by Hubert Furey
They never knew of anybody who had been hurt by a soul returning. In fact, everybody knew that souls only came back for a very good reason, and when that reason was taken care of—like the will being straightened out or whatever—the soul would return to eternal rest and nobody would be the worse off.
As they continued to listen in silence for whatever would happen next, Aunt Nora volunteered her opinion somewhat along these lines, her tone softly reverent, with no trace of fear.
“Charlie. I wonder if ’tis the little Maloney girl . . . comin’ back to play on her piano. . . . Maybe she thinks it’s still hers. . . . I wonder if we should give it back . . .”
To which Uncle Charlie gave a none too convincing reply, even to himself, because secretly he was thinking along the same lines.
“Tush, maid. Sure I paid for it fair and square wid the calf. ’N John Thomas didn’t want to keep it. . . . ’N if she does want to play the piano again, she’s welcome any time. . . . I mean to say, I wouldn’t stop her from playing the piano . . .”
Although he silently wished that she would play it at some more reasonable time than when they were trying to get some well-deserved sleep.
They were about to broach another explanation for the strange happening when the descending process began and they both again became alert, straining to detect some clue that would give explanation to the mystery.
When silence again reigned throughout the house, Aunt Nora proffered a final direction for the night.
“After Fr. Mulcahy says Mass tomorrow, go right to the sacristy and ask for advice. See what the priest has to say. Maybe he’ll be wanting to come and bless the house . . .”
Which seemed like a fitting way to terminate discussion on any problem, natural or unnatural, and they both rolled over and went to sleep.
The next morning they got up and studied the piano for some time, but there was no indication of any kind that the piano had been moved or damaged or in any way tampered with. Everything sounded the same when he touched the keys, and Uncle Charlie could only shake his head thoughtfully as he followed Aunt Nora to the kitchen, where she had prepared a nice breakfast of watered fish and raisin bread.
He sat staring at his breakfast and had to be prompted to eat by Aunt Nora, his mind so totally absorbed with the problem. Whenever he looked in the direction of the parlour, he could almost see the little Maloney girl sitting on the piano stool.
But why was she playing in such a terrible way—if indeed it were her that was playing? Even little Sheila, at the worst of times, had never played as bad as that, and the common opinion in the outport was that little Maria Maloney, God rest her soul, played the best kind when she was alive. So it was reasonable to assume that she would play just as well after she died. No, it couldn’t be little Maria Maloney.
“Now, Charlie,” Aunt Nora interrupted in a concerned tone. “Put some butter on your fish before it gets cold. ’N don’t let it muddle your brain. See what Fr. Mulcahy has to say, and we’ll go on his advice.”
He agreed to that, ate a hearty breakfast, as was his wont, then shaved and put on his white shirt and black tie and new coat, because he was about to discuss an important matter with the priest, and he had to be dressed for the occasion.
On his way to the church he met Master Curran, who was a few minutes late for school that particular morning because he had experienced some difficulty adjusting his new spats. Being of the old school himself, so to speak, Uncle Charlie doffed his cap to the teacher, who was a good ten years his junior, and then proceeded, without invitation, to offer Master Curran a full and complete account of the happenings of the night before.
Master Curran paused for a long time after Uncle Charlie had finished. Then he tapped his lip with his finger as he thoughtfully rested his other hand on his hip, the nodding of his head barely discernible as he stared into a pothole just at his feet.
When he finally spoke, it was obvious that he had given deep and considerable thought to Uncle Charlie’s predicament, and was prepared to demonstrate that he had acquired a deep knowledge of the piano, even though it was well-known that he couldn’t play a note.
“Hmm . . . hmm . . . being played in a very peculiar manner, you say, Uncle Charlie. No sweet, delicate tremolos dancing softly in the whispered silence of the night, you say; no great elongated flourishing chords echoing their troubled resonance through the darkened stillness; no great thundering crashes for finales to signal the end of the composition . . .”
