by Chris Cander
If she drove straight through, she could stretch out in her own bed before noon. Then she thought about Peter, and how worried he probably was. She checked her phone to see if he’d called, but it was dead. Too early to call anyway, she reasoned, and connected it to the charger. Deciding she’d text him later to let him know that everything was okay, just as she’d promised it would be, she started the car and headed home.
But she was on the highway for barely a minute when an image up ahead caught her eye, such an unlikely tableau that she drove a hundred yards past it before realizing what it was: Juan and Beto were unloading her piano on the side of the road.
She made a wide U-turn across the gravel median on the mostly empty road and drove by them on the opposite side, slowly this time—no, she hadn’t imagined it—and then U-turned again so she could pull up behind them. She rolled to a partially hidden stop on the shoulder behind an earthmover and some other heavy construction equipment parked there. Her hands were shaking when she opened the car door, and her stomach roiled, whether from the junk food or her anticipation of having to defend the Blüthner against some act of aggression. She could feel the shout forming itself in her mouth when Greg beat her to it.
“Cuidado!” he yelled, lunging forward to kick away a rock that Beto couldn’t see and might’ve stepped on, since he was on the bottom end of the piano as they rolled it down the ramp. Then Greg went to the side of the piano and steadied it as they tipped it back and settled it onto the off-road moving dolly.
Clara, somewhat appeased by Greg’s stewardship, leaned against the hood of her car and watched them maneuver the piano close to the blue-and-yellow sign with the golden poppies that welcomed travelers to California. She was too far away to hear what they were saying, but it was clear they weren’t about to abandon it there on the San Bernardino county line.
They walked slowly, Greg because of his gait and the guys because keeping the piano secure on the sandy, bumpy ground was difficult. Greg pointed at a small rise. “Push it up to the top. That bump looks flat enough. Then take it off the dolly and set it down—otherwise it’ll seem like just a prop. I want it to look like it’s been here awhile. Like it has a purpose.”
He directed Juan and Beto to shift the piano slightly in a variety of angles until, apparently satisfied, he backed away from it and held his thumbs and index fingers up, two L’s put together in the shape of a rectangle, and peered through them. Next he pointed at the orange-and-white-striped traffic barrels, and Beto jogged over to pull them out of the imaginary frame. Juan picked up a stick and some rocks and litter lying on the ground, but Greg called out “Déjalo!” and waved his hand, so he shrugged and dropped everything more or less back where he’d found it.
They still hadn’t noticed her, and she stayed behind the moving equipment in hopes that they wouldn’t. It was interesting seeing her piano out of context like this, being handled and arranged by strangers. The Blüthner was as familiar to her as her own body, yet it seemed so different there on the roadside, like a version of herself that she’d never looked at before.
“Push it in a little deeper,” Greg shouted, “but make sure it doesn’t fall over. Good, okay.” He patted the air. “Now come back toward me a little so you’re out of the frame. That’s enough. Stay there in case I need you to move it. Entiendes?”
She watched him crouch down and aim his fancy camera at the piano, the morning sun lighting up the Mojave National Preserve behind it. He was very still, mostly cocking his head first to one side and then the other. Clara tried following his gaze, but she couldn’t tell what he was picturing. She imagined that fashion-magazine photo shoots in New York City operated like this, though with angular models and unwearable clothes, people rushing around doing hair and makeup and setting up lights. All at once, the worry left her. Greg was obviously a professional, and it seemed like he really did just want to photograph the piano. How he’d run his hands over it earlier, and shouted at Juan and Beto to be careful whenever they touched it, not to mention the fact that it had once belonged to his mother—she saw these as indications that he would probably take immaculate care of it. She resolved now to watch until he was finished and then go home. And when he returned the piano in a couple weeks, she’d ask him to show her the photos. She wanted to see through Greg’s eyes how it looked, as he said, when the music stopped. It had certainly stopped for the Blüthner when she took possession of it. Maybe his images would reveal something about what it had been like before then.
