Behind These Hands Read online

you don’t have to live to be one hundred

  to have them.

  A CENTENARIAN’S POV

  Mrs. Shepherd lives in a tiny, rundown house

  on the edge of a neighborhood in transition.

  Mia, with her nose for news,

  says it’s all about gentrification

  and there’s another story here

  she will surely feature

  someday.

  After introductions

  and repeating slowly

  more than once

  that I’m just along for the ride,

  I try to become invisible

  while Mia does her thing.

  I marvel at her social skills,

  the easy way with people,

  especially people who are different

  or mega-something

  like Mrs. Shepherd is so mega-old;

  and her writing skills,

  editor of the yearbook,

  editor of the school paper;

  and the fact that she still hangs out with me,

  the nerd on the fringe

  when anytime she chooses, she could join

  the elites,

  the intellectuals,

  the preps.

  I drift in and out of focus,

  enjoying the low-intensity day

  when I hear the regret question

  roll out of Mia’s mouth

  easy-peasy,

  as we used to say in grade-school.

  I hold my breath for a minute,

  wondering what kind of response,

  if any,

  Mrs. Shepherd will give.

  I shift awkwardly in my seat

  while Mia looks like she just aced a quiz

  everyone else has bombed.

  A long silence

  and Mia doesn’t flinch.

  Finally, and almost inaudibly,

  Mrs. Shepherd says,

  “I didn’t celebrate enough.”

  I cough to stifle a giggle.

  What? Are we talking to

  an old-time party girl here?

  Mia perks up like a bloodhound

  and perches her hands expectantly

  over her computer keys.

  Mrs. Shepherd begins.

  “Both my children,

  daughter and son

  and then my husband,

  all taken way before their time

  and I mourned,

  Lordy did I mourn,

  ‘til I was no good to no one,

  a listless pile of rags

  tossed in a heap.

  I was useless

  and it didn’t do them no good now,

  did it?

  Died and gone to heaven,

  I know that for sure,

  all of them,

  and all my mournin’ didn’t do

  a lick of good.

  No sir,

  I should have celebrated

  their lives,

  each one.

  I should have celebrated.”

  Mrs. Shepherd slumps down in her chair.

  Mia and I jump up

  both thinking the worst.

  “I’m right tired now, Missies.

  Next time, next time you come

  I’ll show pictures.”

  Mia takes the cue.

  We say good-bye

  and quietly slip out

  as if leaving church

  before the service is over.

  ONLY GOOD LEFTOVERS

  When I see I’ve beat them home

  I check the kitchen

  out of habit

  and find a note,

  “plz put leftover meatloaf in oven.”

  I settle at the piano,

  let Pachelbel’s Canon in D

  carry my thoughts

  of hundred-year-old ladies celebrating life,

  of brothers celebrating nature,

  of friends celebrating music,

  of parents celebrating family,

  when Davy bursts into the house

  followed by Trent, Mom, and Dad.

  He slides onto the bench next to me.

  I let my fingers finish the piece,

  and then lift Davy’s fingers onto the keys

  to make music,

  striking away

  any leftover guilt

  from this day.

  AFRAID

  I help clean up after dinner,

  glad to hear Mom talk about their day

  without putting a negative spin

  on my absence—

  Davy making friends with a donkey

  at the petting zoo;

  Trent proving to be a real snake handler;

  the challenge of keeping hands inside

  the miniature train

  as it wound through the thick forest;

  and giving Davy enough visual info

  to keep him engaged.

  Mom asks about my day

  and seems interested

  in hearing about Mrs. Shepherd’s

  thoughts on celebrations.

  Then a pause

  while her face shifts

  from relaxed to taut

  and I wonder if I am in for it

  yet.

  “Claire?”

  “Yes, Mom?”

  “Have you seen anything,

  anything at all

  alarming…

  no,

  not alarming

  just…I don’t know,

  unusual,

  maybe out of the ordinary

  with…with Trent

  lately?”

  She looks down

  and watches her fingers

  twist a tissue

  in shaking hands.

