The Metropolis Case_ A Novel - Matthew Gallaway [46]
Mrs. Warren greeted Maria at the door. “Is that your mother?” she asked caustically as she looked at the car lurking at the base of her driveway.
Maria felt intimidated by this woman’s patrician nose and conch of ivory-colored hair. “Yes.” She smiled weakly.
Mrs. Warren eyed her. “Don’t you think I should meet her?”
Maria’s heart sank at the thought of Gina entering this domain of riches she alone had procured but, with no choice in the matter, she waved to her mother to stop and ran down to relay the invitation, which—of course, Maria bitterly noted—Gina accepted.
Gina made her own ascent up the Palatine Hill before stepping into the two-story entrance foyer with a direct view of a curving, marble staircase to the second floor. She took this in with eyes wide but hardly gawking, which did not prevent Maria in the next two minutes from dying of embarrassment as each innocuous syllable left Gina’s lips in the course of exchanging pleasantries with the formidable Mrs. Warren.
Fortunately for the skittish Maria, Kathy soon descended like Freia from Valhalla to escort her to some distant wing of the mansion, while Mrs. Warren presented Gina with a cup of coffee and a plate of cookies. As they chatted about their daughters, Mrs. Warren gleaned that the Sheehans did not have a piano. “I’d be frankly overjoyed to give you our spare—it’s an upright—if you would arrange to have it moved.”
“You have two pianos?”
“Well … yes.” Mrs. Warren did not bother to hide a befuddled expression that seemed to be caused by Gina’s failure to grasp the meaning of the word two. “That’s why I’m offering you one. If your daughter is as talented as Kathy says, then she should have a piano.”
“I’ll talk to my husband tonight.” Gina beamed. “Now that Maria’s getting serious, I’m sure he’ll understand.”
Back in Castle Shannon, where the bald spots in the lawn and the shag carpet stood out in sharp contrast to the manicured landscaping and serene berber of Cedar Village, John—who wished to see nothing but a new color television being hauled into the house—was less certain that this was such a good idea. “You know, it’s not exactly cheap to move one of those things.”
“John, she’s giving it to us. They cost hundreds of dollars in the store!”
“If she’s a singer, why does she need a piano?”
Gina tried to remember how Kathy had phrased it. “There’s a lot of theory—music theory—that she should learn on the piano.”
John scowled. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“No, John, you don’t know what you’re talking about! Singing is the one thing she’s ever done where someone besides anyone living here said, ‘Maria, you’re really good at that,’ and you may not care that much about music, but it’s important for her—it really is—even if she doesn’t have a professional voice. And if we can’t get a new television until next year, that’s just tough. I know if she was a boy who was good at football or baseball, you’d be the first one lining up to get him all the right equipment.”
“Except the great thing about football and baseball,” John pointed out, “is that they don’t cost anything.”
Gina frowned. “If I have to ask your mother for the money, I will.” This was a serious threat, because Mrs. Sheehan was a barely functional alcoholic who spent her days playing bingo and her nights calling her children to deliver sherry-induced vitriolic diatribes about what worthless failures they were, something they all endured because of her habit,