Clara kept watching as Beto and Juan rewrapped the piano and got it back in the truck and Greg put his equipment away. But when he pulled out and pointed his SUV toward Las Vegas, spewing a rooster tail of powdery dirt off his rear tires as he sped across the median, she said, “Screw that.”
There wasn’t a hope in hell she was going to leave now, not after the revelation that her Blüthner had belonged to his mother. So what if Greg was sensitive about it? He was connected to her past and knew something about her piano—if not her parents—that nobody else did. And what if he decided it was his to keep after all? What if he carted it into Death Valley and refused to bring it back? Maybe that’s what Juan’s gesture had meant, that this was Greg’s plan all along. Besides, without work or a boyfriend, why should she rush back to Bakersfield? So when the truck pulled out onto the highway behind Greg, Clara once again fell in behind them.
Her phone buzzed. Peter. She yanked it out of the charger and blurted, “I’m sorry, I should’ve called.”
“Not necessarily,” said the voice on the other end. “I’m just flattered that you find me so attractive.”
“What?”
“Well, it’s not still about the piano, is it?”
“Greg.”
“Ah, yes. Like that. Say it again.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Oh, I don’t think it’s me who’s being ridiculous, do you? I thought we’d settled things back at the casino, yet here you are again, filling up my rearview mirror.”
She couldn’t tell if he was teasing or angry. I don’t want to get angry. She decided she’d rather not find out what would happen if he did. “I thought maybe I’d come along for a while,” she said casually. “Turns out I’m not really needed at home right now.”
“You’re not really needed here, either.”
She forced herself to think of a reasonable reply. “I’m a mechanic.”
“So?”
“You’re driving a piece-of-shit SUV and a moving truck into Death Valley. You might need my services.” After a pause, she allowed herself a moment of optimism. She didn’t need his permission to go wherever he happened to be going, but it would make for a more pleasant adventure if he agreed. “Besides, I just got paid a tidy sum in rental fees, so whatever you need, you got it, no charge.” She even smiled when she said it and gave a thumbs-up sign in case he was looking.
He laughed. “You’ve got to be kidding. A woman mechanic with a broken hand? That’s a liability, not an asset. I’m afraid I’m going to have to decline your very kind offer, but thank you. Hey listen, have a safe trip back home and the guys’ll see you in a couple weeks. Sound good?”
“Wait,” she said, but he had already hung up.
They all drove on, Clara’s eyes narrowed on the shiny black of Greg’s SUV, its fancy exterior concealing a slippery, blue-collar transmission that seemed at the moment an apt metaphor for him. She wasn’t offended by being called a woman mechanic; it was the broken-handed part that bothered her—the assumption that she wouldn’t be able to handle any unforeseen problem. She’d always made it a point to be exactly the opposite: self-sufficient and self-contained, reliable instead of reliant. She banged her broken hand against the steering wheel, hard enough that she cried out, but when tears sprang to her eyes she blinked them away.
Who the fuck did he think he was, calling her a liability?
&nbs
p; IT WAS A SATURDAY and Katya was playing, practicing scales. In the six weeks since her piano had been returned to her, she’d played whenever she could. Everything else could wait: grocery shopping, cooking dinner, writing letters to her parents, even spending time with Grisha. When she wasn’t playing, she was thinking about the sateen feeling of keys that had gone yellow again from disuse, the distinctive pressure of the dampers, the peerless tone. And the music! Now pieces she knew as well as her own hands suddenly sounded fresh. It had been many years since she’d composed anything, yet she could feel a new piece lacing itself into her imagination measure by measure. She wondered if this was what being addicted to drugs felt like. She hadn’t played much at all on the substitute piano, which she’d been thrilled to get rid of. When the men from Immortal Piano had delivered her Blüthner, she’d tipped them well and asked them to drop the Yamaha off at the Salvation Army to be put back into circulation.
