Porcelain Keys

by Sarah Beard

  As I walked away from the house through the cool grass, I drew in a deep breath, filling my lungs with the crisp morning air. The sun hadn’t yet emerged from behind the east mountains, and the horizon was a jagged silhouette against a pale violet sky. I hopped over the wooden fence and walked through the orchard until his house came into view.

  I saw him sitting in a white wicker chair on his porch, hands in the pockets of his black hoodie, one ankle resting on his knee. His hair was disheveled like he had just rolled out of bed, and my heart trilled at the sight of him. “Hey,” I called out.

  He turned to me and stood, his expression surprised. “Hey. I thought your dad was picking me up here, or I would have just come to your house.”

  “He got called into work, so we’ll have to go another time.”

  “Oh,” he said, sounding disappointed. “Well, you and I could still go. I could drive.”

  He didn’t need to persuade me, but I hesitated, not wanting to sound too eager. “Okay.” I shrugged. “I just need to go back and get my fishing gear.”

  “On second thought,” he said, taking a step toward me, “why don’t we just hike to the lake up here?” He pointed to the narrow canyon on the east side of his land. “I haven’t been up there since I was a kid.”

  “It’s a lot smaller, and it’s not stocked. If you want to catch something, we should probably just go to Rampart.”

  He shrugged. “I’m more in the mood for hiking than fishing.”

  “All right—let me just go get some water and something for breakfast.”

  He unzipped his backpack, pulled out a granola bar, and handed it to me. “I have plenty of other snacks and water in here.”

  “Okay, then.” I smiled. “Let’s go.”

  He shouldered his backpack and we walked around his house and toward the mountain. At the edge of the orchard, he plucked a couple ripe apples and dropped them into the pockets of his hoodie.

  “How did you convince your dad to let you out of cleaning up the orchard today?” I asked, seeing all the apples on the ground.

  “I did some bartering. He said I could go fishing if you help me shovel apples later today.”

  “What?”

  He grinned. “Don’t worry, Aria. My dad’s a sensible guy. As long as I have the orchard cleaned up before it snows, he’ll be fine.”

  “Let’s go, then, and I’ll help you later,” I said with a smile.

  The sun broke over the mountains as we walked through the open field of long, golden grass. The seeded amber tips glowed in the morning light, bowing and swaying gently, and I held out my arms to feel their feathery texture under my fingertips. We quietly made our way through the grove of aspens and followed the stream into the canyon. A soft breeze blew through the trees as we hiked alongside the babbling stream, filling the air with the scent of pine.

  “So,” he said as we hiked along the narrow trail, “can you explain now?”

  “Explain what?”

  “Why can’t your dad know we were in the parlor?”

  My heart plummeted. How could I have forgotten that I owed him an explanation? I didn’t have a ready answer, because the answer was so complicated. I couldn’t tell him the whole truth, because he might tell his parents, and it would only make things worse to have the Division of Child Welfare show up at my door. Besides, I wanted Thomas’s respect, not his pity. “It’s just a rule he has,” I finally said. “He doesn’t like music in the house.”

  “Why not?”

  “Um,” I hesitated, trying to figure out how to explain. “Because it hurts him.” When I didn’t say more, he eyed me with a trace of skepticism like he knew there was more to it than that.

  “He used to love to hear my mom play,” I offered. “He would sit in the parlor for hours while she practiced, his eyes closed, like a sailor bewitched by a siren. I think her music is what he loved most about her. But when she died, things changed. He doesn’t like to be reminded of her. He keeps the parlor locked, and he put all her things in the attic where he can’t see them.” I couldn’t believe I was telling him this. I’d never talked to anyone about it.

  “All her things?” he asked.

  “Yeah—pictures, clothing, music.” I thought privately about the last time Dad had found me in the attic. He’d dragged me down and secured the hatch with an abundance of four-inch screws. What Dad hadn’t known was that I’d already taken one of her dresses to my room. I couldn’t put it back in the attic, so I’d tucked it in a box and kept it hidden all these years in the hollow space of my box spring.

