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V Mag at UVA
The old man sits at his piano without a sound. His weathered fingers hover above the keys, promising melodies, but never delivering. Veins made pronounced by time run like inverted rivers down his arms to the base of his fingers. They carry a vitality that must be visible to survive, and the raised rivers do not reach his fingertips. The knuckles are dams against the current, pushing the spirit back to his heart. The current is not enough to make him touch the keys.
Outside the window, behind the man and the piano, a hummingbird flits so quickly it appears static. The bird's pointed beak longs to sip the vitality out of the man’s veins like nectar and pollinate something with potential, but its pink and teal reflection in the glass whispers “no'' through the silence. But, even the whispers of the glass cannot crack the stagnant hush. The bird longs to move, but it needs to be startled by sound. It waits for the man to press a key, but he does not.
From outside the window, the hummingbird observes the image of the untouched piano, covered in a layer of dust. The piano, made of ordinary wood, is pressed against the wall. Ornate carvings embellish the simple structure– grape vines slither across every cranny, flowers blossom in each wood grain, and small smooth faces with open mouths peek through the layers of flora. Carvings are carried to the legs of the piano bench, winding themselves up to the leather seat. The hummingbird knows that if the old man stood up, there would be a divet in the leather from a lifetime of practice, performance, and now, passivity. The expressions of the faces in the bench
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look more strained than the ones covering the piano, as though their wide-mouthed screams are silenced by the weight of an old man who will not play.
The quiver in the man’s hands intensifies, building a more intimate tension between his fingertips and the keys that are only millimeters away. Tension creates a silent vibration that reverberates in the carvings of the piano and lands in the ears of the screaming faces and in the petals that grow more wilted with each passing moment. His hands start to spasm more fervently and he knows in a moment his fingers will drop. He pulls his hands away with an exhale and shakily reaches for the mug of earl grey tea on top of the piano. He spins the tea spoon around to reblend the cream and sugar, carefully avoiding the edges of the mug. But with the slightest clink of the spoon on the ceramic, the silence is shattered and the hummingbird darts away. It takes a moment for the silence to return and for the old man to be alone again.
The old man picks up the tea with both hands to keep himself from dropping it on the carpet that is already bespattered with tea stains and is in need of replacement. He clutches the mug close to his chest for a moment like there is heat radiating into his heart, but he left the tea untouched all morning and it has become stone cold. The scent of cold bergamot and lavender pulses its way over the gray stubble on his chin and into his nose. He brings the mug up to his solemn face, inhaling the scent slowly and pressing the cold surface to his lips. As a drop of tea moves from his thin lips to the back of his throat, a hand appears on his shoulder.
“Maggie, I told you I won’t do it,” he says weakly as he takes the mug away from his face.
The hand belongs to an old woman but it is perfectly smooth in contrast to his own. Her skin has the luminescence of a silver spoon and the edges of her hand are outlined by the glowing dust of a star.
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“George, please play for me.”
He turns to look at her. She has a beautiful face.
“No, I’m sorry.”
There is a droplet of sadness in her blue eyes. If not for her salt-and-pepper hair and discernable laugh lines, she could have been a young woman. The old man turns away from her and looks back to the piano.
“Please. You love the piano.”
“I love you.”
“You love the piano more.”
“No.”
She takes a seat next to him on the piano bench and lays her head against his shoulder. Golden streams of sunlight in an otherwise dark room highlight pink and teal streaks hidden in the layers of gray hair. The strands softly glow like a holograph. Instinctively, the old man wraps his arm around her waist and they sit there for a moment.
“You never held me like this when I was alive.”
“You are alive to me.”
“Don’t change the subject. You know it’s true.”
“I had to practice. I needed to provide for you.”
“No, you had to play to be happy, just like you need to now.”
He loses his appetite for cold earl grey tea and unwraps himself from her. He feebly carries the mug into the adjacent kitchen. She trails behind, deliberately slowing her steps to match his pace.
“Please don’t walk away from me.”
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He does not respond.
“George, are you even listening?”
“I am, but I won’t do it.”
He pours the tea in the sink and watches the light brown liquid spiral down the drain, contemplating his next words.
“I don’t want to be alone.”
“You won’t be alone. You have your piano.”
“It’s not the same as you.”
“Please. I don’t want to be trapped here anymore.”
He turns and begins to walk towards his bedroom, but she grabs him by his coarse hair with the force of five years of frustration, and yanks him back.
“Please.”
