The Stolen Child

“My dear young man,” he replied, sighing, “I’m afraid that’s impossible.”


I walked to the piano and sat at the bench. The sight of the keys unlocked a distant memory of a stern German instructor ordering me to increase the tempo. I stretched my fingers as far apart as possible, testing my span, and laid them upon the ivory without eliciting an accidental tone. Mr. Martin glided behind me, overlooking my shoulder, studying my hands. “Have you played before?”

“Once upon a time . . .”

“Find me middle C, Mr. Day.”

And without thinking, I did, pressing the single key with the side of my left thumb.

My mother and father entered the room, announcing themselves with a polite ahem. Mr. Martin wheeled around and strode over to greet them. As they shook hands and made introductions, I played scales from the middle outward. Tones from the piano triggered powerful synapses, resurrecting scores that I knew by heart. A voice in my head demanded heissblütig, heissblütig—more passion, more feeling.

“You said he was a beginner.”

“He is,” my mother replied. “I don’t think he’s ever even seen a real piano.”

“This boy is a natural.”

For fun, I plinked out “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” the way I would play it for my sisters. I was careful to use only one finger, as if the grand were but a toy.

“He taught himself that,” Mom said. “On a tiny piano that you might find in a fairy orchestra. And he can sing, too, sing like a bird.”

Dad shot me a quick sideways glance. Too busy sizing up my mother, Mr. Martin did not notice the wordless exchange. My mother rattled on about all of my talents, but nobody listened. In measures too slow and far apart, I practiced my Chopin, so disguised that even old Martin did not discover the melody.

“Mr. Day, Mrs. Day, I agree to take on your son. My minimum requirement, however, is for eight weeks of lessons at a time, Wednesday afternoons and Saturdays. I can teach this boy.” Then he mentioned, in a voice barely above a whisper, his fee. My father lit another Camel and walked toward the window.

“But for your son”—he addressed my mother now—“for Henry, a born musician if I ever heard one, for him, I will require only half the tuition, but you must commit to sixteen weeks. Four months. We will know how far we can go.”

I picked out a rudimentary “Happy Birthday.” My father finished his smoke and tapped me on the shoulder, indicating we were to leave. He walked over to Mom and grabbed her lightly by the fleshy part of her arm above the elbow.

“I’ll call you Monday,” he said, “at three-thirty. We’ll think it over.”

Mr. Martin bowed slightly and looked me straight in the eye. “You have a gift, young man.”

As we drove home, I watched the city recede in the mirror and disappear. Mom chattered incessantly, dreaming the future, planning our lives. Billy, hands locked on the wheel, concentrated on the road and said nothing.

“I’ll buy some laying hens, that’s what I’ll do. Remember when you used to say you wanted to turn our place back into a real farm? I’ll start a brood of chickens, and we’ll sell the eggs, and that will pay the bill, surely. And imagine, we’ll have fresh eggs ourselves every morning, too. And Henry can take the school bus to the streetcar, and the streetcar into town. You could drive him to the streetcar Saturdays?”

“I could do chores to earn the fare.”

“You see, Billy, how much he wants to learn? He has a gift, that Mr. Martin said. And he’s so refined. Did you ever see such a thing in your life as that piano? He must shine it every day.”

My father rolled down his window about an inch to let in a roar of fresh air.

“Did you hear him play ‘Happy Birthday to You,’ like he’s been at it forever? It’s what he wants; it’s what I want. Sweetheart.”

“When would he practice, Ruth? Even I know you have to play every day, and I might be able to afford piano lessons, but I certainly can’t afford a piano in the house.”

“There’s a piano at school,” I said. “Nobody uses it. I’m sure if I asked, they’d let me stay after. . . .”

“What about your homework and those chores you said you would do? I don’t want to see your grades slipping.”

“Nine times nine is eighty-one. Separate is spelled S-E-P-A-R-A-T-E. Oppenheimer gave us the bomb, which took care of the Japs. The Holy Trinity is the Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost, and it is a holy mystery that no one can figure out.”

“All right, Einstein. You can try it, but for eight weeks. Just to be sure. And your mother will have to raise the egg money, and you have to help care for the chickens. They teach you that in that school of yours?”

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