VI.

Ah, Jessi. It looked like she had really connected with Walter, as he explained his vocation with unprecedented candidness. He was coming out of his shell; he was speaking his mind honestly to them, and Harlow didn’t get it, but Jessi did. She must have been wallowing in her element.

For the first time that night, she didn’t hear him speaking to her. And for the first time in a long time, she wasn’t thinking about herself, either.

When the strange bird-man and -woman called out to Thad and pulled him away from the table, Jessi looked up suddenly. Her anxiety over Thad’s questionable authority and his claims about the separation of emotion and life, or emotion and art, evaporated when she saw the newcomers. She’d met them before; they came to these events frequently and deferred absurdly to Thad. The man was a painter she had once worked with. The woman’s name was Laura.

What a startling—miniscule!—coincidence, that brought her out of that onerous confusion. All at once one burden was lifted, and another made haste to take its place; Errol’s dream returned to her with vivid force, effectively dissolving everything she had been mulling over before, a suffocating, unforgiving black storm cloud.

For if you remember, it was only that morning that she had been up before dawn to answer his cry for help; it had been the first time she had witnessed him behave any differently than a kindly old piglet; she had never before seen him any less than delighted, enraptured by his own dreams and by her interpretation of them. In fact, he was a person, as she now noticed for the first time since she had started working for him over three years ago, who was enchanted by life in general, and his enchantment was beautiful and contagious. She wanted desperately not to lose that.
Plunged into her memories of that morning, which had flattened themselves into the folds of her brain but now, triggered by the name Laura, came out from their hiding and commanded her full attention like guerilla shadows, she was only half-listening to the discussion around her. She registered that Harlow again began to monopolize Walter’s conversation, beguiling him with her scheming fascination with his life, and only hazily noticed that he was looking at her, Jessi, when he spoke.

It was haunting. Errol Spice, as old as the Victorian house he lived in, as dusty as the attic that served as his home and her studio, who could see the world in fantastical color by closing his eyes—Errol Spice was no longer himself. He was terrified; he was depressed; when she left him at eleven o’clock this morning, promising to come back after getting some breakfast, he had only barely calmed down. What bothered her too was his anomalous reaction to a genuinely disturbing fear: he merely shook in little vibrations, shrank back into his pillows, and asked that she stay there, and asked that she paint.

How was she supposed to paint a fictional schizophrenia? Was it even schizophrenia that he dreamed about? She had no background in mental health and only knew the word to be associated with split personalities, or something, and she wasn’t even sure about that. She had never given it a second thought. But now Errol had described something so sad and so scary that even she had begun to feel fear, just by experiencing it secondhand. She had returned to him later that day, and he had scarcely improved. She’d considered taking him to the hospital.

His reaction—so timid, so humble—what was she supposed to make of it? He couldn’t sleep, but he didn’t get out of bed. He didn’t want to leave, although his very surroundings seemed to preserve the terror. He didn’t want to talk about anything else. His first and maniacal desire, the only way he could think to allay the fear, was to have Jessi immortalize it on canvas.

Reflecting on his odd reaction made her question why he had wanted her to paint anything for him at all. What kind of strange desire was it that compelled him to search out a willing young artist, a painter who did not mind his erratic demands and schedule and pay, who could visualize his vivid dreams and apparently do them justice, somehow to his satisfaction? She had long since stopped trying to evaluate his motives. For a long time now she had only ever listened to his requests with a benign condescension and accommodated, content to not have to look for a day job and to have plenty of time and sometimes the money to paint her own visions and meet friends for drinks. But this morning it nagged her. Why does he think that my painting can alleviate his fear?

She surfaced to hear Walter say, “I’d always been writing,” and she knew he was speaking to her as well as to Harlow, expecting a proper response. She forced herself back to Baci and fabricated a reply, knowing that the path down which her thoughts were taking her would soon ensnare her, as in a dark wood, if she let it; she needed to cling to Baci as she would to a search party.

“What did you go to school for?” she asked, hoping it was a relevant question.

“History,” he said, and involuntarily she started to slip back into the woods, the darkness of a dense wilderness encroaching around the edges; again she was surrounded by Errol’s attic and Errol’s dream.

She heard him say “I wanted to know everything,” and she was reminded of something Errol had said once, was it really three years ago? that she had begun to come see him regularly; before she got used to his eccentricity, there was a brief time when she tried in vain to understand it. “Toledo?” she’d said, picturing Madrid. “I think I know what it looks like. Do you want me to base it on a certain photo? Do you have any pictures from your time there?”

