Behind These Hands Read online

  that says “No problems please,

  I’ve had enough for one day.”

  Trent comes barreling down the stairs

  to reach for a hug

  and announces that Donkey Kong

  just had a major victory.

  Davy follows, slower,

  groping for the stair rail,

  smiling.

  “Hi, Mom.”

  She gives them both hugs.

  I remember that the salad isn’t made

  and dart into the kitchen

  before it becomes an issue.

  Dad slams the door.

  Mom, distracted by the boys,

  forgets to call him on it.

  “My cooking smells pretty good,

  don’t you think,” he says with a wink

  to the general population.

  I smile,

  the only one of the general population

  who has heard his voice

  in the mayhem

  and observed his self-satisfied wink.

  Mom comes into the kitchen,

  a boy on each hip,

  both vying for her attention.

  She does a bang-up job

  giving it to both

  simultaneously.

  After grace, Dad leans over

  to help Davy find his fork

  and get him oriented to the food

  on his plate.

  Trent jabbers away

  about the tag football sign-ups,

  and then Mom asks Davy

  how his day went.

  He smiles through a review

  of the day at Gateway School

  where the biggest news

  revolves around Nick’s

  getting detention for wandering

  off the playground to retrieve

  a ball during recess.

  “How did your spelling test go?”

  Davy tries to spear some casserole

  with his fork

  and misses.

  “Miss Daniels said she bets I’ll get more

  right next time.”

  “I know you will,” Dad says,

  exchanging a worried glance with Mom.

  Davy pushes noodles onto his fork with his fingers.

  Dinner is soon over.

  Mom supervises homework;

  Dad’s in charge of baths.

  I’m the cleanup crew,

  and since no one has asked,

  I talk to my hands about our composition

  and the upcoming competition.

  THE SCORE

  The heavy practice-room door

  shudders behind me.

  I set a pile of blank sheet music

  and my favorite #2 pencil

  on the small table next to the piano.

  I set my cell on vibrate,

  breathe in,

  breathe out,

  straighten tall.

  I close my eyes.

  I can see

  the late summer sun

  blazing in that clear azure sky

  and feel my toes dig into the sand.

  “The Kite” takes off

  in the dead silent stillness

  of this tiny room

  as if the breeze were driving

  through these walls,

  and I chase it with the melody

  that has gelled in my brain

  these weeks of practice,

  experimentation,

  frustration,

  doubts,

  and now

  certainty

  and

  exhilaration.

  I slide on the bench

  to the little table,

  and begin the task

  of setting down the notes

  that are strung across my brain,

  ready to pluck down

  like washing on a clothesline.

  Tap-tap-tap.

  Startled.

  I stop to listen,

  not sure at first

  if the sound is real

  or in my head,

  and just as I look toward the door

  I see Tara lean in,

  flashing her slightly overheated smile

  as her long, golden hair falls

  toward her perfectly made-up face.

  She keeps one hand on the knob

  and reaches around her head with the other

  to hold her hair back.

  “Oh, Claire, I’m so sorry to interrupt.”

  Then why did you?

  “I thought when I couldn’t find him,

  he’d be here, but I see that he’s not.”

  “You thought he would be here

  in the same practice room with me

  because…?”

  “No, I mean I thought,

  you know,

  he’d be around here practicing

  like you are,

  you know,

  polishing his composition

  like crazy

  and I see that’s exactly what you’re doing

  so I’ll let you go.

  Ohmygosh.

  I see I’ve already been gone too long

  from cheerleading practice anyway.

  We all think it’s so cute

  how you two geniuses are going

  after this big prize

  against each other,

  you know,

  after all these years

  of being so,

  um,

  close musically,

  you know.

  Ta Tah!”

  It takes a few minutes

  for the air to clear

  after she closes the door,

  sort of like when a car

  with emission problems passes

  you on the road.

  You want to open the windows

  and let the nasty fumes escape.

  Breathe in.

