It was a love-hate relationship from the start. Angie watched the movers bring it in and haul it down the dark basement steps, around the bend and set it in the most desolate corner of the house: the piano. It was a rosewood upright with a chipped middle D key and a few others that had scratches or cracks. All the notes seemed stained with a yellowish, cigarette smoke and stuck as if too much beer had flowed more often than not. A saloon piano with flat tones and stubborn pedals. But she couldn't stop staring at it. When it was daylight, she was drawn to it, wanting to touch it. At night, she steered clear. It gave her goosebumps.
"A whole HOUR?" she wined to her mother when it was time to practice.
"Now or tonight. You choose" Mom's ultimatum was always the same and yielded the identical result: moping and trudging down the steps to bang on the keys for sixty rotten minutes.
With school came clubs, then homework which meant she could only practice in the evening. Angie dreaded it. Her teacher had given her "Polonaise"-an ancient piece for her recital and it was tough. Angie's fingers ached from all the scales and long range chords. This stupid song forced her to stay down "in the dungeon" longer.
The rustling started shortly after Angie began playing becoming louder as days dragged by and her fingers grew stronger, reaching for perfection with each note. She tried to ignore it but found it hard to deny the sighs and footsteps; let alone the breeze. One evening, she heard a faint humming. Thinking it was her mother, she turned to see the woman for the first time. Her hair was snow white and hung in small loose curls, her skin was wrinkly. She was tall and thin, her long fingers intertwined as they rested gently in front of a crisp white shirt and grey long skirt. Her lips were thin, seeming to smile softly as Angie played. The eyes were milky, pupil less and Angie couldn't see her feet. The woman had a misty appearance. Angie's blonde hair stood up along her neck and arms. Her teeth chattered. She couldn't stop blinking, shaking, OR hoping the woman would go away. But she didn't. Instead there was an icy word: Play.
The visits were daily, never consisting of more than the woman approaching and listening to Angie play. It bothered the little girl less and less; to the point of naming the woman "Martha" and speaking to her occasionally.
"Was that a good one Martha?"
Sometimes Martha would smile, other times nod.
The weeks pressed on. Try as she might, Angie couldn't stop the day from arriving nor could she contract a sickness to keep her from the recital. Her mother forced her into a dress and drove her to the concert hall. Angie's knees were knocking; her feet sweating inside white patent leather Maryjane shoes. She pulled at a thread on her tights until a hole appeared. Mom was not happy. The young pianist bit her nails and stared out the window fighting back the urge to be sick. She knew her mom and teacher would only force her to play in a barfy dress. "Come Hell or high water" was the phrase used. Angie would be on that stage. Arriving early, the youngster met with her teacher and was informed she wouldn't be using her music. Her performance was to be from memory. Angie's mouth went dry, her upper lip tingled and her head swam. She glanced at the stage, the lights and the big black mammoth piano sitting in the middle of a spotlight. She struggled to swallow the baseball lodged in her throat. Angie waited her turn. She prayed for an Earthquake. It didn't happen.
Hearing her name, she found her feet glued to the floor. They called her again and it took her teacher's shove to get her moving. The stage stretched for miles creaking and giggling under her clicky shoes. The behemoth black piano gave her a toothy evil grin. As she sat, she envisioned the key case slapping shut, breaking all her fingers off and galloping away. The brilliant light made her squint and sweat. She couldn't see anything except flashy little stars. Angie placed her hands on the keyboard and forgot everything: her name, why she was there and worst of all the music. She sucked in her lips and closed her eyes. She stepped on the toes of the giant piano monster. The beast clicked reproachfully, echoing throughout the hall. Glaring at the keys, she pinched her face desperately trying to remember anything but "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star". Her cheeks burned as someone coughed out in the sea of flashy stars and bright lights. Nothing. A panicky tear raced down her cheek followed by another. Another. She held her breath. Her brain throbbed and tore through its memory files trying to find that stupid song. Blank.
There was a rustling behind her. Her hair prickled at the base of her neck. A cold breeze puffed her hair and a faint long finger touched the first note of her song. It held. To others Angie looked up into the lights. No one saw Martha's soft smile. Nobody heard the tiny voice whisper "Playyyy" and not one person in that audience heard the humming but Angie. Angie's little fingers pressed firmly on those big gaping teeth. Notes became chords and although Angie's eyes were closed, she finally saw the music. She played.
When it was over, the little girl stood, bowed and walked slowly offstage. It looked like she was waving a little and had a small gentle smile on her face. Martha's hand didn't feel as cold now to Angie. She disappeared into the bathroom and got sick. She vowed never again.
During her life, she would play for people only on rare occasions. But she liked to play most days, just for Martha.