Once again she was floating above the dull world. Her fingers felt free, her mind as well. Her Blüthner was a connection to Russia—to home—that even the music itself couldn’t match. Tangled up in the golden notes, she could forget about Mikhail’s terrible temper, the exuberance and excesses of her fellow Americans, her own profound loneliness. She hadn’t looked at the Death Valley Polaroids in weeks. And the wretched voice of the lost music that invaded her thoughts both day and night hadn’t been bothering her lately. Maybe it had gone away forever.
“What are you smiling at?” her son asked her.
She didn’t stop playing when she answered: “The tundra is melting, I think.”
“When will you be done?” he said, sounding irritated. He’d been wandering around the room, waiting for her, growing impatient.
“In a little while.”
He sighed theatrically. “Will you tell me the story?” he said, leaning against the piano.
She gestured for him to step back. “We don’t need to tell that story anymore,” she said.
“Then make up a new one. One for after Sasha was woken up.”
“Chi-chi-chi. You’re too old for silly fables now.”
“Then let’s go somewhere,” he begged, sitting down hard next to her on the bench. “To the movies or the park or something.”
“What about your friends from school, Grisha?” She loved him, but it was maddening how much he demanded of her. Especially now, when she simply wanted to float, pleasantly distracted from the life she’d been forced to accept as her own.
“I hate school,” he said.
“You’re fourteen already. Going to high school this fall! Time to find friends your own age to spend time with.” Nonetheless, she stopped for a moment, and put her hand on his cheek.
He closed his eyes. “Nobody likes me.”
She sighed. What a difficult child he could be. “Fine, we will go. But in a little while,” she said. “After I’m finished practicing.”
* * *
—
He missed her. Even though she was still here with him, as she always had been, she was different. Always smiling at nothing, always preoccupied. All his life she’d been his best friend, which he’d assumed was mutual, but now she had another. He wanted to crawl into her lap like he used to when he was younger, when she first taught him how to play. But she would tell him no, he was too old now, and too big. Instead, he lay down on the floor nearby in a shaft of afternoon sunlight and watched dust motes drift through the air, rising and falling along with the scales as she played them. He imagined them moving because of the music, each one tethered to a certain note, his mother directing them without even realizing it. He swatted at them like a cat, hoping that if he disrupted their choreography, she might finish sooner and take him down to the beach or to the mall, like the mothers of all his classmates did. Or at least talk to him before his father came home, angry or drunk or both, and ruined everything. His father hadn’t liked it when the piano reappeared, but that was hardly a surprise. He didn’t seem to like anything very much, least of all driving a taxi all day long, then coming home to a wife who only wanted to play the piano.
The motes moved when he sliced his hand through them but without disruption, just drifting amicably away in different directions, like tiny clouds in a windy sky. His mother continued her major and harmonic minor scales, the right hand ascending while the left descended until they were four octaves apart, then reversing directions and moving her hands back together. Next, both hands ascending two octaves in parallel, then descending, then back to the contrary motions apart and finally together again. He knew the formula pattern because she made him do it, too, during his practice times, which he’d already done today, right after breakfast. He wanted to love it like she did, but he didn’t. He couldn’t go as fast as she could, though it pleased her when he tried to.
The sun grew too warm on his legs, so he slithered across the floor on his side, onto a cool spot behind the piano. His mother kept it well away from the walls, though she’d pushed the Yamaha up against one of the living room windows, blocking the view. “Music needs room to breathe,” she would tell him. “Like in the story?” he’d ask. “Yes, like in the story,” she would answer. So the Blüthner sat in the middle of the room as if it were a grand.
Glossy and black, hulking in the center of the sunlit room, taking up too much space for its size, it both intimidated and fascinated him. He put his hand against the back of the case and felt the notes his mother played. Another set of scales, F-sharp minor this time: F-sharp, G-sharp, A, B, C-sharp, D, E, F-sharp, over and over again. He could hear the music, could even feel it with his hands, but he wished he could see it so he could know what it meant to her.