  Breathe out.

  Get back to work

  and forget…

  “Oh,”

  she bursts back in,

  causing my heart to lurch.

  “If he shows up, tell him

  the late carpool pick-up

  will meet on the upper field

  at 6:00.”

  Breathe in.

  Breathe out.

  THE LOCKER

  My locker is in the music wing

  even though my instrument,

  piano,

  doesn’t get packed around

  like Juan’s flute.

  I see him throughout the day

  and that drives Tara crazy.

  Funniest thing of all…

  Juan is oblivious,

  true nerd,

  to her idol worship.

  The pleasure is all mine

  evil,

  ugly

  me.

  RULES OF THE GAME

  “Are you ready to roll, Claire?” Juan asks,

  changing out math book for history.

  “You mean the piece?”

  He stands up tall, runs his hand through

  thick, curly hair, and smiles big.

  What I love about Juan is

  he does not have

  an insincere bone

  in his lanky Cuban body.

  He really cares,

  really wants to know

  how it’s going

  with me,

  and part of me still wishes

  I was competing against

  anyone but him,

  who has been like a brother to me

  all these years.

  “Yeah, I’m ready to record.

  Feelin’ pretty good.

  How about you?”

  He says the same.

  We decided early on

  not to exchange details

  like titles,

  melodic themes,

  rhythms,

  genres.

  We are bound

  by the contest rules:

  no longer than five min
utes,

  score must be handwritten

  along with a recorded version.

  We agree to a private

  popcorn and world-premier session

  after we both

  meet the deadline.

  SOMETHING MORE

  I’ve set aside a week from Friday to record.

  That means I have over a week

  to practice,

  practice,

  practice.

  I’ll stay after school

  when it wouldn’t be cool for anyone

  to be hanging out in the halls,

  especially Tara,

  and I’ll use the practice room.

  I slide through the piece at home

  on cruise control.

  No fine tuning.

  My mind drifts,

  my hands do the driving,

  wondering if Juan has already submitted

  but not really wanting to know,

  wondering what Tara sees in Juan

  when she has the pick of the jocks,

  wondering what she’d say

  if I called her on it one day,

  wondering…

  Slam!

  I stop abruptly at the sound of the front door

  shutting hard when no one is expected home

  this early

  ever.

  “Davy?”

  I freeze on the piano bench

  and hold my breath,

  waiting for his voice.

  His carpool usually drops him off first

  but not

  this early.

  “Hi, Claire.”

  I turn around in time to see

  Davy slip upstairs.

  Tired-looking Mom

  motions for me to follow her

  to the kitchen.

  “What is it, Mom?

  Is something the matter?”

  She pulls off her shoes,

  sets the kettle on for tea,

  hops up on a bar stool,

  and sighs heavily.

  “We’ve had a day, Davy and I.

  I haven’t wanted to worry you, Claire.

  Several weeks ago the school called

  with more concerns, again.

  Davy’s been stumbling too much.

  Davy’s falling further behind in everything,

  especially math.

  When was the last time you had his eyes checked?

  So we did it all again today

  with another specialist,

  a pediatric neurologist.

  My mom,

  stronger than steel,

  fights to hold back tears.

  She doesn’t have the answers

  to any of my questions.

  What are they looking for?

  How much worse is he?

  So we drink tea

  in silence.

  WAITING

  You could slice it with a knife,

  the tension in our house.

  No, not in our house,

  between Mom and Dad.

  Sudden,

  the tension seems so sudden,

  but if I climb out of my musical delirium

  long enough to look back,

  it’s been building for a while,

  maybe months.

  Mom

  has always earned a D- for patience.

  She’ll be the first to agree

  and on good days,

  laughingly wonders how she ever ended up

  teaching.

  Funny

  thing is, classroom tension bears no resemblance

  to waiting for a call

  from the doctor.

  Dad,

  on the other hand,

  turns humor on so thick:

  jokes,

  puns,

  riddles,

  antics—

  you almost wish for any kind of news

  to break the phony fun.

