Playing With Fire (15 page)

Piano Man had been seventeen. Irene had only been fifteen. Her mother had cursed them both when she found out. She had made big plans for her daughter and giving birth so young wasn't one of them.

Many angry, tear-filled discussions between his father and her mother had preceded their decision, and when all was said and done they had placed the young girl into the care of Grandma Goody.

Grandma Goody, with her toothless grin and high-pitched cackle, knew how to “cure” her “ailment.” She had “cured” many a girl with this “condition.” Grandma Goody was safer and cleaner than most back alley baby butchers, but more importantly, she was cheap.

After wiping away his tears, he had changed into a pair of worn sweatpants and had gone to play ball with the rest of the boys, hoping to escape the haunting memories of that day.

“What happened?” Romeo questioned again, disrupting the old man's memories.

Shaking, Piano Man shrugged again, meeting Romeo's brown eyes, then dropping his gaze to the floor. “Time just sort of passed us both by, I guess. We was real young and went through some hard times too soon, then we just went our separate ways for a while. She passed away a couple a' years ago.”

Romeo nodded his head, easing once again into the silence that followed.

They both sat quietly, each lost in his own thoughts. The scotch had finally eased the tension of the long day and they both relaxed comfortably, coddling the precious bottle between them.

Stirred by emotions that had not touched him for some time, Piano Man tapped his fingers nervously against the wood. Taking the last swig of the alcohol left in his glass, he cleared his throat, his body shaking.

“She always smelled so good.”

“Who?” Romeo asked curiously.

Ignoring the question, Piano Man continued.

“Like flowers, real sweet and fresh. She had real pretty hair, long down her back, and she would rinse it with rose water. I use to love to just smell her hair,” he said, his voice trailing.

Refilling both glasses, Romeo listened intently.

“I still remember the first time I touched her. I mean really touched her. I was taking her home and we had to walk up nine flights of steps 'cause the elevator was broke. We had just gotten up to the fifth floor and she kinda trips and falls backward against me. I just wrapped my arms around her little waist, spun her around, and pulled her real close. Man, she had the sweetest lips. They was full, like ripe berries just ready to be picked.

“I kissed her real hard and then my black ass got bold. I reached right on up and grabbed one of the littlest titties I have ever touched. My hand felt like it was burning her flesh and I couldn't breathe, the girl felt so good.” Piano Man laughed. “Then she slapped the hell out of me. Had my ears ringing for days.”

Still laughing, Piano Man rose from his seat, swaggering to the piano. Heartache suddenly danced lightly about the room as he penciled his emotions across the ivory.

As Romeo pictured a much younger Piano Man groping the virginal body of his first love, he thought of Taryn.

Just as quickly as he had started to play, Piano Man stopped.

“That bottle empty yet, boy?”

“Not yet,” Romeo answered, filling the empty glass and passing it to the old man. As Romeo watched him sip from the glass, quenching his thirst, he realized how little he knew of Piano Man's personal life. Tonight though, Piano Man seemed to want to speak freely. Before he had always been very reserved, even somewhat cautious.

“You got any kids?” Piano Man asked quietly, his eyebrows raised.

Romeo shook his head no. “At least none that I know of.”

Piano Man nodded, understanding like only another man could possibly understand having a child that he did not know of.

“You never had any, right?”

Piano Man shrugged, shifting his gaze away from Romeo's. “Actually I did. I had me two babies.”

“Oh. I thought you said you and your wife didn't. . . .”

“That's right. Beulah and I didn't have no kids together, but when I was seventeen, my girl got pregnant the first time. Since we was planning on getting married anyway, we figured it was okay. Her mother, on the other hand, wouldn't have none of it. Insisted we get rid of it. She and my daddy found some old witch to do it. Couldn't go to no clinics like you can now. That broke my baby's heart.