“Oh, no,” said Errol, the drawn-out o sounds making his voice sound even thinner, like a drinking straw. “That’s not what it looks like at all. Last night it looked very green, but blue. Is that teal, dear?”

“I—what? I don’t know what you mean,” she said crossly, frustrated at an old man’s senility. “I can’t paint it unless I know what it looks like, and I want to stay true to your dream, so I need you to tell me.”

“You will,” he said serenely, and she almost decided then to just paint whatever the hell she wanted.

But she was still curious. “Why do you have such a specific request in mind, but you won’t give me the specifics? Do you think I can just intuit them?”

“I want it to mirror what I already know, which is what I dreamt,” he answered, “but I also want to know more, which hasn’t happened yet. I want to know everything. And that includes what you see, too.”

Utterly exasperated, Jessi fumbled around in her own head, looking for a response.

“Why?”

For a moment, she thought Errol was speechless, or asleep. Then he said, “I don’t know. Surely nothing else seems necessary. What else is there?”

“It became necessary?” Harlow asked. Jessi jumped.

“But how will my guessing at what your dreams look like, and painting them for you, help you to know everything?” she’d demanded.

Errol Spice took several deep breaths before answering. “Because what you know is part of everything. If I don’t try to see from your viewpoint, I am limiting my possibility of learning. I need your piece. Together we can begin to put the pieces together. I…I wish we had everybody’s piece. But it’s just you and me, here, and I am asking—entreating you, dear—for yours.”

“Why mine?”

With the utmost delicateness he said to her, “If you’d rather not do it, then I would hate to force you. You are quite young, I notice. I think perhaps that you’re too young to understand. Which is, of course, why I value your piece so much. It is fresh and utterly unique.”

Naturally this inflamed Jessi and she said indignantly, “Well, I’m sorry if I think differently than you do. It’s just that I don’t see how you’re making any sense.”

“Please,” he said gently, patiently. “I can’t explain it. I want…the difference between our thoughts. I want to see the gap between our thoughts so that I can start to fill it in, to start to see everything. I didn’t choose to want this. I want it, though. I want to see during the day what I see at night. Through someone else’s eyes. Someone with an eye for color and has taste and elegance. My dear, you bring such elegance. Please.”

“You didn’t choose what you wanted,” she told Walter.

He licked his lips. “I suppose I didn’t,” he answered, vaguely confused. Before she could qualify her contention she was back in Errol’s attic, and he was lying comfortably under his purple paisley quilt, surrounded by fluffy pillows, his ancient fingers poking out over the edge of the covers by his chin, pointing at his toes, like a little boy having a bedtime story read to him. He seemed distinctly unaware that next to him, the picture of tranquility, Jessi was so upset she was actually shaking.

She began to speak but then was quieted by a silent urge inside of her; it seemed any movement or noise would scare him out of his peace, which would harm or maybe even kill him, she imagined, and no matter how maddening his esoteric explanations and nonsensical requests were, she was very, disproportionately fond of him. In his presence she felt a warmth she had not felt in years. Safe—she felt safe near him, and even in her insufferable state of anxiety which he had caused, she wanted nothing that might endanger that security.

She let out a long breath, committing to ignore his comments and do her job, feelings aside.

“All right,” she said, fighting to speak evenly, “please tell me what you want, and I’ll do my very best.”

She realized he’d been humming to himself, looking up at the sloped ceiling as if a movie were playing on it, just for him. Now he stopped, and his eyes darted over to her without disturbing his head’s nesting place in the pillows.

“Ah, yes. I’m so very glad, Jessi, to hear you say that. It is a great relief to me.”

“We were in Toledo,” she reminded him.

“You are too good to me. Yes, Toledo. It was a brilliant sort of emerald blue. What an interesting color! I don’t know that it’s found in nature, you know.”

“Hm. But you saw it in your dream?”

“Mm…‘saw’ is such a strong word, don’t you think? I would hesitate.”

She made a note and renewed her recent commitment to objectivity. “Okay. What else?”

When he had described the scene, a bewitching medieval scene of learning to waltz from a baron, or something, Jessi looked back at the notes she had taken. She had a page full of floating words and arrows and cross-outs and some diagrams which meant nothing to her, a list of adjectives attempting to describe a color he may or may not have seen, and some quotes she’d recorded verbatim, with the intention of deciphering them later. “I think I have it,” she told him, “but may I ask you to repeat your instructions? Just so we’re clear?”

