Playing With Fire (16 page)

Romeo shook his head no. “My mama would never even show me a picture of him. In fact, up until the day she died she even refused to tell me his name. It's not even on my birth certificate. She used to say that I was better off not knowing. That what I didn't know couldn't hurt me.”

A tear slid down Romeo's cheek, falling onto the piano. “It did hurt though. It still hurts, although I keep telling myself that I'm too old to let it bother me.” Clasping his hands tightly together, Romeo laid his forehead against the cool keys, a dull cord vibrating against his skin.

Piano Man poured a shot into his glass, stared at the contents, then pushed it away, saying, “I drink too damn much.” He sighed, staring past Romeo's broad shoulders. Looking back down at the keys under his shriveled hand, he pushed lightly at the ivories. Slowly he played scales from one end of the piano to the other, pushing Romeo out of the way as he did.

“My grandmother taught me to play the piano,” he said, adding a soft chord with his left hand.

Romeo smiled, lifting himself up to watch Piano Man's crinkled fingers skate along the keyboard.

Piano Man continued. “Every day she'd make me sit down at the piano and practice. Every day. My father would just sit back and read while I practiced, then when I was done my granny would play. She'd play these old spirituals that reminded me of church smells in the summertime. She taught me to love the music.” Piano Man stopped playing.

“Each summer we'd go south to this small dirt road town in South Carolina. We'd drive down in this big black Buick she had. She always chose revival week at her old home church to go visit her people. I swear, we used to sit in church half the day and most of the night, just so my granny could play. Watching that old woman make that piano sing was what got me hooked. It'd be hot, and the water would be pouring down her face, but she was so happy. No matter how bad things was, she was happiest when them old spirituals was dancing out of that piano.”

Piano Man smiled, reminiscing about his grandmother and those sojourns south. He could remember cornfields stretching for miles, the tops of the stalks reaching high up into the sky, crying for rain. Off in the distance, tall oak trees would loom eerily, peeking strangely over the corn stalks, seeming out of place in a small boy's mind. The heat would hang uncomfortably in the air, drawing the moisture from his small body, and with each hot breath, his lungs would burn, crying for a cool breeze.

He remembered the dust that swirled under his bare feet, up about his head, leaving an ashy film atop his skin, and the incessant swarms of mosquitoes, flies, and bees that buzzed about.

He also remembered his grandmother telling him that whatever he played should come from that part of him that was too deep for anyone else to reach. That one spot within his soul that only the music and the good Lord could reach without effort. She had played for her God. Rich, warm tunes that started out slow and easy, rising to an impassioned praise of all that was good and honest. Back then, in his young mind, all this was well beyond his comprehension and nowhere within the realms of his small reach.

Piano Man resumed playing. Romeo recognized the tune, but couldn't remember all the words:
“Steal away to Jesus . . . steal away home.... I ain't got long to stay here. . . .”
He knew his mother had played it every so often on a Sunday afternoon when she could find a quiet moment to herself. She'd play gospel records while rocking on the front porch, the smell of freshly fried chicken and hot peach cobbler wafting from the kitchen. He would go sit at her feet, leaning his head into her lap so that she could stroke his brow. They'd talk about her dreams and aspirations for him, her hopes for the future, and those old records would play over and over and over again.

His mother and Piano Man's grandmother had been cut from the same cloth. Like many black women, they'd been nursed from the same bottle of hope, had been fed off the same plate of expectation, and had loved like many black women struggling to raise proud black men out of scared brown boys.

The tune suddenly changed, a crisp, clear tantalizing syncopation of past and present meeting like two old friends. Rising from the piano, Romeo slow-danced across the floor, his arms wrapped about an invisible partner. He pulled her close, pressing his cheek against hers, wrapping his arms around the curve of her waist. He envisioned a long frame gliding along with him, a manicured hand gently stroking the small of his back.

He suddenly longed to hold Taryn in his arms, to hear the sound of his name brushing across her lips as she pressed herself into him. He imagined himself sweeping her up into his arms and laying her gently across an unmade bed, feeling her shapely legs wrapping tightly around him, the eve of her crotch pressed anxiously against his rising erection. Allowing the fantasy to consume him, Romeo could feel the tightness of his third leg straining against the front of his gray wool slacks.

He spun his ghostly partner, dipped her gently, and then pulled the mirage close to his chest again. They swayed easily from side to side, then danced a slight two-step from one side of the dance floor to the other.

