K. H. Fenner

The Old Man with the Dead Piano

 

 

 

The relentless racket sounded like a celebration of decay, just as always. Elizabeth Chissel paused on her way home at the side of the dock, wringing her hands with annoyance at the sound of the sour music. There was no escaping the audible torture, which the strong New England wind was generous enough to carry to all ears.

“I think the old goat’s piano gets more out of tune each time he plays it,” huffed Dick Jenkins as he slouched down upon a crate not far from her, scowling in the direction of the off-key dotard. He was her peer, and her opposite as far as hygiene, fashion, and manners were concerned. Not that this made any difference to her.

But Jenkins was right. The strange old man had a habit of carting about a clunky old piano with an equally clunky mule and wagon. He was a semi-permanent fixture in taverns and the village square in the sense that he often appeared and disappeared, but there was an annoying sense of his always being present. Whenever he played, she could hear it whether she liked it or not... and she hated it.

“Don’t you agree with me, Miss Chissel?” he asked abruptly.

“Of course I do! I don’t see how his moving it from place to place so often can be good for it.”

“The only thing that could be good for it is to destroy the thing. That wood could make some precious fuel.” He said this wistfully, tossing a dreamy smile up to the heavens. “If only.”

“Yes, if only,” she agreed, chuckling. She always cringed whenever its notes harassed her ears. For that piano to be gone would be a blessing.

“Would you like me to?” he asked quickly, perking up like a terrier. “I’d be willing to burn it for you.”

“You’d get caught. And besides, you shouldn’t.”

“I won’t be punished if I’m caught; I’ll be praised.”

“Not by the old man.”

“No. Not by the old goat. But I’m willing to bet money that everyone else will be dying to make me mayor someday for that one act of benevolence.” He paused, wincing as the man struck some exceptionally cacophonous chords. “Doesn’t matter whether it’s right or wrong. I know you hate that piano. You always complain about it. Even your father makes comments about tossing it over his ship into the deepest waters. Morals aside, politeness aside, you know you want me to burn it.”

“If I were that selfish—”

“Not good enough! Just admit it!”

“... I would.”

“It would be a favor to the community!”

“Dick!” barked Mr. Ferguson out of nowhere. “Quit idlin’!” Mr. Ferguson was generally regarded as the local disciplinarian. He was always ready to scold suspicious youths, and Jenkins was one of the most notorious ones.

With that, Jenkins leapt from the crate and, after giving Elizabeth a quick wink, hurried away.

“Master Jenkins up to no good again, Miss Chissel?” Mr. Ferguson asked.

“I wouldn’t say no good—he didn’t seem to be up to anything.”

“And nothing good is simply no good. Looked like he was scheming to me. Something mischievous in his eyes. I get nervous whenever he shows an ounce of enthusiasm since bad things tend to happen afterwards.”

Mr. Ferguson was a stern, middle-aged man with a beard nearly white from the salt of the air. He reminded Elizabeth of a Roman centurion, always standing still, looking grim, occasionally barking at idlers and mischief-makers.

Elizabeth was intimidated by Mr. Ferguson and tried to keep her distance from him. So did all of the other youths. But he addressed her, and so she was trapped and could not escape for sake of respect until he was done with her.

“I wish you’d try to keep your distance from that boy, Missy. I know your father doesn’t approve of oafs like him.”

“No sir, he doesn’t.” Of course she knew it, but her opinion wasn’t the same as his, and so she had already made up her mind not to obey.

“I know I don’t like the way he follows you around.”

And she didn’t mind one bit.

“For your father’s sake, please don’t encourage the boy,” Mr. Ferguson beseeched. “He hasn’t a lick of sense.”

She nodded, well aware of his shortcomings, though it didn’t make her opinion of him change. They stood silent for some moments as the salty breeze encircled them, commingled with the tinny sound of the decrepit piano.

Mr. Ferguson smiled. “You hear that piano?”

How couldn’t I? she thought glumly, and considered it polite to merely tell him that she did and refrained from sharing her opinion of it.

“That man’s been coming by here playing it since I was a boy,” he said. “Brings back good memories. Reminds me of my father. He used to play, and he always liked to listen to that old man play (and I don’t think he was ever young). Said there was much to learn from his music.”

She wanted to blurt out that he could only teach one how not to play and thought against it. She asked what could be learned instead.

“Sincerity. True, that fellow was never accurate with his tunes and he never had talent, but he always meant well. I find happiness in that man’s happiness. Have you ever truly watched him play? You would have to in order to fully understand what I mean.”

“Does his piano ever get tuned?”