  They

  aren’t discussing

  with me what kind of news

  we are waiting for.

  Words

  wouldn’t tell me

  nearly as much

  as the silent worry

  I see in their eyes.

  PAINFUL

  Mia texts:

  How’s the winning piece coming?

  I consider not answering

  like I often do

  when words don’t seem

  up to doing the job

  of communicating

  pain,

  or embarrassment,

  or hurt,

  or anger,

  or anything emotionally big

  nearly as well as music.

  But my one good girlfriend, Mia

  doesn’t know how to speak that language

  and all I can think to text is

  Idk. Painful.

  WAVERING IN THE WIND

  “The Kite”

  doesn’t have enough wind

  to keep it afloat today.

  Dad finally asked how it was going

  this morning at breakfast,

  but I felt his thoughts fly off

  before I could finish telling him

  what I thought

  was the truth

  last week:

  I’m on top of it.

  Lately

  I’ve been thinking how things evolved

  so fast

  since that Labor Day weekend

  when the contest leaped off the page

  of Dad’s music journal,

  the article about the winner

  of last year’s NC Music Teachers’ Association

  composition contest.

  I stopped to read it

  in the middle of packing

  for a family outing,

  fingers tingling

  as if pulsing electrical charges

  were sending a cryptic message

  through the paper

  directly to me.

  This contest is for you!

  I saw myself performing the winning piece,

  then spending the summer

  with the musical geniuses

  at Duke, exploring digital production,

  not to mention racking up the

  $1,000 scholarship towards college.

  The look on Dad’s face

  when I shared my exuberant decision

  sent a different kind of tingling in my body,

  this one down my spine.

  I couldn’t get a reading

  on what blipped so quickly

  across the brain-space

  of the head of the music department

  at Coltrane Community College,

  usually my biggest fan.

  Next thing I know Dad tells Juan

  about the contest, something that hurt

  at first.

  Doesn’t he want his own daughter

  to have the best chance of winning?

  Doesn’t he know Juan and I

  are too close

  to be competing like this?

  Doesn’t he know

  I’ll probably lose?

  But that’s my dad.

  Always wanting to give everyone

  a fair shake.

  I’m pounding out the Toccata

  because I can’t seem to concentrate

  on “The Kite”

  when Davy comes up behind me

  and taps me on the back.

  You wouldn’t turn him down today,

  would you, Claire?

  “Hop up, Bud. Let’s have that lesson.”

  His half smile takes on the intensity

  of a sunrise, and I slide over on the bench.

  I place Davy’s fingers on the starting keys.

  He starts humming the opening tune

  that has been like a fixture in our house

  during most of his lifetime.

  I’m relieved my tears

  fall into my lap,

  unnoticed

>   by the maestro.

  RESOLVE

  I wake up with a jolt,

  beating the alarm by five minutes

  to my 5:00 a.m. date with the day.

  I will get to the practice lab

  thanks to the coveted off-hours key

  Mr. Jenkins entrusts to a select few,

  and Carlos’s willingness to drive

  his brother and me to school

  on his way to pre-dawn athletic torture.

  I will shake off the doom and gloom

  of worried-sick parents.

  I will get my head straight.

  I will get “The Kite” ready to fly

  before the deadline.

  I will not let…what?

  Something that probably has a simple answer,

  that can be controlled by meds,

  that might even be out-grow-able,

  that surely can’t be life threatening…

  I will not let this ruin a chance of a lifetime.

  Will I?

  TRASHED IDEA

  Clock runs a race.

  Rampant thoughts

  cloud my brain.

  Fingers get the message

  due to conditions beyond our control

  not before they push on to the end.

  Rote,

  passionless,

  driving blind into the fog.

  First bell sounds a warning.

  I slam the keys hard

  finally mustering passion.

  Discordant finale

  to a trashed practice session.

  Maybe a trashed idea?