Calamity and Other Stories Read Free

said, and closed his eyes. I’d never seen anyone listen so attentively to a piece of music. He stayed like that for minutes, while Charlie Dibbs poked around at the fruit in his sangria. When Mr. Curtin remained silent, Charlie Dibbs began to look bored, and went so far as to try to rouse Edna LeBlanc with a tap on the elbow. She let out a hearty snore.
    Finally Mr. Curtin opened his eyes and spoke. “If only life could be like this.”
    This statement appeared thoroughly unsatisfactory to Charlie Dibbs, who stretched his limbs, half stifled a belch, and said, “Whoa—that eggplant dip’s already getting to me.”
    “Oh, good, you’re still here.” It was my mother, walking over, slightly wobbly. “I was thinking, Cole. I was thinking that maybe you could play for us later on.”
    “Well, only if you think people would want to hear—”
    “Oh, of course, of course,” my mother told him, unaware that some wine was spilling from her glass. “Gordon. Gordon! Come help Cole roll the piano onto the porch.”
    “If it’s a problem—” said Mr. Curtin.
    “Not at all. Gordon! Come here and help Cole—”
    “I heard you,” my father called from the lawn. “In a minute, okay? Jerry wants to show me his Ford.”
    When my father returned, he made a big deal about pushing the piano, though it was on wheels, through the door from the family room onto the porch. I heard him telling Jerry Waslick, after Mr. Curtin had sat down to play, that used pianos often sounded better than brand new ones.
    Mr. Curtin, meanwhile, closed his eyes and began to play Scarlatti. Callie, who liked to be part of a show, came and stood next to him as if she might be needed to turn pages. Public attention never flustered her, and with her honey-blond bob and perfectly straight bangs (the sort of thing my curls could never manage) she looked neat and efficient; you wouldn’t have guessed that really she barely even practiced her scales. I stood tenuously behind her, to show that I too was a part of all this.
    No one was really listening, but my mother and Helen acted as an audience, leaning back on the wicker loveseat directly across from the piano, their hair a tangle of blond streaks and dark curls. Helen rested her head on my mother’s shoulder, while my mother whispered things that caused them both to giggle. They were holding hands. Helen whispered something back, and both of them burst out in a loud cackle just as Mr. Curtin settled into a pianissimo section of the sonata.
    Perhaps it was that double laugh that caused Mr. Curtin to look up. He saw that my mother had flung her head back, and laugh-tears were at the corners of her eyes. Helen, smiling, absently ran her finger along my mother’s arched neck. My mother turned her head to Helen and, still laughing, placed her lips on Helen’s mouth. That was when Mr. Curtin stopped playing. In the absence of music, Jerry Waslick’s voice could be heard, saying, “. . . but we thought a canoe might be better.” I turned to see my father standing with him, along with Charlie Dibbs and Tom. Only my father had looked up absently to see why the music had stopped. This all took place in a matter of seconds, and yet I can see so clearly, in stop-action, my father’s gaze following that of Mr. Curtin, until it found my mother reclined there on the wicker furniture, her mouth already withdrawing from Helen’s. For a brief moment my father looked as if he had bitten into a bad grape. But then his very posture changed. He let his hands drop to his sides in an awestruck way and regarded my mother and Helen with the same lonely, powerless look I had seen so many times on Mr. Curtin’s face. Behind him, limp on the piano bench, Mr. Curtin, too, stared at them.
    My mother and Helen weren’t even kissing any more, just laughing in a tired way. If you had blinked you could have missed it. Callie did; she was leafing through my sheet music, making sure we were playing all the same pieces. My