“My instructions,” he said, and he sounded at once like a very young child and a very old man, like a teacher and a learner at once. He was both, he was all.

She waited.

“Please paint me my dreams,” he said, and with that, was no longer interested in talking.

Harlow was hopelessly confused.

“How is that like instructions?” she asked, her voice wavering on the edge of defeat.

“I think,” said Jessi, “if I know what you’re talking about, that you have it inside of you. The desire to do what you need to do. Almost that, you don’t want…what you don’t need. It is your job to figure out how to make it happen.”

“Yes,” agreed Walter, “yes, that’s it. Self-reflection can tell you quite a bit about yourself.”

She remembered how young she was when she first met Errol, when she attempted her first painting for him, when she brought it to him sheepishly, expecting to be rebuffed, unpaid, fired immediately. He loved it.

Part of what she loved in him was his complete disregard for the concept of right versus wrong. Because he was obsessed with the idea of Everything, he could not deny one or the other, so anything she said was valid. Everything she said, it seemed, when she was suggesting something new, a new idea or interpretation, he welcomed joyfully. He celebrated. He only rejected her comments when she said something literal or constraining or regressive.

She had never been around anyone who accepted her candid ideas as openly as she did, without judgment, with a willingness to consider them, with a desire to understand them. His dreams were just as much hers as his, because he allowed her to be a part of them. He asked her to paint something she couldn’t see, and when she finally let herself, it was the freest she had ever felt.

The schizophrenia dream scared her. There were no colors. There were no sounds. There were humanoid characters, lacking any warmth or human features; they were shadows of people, shells, they were more like death than life. There were foggy, blurry landscapes that did not entice, only depressed. There were no possibilities.

Painting a dancing scene with a flamboyant duke who had a nose as thin as air and a feathery boa the color of twirling—what did that even mean? She had painted it nonetheless, because Errol had said it matter-of-factly; he had made her believe it made sense; he had made her almost see it, and that was enough to get started. He trusted her the way a child trusts his mother, to do what is right, and the way a mother trusts her child, to imagine. He entrusted his dreams to her, and the only way she could do wrong was if she refused. Painting these synesthetic reveries, these excursions into life, these adventures that ignored parts of speech and grew entirely from free association and wordplay and an all-inclusive belief in the imagination—painting these was freedom. She could get lost in the colors and forget what words meant, or she could learn what a word meant based solely on its sound. The dreams became hers, and they shared with her the absurd joy, the disregard of “true” and “false,” the embrace of the world, the promise of endless possibility, of which they were made.

“I’d feel that I’d lost contact with myself,” she heard, “I don’t know what I would do.”

“Maybe you’d feel free,” she said before thinking, and she watched the swimming colors dissolve, and in their place, a swirling, unfocused sea of red and black and skin-white.

In the middle of an interminable conversation that was decidedly not about colors and words she found herself, struggling to pretend nothing was wrong, and Walter said flatly, “Ah, maybe. Does your motivation limit you?”

“No,” she said too quickly, almost forgetting that she was not within a dream-painting. “No, I mean. Not my motivation, no. But it might be freeing to live without constraints—” (she wished they had any idea) “—because if you’re not held to them…” (realizing that she was not making sense, she struggled to redirect her sentence) “You wouldn’t feel like you’d failed if you didn’t follow them.” There. She’d escaped her own trap, by barely making a point.

What would it be like to paint the schizophrenia dream? Could she enter it the way she had learned to enter the others? Would she find herself lost, or trapped, or both, amidst a backdrop of gray skies and claustrophobic horizons? Would she lose herself in the joylessness of confusion and a changing reality, of insincerity, of emptiness? It was the opposite of their usual dreams. Before, she and Errol had used sensory perception as law, so all that mattered were the senses and the delight they brought, their blissful exploration of the impossible, their effortless negation of the intellect, and in an impossible paradox, that intellect was challenged, validated, uplifted; now, in this dream, chaos reigned, lack of sensory stimuli abounded. The senses were utterly devastated and the intellect could not stand up straight without being pushed back down by contradictions and despair. There was no joy to be found in the senses’ play because the self was not intact. In order to paint it, she would have to undertake the same process she did to paint his happier dreams: She would have to enter into it as fully as she could, so that she could understand it, and interpret it, and visualize it. She would attempt to give it order, make it make sense, so that she could give it shape and put it on canvas, so that he in turn could look at it and understand his own dream, and now she understood why he wanted her to paint.

If Errol went there in his dream, she would have to follow him there.