“Won't nothing the same after that. Not her, nor me. She didn't even look at me the same. That broke my heart. We finally just stopped seeing each other and then one day she was gone. We caught up to each other again a few years later, but by that time I was a very different man.” Piano Man paused, briefly shifting his body in his seat before continuing. “We had us a baby boy then.” Piano Man nodded to himself. “Yes, sir, a mighty fine boy, and . . . well . . . I let them both get away from me.” Piano Man sighed heavily. “That was a long time ago.”

“I'm sorry,” Romeo said sympathetically, conscious of the tears pressing at the man's eyes.

Piano Man shrugged his shoulders, took a quick sip from the short glass, then coughed loudly, dropping the glass heavily onto the piano top. He began to play again, a light, even tone quickly reverberating about the room. He stopped suddenly, overcome by a fit of coughing that shook his chest violently, the harsh waves vibrating down his body.

Romeo rose anxiously, but stopped when Piano Man lifted his hand, gesturing at him to stay where he was. As the coughing subsided, Romeo sat back down, hesitant. “You okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. It ain't nothing.”

Their eyes locked momentarily, until Piano Man broke the gaze, returning to his playing. Romeo settled back into the cushioned seat, spinning his own scotch-filled glass between the palms of his hands. He sighed, exhaling deeply, enjoying the light serenity of the music, which brushed soothingly across his brow, massaging the tension in his shoulders and neck. As he closed his eyes, the music whispered to him through the darkness, its silvery touch calming.

He thought about the women who had shared moments in time with him. Women who'd danced in varying shades of brown like autumn leaves swaying in a warm breeze. Shades of brown that had melted against the backdrops of glistening sunsets, clear morning skies, and starched white sheets. Each shade of brown stood out vivid in his memory, sweet against his taste buds like a rich chocolate confection. Melting into his memories, the syrupy sweetness blended into a mixture of cocoas and caramels. So absorbed was Romeo in his own thoughts that he barely noticed when Piano Man stopped playing.

Quiet again enveloped the room, disrupted only by the clock behind the counter that hummed softly and the wind outside that tapped lightly against the windows. Shaking himself back to reality, Romeo watched as Piano Man sat engrossed in his own thoughts, anxiety skipping across his face. As Romeo observed the man's complacent expression transform to one of anguish, the beat of his heart quickened. “Hey there. Are you okay?”

The lengthy pause that followed only heightened Romeo's own anxiety. “Piano Man, are you okay?” he asked again, emphasizing each word slowly.

Piano Man finally responded, his tortured gaze once again meeting Romeo's. “I coulda been a good daddy,” he whispered softly. “If I'da been man enough to stand up for what I believed in, me and my girl woulda raised lotsa pretty butterscotch babies like we wanted, and I woulda been a good daddy. My boy's a grown man now and he don't even know how much I love him. All he knows is that his daddy won't nowhere 'round when he needed 'em.” With that proclamation, the tears spilled from the old man's eyes, rolling over his flushed cheeks.

 

 

Rising, Romeo sat down on the bench beside Piano Man, draping his arm over the man's hunched shoulders. They sat together for some time, Piano Man's sobs resonating off the cream-colored walls. The heat had finally eased down, replaced by cool fresh air.

As a chill crept slowly up Romeo's spine, his eyes scanned the room, now made larger by its emptiness. Behind the bar, assorted bottles sat neatly upon oak-tinted shelves, and glasses in varying sizes hung neatly in drying racks. Romeo counted each bottle slowly, fighting to keep from crying himself.

It had been years since he'd last shed a tear for anything of any real importance. He'd been twelve years old, maybe thirteen. His Little League baseball team had just played the final game in the city championships. The score had been four to three with two outs in the bottom of the seventh inning. Bases had been loaded and the opposing team's biggest hitter was at bat. A line drive past third base had hit Romeo's outstretched mitt, nestling comfortably in the oiled leather. As he pulled the prized catch into his chest, the crowd's cheers exploded around him, the roar pleasant to his ears. His teammates had slapped him about the shoulders and back as kudos echoed in his heart. Parents were hugging and kissing them for a game played well, and it wasn't until he had watched the last father lead his son home that his tears fell. They had continued to fall as he made his way home alone and greeted his mother at the door when she arrived home from work.