  “He couldn’t even bear to look at the plants she’d grown in the yard.” I described how charming the house had looked with roses and jasmine climbing up the porch railing and marigolds popping out of window buckets—before Dad tore them out.

  He was quiet for a long time, pondering my words. Finally he asked, “Did he let you play the piano before your mom died?”

  I nodded. “He actually loved to hear me play. He would go to all my recitals and competitions, and beam with pride just like the other parents.” I sighed. “I tried to play for him after my mom died because I thought it would comfort him, but it seemed to have the opposite effect. And eventually he locked the parlor door and forbade me from playing anymore. So I don’t . . . at least not when he’s at home.”

  “That must be hard for you.” He studied me a moment, then shook his head and looked away, frowning thoughtfully. “Not to mention tragic. Your mom taught you, and she’s gone. By forbidding you to play, he’s cutting off this incredible emotional link between you and her.”

  Relief washed over me when he said those words, to the point that tears brimmed in my eyes. To share the burden of grief, to have someone understand, were things I had never known until that moment. But with the tears came a feeling of self-consciousness, and I walked faster to hide my emotion, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Anyway,” I said, “I probably shouldn’t have told you all this. I hope you won’t say anything to anyone.”

  Thomas caught up to me. “I won’t.” He was quiet for another long stretch, then he said, “You’re stronger than you look, you know?”

  “Is that why I’m out of breath right now?”

  “No—listen.” He stopped me, and laying his hand on my arm, he looked directly into my eyes. “You have a gift, and I’m not talking about a ‘play at the county fair’ kind of gift. I’m talking about Juilliard. Carnegie Hall. You belong on a grand stage, not hidden behind dusty black curtains in a school auditorium.”

  “Juilliard? I think you overestimate my abilities.”

  “No.” He shook his head. “You underestimate your abilities.”

  “You’ve only heard me play two pieces. Maybe they’re the only ones I know.”

  “I’m willing to bet your repertoire is larger than you let on.”

  “Maybe, but you’ve still only heard me play two—not enough to gauge my abilities.”

  He pinned me with a scrutinizing gaze, and his mouth eased into a playful smile. “You may not know this, but Beethoven was my third great-grandfather’s second cousin . . . once removed . . . or something like that. So I have an uncommon ability to spot Juilliard material when I see it.”

  I rolled my eyes and smiled before turning away and resuming hiking. “Okay, I’ll admit that I’m pretty good at the piano. But I can’t do anything about it until after high school.”

  “What are you going to do after high school?”

  “Get my own place and my own piano, then I can play as much as I want.”

  “That’s it?”

  I stopped and turned to him. “What do you mean, ‘That’s it’?”

  “Your plan is to sit in an apartment and play for yourself?”

  “Well, I . . .” I’d been so focused on securing my freedom that I’d never really thought beyond that point. “I don’t know. When I get to that point, I’ll figure out the next step.”

  “You should start preparing for Juilliard now. If you auditi
on this year, then you can enroll next fall.”

  I gave a humorless laugh. “Okay, let’s ignore the fact that I haven’t taken formal lessons for five years, or that I can’t get enough practicing in when I’m living with my dad, or that a semester’s tuition is probably more than I earn in a year. I don’t know the first thing about getting into Juilliard, other than that my chances are slim.”

  “You could find a good teacher to help you prepare. There’s still time.”

  “I can’t. It would be too hard to keep it from my dad.”

  “Maybe he would let you take lessons if you practice somewhere else.”

  “He would never agree to it. Do you know how many people offered to teach me for free after my mom died? He turned them all down. He told them that both he and I needed some time away from music, and he would let them know when things changed. Things haven’t changed yet, and to be honest, I don’t think they ever will.” I shook my head and began walking up the trail again, silently cursing the emotion burning in my throat. It seemed to ignite something deeper in my soul, a desire I’d kept suppressed far too long. I wanted to take lessons. I wanted to chase the dream of Juilliard. It was where Mom had gone to school, and as a child, I’d wanted nothing more than to follow in her footsteps. But Dad had torn the dream from my hands, and until that moment, I hadn’t realized just how raw the deprivation still was. “I can’t even think about this until after I move out,” I said, my voice thick.

