Dad breathed as if he were asleep. From under the piano I watched his feet in ravaged dress shoes, sometimes flecked with cast plaster or blood from patients he'd seen during the day. Chords rang out from above, the creak and thump of the mechanisms inside dampening and striking strings with hard felt hammers. When he pivoted on his heel and pressed down on the far right pedal, the entire internal framework of the piano would lift from the strings, leaving them exposed and resonating all at once. They decayed into what seemed like infinity.
* * * * * *
In the perfunctory book section of a Chelsea gift shop, I flipped through a copy of Oliver Sacks' Musicophilia: Tales of Music and the Brain. Father's Day dinner was in an hour, at a rustic Italian restaurant downtown that reminded us of home though it bore no resemblance. We'd eat and drink, and Dad would pick up the bill. He was still the only one who could afford it.
I landed on a section of the book about a man who gets hit by lightning and becomes passionate about concert piano. I found a card with a picture of a beach at sunset and florid script describing the quiet majesty of fatherhood.
Two very effeminate men stood behind matching cash registers along the thin stretch of store. They were tall with dyed black hair, their skin spray-tanned to a pumpkin hue. They looked like Muppets. One chattered incessantly as he rang up customers, the other smiled and nodded, mute. Overhead, Abba played "Dancin Queen." They swayed along in time.
A 40ish woman with an assortment of bags stood at the counter as the talkative salesman prepared to gift wrap several candles and picture frames for her. I stepped up to the mute's register with my book. He reached for it slowly, and twisted it around in his hands, searching for the price.
"It's on the back," I offered.
At the other register, the chatty salesman commented on each of the woman's purchases as he scanned them in.
"Vanilla. Mmmmm. Makes such a yummy room."
She smiled.
"Well, I have to say, it was a very considered choice. I think you smelled every candle in the store! Ha, I'm just the same. You're getting this wrapped, yes?"
"Yes."
"Great. And the frames - they're for Dad, too?"
"No," she responded flatly. "My dad's no longer with us."
"Oh, well. I'm very sorry to hear it."
Abba chugged through the awkward silence that ensued.
He continued, "Well, you know - what's the saying - 'thanks that they got us here.' I mean, really, right? They got us here, you know? It's incredible. Really."
"Yes. I suppose that is true." She seemed exhausted. Her bags weighed her down. Her hair was cut short, but looked dirty, with gray roots pushing through mousey brown dye.
My mute cashier had by now located the price tag, and pointed the scanner at the bar code. "You know, maybe I can take the gift wrapping with me, if that's OK," I said. He stared blankly, as if he'd forgotten I was there.
Next to me, the dialogue went on. "Well, you'll light a candle for him in church or something, won't you?" Both cashiers smiled at the comment.
Her face twisted. "My father sexually abused me as a child."
I flashed a desperate look at the mute. The bar code had not read properly, and he was now most of the way through manually entering the $14.99 price into the register. I searched my pockets for exact change. Abba, and the other salesman, continued.
"Oh. Dear. Well." He softened his voice. "This must be a complicated day for you."
"Yes," she responded. "He was not a good man."
I rapped my knuckles on my side of the counter. "Would a twenty cover it? And yeah, the gift wrapping I can do at home. Kind of a rush." The mute sighed at the general rudeness of customers. People, really.
The woman, equally resigned that her packages would never be gift-wrapped, began opening up. "He was tough. A paratrooper in World War II…"
I looked at the mute. "Please."
She put her bags down. "I mean, who knows what he went through, himself…"
"Who knows, exactly. Who knows…" the salesman interrupted.
"Forgiveness, you know? I've spent a lot of time on it. Not easy."
"…must be so... yeah. So much." Both salesmen were now focused on her, nodding in time with Abba.
I slapped a twenty down on the counter. "Just…the box. I'll figure it out at home."
The mute spoke. "Do you want a bag for that?"
"Sure just hand it to me."
He handed me a shopping bag, robin's egg blue with the store's name, RAINBOWS AND TRIANGLES, emblazoned in pink across the top. Under the logo, a rainbow arched over a shining, golden triangle. It was as if I'd bought my Father's Day gift from My Little Pony.
"Veteran's Day…things got really bad around the house."
"Oh, my God. Of course. That makes so much sense…"
I headed for the door, for dinner, for Dad. The draft from my passing body engaged the wall of wind chimes which tinkled with metal fairies, flattened spoons and dark stained bamboo stalks that clucked in low, exotic tones.
Mike Errico official site: www.errico.com
Tallboy 7, Inc. Box 20463 NYC 10011
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