In his mind's eye he saw himself pausing at Taryn's navel, moist and sweet from the glistening perspiration rising on her skin. He was pulling excitedly at her denim jeans, slipping the confining fabric from her hips past her quivering knees. Easily plying her legs apart, he ran his tongue along the insides of her thighs, inhaling the sweet aroma of her passion. She tasted of sweet cream and he pressed his nose into the brown bush of bristled curls to taste of her honey.

He pulled his dance partner closer, the front of his slacks pushing at the zippered seam. He twirled her lightly about the room, easily gliding from side to side. They moved in perfect synchronization and he marveled at how light on her feet she was.

Romeo thought again of Taryn, dreaming of lapping greedily at her juices until neither of them could wait any longer. He then ripped his own clothes away from his taut frame and pushed himself easily into her, the muscles across his buttocks pressing him tightly against her. Her legs would fall lightly across his back and she would meet him stroke for stroke until there'd be nothing left but the essence of his manhood pouring deep within her.

Drenched in perspiration, Romeo dropped to his knees, his arms falling to his sides. He watched silently as the phantom dancer blew him a kiss, then floated quietly out of the room, now lost within the realms of his imagination. He shook slightly, then rose back onto his feet. Turning toward Piano Man, who had finished his song, he watched as his dear friend reached for the full glass of scotch and pulled it to his aged lips.

“What you got to eat in that office back there, boy? I'm hungry,” Piano Man stated matter-of-factly, standing gingerly on his arthritic legs. His ill-fitting clothes hung loosely on his thin body, the black cotton shirt and slacks nothing but folds of limp, worn fabric. He scratched his head briskly, then yawned loudly, stretching his arms high into the air. Smacking his parched lips, he grinned broadly, revealing tar-stained teeth.

“You hear me, Romeo? What you got to eat? I need something to soak up some o' dis liquor or I ain't gonna be no good tomorrow.”

Romeo grinned broadly, adjusting the bulge in his crotch. “You're in luck tonight, old man. Odetta brought me some fried chicken and sweet potato pie.”

“Well, what you wasting time dancing with yourself for when we coulda been eating. You knows I love me some sweet 'tata pie,” Piano Man said, smacking his hands and his lips together in anticipation.

Disappearing into the next room, Romeo went to prepare two plates. Hesitating just briefly, Piano Man reached for the bottle of scotch, then replaced the cap. Returning it and the used glasses to the bar, he turned up the lights, then sat himself comfortably at a side table, suddenly famished.

As he waited patiently, he thought about Romeo. “Good boy he is,” he said aloud to himself. “A real good boy.”

He had liked Romeo the moment he'd found him. Not many would have opened up so warmly to an old man with no job, no home, and seemingly nothing in his future but hopes for a quick and painless death. But Romeo had treated him with kindness and genuine affection. And most important of all, respect. Romeo made him feel like a man of worth, something within himself he had come to doubt. Something he didn't think he deserved from Romeo.

With Romeo, Piano Man was reminded of his own father. Knowing there had been no man for Romeo to turn to while growing up ripped through his heart like a warm knife slicing through butter. It tore up his insides because Piano Man's own father had been his lifeline, his source of strength and guidance, and to see that his own son had never known such security made him sick to his stomach.

Romeo had endured his growing up alone, with no male presence to guide and support him. Piano Man's pain came raging at him, the tempestuous emotions bullying the goodness dwelling within his soul. When he was reminded of not having been there for his son, he felt the tide of self-hatred propelling him back toward the doors he'd long ago tried to leave closed behind him. He had failed his son, and repeatedly since the day he'd walked through the doors of the Playground, he felt as though God had given him yet another chance at redemption. And he was once again failing Romeo.

Wrapping his arms tightly about his shoulders, Piano Man hugged himself closely, fighting the urge to start crying all over again. He sighed heavily and suddenly wondered about Irene. Forgiveness had not been in her heart, her love replaced by something that surely wasn't loving. Clearly she had not been able to forgive him, wanting to fuel the void between him and his child with half-truths and lies. And Piano Man had let her, refusing to step up and do what he should have done. Irene had not forgiven him for that, and Piano Man couldn't help but wonder if Romeo would ever be able to.