  He walked quietly beside me, his face troubled. Finally he said, “I’m sorry for pressing you. I’m just . . . in awe of you, Aria. You’re like a beautiful caged bird, and I want to unlatch the door and set you free.”

  I didn’t respond right away, and for the remainder of our hike I steered our conversation to more lightweight topics, like friends and movies and school. When we reached the lake, we wandered around a bit, circling the grassy shore to find a place to settle in and enjoy the scenery. A flock of geese waded along one edge of the football field–sized lake, and we skipped rocks across the clear water as we moseyed along. Aspens and pines skirted the lake, and beyond the trees, the mountains rose around us.

  “Aria!” Thomas called out from ahead of me with a beckoning wave.

  When I caught up, he was standing next to an old fishing boat that was half-covered in moss.

  “That thing has been there since I was a kid,” I said.

  His mouth slowly curved into a smile. “Can you swim?”

  “Why?” I asked nervously.

  He tossed his backpack on the ground and tipped the fishing boat right-side up. The seat was caked with dirt, and he kicked it off with his shoe, then wiped it clean with his sleeve before pushing the boat to the water’s edge.

  “Hop in,” he said.

  I laughed and shook my head. “Why don’t you take it for a test drive first? And when you get back soaking wet, let me know how cold the water is.”

  He picked the weathered oars off the ground and peered into the boat. “I don’t see any holes.”

  I leaned over and examined the boat for myself. “That’s because they’re hidden under all that dirt.”

  He reached down and scooped up a handful of water, tossing it playfully at me. I straightened and gasped as the frigid water splashed my face and neck. “See,” he said, his eyes gleaming, “it’s not so cold, is it?”

  I wiped my face with the sleeve of my hoodie and glared at him. “In relation to the Bering Sea, no.” I had an impulse to shove him into the water, but after taking a moment to size him up, I thought twice. He was a head taller than me, and my willowy frame was no match for his broad shoulders and muscular arms. Retaliation would undoubtedly result in getting dunked, so I gave up the idea.

  “Come on,” he coaxed, “we’ll stay close to shore.”

  “Promise?”

  He offered me the oars. “You’re the captain.”

  “If I’m the captain, shouldn’t you be the one rowing?”

  “Aye, aye,” he said, tossing the oars in the boat. “Get in, and I’ll do all the rowing.”

  “Okay, but if we sink . . .”

  “If we sink, I’ll buy you dinner.”

  “I thought you didn’t date.”

  “I don’t. But if the boat sinks, I’ll make an exception.”

  It sounded like a good trade-off. Be submerged in cold water, get a dinner date with Thomas. I hesitated just long enough not to look overly eager, then climbed in the boat, hoping it would sink.

  He gave the boat a shove, then jumped in. I picked up the oars and started rowing.

  “I thought I was supposed to row,” he said, holding out his hands.

  “I’ve got it,” I said, aiming for the middle of the lake. If the boat was going to sink, we’d have to be far from shore.

  “I thought we were staying close to shore.”

  “There’s a great view of Pikes Peak from the middle of the lake.”

  He smiled, that little dimple surfacing on the side of his mouth. “You’ve got to give a guy a chance to be chivalrous.”

  I sighed and handed the oars to him. “To the middle of the lake,” I ordered in my most authoritative voice.

  “Aye, aye, captain.”

  He made it to the middle of the lake eventually, in a roundabout sort of way. We settled in, quietly taking in the scenery around us. The morning sun had risen above the trees, and golden light bounced off the water, flickering across his face. I watched him as he gazed into the water, his face relaxed and carefree. Being with him made me feel the same. Like all my worries were left behind in some forgotten place. It was just me and him, sitting on a still lake in the quiet morning.

