A tree grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith [59]
The most wonderful thing about the front room was the piano. This was a miracle that you could pray for all your life and it would never come to pass. But there it stood in the Nolan parlor, a real true miracle that had come without a wish or a prayer. The piano had been left there by the previous tenants who could not afford to pay to have it moved.
Piano-moving in those days was a project. No piano could be gotten down those narrow steep stairs. Pianos had to be bundled up, roped and hoisted out of the windows with an enormous pulley on the roof and with much shouting, arm-waving and brass-hatting on the part of the boss mover. The street had to be roped off, the policemen had to keep the crowds back and children had to play hooky from school when there was a piano moving. There was always that great moment when the wrapped bulk swung clear of the window and twisted dizzily in the air for a moment before it righted itself. Then began the slow perilous descent while the children cheered hoarsely.
It was a job that cost fifteen dollars, three times what it cost to move all the rest of the furniture. So the owner asked Katie could she leave it and would Katie mind it for her? Katie was glad to give her the promise. Wistfully the woman asked Katie not to let it get damp or cold, to leave the bedroom doors open in winter so a little heat would get through from the kitchen and prevent warping.
“Can you play it?” Katie asked her.
“No,” said the woman sorrowfully. “No one in the family can play. I wish I could.”
“Why did you ever buy it?”
“It was in a rich house. The people were selling it cheap. I wanted it so much. No, I couldn’t play it. But it was so beautiful…It dresses up the whole room.”
Katie promised to take good care of it until the woman could afford to send for it but as things turned out, the woman never did send for it and the Nolans had this beautiful thing for always.
It was small and made of black polished wood that glowed darkly. The front of thin veneers was cut out to make a pretty pattern and there was old-rose silk behind this fretted wood design. Its lid did not fold back in sections like other uprights. It just turned back and rested against the designed wood like a lovely, dark, polished shell. There was a candle holder on either side. You could put pure white candles in them and play by the candlelight which threw dreamy shadows over the creamy ivoried keys. And you could see the keys again in the dark cover.
When the Nolans walked into the front room on their first possessive tour of inspection, the piano was the only thing that Francie saw. She tried to get her arms around it but it was too big. She had to be content to hug the faded-rose brocade stool.
Katie looked at the piano with dancing eyes. She had noticed a white card in the flat window below which said, “Piano Lessons.” Katie had an idea.
Johnny sat on the magic stool, which turned around and went up or down according to your size, and played. He couldn’t play, of course. He couldn’t read notes in the first place but he knew a few chords. He could sing a song and strike a chord now and then and really it sounded as though he were singing to music. He struck a minor chord, looked into the eyes of his oldest child and smiled a crooked smile. Francie smiled back, her heart waiting in anticipation. He struck the minor chord again; held it. To its soft echo, he sang in his clear true voice:
Maxwellton’s braes are bonny,
Whe’ early fae’s the dew.
(Chord—chord.)
An’ ’t was there that Annie Laurie,
Gied me her promise true.
(Chord—chord—chord—chord.)
Francie looked away, not wanting Papa to see her tears. She was afraid he’d ask her