  I’m afraid she’s going to cry.

  I’m afraid I know what she’s talking about.

  I’m afraid to answer

  (faltering feet on a curb)

  because surely

  my imagination

  has gotten the best of me.

  COMFORT ZONE

  I’m glad for Tuesday

  after a holiday.

  It always feels like Monday.

  I’m even glad for Tara’s chatter

  in the car

  and curiously amused

  to hear her tell all

  (well, probably not all)

  about her date with Carlos

  while he obviously struggles

  to keep the car on the road.

  Juan and I struggle to hold a straight face.

  When we get out of the car

  we have our usual hearty laugh,

  and that carries me through the morning classes

  where I refuse

  to let images of Trent

  break through,

  break down,

  break into my thoughts.

  I’m glad for the lunch chatter

  where Mia tells Juan

  excitedly

  about Mrs. Shepherd

  and then asks again

  why I don’t ever contribute

  to the school newspaper.

  Juan reminds me

  we need to get going

  on Jazz Night now,

  the piece I’ll accompany him on.

  “Whoa, cut me some slack, friends,”

  I say, half mocking, half serious.

  “You two are stretching me way beyond my comfort zone today.”

  Two faces,

  Trent’s

  and

  Davy’s,

  float into my brain.

  I nearly choke on my own words.

  What right do I have

  to any comfort zone at all?

  BE GONE

  “What’s going on?”

  Juan asks as we walk to

  the music wing after lunch.

  I give him a sharp, puzzled look

  and wonder

  again

  how he manages to pick up my vibes

  with such spot-on ac
curacy

  like some kind of streaming data nerd.

  “What do you mean?” I ask,

  knowing exactly what he means

  but wanting to hear it from him.

  “You are a thousand miles away today,

  and Jazz Night doesn’t seem

  to be on your radar.

  More bad news

  or no news at all?”

  I realize as the question rolls out

  that both options

  have me in a strangle-hold.

  Mentioning what I thought I saw with Trent

  seems like a bad omen,

  and the blood tests

  lurk like a brooding storm.

  “A little of both

  and nothing I want to talk about

  today. Are you cool with that?”

  Juan,

  always cool

  with everything,

  smiles and nods

  and presses on in his

  irresistible way.

  “I’ll bring your accompaniment

  tomorrow so you can get started on it.

  Saturday afternoon

  at my house,

  the first run through?”

  I return his smile with a chuckle.

  “Sure, Juan

  comfort zone be gone.”

  WRITING ASSIGNMENT

  Mia can hardly contain her excitement

  over the assignment we just got handed

  as we stroll out the classroom door

  in Honors English.

  Write a narrative to develop real

  or imagined experiences or events…

  “Of course I’ll use Mrs. Shepherd

  and get extra mileage out of

  the interview. Whoot! Whoot!

  Life is goooooood!

  What about you, Claire?

  Any ideas?”

  “Well, I was thinking of

  the life and times of a talking piano,

  you know, one that converses

  with the player’s fingers

  and together

  they plot to take over the world

  and make everyone speak in

  staccato notes and arpeggios.”

  She looks at me

  dumbfounded

  with her bottom jaw dropped.

  “Seriously? Did you just think that up

  like now, on the spot?”

  “Yeah, I sort of did,” I say,

  savoring her reaction.

  “Claire, if you don’t start sending me stuff

  for “The Chanticleer” soon

  I’ll… I’ll…”

  “Be forced to start a “fugue” with me?

  Get it? Fugue? Feud? Like ha, ha?”

  She shakes her head

  in mock disgust

  and tells me I’ve been hangin’

  with Juan too much.

  Hmm. Too much or not enough?

  HEAVY NEWS

  I shuffle through the mail

  knowing it’s way too early

  for contest results

  but not too early to wonder,

  and hope,

  and dream,

  when

  a thick envelope with mysterious

  initials,

  BDSRA,

  in the return

  sends twitches through my fingers.

