“How about one?”
He smiled. “Deal.”
After making Jonah his dinner-he wanted the hot dogs boiled, not microwaved-Ronnie headed down the beach, toward the church. It wasn’t far, but it lay in the opposite direction from the route she usually walked, and she’d barely noticed it the few times she’d passed it.
As she approached, she saw the outlines of the spire silhouetted against the evening sky. Other than that, the church disappeared into its surroundings, mostly because it was so much smaller than either of the homes flanking it and had none of the expensive details. The walls were made of clapboard siding, and despite the new construction, the place already looked weathered.
She had to climb over the dune to reach the parking lot on the street side, and here there was more evidence of recent activity: an overflowing Dumpster, a fresh stack of plywood by the door, and a large work van parked near the entrance. The front door was propped open, illuminated by a soft cone of light, though the rest of the building looked dark.
She walked toward the entrance and stepped inside. Looking around, she could see that the place had a long way to go. The floor was concrete, the drywall looked only half-complete, and there were no seats or pews. Dust coated every exposed two-by-four, yet straight ahead, where Ronnie could imagine Pastor Harris preaching on Sundays, her father was sitting behind a new piano that looked utterly out of place. An old aluminum lamp attached to an extension cord provided the only illumination.
He hadn’t heard her come in, and he continued to play, though she didn’t recognize the song. It seemed almost contemporary, unlike the music he usually played, but even to her ears it sounded… unfinished somehow. Her dad seemed to realize the same thing because he stopped for a moment, appeared to think of something new, and started over from the beginning.
This time, she heard the subtle variations he made. They were an improvement, but the melody still wasn’t right. She felt a rush of pride that she still had the ability not only to interpret music, but to imagine possible variations. When she was younger, it was this talent above all else that had amazed her father.
He started over again, making further changes, and as she watched him, she knew he was happy. Though music wasn’t part of her life anymore, it had always been part of his, and she suddenly felt guilty for taking that away from him. Looking back, she remembered being angry at the thought that he was trying to get her to play, but had he really been trying to do that? Had it really been about her? Or had he played because it was an essential aspect of who he was?
She wasn’t sure, but watching him, she felt moved by what he’d done. The serious way he considered every note and the ease with which he made changes made her realize how much he’d given up as a result of her childish demand.
As he played, he coughed once, then again, before stopping the song. He coughed some more, the sound thick and mucousy, and when it continued unabated, she broke into a run to reach him.
“Dad?” she cried. “Are you okay?”
He looked up, and for some reason, the coughing began to subside. By the time she bent down next to him, he was only wheezing slightly.
“I’m okay,” he said, his voice weak. “There’s so much dust in here-it just gets to me after a while. It happens every time.”
She stared at him, thinking he looked a little pale. “Are you sure that’s it?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” He patted her hand. “What are you doing here?”
“Jonah told me you were here.”
“I guess you caught me, huh?”
She waved it off. “It’s okay, Dad. It’s a gift, right?”
When he didn’t respond, she motioned to the keyboard, remembering all the songs they’d written together. “What was that you were playing? Are you writing a new song?”
“Oh, that,” he said. “Trying to write one is more like it. It’s just something I’ve been working on. No big deal.”
“It was good…”
“No, it wasn’t. I don’t know what’s wrong with it. You might-you were always better at composing than I was-but I just can’t seem to get it right. It’s like I’m doing everything backwards.”
“It was good,” she insisted. “And it was… more modern than what you usually play.”
He smiled. “You noticed that, huh? It didn’t start out that way. To be honest, I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
“Maybe you’ve been listening to my iPod.”
He smiled. “No, I can assure you that I haven’t.”
She looked around her. “So when’s the church going to be finished?”
“I don’t know. I think I told you that the insurance didn’t cover all the damage-it’s stalled for the time being.”
“What about the window?”
“I’m still going to finish it.” He pointed to a plywood-covered opening in the wall behind him. “That’s where it’ll go, even if I have to install it myself.”
“You know how to do that?” Ronnie asked in disbelief.
“Not yet.”
She smiled. “Why is there a piano here? If the church isn’t finished? Aren’t you worried it’s going to get stolen?”
“It wasn’t supposed to be delivered until the church was finished, and technically, it’s not supposed to be in here. Pastor Harris hopes to find someone who’s willing to store it, but with no completion date in sight, it’s not as easy as it sounds.” He turned to peek out the doorway and seemed surprised that night had fallen. “What time is it?”
“It’s a little after nine.”
“Oh, geez,” he said, starting to rise. “I didn’t realize the time. I’m supposed to camp out with Jonah tonight. And I should probably get him something to eat.”
“Already taken care of.”
He smiled, but as he gathered up his sheet music and turned out the light in the church, she was struck by how tired and frail he looked.
25 Steve
Ronnie was right, he thought. The song was definitely modern.
He hadn’t been lying when he’d told her that it hadn’t started out that way. In the first week, he’d tried to approximate something by Schumann; for a few days after that, he’d been inspired more by Grieg. After that, it was Saint-Saëns he heard in his head. But in the end nothing felt right; nothing he did captured the same feeling he’d had when he’d recorded those first simple notes on a scrap of paper.
In the past, he worked to create music that he fantasized would live for generations. This time, he didn’t. Instead, he experimented. He tried to let the music present itself, and little by little, he realized he’d stopped trying to echo the great composers and was content to finally trust himself. Not that he was there yet, because he wasn’t. It wasn’t right and there was a possibility that it would never be right, but somehow this felt okay to him.
He wondered if this had been his problem all along-that he’d spent his life emulating what had worked for others. He played music written by others hundreds of years earlier; he searched for God during his walks on the beach because it had worked for Pastor Harris. Here and now, with his son sitting beside him on a dune outside his house and staring through a pair of binoculars, despite the fact he most likely wouldn’t see a thing, he wondered if he’d made those choices less because he thought others had the answers and more because he was afraid to trust his own instincts. Perhaps his teachers had become his crutch, and in the end, he had been afraid to be himself.
“Hey, Dad?”
“Yeah, Jonah.”
“Are you going to come visit us in New York?”
“Nothing would make me happier.”
“Because I think Ronnie will talk to you now.”
“I would hope so.”
“She’s changed a lot, don’t you think?”
Steve put down the binoculars. “I think we’ve all changed a lot this summer.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I think I’ve gotten taller, for one thing.”