Uncle Charlie hadn’t said any of that. In fact, Uncle Charlie didn’t even understand what Master Curran was saying. Respectful as he was of the schoolmaster’s vast store of knowledge, Uncle Charlie felt compelled to interject at this point.
“No, it’s like he’s goin’ up and down over the keys.”
This attempt to bring Master Curran down to a more intelligible level of conversation had some effect, although the appearance of deep thought still remained on Master Curran’s face.
“Hmm . . . just going up and down over the keys, you say.”
Here Master Curran paused, continuing in the same thoughtful tone.
“Tell me, Uncle Charlie, do you have a roller piano?”
Uncle Charlie didn’t know if he had a “roller” piano. He didn’t know what a “roller” piano was. He hadn’t looked at the piano very closely. He knew he had an “Our Own” stove. . . . He could only echo the tail end of the question while he stared with some confusion at the teacher.
“A roller piano . . .”
“Yes,” Master Curran continued, delighted at having finally arrived at the solution to Uncle Charlie’s problem.
“A player piano. You know the kind, of course. You insert the paper roll with the little perforations, and the mechanism inside plays the piano exactly as if someone were sitting on the stool. You can even watch the keys go down . . .”
Uncle Charlie blinked several times very fast in response. He didn’t know “the kind” at all. He had never heard words like this in his life, and “perforations” and “mechanism” flew over his head like ducks flying south for the winter. Still, he was not an unintelligent man and, despite the size of the words, and the speed with which they were being thrown in his direction, he reasoned now that there could be a sensible explanation for the nighttime playing.
He tried to picture little Sheila playing as Master Curran repeated the particular features of the “player” piano—Master Curran mistook Uncle Charlie’s attentiveness for not understanding—but he couldn’t recall any rolls of paper or anything like that. And she always had to press the keys down.
Unless. . . . He had seen Sheila’s mother, his daughter, lift the top of the piano once to peer inside. Maybe. . . . He became alert once again as Master Curran concluded his explanation.
“. . . So, if the mechanism became corroded or damp where you’re so close to the salt water like that (Uncle Charlie’s house was literally built over a beach), it’s conceivable that a malfunction could have developed . . .”
Conceivable? Malfunction? Uncle Charlie was still sagging under words that hit like a spruce stake mall on a spring day, but by now he was getting the drift. Like I said, he was not an unintelligent man.
Something was wrong with the piano.
Master Curran, in the middle of all his “big” words, indeed, in spite of all his big words, may have provided the solution to his problem.
. . . If he did have a “roller” piano? A fact that he must now establish with certainty before he could proceed any further.
He did a true military about-turn at Master Curran’s fourth “So you see, Uncle Charlie,” and, without in any way complimenting the teacher for such a commendable performance, went straight back home to investigate this latest contribution to the solution of the mystery, forgetting all about Fr. Mulcahy and the sacristy or whether the house ne
eded blessing or not. It was something that could wait, and possibly wasn’t needed at all now that he had been given a more modern and more technological approach to his problem.
His hopes, to use the words of the more literate in our culture, were profoundly dashed. In fact, Master Curran’s big words hadn’t helped one little bit.
He didn’t have a “roller” piano.
He and Aunt Nora carefully examined every inch and corner of the instrument and could find no roll of paper, and no place to insert it, a fact confirmed by his daughter, Sis, now that the story was out and everybody was turning up to take an interest.
“It’s definitely not a roller piano, Pop,” she had asserted, emphasizing “definitely” the way people in the outports do, and her assertion cast some gloom upon the couple, especially Uncle Charlie, who was now forced to re-examine his earlier thinking on the matter, one which involved speaking with the priest and trying to resolve matters that weren’t as easy to deal with in the modern world.
So the very next morning, having heard the performance rendered on the piano yet again in the same disturbing fashion as the night before, he appeared before Fr. Mulcahy in the sacristy, holding his cap in both hands in a respectful fashion as he waited for the priest to remove his Mass vestments.
