Piano recitals were traumatic events, beginning with their timing. Sunday afternoons. We attended church, ate lunch, then raced into town for the event, arriving with only minutes to spare.
Riding in the car, I played my recital piece in my head, or sometimes I played the piece on my thighs. And inevitably, I came to a part I couldn't recall, sending myself into a panic. Jan, riding in the backseat with me, usually chose that moment to embark on a conversation she'd been saving since the previous week.
My fingers working busily on playing my thighs, I shot her a mean look to make sure she quit talking. She usually was looking out the window when she casually started the conversation, but looked toward me, and seeing my fingers moving, became mute, realizing I was "practicing".
Arriving at Kinsloe House, an imposing white former residence converted into a women's clubhouse, I hopped up the brick steps, entered the large front reception area and made my way into the small auditorium, actually just a room with a stage, pianos, and cold metal chairs. At the center of the stage sat a large white basket filled with dahlias, gladiolas, and mums in brilliant spring colors.
The student participants were already seated on the front rows, facing forward like frozen soldiers, no movement visible. I sat down quickly next to Judy, a good friend from school. She was barely moving one white patent shoe, fitted snugly over her pantyhose, in small circles on the floor.
She grinned at me. "Won't you be glad when you don't have to wait on your mother and can drive yourself?"
My silent answer was eyes rolled up toward the ceiling. It was time to start. Mrs. Hutchinson was standing in front of the stage, smiling toward the parents like she was genuinely happy, welcoming everyone, introducing the program. She nodded toward Howard Cannady, who had a bad attitude generally, and a bad one particularly toward piano. He was to play first.
He scowled at her, stood up slowly, and stomped his way up the steps and across the wooden floor to the piano, jerking the heavy wooden bench roughly from under the piano, and plopping down on it.
He slowly placed his fingers over the keys, seemed to think for an eternity before beginning, and played only three or four measures before he quit, dropping his hands disgustedly to his lap and turning toward the audience.
"Can I start over?" he asked, looking toward Mrs. Hutchinson, an edge in his tone.
"Yes, of course you can, Howard," she said in an uncharacteristic voice, sweet as corn syrup.
After a few seconds that seemed like minutes, fumbling with his hands in his lap, he began the piece again. This time he hit the keys with more force, like he was taking his anger out on the piano. He played about half a page of the piece this time, then hit several notes that were reflected in cringes on people's faces, after which he stopped again, waited an interminable amount of time, and turned for the second time toward Mrs. Hutchinson.
"I need to start over." he said, no trace of courtesy or respect in either his voice or demeanor.
Still, Mrs. Hutchinson responded with an overly kind voice I had never heard. "Yes, Howard. Go right ahead and start over."
The kids sitting in front of us started squirming uncomfortably in their seats, making tiny little movements of their feet and hands only.
Howard grimaced, shook his head quickly back and forth, like he was shaking something off, and reluctantly moved his hands toward the keys. This time when he started, he pounded the keys like he was trying to destroy the piano, and he pressed his foot down hard on the pedal, making the sound linger long and loud.
The audience held its collective breath. He almost completed the first page, but some wrong notes tripped him up. This time, he did not ask permission.
He stood up fast, almost overturning the piano bench, turned sharply, and exited the stage, stomping down the two steps, then stomping even harder from the front to the back of the auditorium, Mrs. Hutchinson rising to follow after him, calling "Howard, Howard, now that's all right."
It was so foreign to see her act this way, solicitous and kind, that all the kids, heads ducked, were cutting their eyes up toward one another, not understanding what it meant.
Howard's mother, who was married to a prominent man, but rumored to be an alcoholic, followed her son to the door, looking embarrassed and apologetic.
Mrs. Hutchinson returned to the front, made an uneasy apology, and continued the program. The parents sat like stones. Not one had even turned a head to watch Howard and his mother leave. Their expressions were odd, pleasant facades pasted over shock.
Rita, who was sitting on the other side of me, was next on the program. She was unnerved by what had happened.
"What song was that?" I asked her when she sat down after performing.
"No song," she whispered. "I just made up chords and played them. I couldn't think of anything but Howard stomping out." We giggled almost uncontrollably, hands over our mouths, shoulders shaking.
I had caught Mrs. Hutchinson looking at Rita with an odd expression while she was playing, but thought the piano teacher was still just shellshocked.
After that a few of the more accomplished students played, and Mrs. Hutchinson relaxed visibly, as did the parents.
I suffered through all the pieces until it was my turn to play, walked self-consciously up the steps and to the piano, but made it through the piece with little trouble.
Exiting the stage, I was surprised to see Mrs. Hutchinson clapping enthusiastically, grinning broadly, and bouncing a little in her seat. After Howard's performance, I guess a kid like me didn't seem so bad.
"Was something bothering Howard?" my mother asked innocently as our family exited Kinsloe House.
"Yeah," I answered, noticing my father, who was a friend of Howard's dad, suddenly looking interested.
"What?" she said.
"Life," I countered, trying not to sound impertinent.
What I didn't tell her was what Rita had leaned over and whispered to me when Howard quit playing for the third time and stomped off.
"The other kids said," she whispered, "that Howard was mad because he was made to take his fingernail polish off before the recital."
I gratefully let the conversation die. My mother would not understand. Nor, if I were honest, did I.
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