Chapter 41
— Chapter 41 —
“There’s a little dip in the driveway, so…” I gesture with my hand.
“Yeah, sure, Freya. Thanks,” Shorty says, his arm leaning out the window of the appliance delivery truck.
When we were all telling our post ice storm war stories at the bar, I mentioned Jam’s piano and that I wished I could keep it at my house for him. Shorty winked and said, “Once I fix the truck I got coming in next week, I’m gonna have to give it a test drive.”
Now, I’m certain I’m about to witness the demise of both the deer fence and the truck because I can’t see how Shorty is going to get it through the narrow gate, or how anyone could navigate this backward. But he hits the gas and glides right on through like it’s nothing.
Jam, Shorty, a few guys from the auto shop, and a cashier from Gristedes who owes Jam a favor dismantled the piano as much as they could and hauled it out of the Olbrichs’ basement.
They use dollies and muscle to get it across the soggy grass and bring it in through the French doors in the sunroom.
“Can we set it up here?” Shorty asks, even though the plan was to put it in the living room. He’s panting, sweat pouring down his temples in streams.
That side of the sunroom is under my parents’ bedroom, where the roof leaked, so I worry that we’re just moving the Steinway from a place where water wells up to a place where it rains from above. But I know trying to talk these guys into moving that piano through two more doorways is probably a bad idea.
“Yes!” I say brightly. “Perfect! Thank you!”
When they’re done, I make Jam buy everyone pizza and beer. He sits on the patio with the guys to eat, and they all joke around together like they’re friends.
As everyone is leaving, I catch Jam handing a wad of bills to Shorty, who tries to refuse. Jam sticks the money in the front pocket of Shorty’s coveralls and pats his chest. Shorty nods and gives him a hearty slap-on-the-back hug. It makes me feel like Jam is still existing in the world, trying to connect. He still values his piano.
I am warm and fuzzy and full of good feelings for the state of humanity until Jam sits down with his weird little hammer to tune his piano. The tile floor in the sunroom creates an echo that floods every single room in the house. He plays a sour note, twists the corresponding peg, hits the key again. He consults his tuning fork, hums a bit. Hits the note again. When he’s finally satisfied, he moves on to the next key.
“How long does this take?” I ask.
“Two hours, maybe?” he says, frowning. “Three? It’s pretty far out of tune. I need to voice the hammers too.” He is serious Jam at the moment. On task and unconcerned with his change of scene.
Already, I am missing the quiet of the house. Without meaning to, I have given up my peace.
I go down to the basement to work on the dresser, but Jam’s sour notes follow me. So I grab Step’s bolt cutters and walk down to the pond.
I’ve forgotten how to navigate brambles. I used to be really good at getting through them. Maybe it’s just because I’m bigger and there’s more of me to get stuck. Or maybe I’ve lost some of my resilience—I believe I shouldn’t be scratched by thorns, so I catalog the pain. As a kid I was always proud of my scrapes and I loved to pick the scabs off my skin.
My rowboat is still there. Chained to the tree, right where I left it. The edges are sunken into the mud. There’s a little corrosion around the bolts. But my boat was made to last a lifetime and hasn’t been through half of one yet. I can’t remember the combination, but Step’s bolt cutters make easy work of the padlock. I have to muster the guts to turn it upright, imagining that the hull is now home to a cranky snapping turtle or writhing mating ball of snakes. When I sink my fingers into the mud, grab the edge, and flip it over, there is a catastrophic crashing sound. I scream, sneakers slipping in the mud. But as I jump back, preparing to run, I realize that it was just the oars I kept stored under the bench smacking the boat’s floor. In the end, all I’ve unearthed are a few worms who are shocked by the sunshine.
The boat is dirty and there’s a small leak I can’t locate, but it floats. And it doesn’t take long to catch my bearings. My muscles remember how to steady myself as I step onto the bow and launch forward to push off from shore. I navigate the wobble to get to my seat. The echo of the metal and the smell of silt churned from the bottom of the pond feel like dear old friends.
I push the oars into the locks, slide the paddles into the water, and row out to the middle of the pond. The air is cool, but the sun is warm. I lie across the seat with my knees up and my head against the side. I swear I can hear sunnies swimming underneath the hull. I am in a state of bliss I have not experienced in years, and I stay until the sun starts sinking behind the trees. Then I slip my oars back into the water, throw my weight against them, and feel the left one crack.
“What happened to you?” Aubrey asks when I get home. I am still raining pond water. My sneakers are filled with mud. But even though I had to jump in the freezing water to swim my boat back to shore, my body feels light and calm,
“I went for a dip.”
“You’re so weird,” she says, shaking her head.
The house is warm; my shower is hot. Jam’s piano is tuned, and he made us risotto. Aubrey and I sit on pillows on the sunroom floor and eat while Jam plays our requests. In the dark, the windows reflect us back to ourselves, and we look so happy.