The priest carefully laid his alb on the sacristy altar and turned to greet the old man with a hearty smile. Fr. Mulcahy was a priest who truly liked his parishioners, and wasn’t particularly alarmed when they failed to grasp the more demanding rules of the faith.
“Well, Uncle Charlie, what brings you to the sacristy this hour in the morning?”
Uncle Charlie fidgeted with his cap a lot before replying. Totally at home on the crest of a thirty-foot wave, he was completely lost in any kind of social situation that demanded this kind of formal exchange.
“Well, Fawder,” he said, bowing his head apologetically, “’tis me piano.”
The priest tautened somewhat in response, wondering what lay in store for him behind the word “piano.” The widow Clarey still held it against him for not being able to fix her radio.
“Your piano, Uncle Charlie?”
“Yes, Fawder, it plays in the night.”
Uncle Charlie was still fidgeting with his cap. Fr. Mulcahy turned and began a little fidgeting himself, lifting the alb and folding it a second time, searching for some understanding in the pile of vestments arrayed on the little altar. He didn’t know how to fix a piano, either.
“Your piano plays in the night, Uncle Charlie?”
“Yes, Fawder.”
At which point Uncle Charlie stopped, assuming that the priest had sufficient information. Then he remembered his conversation with Master Curran.
“. . . and it’s not a roller piano, Fawder.”
Fr. Mulcahy had turned again to face Uncle Charlie.
“Not a roller piano?”
“No, Fawder . . .”
Fr. Mulcahy was still struggling for some kind of opening. He was hoping that this wasn’t leading where it had all the trappings of leading. If he had to confront one more ghost in Miller’s Bight . . .
Still, he knew Uncle Charlie well and was pretty certain the old man wouldn’t come to him with some kind of cock-and-bull story. Then he was listening to someone who was considered, in his day, to be the best schooner captain that went to the Labrador from the harbour. He wouldn’t come running to the priest with some silly haunted house tale, and would never make up a silly story . . .
He settled himself back on the edge of the sacristy altar, folded his arms, and decided to hear the old man out.
“So, Uncle Charlie, what exactly are you hearing?”
He let Uncle Charlie finish, pondering likely explanations as the old man provided details of the playing, then reached for his coat, indicating by his movements for Uncle Charlie to follow him. Within minutes the priest was leading Uncle Charlie back to the parlour, where they stood with Aunt Nora, surveying the piano.
“Now, Uncle Charlie,” he said, “use your finger to show me as best you can what you hear when you’re in bed.”
Uncle Charlie hesitated to touch the piano, for fear that it wouldn’t happen the way he had described it and somehow be seen to be lying in front of the priest. He was rescued by Aunt Nora, who was proud to demonstrate to the priest her ability with the keys.
“He goes like this, Fawder . . .”
She then proceeded to hit each key with her forefinger, beginning at the far left of the piano and moving as fast as she could to the right, hitting each successive key, until Fr. Mulcahy, having had a very tiring week visiting the half-dozen communities in his parish, and understanding very clearly what she was attempting to demonstrate, halted her performance at Middle C.
He had been following her finger studiously while alternately glancing to the left and right along the wall behind the piano, taking careful note of the two low tables that sat at each end of the piano. All he needed now was visual confirmation of what he was certain was the solution.
“Uncle Charlie, do you have a flashlight?”
“No, Fawder, but I got a lantern.”
Before Fr. Mulcahy had the chance to reply that a lantern was no good—that he had to have a flashlight that could switch on and off—Aunt Nora had interrupted.
“Fawder, I’m always after him to buy a flashlight, but no . . .”
Fr. Mulcahy wasn’t interested in being drawn into family quarrels that had their origins in outport culture lag, so he ignored Aunt Nora’s admonishing tone, continuing to direct his conversation to Uncle Charlie.
