ALL THAT REMAINS

A fly walked the edge of the hardwood floor left mostly deserted by bargain seekers and treasure hunters. All that was left, in the middle of the room, were a grand piano, a wooden bench on which an old woman was sitting, and an oil painting of 3 white birch trees in a snow squall. Even all the chairs had been taken. Outside curtainless windows, heavy clouds mimicked uncles at Thanksgiving; too fat and too full to move. In the driveway, the boss lady sat in her running car crunching numbers and sipping from an Arby’s cup.

A car pulled up and a tall man with an umbrella got out and walked up the drive. The boss lady watched him through the rear-view.

‘This guy’s no buyer,’ she thought, ‘Money stays with him like an in-law at Christmas.’

She went back to her numbers. The tall man walked past the car then entered the home, ignoring the sign with the hours of the sale. He came upon the room and stopped as soon as he saw the piano and the old woman.

“Guess I’m late to the party again,” he joked, setting the umbrella down.

He stared at the painting.

“Simplest things are beautiful through the right eyes.”

The woman on the bench nodded.

‘ “Did you come to make an offer?” she asked, then:

“The lady in the car. That’s who you’ll need to talk to.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

“She’s making deals today,” the woman added.

“I’m sure.”

He turned his gaze to the piano.

“Does it play, the Steinway?”

The woman put a hand to her cheek.

“Oh no, it’s not a Steinway. It’s a Hamlin and Mason. My father couldn’t afford a Steinway.”

“Does it play?”

“It did,” the woman replied, “I mean it probably still does. You’ll need to talk to…”

“…the lady in the car,” the man finished.

“That’s right.”

The woman lowered her head.

“That’s ok,” the tall man said, “…but it is stunning, the piano.”

“Stunning,” the old woman repeated, “Funny word to describe a dusty, old piano.”

The man paused.

“Well to me it is. I don’t know why anyone would part with such a thing.”

He unbuttoned the top button of his coat and looked out the window.

“Feels like snow. The first of the season though the hill tops may have had a dusting.”

“Because it’s unmovable,” the old woman blurted, “…and it certainly won’t fit where I’m going. Why most of it would stick out a window.”

“A ready-made balcony,” the man grinned. The woman laughed into her hand.

”The piano? Is it yours? Do you play?”

“I did,” the old woman replied.

“We never forget,” the man noted.

“A long time ago,” the women went on, “I took lessons when I was a girl and then as a young woman, before the work.”

“Yes,” the man nodded, “The work. So, is this the one you learned on?”

“Yes.”

The woman thought.

“Not one offer.”

“Just as well,” the man replied, “I wouldn’t want to see it go to just anyone. Why somebody might buy it just to bust it up for firewood. That would bring tears to my eyes.”

“Tears to your eyes?!” the woman cackled showing a couple of broken teeth.

The man smiled.

“A weakness of mine. I could cry over a perfect bowl of spaghetti.”

The woman shook her head.

“Nobody will buy it. It’s not what people want. People don’t want an albatross.”

“You know, I think you might be right,” the man said, “In my neighborhood I hardly ever see anyone walking their albatrosses anymore.”

He laughed.

“Say, tell me if I’m out of line, but would you mind if I tried it, struck a few notes?”

The woman stood and shoved the bench back.

“I didn’t know you…’

The man laughed.
“Oh, I can’t play a lick but I know how they work. I had an uncle who fixed these. He taught me because I, well - because I was the only one who cared - really.”

“The boy who cries over spaghetti.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Do you miss him? Your uncle?”
“I do.”

The tall man stepped forward, stood at the keyboard, put his hands in position then pressed a key, producing a note.

“Needs tuning, but rich. So rich.”

“That’s a good word.”

The woman thought for a second, then:

“I always thought it was a little off. I wanted to have it looked at a hundred times, but my husband insisted it was my ears that were off. Damn fool. Besides, he always said, ‘Nobody plays it anymore anyway.”

She lowered her head;

“He was right. Nobody played it anymore – not since the boy.”

Her voice trailed off.

“… not since then,” she said mostly to herself.

“I’m sorry,” the tall man said.

He didn’t know what to say, then:

“They’re very fixable. That’s the beauty of it. Everything revolves around a series of pullies, hinges, and adjustable screws. It’s complicated yet simple. The first time my uncle showed me what happens when you strike a key, why it was like being handed the keys to the universe. Most likely it’s just a tweak or a slight warp, a small crack in a hammer or maybe it’s just replacing a fifty-cent drop-screw. I could look at it. Wouldn’t cost you a dime.”

The woman sat again and put her hands on her lap.

“No need to,” she said.

“Well can I look anyway? Just to see what it might be? Another fault of mine. I just have to know.”
“Help yourself,” the woman grinned.

The man lifted the piano lid and peered inside.

“I swear to God, it’s a disease I have,” he said sticking his head almost entirely inside the piano.

The woman picked at the tips of her fingers, then looked at the window.

“There’s a fly on the glass. It survived. Even in all this cold, it survived.

“Amazing isn’t it?” the man said, but the woman wasn’t listening.

“Wasn’t my husband’s fault,” she said, “Wasn’t nobody’s fault. I said it until I was blue in the face but he couldn’t hear. He was already gone and he couldn’t come back. Just couldn’t - poor man. Now it’s just me and the other one, the beauty himself. God!”

She laughed.

“Now it’s off she goes - into the closet with all the other dirty laundry!”

She looked around.

The door opened revealing the boss lady.

“I have to meet another client, Margaret. Is your son coming?”

“Yes,” the woman said, “6:00, that means 7:00.”

The tall man pulled his head out of the piano and straightened. The boss lady moved closer.

“Fifty percent off,” she said, “Sixty if you take it all. I’m basically giving you the painting for free.”

“Oh,” the tall man tipped his head, “Thank you but I think I’ll just be on my way.”

‘I knew it,’ the boss lady thought.

The tall man turned to the old woman.

“Mostly fixable. Most times we just don’t realize it.”

The old woman eyes turned gentle, “I hope there’s a Mrs. Cry Baby somewhere. Would be a shame if…”

The tall man turned just as the boss lady shoved a calling card into his hand.

After the boss lady left, the tall man turned back to the old woman who was staring at her hand.

“I can’t even hold a tea cup.”

The tall man smiled.

“We always surprise ourselves.”

“They say there’s lots of nice people there,” the woman said, “Lots of activities day and night. Never stops they say.”

“I’ll bet.”

The man looked around then stood near the door.

The woman got up, slowly pulled the piano bench close to the piano, then sat on the bench and laid her hands gently on the keys. She took a deep breath then started to play, slow at first, then her playing become faster and smoother. The tall man said:
“La Campanella.”

“That’s right,” the old woman smiled.

The tall man opened the door and stepped into the cold. Darkness had come. He found himself in the glare of the boss lady’s headlights. He could still hear the woman playing. He buttoned his coat. It started to snow.

Joe Ducato lives in Utica, NY. Publications include The Santa Barbara LIterary Review, Modern Literature, and Home Planet News among others.