I played every chance I could get. Over the next few years, I spent hours each day at the keys, enthralled by the mathematics of the notes. The music seized me like a river current pushing my conscious self deeper into my core, as if there were no other sound in the world but one. I grew my legs an inch longer than necessary that first summer in order to better reach the pedals on the upright. Around the house, school, and town, I practiced spreading my fingers as far apart as they would go. The pads of my fingertips became smooth and feather-sensitive. My shoulders bowed down and forward. I dreamt in wave after wave of scales. The more adept my skill and understanding grew, the more I realized the power of musical phrasing in everyday life. The trick involves getting people to listen to the weak beats and seemingly insignificant silences between notes, the absence of tones between tones. By phrasing the matter with a ruthlessly precise logic, one can play—or say—anything. Music taught me great self-control.
My father could not stand to hear me practice, perhaps because he realized the mastery I had attained. He would leave the room, retreat into the farthest corners of the house, or find any excuse to go outside. A few weeks after Mom and I bought the piano, he came home with our first television set, and a week later a man came out and installed an antenna on the roof. In the evenings, my father would watch You Bet Your Life or The Jackie Gleason Show, ordering me to keep it down. More and more, however, he simply left altogether.
“I’m going for a drive.” He already had his hat on.
“You’re not going drinking, I hope.”
“I may stop in for one with the boys.”
“Don’t be too late.”
Well after midnight, he’d stagger in, singing or muttering to himself, swearing when he stepped on one of the girls’ toys or barked his shin on the piano bench as he passed. Weather permitting, he worked outdoors every weekend, replacing shutters, painting the house, rewiring the chicken coop. He was absent from the hearth, unwilling to listen. With Mary and Elizabeth, he played the doting father, still dandling them on his knees, fussing over their curls and dresses, fawning at the latest primitive drawing or Popsicle-stick hut, sitting down at the table for tea parties and the like. But he regarded me coldly, and while I cannot read minds, I suspect he felt at odds with my passion for music. Maybe he felt art corrupted me, made me less a boy. When we spoke, he would chastise me for a neglected chore or chide me for a less than perfect grade on a test or essay.
As he drove me home from the trolley station one Saturday, he made an effort to engage and understand. On the radio, a football game between the Fighting Irish of Notre Dame and Navy unfolded. One of the teams scored a touchdown in a spectacular fashion.
“How about that? Did you hear that?”
I looked out the window, tapping out with my right hand a melody on the armrest.
“Do you even like football?” he asked.
“I dunno. It’s okay.”
“Do you like any sport at all? Baseball? Basketball? Would you like to go hunting someday?”
I said nothing. The very thought of being alone with Billy Day and a shotgun frightened me. There are devils out in the woods. We let a few silent miles pass beneath us.
“How’s come it’s nothing but the piano night and day?”
“I like music. And I’m good.”
“You are that, but honestly, did you ever stop to think you could try something else for a change? Don’t you know there’s more to life than music?”
If he had been my true father, I would have been eternally disappointed in him. The man had no vision, no passion for life, and I was grateful that we were not actually related. The car passed through the shadows of trees, and the glass in the window darkened. I saw in my own reflection the mirrored image of Henry’s father, but I only appeared to be his offspring. Once upon a time, I had a real father. I could hear his voice: “Ich erkenne dich! Du willst nur meinen Sohn!” His eyes danced wildly behind his owlish spectacles, and then the phantom memory disappeared. I sensed Billy Day was watching me from the corner of his eye, wondering what on earth happened? How did I get this for a son?
“I’m thinking that I’m starting to like girls,” I volunteered. He smiled and tousled my hair. He lit another Camel, a sure sign he was content with my answer. The subject of my masculinity never came up again.