Joplin's Ghost Read Free Page B

Silver Slipper regularly drew Sinatra and Jackie Gleason to its linen-draped tables; and from the reigns of two or three owners before that who had their own stories to tell. The piano had a story, too. Anyone who gazed at its sullen, aged cabinet for more than a few seconds knew that, even if they didn’t know anything about the story except that it wasn’t a happy one.
    Phoenix found the old piano in the storage room during a bored fit of exploration one summer day, when she discovered that the storage room wasn’t locked as it usually was. The room was little more than a closet, crowded with old sound equipment, boxes stamped with Dewars labels, and stacks of ratty chairs with broad backs that looked like patio castoffs. The piano sat in the middle of the floor, facing nothing in particular, misplaced even within disorder.
    The piano was so ugly it was surly. The upright piano’s blond rosewood finish had rotted away, and its cabinet resembled old, cracked leather, riven with uneven checkers, like a dusty lizard’s skin. The ivory keys were so brown they looked coffee-stained, and the ones with missing key tops looked worse, stripped to the bone. The golden Rosenkranz label would have brightened it, but the lettering had been swallowed by rot. The piano’s twin candelabra, tarnished black, stood with defiant stateliness above the keys although no candles had burned to light this piano in lifetimes.
    Phoenix loved the piano on sight.
    Maybe it was the Sarge’s timer and the piano lessons. Maybe it was her boredom at being forced to sing along while her mother played “My Way,” “I Left My Heart in San Francisco” and “Ebb Tide” on the living room piano after dinner on Friday nights, when Phoenix was sure there was something good on cable. Whatever it was, Phoenix liked the look of that rotted old piano. She liked its rot best of all.
    As she did with all treasures, Phoenix wanted to share her discovery with her cousin Gloria, who was also her best friend. Gloria was from the white side of the family. She lived two blocks from Phoenix in the palm- and pine-lined suburbs of southwest Dade County, a Jewish girl with curly blond hair and faint freckles on her nose.
    “This is an ugly effing piano,” Gloria announced when she saw it.
    That stung. Gloria’s words often stung. Nothing gentle came out of her.
    “Well, you’re wearing an ugly effing shirt. Hammer’s getting played out,” Phoenix said, answering her cousin’s truth with an outright lie. Phoenix envied the long-sleeved M. C. Hammer concert jersey Gloria wore to school at least twice a week and usually on weekends. Aunt Liv had spent fifty dollars on that shirt. Mom would never spend fifty dollars on a concert shirt, even if it was a concert for Jesus and his Second Coming Tour.
    “You’re just effing jealous,” Gloria said. Effing was Gloria’s favorite new word.
    “I am not fucking jealous,” Phoenix said, feeling bold.
    “Ooh, I’m telling your dad, Phee.”
    “Go ahead. I don’t care. He knows you cuss way worse than me.”
    “It’s only cussing if you say it. I said eff -ing. You are in trouble .”
    Durn. She would have to beg. “Don’t tell, Gloria.” She used her no-playing voice.
    Gloria shrugged, dramatically rolling her eyes away. Maybe I will, maybe I won’t. “Does this thing even work?” Gloria said, turning her attention back to the piano. “It looks whack. Straight-up, girl. For real, though.”
    Much to Phoenix’s irritation, her friends often remarked that her white cousin Gloria sounded more black than she did. Gloria could front all she wanted, but she didn’t have a real, deep-laughing black daddy like Sarge. Phoenix had cornrows and caramel-colored skin that stayed tan all year, and Gloria turned as red as a box of Cap’n Crunch if she was in the sun for five minutes. Gloria was just confused—but then again, so was Mom, since Christmas was Mom’s favorite time of year, and Mom’s own sister