“I won’t play. I told you that I don’t want to be alone.”
She yanks him harder. He stumbles and falls on the white tile with her shimmering fingers still locked in his hair.
“You know this won’t change my mind, so let’s not do it again.”
For an old woman, she is strong. She drags him across the kitchen floor with no care for the cabinets that his body slams into along the way. He moans with each thud, his fragile body unable to resist her pull. She drags him over the tea-stained carpet and a rug burn appears on his back in the wake of her frustration. She releases him on the ground in front of the piano bench. She kicks him in the ribs with her red house slipper. The slipper softens the blow, but he yelps anyways.
“PLAY”
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“No.”
“PLAY”
She kicks him in the ribs again and the effervescent glow that outlines her figure starts to buzz. He remains on the ground and gasps for air between words.
“Like I told you yesterday and the day before that, and every day since you died, I won’t do it.”
“You hate me.”
“No, I love you. That’s why I won’t play.”
“You’re selfish, but the worst kind because you don’t see how much happier you would be if you let me go.
“You’re wrong.”
“You were a great pianist and a horrible husband. Go back to being that.”
She turns her back to him and sits on the piano bench. She positions herself like she is about to play a melancholic sonata, fingers balancing just above the keys in the same fashion his fingers were before she arrived.
“My love, you don’t know how to play the piano.”
“You do.”
She takes a long inhale, pulling some of the stardust through her nostrils and into her lungs. She pauses a moment. And then she turns her open palms into fists and starts banging on the keys. There is no song. The piano shrieks at the weight of her firsts ramming every key. Piano dust is forced out of the engravings and into the air, shimmering in the shadows of her glow.
“Stop Maggie. You know this won’t work. You’re just wearing yourself out.”
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She yells over the caterwauling.
“I CAN’T WEAR MYSELF OUT. THAT’S THE PROBLEM.”
She stops banging, but it takes a moment for the cacophony to stop echoing in the divots of the carvings. When she turns her head to his limp body, a deep sadness shines in her eyes and reflects off the shimmers in her hair. Her lips, though, are pursed into a grimace. His eyes stare back, sad, yet accepting.
“If you truly loved me, you would let me go.”
“You know I love you.”
“I know, but I can’t stand it here. It’s past my time.”
“Just a while longer. I’ll be dead soon, Maggie.”
“I can’t wait for you to die.”
“I can kill myself if you prefer.”
She pauses.
“Do you remember how happy you were when you performed at Carnegie?”
“Yes.”
“You were more happy that day than the day you married me. I don’t understand why you can’t see that now.”
The sadness in her eyes transforms into metallic tears. They spill from her glossy eyes like droplets of mercury, leaving silver streaks down her smooth cheeks and in the deep creases of her laugh lines. The tears drip onto the piano bench, trail down the legs, fill the carvings until they overflow with their own tears, and fall to make a liquid mirror on the stained carpet.
“Please just let me go. I don’t want to resent you anymore for keeping me here.” “I’m sorry. You know I’m sorry.”
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“You’re only sorry for yourself.”
“I’ll be so alone without you.”
“If you play the piano, I can leave because, if you play, you won’t be alone without me.”
“But the piano isn’t you. I made a vow.”
“The vow said until death do us part. I’m dead. Why don’t you understand that?”
She stands up from the piano and sits in the corner of the room, pulling her knees into her head. She weeps and whimpers. He rolls over on the floor and crawls towards her. He sits next to her and comforts her with his wrinkled hands on her shoulders.
“Please stop crying. It’s better for both of us if we are together.”
“Not for me. Please, for once consider the position I’m in.”
“Okay, Maggie. I’ll think about it tonight. Just don’t be sad please.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“I know, and I did think about it.”
“Not hard enough.”
“I’ll think harder tonight.”
“I love you but I’m miserable.”
“I love you and I don’t want you to leave me.”
“Really promise you’ll think about it.”
“I promise.”
After a minute, she stops crying and stands up.
“If you play the piano, you’ll understand I was right.”
“See you tomorrow, my love.”
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She walks towards the kitchen with the glow of two red slippers and silver stardust dragging behind her. She turns for a moment, looks at him and disappears through the doorway. The old man sits on the carpet and looks at himself in the reflection of the tears she left behind. A teal and pink rainbow flashes across the puddle near the bench. He looks up and makes eye contact with a hummingbird outside the window. They stare at each other until the old man tremulously stands up and returns to his position at the piano. The stillness sounds like an echo.