Page 22 of And Still Her Voice
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Neither Mom nor Grandma were happy now about my decision. With Grandma’s disapproval about my choices came her silence—which I sort of dug. Aside from losing control over me, it seemed the stronger I became, the weaker she became, which ironically seemed to give me strength. But I also waited for the other boot to drop. She’d also become more silent the more shelearned about this new world, its troubles overwhelming her. She thought the best place for me to be was at home. If only she’d stayed out of our family matters, then maybe we might have had a chance at a happy, normal home, and even though stabilizing the situation had been her challenge, she’d failed miserably to bring peace.
Getting caught up with everything happening around me also served to educate me. I couldn’t wait to see what else I might discover, besides being kissed by a girl. Finding a way to make Grandma go away became secondary to finding love. There was no turning back now.
CHAPTER 10
Never Take a Knife to aGunfight
I’m nine, Dad stands behind me, his arms over mine guiding the cocked rifle, target within sight. “Pull the trigger.” But I won’t shoot the bunny and I step away.
We’d been on a camping trip up to the local mountain forest. Dad had even worn his old garrison cap with the Boy Scout insignia from his Eagle Scout days. He’d seemed so happy, like his scouting days were some good times. But later that night, using his Bowie knife to cut kindling, he’s unable to start a fire to cook a rattlesnake he shot. I pull the book of matches from my pocket and think I’ve saved the day. He also should have paid attention to the weather reports because after finally pitching the tent with help from Michael and me, a gust of wind blows it down just before the rains dump on us, dousing our fire. Mom yells at him. “What kind of scout were you? Can’t even tie a knot!” At the risk of being beaten, Mom still manages to blow Dad down, like a tent in a rainstorm. Grandma tells him to calm down when he flashes his knife. But he drops it at the sound of me cocking the gun.
***
Caked in mud after another night sleeping on wet grass in Golden Gate Park under a blanket, borrowed from Ben’s parents’house, I remembered that stressful time with my family before the rains came and how we packed up and went home all muddy and shivering wet.
That was then. I wasn’t ready to give up and go home yet. I slipped into the park bathroom and tried to clean up, finger-combing my matted, tangled hair. I dried my face with paper towels that I’d gathered from the floor, and noticed my face in the mirror’s reflection. Dark puffy circles cradled my eyes like little purple aprons. A new pimple sprouted on my cheek and a cold sore had erupted on my upper lip. I was a mess.
Even over the street noise, I heard my stomach rumble as I strayed into the city. I’d given Caroline most of my money, so I knew I needed a job if I were to continue to survive on my own. Maybe today I’d find a job.
Betsy’s boots were a size too small for me and by the afternoon, my feet blistered from clunking along the sidewalks; my guitar swung across my back as I slipped in and out of shops asking if anyone needed help. No luck finding a job. No one wanted another “lazy hippie” working for them. Weary and famished, I dropped the blanket to the curb to sit. Pretty soon I heard people shouting, “Free Food. Free You. Digger!” An old truck full of young happy-looking people came around the corner. I stood as a yellow-haired boy jumped out of the bed of the truck and ran up, pressing a flier into my hand advertising a place where I could get free food. But I needed to find a job.
I followed the truck traveling up the street. And then, as I stood at the intersection of Haight and Ashbury, Grandma spoke up. “Music!” I heard the piano. Not just any piano. “It’s a Steinway,” Grandma said. “Pre-Depression era.”
My sense of smell seemed more acute at the moment than my hearing. The rich aroma of coffee wafted out of a shop with a sign that readSteinway Café.
Dust motes floated in the light streaming in through the windows as I stepped in to look around a cavernous space filled with cozy-looking chairs, mismatched tables, and nooks where one could curl up with a book and a hot cup of coffee. My stomach growled at the thought of curling up with a cheese sandwich. But then, out of a shadow in the middle of the shop, glowing at the end of a ray of sunlight, my heart wanted to sing when I laid eyes on an ebony grand piano. I’d heard the music from the street, but now I didn’t see anyone playing it. The piano looked so lonely. When I got close enough, I noticed a lock on it.
“Do you play?” someone asked. I turned around, coming eye to eye with a round-headed older man—probably around thirty—boyish and yet balding with a thin ponytail. Pudgy and pasty-looking, he looked like he’d never seen the California sun.
In a movie, I’d be the sort of nice and naïve girl who barely makes it out alive. Dilbert Moss was the sort of man—so far, all men were the sorts of men—who made my stomach hurt. He was also like all of those bad guys in the movies who don’t usually make it in the end. And my gut sent up warning smoke signals.
“Well, do you?”
Feather-like tickles skipped up my throat. “I used to,” Grandma answered, before I could say anything.
“Who was playing before I walked in?” I asked.
“Must have been the radio,” the man said appraising me as if I were the FBI. “So, you play?” I nodded. “Only customers who can play well are allowed to play it,” the man said sternly, his eyes flickering in the dark as if he were tapping out a code of warning.
“I used to play very well,” Grandma said in lyrical yellow as I turned to leave. I wanted to shut her up but there’d be no stopping her when it came to her pride, her ego, or her music.
“Some even called me a virtuoso,” Grandma added.
The man looked at me dubiously and the next thing I knew I sat at the piano playing Beethoven’sPiano Sonata 14. At once, it felt like I’d returned home. “Don’t you just miss it?” Grandma asked.
When I finished, I heard clapping and finger-snapping. A crowd had gathered just outside the window.
“You obviously can play classical,” the man said, “but can you play something from this century?”
“Darling, show the man what we’ve got.”
And with that I broke into Chuck Berry’s “Roll Over Beethoven.”Within moments, the crowd had come in and gathered around the piano.
“Encore!” someone shouted.
“Are you hungry?” the man asked. He probably fed all the young, wayward kids around here who could play for their supper.