  I eyed the bottom of the boat, which was still dry, and silently lamented that I most likely wouldn’t be getting a dinner date. I wanted to ask him why he didn’t date, but I wasn’t sure how to casually broach the subject. “So,” I started hesitantly, “I couldn’t help but notice that you avoided answering Trisha’s question the other day.”

  “Which question was that?”

  “Why don’t you date?” I felt my cheeks begin to flush. “I mean, is it your parents’ rule or something?”

  He looked down at the clear water, then dipped his hand in and slowly swayed it back and forth, making little ripples. “No. And I didn’t answer her question because it’s hard to explain. Most people don’t understand my reasoning.”

  I gazed at him, hoping he’d trust me enough to explain.

  “I know this sounds weird, but . . .” He bit his lip and paused. “I don’t date because it’s my way of protecting my mom.”

  “How does you not dating protect her?”

  A little crease appeared between his brows. “She’s just been through a lot these past couple years.” I waited for him to expound, but he went back to quietly swaying his hand in the water. Back and forth, back and forth. Just when I thought the conversation had hit a dead end, he said, “I told you about my brother’s baby.”

  I nodded.

  “Well, Richard, my brother, was my age when he got his girlfriend pregnant, and that in itself was hard for my mom because they were going to give the baby—her first grandchild—up for adoption. But then . . .” Thomas took a deep breath and his expression darkened. “When the baby died . . .” He seemed to be having some inward struggle, like he was deciding just how much to share with me. It was a good minute before he spoke again. “Richard has always struggled with drugs and alcohol, and when the baby died, he sort of went off the deep end. In fact, he’s in jail right now.”

  I still wasn’t sure that I understood. “Do you think you would make the same mistakes your brother made if you dated?”

  He paused briefly as he opened his mouth to speak, then with a slight grimace said, “Believe me, I’ve already made my share of mistakes. But . . .” He shook his head as though veering from what he was going to say. “It’s more complicated than I can really explain. But if I have a girlfriend or if I drink or mess up at school, it’ll just add to the
stress she’s already feeling.”

  “That’s kind of a lot to put on yourself.”

  He shrugged. “I guess. But if it lightens her burden, it’s worth it to me. And it’s not like I’ll always be this stringent with myself. I’ll date someday—maybe when she’s had some time to heal and I go to college, but for now, it’s just simpler this way.”

  “Well, it’s a good thing this isn’t a date, then,” I said half-jokingly.

  He straightened and looked at me. “I’m sorry, Aria. I don’t mean to lead you along or anything. I just . . . like being with you.” He smiled, a glint of cheerfulness returning to his eyes. He gazed at me, the light reflecting off the water making his eyes a calming blue. “You make me feel at ease. I’m glad you’re my friend.”

  Funny how what he said put my own feelings into words. He reached into his hoodie pockets and pulled out the two apples he’d picked earlier. He handed one to me and took a bite out of the other. “Mmm,” he murmured as he chewed. “I love September apples.”

  When I bit into mine, it was crisp and sweet. Everything that morning was sweet. The golden light, the still water, and—sweetest of all—Thomas Ashby sitting three feet away, glowing warmer than the morning sun.

  ~

  To my surprise, we made it back to shore dry. As I helped him pull the boat back onto shore, something in the black dirt caught my eye. A small and white rectangular shape. I squinted and looked closer, and what I saw stopped my breath. It was a miniature book of sheet music, white porcelain with hand-painted music staves. I recognized it instantly, and it evoked a memory from five years earlier.

  Mom and I knelt in front of my bed, a few months before she died. She put her finger over her lips and said “Shhhh,” then pulled a cardboard box from beneath my bed. She opened it and pulled out a piano-shaped music box. It was the size of a shallow shoebox, and the white porcelain was adorned with hand-painted birds. “This is for you,” she whispered. “I’m going to fill it with things that will remind you of me, of how much I love you. It’s our secret, okay?” I interpreted the meaning of her gesture and latched onto her thin waist, sobbing into her blouse and telling her I didn’t want the music box, I wanted her. She gathered me in her arms and told me to be brave.