“He tunes it himself sometimes, or at least he used to. I think he’s better at playing than he is at tuning. But I don’t think that would make any difference to him, and he wouldn’t be any happier even if he were to be offered the most exquisite piano in the world. He loves that piano in spite of its quirks. Some say it’s as old as him. It’s practically his brother. You should ask him about it.”

She said nothing and looked down at her feet, growing weary with being so polite in regard to the piano.

“Or maybe you should be on your way. I’m sure your mother’s expecting you.”

So she was finally free. He was kind enough to her, in spite of his demeanor, but she wasn’t one for listening to others ramble on a cold, windy day. Especially when she didn’t agree with what she heard.

She paused by the old man and his piano during her homeward walk at what she considered to be a safe distance. He was playing something mildly recognizable. Perhaps she had heard it in church before. His lips moved silently, forming words to a song as he played hunched over, nose almost touching the keys, his gnarled fingers moving mechanically like crabs’ legs.

It was a silly, awkward sight at first glance. But he also seemed to be beaming with some inexplicable deep-rooted bliss. His peaceful aspect made her come to respect him in that brief lapse of time, no matter how much she fought against this strange, foreign sense of awe that overcame her.

When he finished the piece, he turned to her with a kindly smile, his sparkling eyes almost lost in the wrinkles of the leathery skin that made up his face.

“Any questions, young lady?” His voice was low and thin, adding to the overall frail quality of his personage.

Elizabeth was taken aback by his sudden address, and stood gaping stupidly.

“Well,” he explained, chuckling, “People usually come to me with questions, not compliments. I don’t blame them. I know I’m an odd sight, and probably odd-sounding, too! So, what would you like to know?”

There were too many questions that she had so long pondered in regard to the man and his piano. It took an effort to bring any of those questions to mind, which was so overwhelmed by his direct inquiry that it had been petrified to blankdom.

“Why don’t you play it at home like everyone else? Why cart it around and play it in public?” She was so uneasy that she barely felt her lips form the words.

“This is my home, my dear, wherever I go! And I suppose by your standards I have none.” He smiled impishly, whereas many others would’ve wept after admitting to such a thing. “This piano, this wagon, this mule—it’s all that I own! Through my playing, I earn enough money to feed myself and buy new clothing when the old’uns wear out. My mother always told me that my piano would help provide for me, and by the good Lord she was right!”

“And how old is your piano?”

The man laughed. “My mother told me it was my twin brother, so you might as well just ask how old I am! It was a gift—came the day I was born. This piano and I have been through so much together that I honestly feel that it is my brother, too. It’s definitely aging like me—without grace. And we’re both getting very stiff. Neither one of us can be fixed anymore—we’re both dangerously close to the breaking point... Perhaps it’s closer to death than I am, and I dread the day that it dies. Don’t know if I can handle it. Might as well just fall with it.”

“Like a ship with its captain,” said Elizabeth, thinking of her father’s attachment to his vessel.

“Indeed. Like a ship with its captain. Well-said! Never thought of it that way before...” He gave a low, throaty chuckle.

As he was plainly occupied with mulling over her simile, she quickly took the opportunity to toss what coins she possessed into the tin at his feet before slipping away unnoticed. She didn’t have the heart to ask how he had lost his home, curious though she was.

“I see you’ve been with the old goat,” Jenkins observed, taking her by surprise as she made it to the corner.

“Have you been following me?” she asked, disturbed.

“It’s only a mere chance,” he said, smiling warmly. “People cross paths often enough. So tell me—does the music sound any better up close?”

“As a matter of fact, it does. It loses some of its sentiment with distance.”

“But you don’t enjoy listening to him, do you?” he asked anxiously.

“No, I don’t necessarily like it...”

“Excellent!” he piped cheerily. “Then would you like me to burn it for you tonight?”

“No!” she cried with asperity. “I wish you’d stop talking about that and leave the man alone!”

He stepped back in shock from the aggressive force of her words. “You don’t sound like the same girl I spoke with at the dock earlier.”

“Maybe I’ve been brought to my senses. Maybe I’m not as selfish as you are. Just leave him be! He’s been around forever and probably won’t be alive to play much longer. Let him do it while he can!”

“So you won’t let me burn it?” he asked sullenly, the jocund light extinguished from his eyes.

“I’ll let you burn it on the day I let you burn my father’s ship!”

“Never, then.” This said very softly.

“No. It won’t please anyone, and it definitely won’t make you mayor. I don’t think you could handle that sort of responsibility, anyhow,” she added sourly.

She was surprised with herself that she was saying such bitter things to his face. But ever since she made her initial reference to ships to the old man, she found it difficult to get her father out of her mind. It had been over a year since he had last set sail, and her family had only received one letter from him in that duration...