He had cursed the father he didn't know for never having been there, his mother for always having to work, and his tears, which would not stop falling from his dark eyes. His mother had held him, rocking him against her breast. His teardrops had soaked the front of her worn blue sweater. Her own tears had rested cautiously at the edge of her eyes. “You can't force a man to be what he don't think he can be,” she had said of his father. “A man makes his own path toward right and wrong.” Romeo had wept one last time for the man whose only contribution to his existence had been to water the seed that had given him life.

In the distance, water dripped lazily from a spout, each drop bouncing against the metallic sink, then rolling down the drain. Romeo hugged Piano Man closer, the sobs shaking the man's weakened body. Quivering as though cold, Piano Man fought to regain his composure, suddenly embarrassed by his display of emotion. With a wrinkled hand, he wiped roughly at his bloodshot eyes, moisture falling into the ebony creases.

“Look at me,” Piano Man gasped. “Blubbering like a damn baby. Black man ain't got no business crying like that.”

“Why not? A black man is entitled to show his pain like anyone else.”

Piano Man shook his head. “Different world you and I come from, Romeo. Ain't no man black or white suppose to show his weaknesses, and if a white man not suppose to do it, you can sure as hell bet a black man better not even think about it.”

“Same world, Piano Man. We just look at it from different angles.” Leaning over the bar, Romeo reached for a third bottle of scotch. Twisting the cap easily between his long fingers, he twirled it slowly, pressing the metal closure against the glass. Stroking the cool amber glass, he searched his heart carefully for the words that rose anxiously to his lips.

“I used to cry a lot for my daddy.”

A pained expression crossed Piano Man's face. “Why?”

“Because he was never there. Because I didn't know anything about him. For as long as I can remember it was just me and my mother. When she died, it was just me.”

Piano Man closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. Opening them again, he focused on the ground before him, scuffing the toe of his shoe along the wooden floor. “Lotsa boys grow up with no man around. Doesn't mean they daddys didn't want to be there though. Sometimes that just how it has to be. I knows 'cause if I could've, I would have been there for my boy.

“Personally, I thank the good Lord every day for making our women strong like he done. Ain't no woman like a black woman who gots to raise her babies alone. My boy was lucky 'cause he had a real good mama. I ain't never loved no woman the way I loved her.”

“Amen to that,” Romeo cheered, nodding his head in agreement. “My mother's probably the only reason I made it. She worked three jobs to raise me with a roof over my head, food on the table, and clothes on my back. I didn't appreciate it then, but now I wish I could give back one ounce of what she gave to me. I can never repay her for all she did and I just hope she knew I loved her. I always wondered, though, if he ever thought about me. I could never understand how any man would not want to at least know his own child.”

Piano Man looked at him pensively, shrugged his aching shoulders, then hung his head. “Sometimes a man can't do what he wants to do or even what he should do. It don't make him a bad man though. It don't mean that he didn't care about you either. He probably had his reasons for not being there.”

Romeo shrugged. “My mother once said that he didn't think that I was his. I use to be real angry about that. Who the hell was he to doubt me or what my mother told him? My mother was a good, decent woman and he had no right to doubt my paternity, especially knowing how much she loved him.”

Piano Man grunted. “What else did your mama have to say?”

“Nothing really. I don't think she really knew what to say to me about him. I don't think she truly understood what happened herself.” Romeo dropped his head into his hands, thinking about his mother.

Conversations between them about his father had been few and far between. She'd always changed the subject when Romeo asked about him, telling him that there had only been one resurrection and if he needed to call upon his father, then he should drop to his knees in prayer to God. The most information she had ever volunteered about the man was that he'd been a wanderer, never able to settle down in one place. He'd gone searching for something, she'd once said. Something neither one of them had to give him.

“You ain't never seen your daddy at all?” Piano Man asked quietly, staring over Romeo's shoulder.