“Mama, what does music look like?” he asked above the scale.
“Chi-chi-chi!” she snapped. “I’m not finished yet.”
“Ugh,” he said, but low enough not to bother her.
He had a nail in his pocket that he’d picked up while walking home from school, along with an empty Bic lighter and two dull pennies. The point on the nail was like a sharp pencil but much stronger. As he lay on the floor, a cruel idea crossed his mind: what sort of mark would his nail make on the wood? Although he knew better than to do anything like that to the piano his mother loved—maybe more than she loved him—he found that once he’d thought this up he wasn’t able to unthink it, and so he sprawled there with the dust motes and scale notes drifting around him and felt the nail being pulled almost as if by magnetic force to the bass end of the piano. He negotiated with himself. Something small, he thought, so small that nobody would ever notice.
He wrote his name very neatly. Tiny Cyrillic letters down at the very edge of the corner. He was extremely careful, tracing each one several times to achieve a uniform depth. The contrast between the black gloss and the dark natural wood where the finish had been etched away wasn’t too striking. He liked the idea of claiming the beast that had claimed his mother. He continued, so focused on his task that he didn’t realize that she’d stopped playing, that the notes he heard were simply echoes from his memory.
He was just finishing the final letter when his mother came around from her bench and screamed, “Grisha! Что, черт возьми, ты делаешь?!”
THE ROAD TO DEATH VALLEY was long and flat, a three-hour drive up the western part of Nevada past sagebrush, power lines, and water towers. In the middle of a huge swath of desert, drained otherwise of color and distinction, an oversized red sign announced BROTHEL along with HOT SAUCE, PICTURES, SOUVENIRS, but there was no establishment anywhere nearby that Clara could see. In fact, the landscape looked mostly abandoned. It was peaceful, doing seventy-five through this expansive basin with low mountains in the distance and an eternal, raw blue sky stretching overhead. Eventually they drove through a small town, where a twenty-four-hour tire shop reminded her of her own garage, then crossed into California again.
They finally passed a ma
rker welcoming them to Death Valley National Park. It was just after noon, the sun high and hot. This was the kind of place where people could get lost and die of thirst or exposure, Clara understood. She’d never been here before, but her uncle had once told her about a friend of his who had. He was camping, and a snake followed him into his sleeping bag, twining itself around one of his legs. When the man jerked out of sleep, the snake bit him, so he followed the old advice of cutting an X into the skin, then sucking and spitting out the poisoned blood. But he cut too deep. The bite hadn’t been venomous, but the guy had nicked a vein, and after lying down to rest, he bled to death on the desert floor.
A few miles in, a sign told them PAY FEE, with an arrow pointing to a ranger station on the roadside. At the kiosk, Greg parked and paid for access. Once he was finished she did, too. Twenty dollars wasn’t exorbitant, but it made her consider her credit card balance, her lack of income, her medical and moving expenses. Even with a five-grand windfall, she worried about how much this unforeseen adventure was going to cost. Greg pulled in at a rustic, Old West–style hotel and went inside with the guys, presumably to secure their rooms, and she sat in her car, trying to decide if she should do the same. After all, she could turn around and make it home by dinnertime if she wanted.
Her financial considerations were interrupted, though, when she heard Greg say, “Fucking check-in times.” The three men were back in the parking lot. “Doesn’t matter. I want to get two shots in before it gets dark anyway.” Then he noticed Clara and walked toward her car, his obvious aggravation making his limp more pronounced. She unrolled the window and rested her cast on the frame.
He leaned in. “This has gone on long enough, don’t you think?”
If he was trying to intimidate her, it wasn’t working. She had made up her mind: she was going to stay, at least for a little while longer. “Why do you care? I’m not hurting anything.”