Piano Man couldn't understand when or even why things had gone south for the two of them. He had loved Irene with every square inch of his heart, and he had earnestly believed that loving her as hard and as deep as he had was enough to get them through anything. His music hadn't made him millions, but he'd done reasonably well for himself. They could have had a comfortable life together if only she could have understood his need for the music. He had never asked anything from her other than to share him with his piano, and that one request had been more than she had been willing to oblige him. And despite it all, he had never stopped loving her or hoping that the two of them could have reconciled for the sake of their child. He heaved a deep sigh, his thoughts suddenly disrupted by the noise coming down from the other room.

Romeo returned with a tray piled high with cold fried chicken, deviled eggs, slices of buttered bread, and a pie plate filled with a creamy confection of whipped sweet potatoes, praline nuts, and a light, buttery crust.

“Good idea, old man,” Romeo said, setting the dishes down on the table.

Piano Man nodded, reaching for a chicken breast. “I know. Hell, any man know when you got some woman on your mind and your Johnson won't go down thinking about her, that all you's got to do is think about putting some food in your belly.”

Romeo looked up from his own piece of chicken, suddenly embarrassed. “Damn, old man, you don't miss anything, do you?” he said, blushing profusely, the flush of color rising in his cheeks, peeking past the brown of his satiny skin.

“What?” Piano Man spewed, bits of food falling down his chin. “Oh hell, boy, I was talking 'bout me. My Johnson been up since Odetta leaned them big titties on my arm tonight. You know a man my age can't take but so much.”

Romeo laughed loudly, choking on a mouth full of food. Pounding his chest to help clear his airway, Romeo sat doubled over with laughter. As he gulped for air, tears rose to the edges of his eyes.

Piano Man sat coolly, gnawing hungrily on the fleshy meat fried in a crisp coating of seasoned flour and buttermilk. “You gonna live?” he asked casually, picking a large wedge of meat from between his teeth.

Romeo gasped, still chuckling. Nodding his head brusquely, he coughed to clear his throat. “That hurt.”

Piano Man grunted, dabbing at his plate with the crust of bread. “Dis some good food, boy. You gonna eat that chicken on your plate?”

“Get your eyes off my meat, old man,” Romeo whispered hoarsely.

“Just asking.”

Piano Man reached for the plate of sweet potato pie, sliding a large wedge off onto the chipped ivory coaster in front of him. Spooning a generous portion into his mouth, he savored the creamy sweetness, the rich dollop gliding along his tongue.

“You're right. This food is good,” Romeo agreed, licking the tangy spices from his fingertips.

Piano Man responded by shoving another fork full of pie into his mouth. The two men ate in silence, punctuated only by the sounds of their slurping tongues, smacking lips, and gnashing teeth. When nothing remained on their plates but the polished chicken bones and flecks of piecrust, they both sat back, resting their hands on their heavy stomachs.

“So,” Piano Man asked suddenly, “when you gonna marry this girl of yours?”

Romeo shrugged his shoulders, a pensive look etched on his face. “I don't know. I'm almost afraid to ask her. She's so damn busy with her job that I'm not even sure she'd say yes if I did ask her to marry me.”

Piano Man raised his eyes slightly. “You know. Men know. Women have this look about them. When they want you, you can feel it burning deep down inside you.”

“Well, we've talked about it, but I guess I've avoided anything definite. She knows I love her and plan to spend the rest of my life with her, but we've never said when or how.” Romeo leaned on his elbows, resting his chin against his clinched fists. “It just seems so damn final. I've never known anyone who's been married for any length of time or who was happy after the first few years. I just don't want to make any mistakes.” He sighed heavily.

“Marriage like anything else. You got to work at it if it's gonna be right. Down in South Carolina where my granny's people lived, lotsa folks stayed married. They'd be rankled and irritable with one another, but they never stopped working at loving each other right. “Yup, just takes a lot of work,” he repeated.

“Were your parents married a long time?”

Piano Man nodded his head yes. “They married young. My mama was fourteen. They had seven kids before me, then came my brother Willie Ben and my sister Ruth. I was nothing but a baby myself when mama died. By then, she and Daddy had been together some twenty-six years. When she died, Willie Ben and Ruth went to live with my older sister, Kitty. I stayed with my daddy, and my grandma moved in to take care of us. They's all gone now. Every one of 'em. Ruth died last year from the cancer.”

Romeo stared out into space, hugging his arms about his torso. “Your daddy never married again?”

“No. My daddy used to say no woman could ever take Mama's place in his heart 'cause he loved her so much. They had promised till death would dey part and even then, she was still his one and only wife. Now, he didn't go givin' up on women all together or nothing like that, 'cause I knew when he used to go round to Miss Nettie's house for a little cootchie, but he ain't never brought her into my mama's home or my mama's bed.”

