waist and tucks it in like it’s a bath towel. I don’t see any pajama bottoms—he must be down to his boxers under there. Or his briefs.
The absurdity of the situation hits me and I can’t help smiling. “I came down here to play so I wouldn’t wake you up. I’m sorry.”
“I’m not,” he says, grinning. “I enjoyed the show. I mean it—you’re really talented.”
I roll my eyes. “I haven’t won any prizes.”
“Lately. Ms. First Place in the All Massachusetts University-Level Classical Tournament, 1984.”
“How’d you find out about that? It was a lifetime ago.”
“Your bio’s on your school internet page. Anyway, who cares about prizes? That was a thing of beauty.” He gets up and sits to my right on the bench. “And you can sing, not just play. You’ve been holding out on us. Interested in joining our little venture?”
I shake my head more quickly than I intend to. “You don’t want my voice on your album. I wish you could’ve heard Willa’s. It was—” I stop myself.
“What?”
I answer with a soft trill of minor-key notes on the piano. I was about to blurt something I’ve never said to anyone, except her. That her singing was unearthly. It’s the only word I could ever find to describe it properly.
“You two. You were close, weren’t you?” He peers at me from the side.
“I thought we were close, the summer I stayed here,” I admit, looking at the sheet music.
But perhaps we weren’t. And maybe Willa wouldn’t even like the adult me. She’d be happy about my teaching. She’d say she always knew I’d end up working with kids. But she’d scold me, in her soft way, if she saw how I was living in Boston. The fact that I only spend time with people like Paul, who I can keep at arm’s length. What’s happened to you? she’d ask.
I go on. “Everything was so intense back then. You know?” I glance at Shane.
He nods. “Angela only talked about her once. One afternoon, after I played ‘Angel, Lion, Willow.’ It was stupid of me. I was showing off, not thinking how it’d make her feel. I apologized, rambled on awkwardly—I’ve been known to ramble on awkwardly, if you haven’t noticed—Anyway, she got this distant look and she said... I remember what she said exactly. That Willa wasn’t meant for this world. It’s very sad, what happened to her.”
“Yes.” I stare at the sheet music again. Oh please, Angela. How trite, how convenient. How wrong. Willa was more a part of this world than most people who live to be a hundred. But who was I to question what a mother had to tell herself to keep going after losing her child?
Her only child, who couldn’t imagine living anywhere else, who planned to live here until she was an old lady with wild white hair—who’d run away without a goodbye and died two years later. Drowned off the coast of Mexico. Official cause of death: severe diabetic reaction coupled with surfing too far out given the day’s conditions.
We hadn’t spoken once since that summer.
I’ve never quite accepted it. Certainly never understood it. The Willa I knew managed her diabetes expertly, and she was as strong as a channel swimmer. The girl swallowed up by the bright water off of Rosarito wouldn’t have drowned if she didn’t want to...but why would she have wanted to?
I’ll never get to ask her.
“You know,” Shane says. “I play in the middle of the night, too. When I’m in that jangly mood.”
I turn to him, grateful he’s changed the subject. “Jangly,” I repeat, liking the sound. It describes how I felt earlier perfectly. “So, how’s it going down here?”
“I don’t know. Not great,” he says, downcast. “Maybe I’m trying to force it. Force what’s in my heart on them.”
I’m surprised by how much it hurts to hear this. All the tiptoeing around they’re doing so they don’t disturb me can’t be helping their work. And I’m sure they’ll be just as cautious, as deferential, when I hand the keys over to Windward Realty. I feel like the resident killjoy. The suit. Like my father.
“Anyway, Mat says I’m getting obsessive. I feel like we conveniently bust a part whenever he thinks I need a break.”
I smile at this. “I’m on his side. Breaks are healthy.”
“Maybe. But I can’t help thinking he’s more concerned about the fact that I keep forgetting to shower than my mental health.”
I laugh. Though he smells good. Like Angela’s lavender-mint Castile soap, the way we all smelled back then. There are still bars of it everywhere. I must smell like it now, too.
“You know,” I say casually. “If Mat thinks the group needs to relax, they can spread out. Use the place more. The hot springs, picnic tables, whatever they want.”
“You wouldn’t mind?” He angles his head toward me.
“I wouldn’t mind.”
“Well. We may take you up on that. Hey, play some more, will you?” He shifts on the bench to give me room. “Please? I like how you play.”
“Any requests?”
“Hmmm. Give me a medley. Or...were you looking under here for some more sheet music?” He knocks the glossy wood between our bodies.
“Oh, no. Just trying to take an inventory of everything that’ll need packing. Just being thorough,” I lie, not willing to share the existence of this sacred relic from the past. “Okay, black-tie concert audience.” I play, jumping from Joni Mitchell to Styx to Mozart’s devilishly fast “Turkish Rondo,” anything that comes to mind.
He grabs his guitar to teach me a song—a love song he wrote in college that no label wanted. I haven’t played a duet with anyone except my students in a long time. But it’s easy with him. He’s gifted on the guitar, his fingers fast, notes and chords twining casually around mine.
I’m facing the piano and he’s got his back to it now so he can play, but our hips are separated by only a little space on the bench. A foot, maybe ten inches of glossy cherrywood—the smoothest of surfaces, perfect for sliding closer to someone. For a moment I wonder what would happen if I did.
He sings, and I know why he’s got Bree doing lead vocals on the album. His voice is worse than mine, growly and even more narrow in range—it struggles on anything above the lowest bass. But it’s unapologetic, and even if his voice isn’t pleasing, his joy in the music is:
Let them rush over and surround us
Let their colors blur around us...
I play my best. I realize, as we finish, just how much I want to impress him. I like the fact that he read my school bio online. I like his bad voice, and his beautiful song. How his right elbow grazes mine a couple of times.
I like how he nods, anticipating my choices, encouraging me as I fudge my way through this unknown tune. He’s attentive, sensitive. Everything about his playing says—trust me.
It’s after one by the time I settle on the daybed.
“Tk, tk, tk,” I summon Toby. He’s a spiral of fur in the moonlight, curled on the rug. I wish he’d stretch and hop softly onto my feet like he does in Boston, but he only lifts his head sleepily and blinks at me.
He’s been like that for days; he only wants to stay right there, on that small patch of rug.
I get out of bed and lie next to him, stroking his warm flank. “You okay, buddy? You miss home?”
He’s vibrating. Not purring—vibrating.
No, the floor is. There’s a steady throb from below, from the studio. So Shane’s still awake, playing. There must be a post or beam that transmits vibrations up to this particular spot. I press my ear to the rug and close my eyes.
Mystery solved. So that’s why Toby favors this patch of floor to my feet. It’s a comforting feeling, that sustained temblor from below. A diffuse massage. I hum Shane’s sweet, rejected song and nuzzle my cheek against Toby’s soft back.
It seems we’ll stay like this for my remaining time here. Shane and his group will lay down their songs, and I’ll fill the rest of my boxes, and we’ll work on our separate levels of the house until I say goodbye in a week.
But this place has other plans.
Just like Willa once said.