  I want to rip it open,

  but it’s addressed to my parents

  and it feels so heavy…

  weighed down

  with news

  that feels

  way

  too

  heavy.

  THE TREE AND THE LEAVES

  Juan’s jazz piece

  stares at me,

  speaks to me,

  I dare you

  as I slide onto the piano bench

  to grab the few minutes

  of quiet

  before everyone gets home.

  A sight-read,

  a second run through,

  and on the third try

  I picture dazzling autumn leaves,

  all shades of yellow, red, auburn

  swirling in an October vortex.

  Untamed,

  playful,

  relentless,

  free spirited,

  around a bare-branched,

  unbending,

  mediocre

  tree.

  My fingers laugh in my face.

  Who said jazz isn’t fun?

  Can you guess who is the tree

  and who the leaves?

  MISSING INFORMATION

  The wind whipping around the tree

  outside my window

  wakes me up,

  and I snuggle back under the covers.

  It’s Saturday

  and I chuckle, remembering that

  the leaves and I

  have a practice date this afternoon.

  I wonder what Juan would think

  if I told him about the mental picture,

  tree with dancing leaves,

  that pops up when my classical fingers

  try to let go,

  jazz-like,

  on the accompaniment

  while he rips it up

  with some kind of awesome

  and the slightest bit of effort

  on the flute.

  The brother-noise downstairs

  reminds me it’s been a quiet week.

  No seizures,

  no news,

  nothing out of the new ordinary.

  I decide to join the mayhem in the kitchen

  and grab the last two pancakes

  while Trent shows Davy

  the running-back play

  he learned in flag football this week.

  I stop eating and watch.

  Way awesome for a six-year-old.

  Way too awesome.

  Mom stops loading the dishwasher

  like a paused video.

  Dad puts his cup down and freezes.

  I become aware that my parents are

  not just watching my brothers

  but studying them,

  looking beyond the football moves

  as if an important piece of a puzzle

  were floating somewhere in

  the chaos.

  HUG

  After we finish practicing

  I tell Juan about the tree

  and the leaves.

  He dances around the room,

  around me—the tree—

  waving his flute

  like a magic wand,

  arms flourishing,

  feet doing crazy Michael Jackson moves

  until we are both in hysterics.

  “About time I see you laugh again,” he says,

  collapsing on the floor.

  It catches me off guard

  and I remember I’m talking to

  my oldest and most trusted friend

  besides Mia.

  “It’s been so quiet all week

  but my parents…”

  “You got the blood test results?”

  “No, but that’s just it. It’s the same

  stupid tension,

  unspoken,

  that we had before we found out,

  you know,

  about Davy.

  And you should have seen them this morning

  watching the boys while they played,

  watching them,

  watching Trent, really

  looking for symptoms, I think.

  That’s it.

  I really think they expect the worst.”

  “Do you, Claire?”

  I can’t hold back the tears

  and I tell him in huge, blubbering gasps

  about what I’ve seen

  and what my mother has seen.

  He pulls me towards him

  and hugs me tight

  while I cry it out.

  LOOKS

  Mia catches up with me

  on our
way to Honors English.

  “So, are you sticking with the

  magic piano story or has the musician

  with no ideas

  come up with another doozy?”

  “Fresh out of doozies, I’m afraid,

  so it’ll have to be the talking piano.

  This musician with no ideas

  is knee deep in jazz practice

  with Juan and…”

  “Juan, hmmm?”

  Mia says, giving me her best

  Cruella DeVille look.

  “Yeah, you know,

  our friend from Kindergarten,

  and why are you looking at me

  that way, My-yah Me-yah?”

  “Speaking of looking,

  have you noticed the way

  he’s been looking at you

  lately?”

  No.

  I mean maybe

  and after I savor it a while,

  I’ll tell you

  what I noticed

  about his hug.

  Winter Part 1

  THE BEAST

  Juan glances at me over his shoulder

  with concern

  when Carlos pulls into the driveway

  behind both cars.

  Both cars are never in the driveway

  at this time of day.

  “Want us to wait?