Romeo smiled. “Folks just don't stay together like that anymore. It's become too easy to get out when things start getting tough.”

“Ain't that the truth,” Piano Man exclaimed in agreement. “But you knows when it's right, boy. And you knows when it ain't. Just follow your heart and it will work out. Besides, chasing cootchie all the time ain't no good for you, no matter how I might joke.”

“You're right about that, old man. Hell, these days you can die from too much sex. Definitely ain't like it used to be,” Romeo responded.

“Uh-huh, you can say that again,” Piano Man echoed. Sitting back in his chair, he licked each of his fingers, wiping away the oils and seasonings with his tongue. As his shriveled fingers each disappeared slowly past his chapped lips, Romeo noted how bent and knotted they appeared. “That arthritis bothering you much lately?” he asked with concern.

“In my legs and hips mostly.”

“What about your hands?”

Looking down at the appendages stained with age spots, Piano Man wiggled them slightly. “I can still play if that's what you're asking.”

“Stop getting defensive. I just want to be sure your playing isn't causing you any pain.”

“Well, it ain't,” Piano Man answered testily. “And don't you go being a nuisance about it. Odetta and Sharon already give me a hard enough time. I don't need you mothering me too.”

“Keep it up, old man, and I'm going to tell Taryn. If you think those two mother hens are giving you a hard time, you wait. Taryn will show you what a hard time is,” he stated matter-of-factly.

“Now, don't you go starting no trouble between me and Taryn. I like that pretty little thing and I won't let you go spoiling it.”

Romeo laughed. “Just keep it up then and see if I don't unleash her on you.”

Piano Man tossed a bone at Romeo, missing his head by inches. “She hear you talking 'bout her like that and you the one she gonna give a hard time to. Taryn don't play like that. I seen how she puts you in your place,” he said, nodding his head.

“You right there—she doesn't fool around. I think that's what I love most about her. Taryn is probably one of the few women I've ever known who doesn't waste her time trying to play mind games with me. She lets me know where she stands on everything so there are no misunderstandings.”

Nodding, Piano Man slumped down low in his chair. “Well, don't mess up waiting around to marry her. Do it soon too, 'cause I ain't never played at no wedding before.” Piano Man burped loudly, the reflux of chicken and pie bitter in his mouth. “'Scuse me. Feels like I done made some more room.”

“Well, it won't do you any good. That's the last of the food.”

“Then pour me another drink.”

Romeo shook his head. “Bar's closed, partner. We've both had too much. Besides, the sun'll be up soon and you know we'll have a full house tonight. I don't want you to fall asleep at the piano. And I need to keep Sharon on track. I can't have her on stage singing cold.”

“Pretty voice that baby girl got,” Piano Man said. “Sent right from heaven, she was.”

“So I've heard before,” Romeo said with a slight smile, thoughts of Malcolm crossing his mind.

Piano Man nodded. “Yup, she's an angel from heaven.”

“Piano Man, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were sweet on our Miss Sharon,” Romeo said coyly.

Piano Man fidgeted slightly in his seat. “She just reminds me of my girl. You don't know how much you miss something till you know you'll never see it again. Anyways, no—I ain't sweet on Sharon, at least not like that. I just know what it's like to need someone and she needs people right now. Besides, a man can go to jail for messing with young girls like that.”

Romeo laughed. “Now, Sharon isn't that young. At least she better not be.”

“No, no,” Piano Man exclaimed. “She's not that young, but she still way too young for me. Cootchie that young would definitely hurt my heart.”

Both men laughed heartily.

“We are truly blessed,” Piano Man said, rising.

Romeo nodded his head as he also rose to clear away the dishes on the table. “Sometimes, old man, we forget just how much.”

Piano Man ambled slowly over to the piano, the effects of too much whiskey and the pain of his swollen joints slowing his progress. Dropping awkwardly onto the bench, he pulled himself into a seated position and adjusted the bench beneath him. His breathing was heavy and labored, and as he struggled to pull his shoulders back and sit up straight, Romeo resisted an urge to run over to him to ease his hurt.

Romeo watched Piano Man, astounded to see him age so quickly right before his eyes. The creases etched into the old man's brow had deepened, the dark furrows bordered by weathered skin. As he sat hunched heavily over the piano keys, his limp body seemed void of life and emotion.