“Can you get a flashlight, Uncle Charlie?”
“Yes, Fawder, Sis got one.” (Sis was his daughter and the mother of little Sheila.)
“Well, Uncle Charlie, you get her flashlight and sit up tonight and watch the piano . . .”
This wasn’t exactly what Uncle Charlie wanted to hear.
“Watch the piano, Fawder . . . ?”
The priest was unaware of the foreboding that was gripping the old man as he continued his instructions.
“Yes. Sit in this chair in front of the window. Sit very still and quiet with the flashlight off . . .”
“With the flashlight off, Fawder . . . ?”
Now, what sense was there in having a flashlight if you kept it off?
“With the flashlight off. . . . And when you hear the piano playing, shine the flashlight toward the piano . . .”
The priest paused before he ended with a tone of finality.
“You’ll see the piano being played by . . . well, it won’t be played by a human being.”
“. . . see the piano being played . . . ! But not by a human being . . . !”
That wasn’t exactly what Uncle Charlie wanted to hear, either.
The priest had no idea that his particular way of expressing his thoughts was conjuring up the worst kind of feelings in the old couple’s minds, feelings that became much more intense when Fr. Mulcahy did an abrupt about-face and turned to leave, suddenly remembering the sick call he was supposed to attend to right after Mass in Mackerel Cove.
“Just do what I tell you, and I promise, if the piano is played tonight, you’ll know what is happening.”
Aunt Nora clutched nervously at his sleeve as he headed for the door.
“Aren’t ye going to bless the house, Fawder?”
The priest’s tone was one of gentle assurance.
“If this doesn’t work out the way I’ve figured it, I’ll come back and bless the house. But, in the meantime, just do as I’ve said.”
“Yes, Fawder,” they both chorused, but the uneasiness was still there. And, if anything, the priest, as I say, seemed to have only made matters worse.
Fr. Mulcahy left them with some big, unanswered questions, questions that grew big
ger in their minds as they continued their chores for the day and kept their minds from complete concentration on their work. They kept turning over the words of the priest in their minds.
“You’ll see the piano being played . . . but it won’t be played by a human being . . .”
The last part was particularly disconcerting if you thought about the first part with any deliberation.
If the piano wasn’t being played by a human being . . . and you couldn’t see . . . then didn’t that mean . . . ? And he still didn’t bless the house . . . !
It would be confusing to people younger than Aunt Nora and Uncle Charlie.
They said the rosary that night in an absent-minded fashion, Aunt Nora with her eyes closed, trying her best to imitate the holy pictures that were everywhere throughout the house, Uncle Charlie draped over a kitchen chair, very ill at ease, pondering the uselessness of what they were about to do, his eyes focused on the flashlight standing on the kitchen table, an obvious question recurring in his mind.
“What’s the good of that bloody thing if you flashes ’t on and you sees nuttin’?”
Then a shiver runs up his back as the next obvious question follows.
“But what about if you flashes it on and you sees . . . ?”
He didn’t admit his fears to Aunt Nora over his nightly mug-up, and he was beginning to regret his decision not to take her up on her offer to sit up with him in the parlour.
“No, maid. Ye go on to bed. Ye needs yer rest. Whatever it is, I’ll tell ye about it in the marnin’.”
So she had gone to bed and he resigned himself to the parlour chair by the window, the flashlight gripped in both hands and trained in the general direction of the piano, his legs extended in a slant to garner as much comfort as he could from what was otherwise an uncomfortably rigid position.
Unfortunately, unused to staying up after years of regular sleep, he dozed off, and the flashlight, which was supposed to be gripped and held in readiness, slipped from his hands and gently slid down his crossed legs, resting somewhere near his ankles. When the first thump of a bass key fought its way into his unconsciousness, he instantly roused himself, but he had to fumble for the flashlight, by which time the unknown form had leaped the scales, completed the night’s performance, and, in effect, disappeared.