She almost felt as if her father was at her side, frowning in disapproval at her earlier words of intolerance towards the music, scowling upon the unacceptable Jenkins. Her conscience was winning out over her personal desire, and though she loathed disappointing the boy, she felt it would make her father pleased if she were to cast him away.

He looked taken aback at first, but then a grin broke out on his face. “I don’t think I’d enjoy being mayor, come to think of it. Tiring work. Why go through all that effort just to get a fancy title?”

“Why go through any effort at all?” she asked curtly.

“Ah, some things are worth the effort. Some things are more desirable than flimsy titles.” He chuckled.

Her patience was waning with him. He was amusing enough in small doses, but he was quickly plummeting into the realm of genuine pestiness. So she simply nodded, laughed lightly, and went on her way, saying that her mother would fret if she took any longer to return home.

Elizabeth found it difficult to sleep that night. Thoughts of the old man and Jenkins ran through her head—thoughts of dislike and desire, thoughts of conscience and selfishness. The opinions that she harbored for so long were at war with sympathy to the point that she didn’t know what she thought anymore about the music or her youthful follower.

She decided to seek the piano the next day in hopes of forming a definite opinion with a fresh, judicial mind.

But she stopped in her tracks when she came near the old man, who was tinkering inside his piano with a look of helplessness.

“Some strings broke and the hammers are badly damaged,” he explained as she approached him. “I’ve been trying to be careful, trying to play softly, but if it’s too soft, I can’t hear it!”

“Can’t it be fixed?” she asked.

“It could, but I can’t, dear. Can’t afford to get the supplies.” He shook his head desolately and coughed. “It’s a hardy one, though. All this humidity, and I think it held out quite well—quite well indeed!”

“And now what?” she asked dumbly, forgetting about her jubilation moments earlier, struck dumb with sympathy.

“I’ll be practical,” he said, grinning. “It’s officially dead now—it simply needs too many repairs. I can rest happily with the memory that I had the hardiest of pianos! And my fingers have been hurting from playing lately. It’s better for me that I stop. See this finger?” He held up his right hand for her to see. “The pinky’s practically paralyzed!”

“You can’t be through with your playing!”

“But it’s the best for me and my piano, now. Any more playing will only serve to damage us both. I’ll miss it, sure! But I’ll still live, and with happy songs stuck in my head. Ha! To think that I’ve outlived a piano!” He chuckled like a delighted drunkard till he started choking on his laughter and Miss Chissel urged that he stop.

She realized that his laughter was mingled with tears, which he soon managed to force away.

Once he came to his senses, she asked what would come of the dead piano.

“Why, to get use out of the smaller bits, I’ll use it for burning. It’ll keep me warmer than any other lumber.”

She bowed her head and wept silently as the chilly wind beat against her face, making her tears freeze her all the more.

“And as for the larger bits of wood,” he continued, “why, that’s been destined to make my coffin since the day I was born!”

He stopped, befuddled over why Miss Chissel was so distressed.

“You wouldn’t let me cry, child, and now I must say the same to you! I suppose it’s easier for me to accept my fate than it is for you to accept the passing of some old fellow. I’m glad for my happy memories with this piano, and it was all meant to come to an end sooner or later with the death of one of us. Now it will rest peacefully with me.”

He could’ve consoled her for hours upon hours and all would have proved to be futile. She wept. It was uncontrollable. And she was so embarrassed that she fled rather than stand there blubbering by the old man she didn’t really know.

Her tears nearly blinded her, and she ran straight into Jenkins.

He asked what troubled her. She sputtered it out between sobs.

Then he hung his head and said in a low voice, “I was the one who butchered it. Because I still hated it.”

She didn’t know what to say to him, but the strike of her hand across his face conveyed her meaning to him well enough.

Mr. Ferguson saw it all and came with the intention of drawing the two apart, but Jenkins had already slinked away. In spite of his firm gaze of reprimand, Miss Chissel was glad to see Mr. Ferguson.

“So you’re finally through with him, I see,” he said. “You could’ve told him like a lady.”

“But the piano!” she cried, and proceeded to explain what had passed.

Mr. Ferguson softened and frowned over towards the retreating figure of Jenkins and was about to follow him, but she stopped him.

“Thank you for teaching me to appreciate his playing, so I could at least enjoy it for a little while before it was silenced forever.”

Mr. Ferguson decided to forgo hunting down the miscreant to console the girl instead.

 

 

 

K. H. Fenner received her Bachelor of Arts degree in English at Georgian Court University and currently resides in Pennsylvania. She usually writes historical fiction, often with a focus on medicine, music, or both. She has completed a novel, but she is currently working on short stories. She has recently been published in DM and The Western Online.