Shortly after Mrs. Lorenzo put me through my daily exercises, Malcolm arrived with his axe. If he knew about the modifications to the Steinway, he convincingly pretended to be surprised by them.
I wanted him to listen to a few numbers and watch me. I started with Fats Domino’s “Walking to New Orleans,” which moves easy, and then did Fats’s “Whole Lotta Loving,” which truly, righteously rocks. Neither of them called for that much pedal work, but then I finished with a swing piece, “Easy Does It.”
When I wrapped it, I didn’t look at him when I said, “Now let’s do a couple numbers together.” He named a piece, and we rode through it well, and I named a piece, and that one went all right, too.
After the last chords faded in the heart of the Steinway, I dared to look at him. “So how did I do?”
“You did great, fantastic.”
“Don’t blow smoke up my butt, Malcolm Pomerantz.”
“No, you were really good. I mean, you’ve been through hell and away from the keyboard, so it’s going to take time. I wouldn’t think you’d be this good, this soon, especially with those grab knobs to pull and poke.”
I nodded. “You want to go in the kitchen, grab us a couple of Cokes, and meet me on the porch?”
He shook his head. “Let’s do some more here.”
“We will. We’ll do more together. But right now, meet me on the porch with those Cokes.”
I wheeled myself through the front door. The Ford van wasn’t parked to the west near the Jaruzelski place, but to the east, near the Rakowskis’ house.
Malcolm brought two ice-cold Cokes, almost dropped one, snared it before it hit the floor, gave me the other one, sat down, and said, “I think my old man hit her.”
“Who—your mom?”
“She has this bruise along her jaw. But then I think she hit him back or first, or whatever, ’cause he has a black eye.”
“When did this happen?”
“Sunday, when I was in the garage. I’m always in the garage anymore. I’d be there all the time if they’d just move the car out and give me more space.”
“This ever happen before?”
“Not that I know about. But things change, things are always changing, and not for the better.”
The day was a repeat of Friday, so hot that the birds stayed in the trees or walked around in the yard in the shade of the big maple, pecking at things in the grass as if they didn’t really want to eat but felt they had to go through the motions.
“I can still play,” I said, “and I’ll get better, but I’m never going to perform in public.”
“Sure you will. That’s what it’s all about.”
“It better not be what it’s all about, because if it is, then I’m through.”
“What’re you saying? I don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Those grab knobs don’t cut it when I use a hand. Can’t get the right performance that way. What’s it look like when I use my teeth?”
“What does it look like? What do you mean?”
“Suddenly you don’t understand English?”
“It looks okay,” he said. “It looks fine. It’s interesting.”
“As interesting as a monkey juggling?”
He glowered at me. “What the hell kind of thing is that to say?”
“I don’t want to be a novelty pianist. ‘Playing tonight, Jonah the Crippled Prodigy Bravely Soldiering Forward.’ ”