On Conciseness

Most novels try to only show what is necessary to convey the setting, establish the timbre, and develop the characters. David Foster Wallace includes almost everything, incuding the chemical names of the drugs they're taking, and the copyright number of the television they watch. He is the opposite of concise. The plot is buried under 1,000 pages of details. Some details are more relevant than others. But they all help tell the story in the most realistic way possible, because in real life, isn't that how it is? We are confronted with an infinity of facts and it is our job to decipher our own plot: in reality there is no detail-filter.

Jazz

There was no outward sign or warning, only the crackle of fire they both felt at the sound of the horn, and the rise of their eyes to confirm it; and the floor no longer seemed strictly horizontal, instead a fluid mass that rose and shifted to meet their feet

Whatever else happened, even if nothing came of it, it would still hold in their collective memory as fact: for a moment, at least, they both heard the same thing

Piano Lessons

I wear my flowery sandals with the one-and-three-quarter-inch heels because they’re the prettiest ones I have, and I think Jennifer will compliment me on them when she sees me. “Oh my goodness, those are pretty!” she might say, “and it turns out that they’re perfect for using the pedal. In fact, I think today we should learn how to use the pedal,” and then I’ll show her how I already know how to use the pedal, all three in fact.

Mom makes sure we have our books before she starts the car like she always does. Actually it’s a van. Once I forgot them and Jennifer had to find some other ones for me to use, but they were old and too babyish for me anyway, and Mom was mad.

“Books, girls?” she says, turning over her right shoulder.

I hold mine up for her to see. Tory, who got the front seat because she’s two years older and always gets the best of everything, says, “Right here” and looks out the window. Tory is weird.

I look out the window too, the left one. Mom turns on the car and we start to drive. Jennifer lives a half an hour away and I usually ask Mom to turn on the radio after seven minutes, when there are twenty three minutes left, because she doesn’t like to turn it on right away.

Until then I’m bored so I look down and remember that I’m wearing my prettiest sandals. “Look at those!” Jennifer might say. “How tall are those heels?” and I’ll say “One and a quarter inch,” and she’ll say something like “Wow, you’re getting so old that maybe you can start teaching me lessons soon.”

I don’t know how that would go, me teaching Jennifer lessons, because she knows how to play a lot of things I don’t. Like, she uses both hands at the same time. Also, she’s engaged.

When I’m a piano teacher I’ll tell all my students that one day they’ll be as good as me so that they won’t think they’re bad at piano or babyish. “Wow, boys and girls,” I’ll say, “you are all really something. Reeeally something!”

And I’ll make sure to tell their parents how good they are too so their parents will know and maybe say “You were very good today sweethearts, thank you” when they tuck them in at night.

It’s only been two minutes so I sit on my hands to pass the time. I stick my feet out in front of me. My shoes are prettier than Tory’s. Tory knows how to use the pedal and both hands but she also has bangs. I don’t think Jennifer likes her as much.

“Who’s going first today, girls?” asks Mom.

“Me,” I say right away. Tory went first last week.

“I don’t care,” says Tory. I can see her reflection in the mirror. She’s looking at her braces. And maybe her bangs.

Of course she doesn’t care but I do because I’m going to be the best pianist in the world and maybe someday I’ll write a song and I’ll be able to play along with a singer or something and I can sing along too. And I’ll be engaged and wear a big diamond ring and I won’t have to practice anymore because I’ll already be so good.

Four minutes! I’m bored. “Mom?”

“Yes, hon?”

“Can you please turn on the radio?”

She does. She picks a station I like. A song I know is on. I decide to sing loud so they’d both know what a good singer I am, and that I know all the words.

“Mom, would you tell Rachel to be quiet,” says Tory after the first verse, which I knew.

“Rachel, would you mind singing to yourself, please?”

I don’t sing to myself because it isn’t as fun. Instead I flip through my piano books because I want to be able to open them right away when Jennifer says “What page number are we on?”

Sometimes she asks how the week went and sometimes she asks how school’s going. I hope she asks how school’s going so I can tell her about music class today. I knew what the whole note meant and I said so and the teacher said I must be taking lessons somewhere, and I said yes, in fact I am, I’m taking piano lessons, and she said wow that’s really something she can tell she thinks I’m going to be a great musician. And she said I have an ear for music. Which I do even though that stupid recorder doesn’t make a very good sound when I play it, only a weird ugly sound. I have an ear enough to know that I don’t like recorders so it doesn’t matter that I’m not good at them.

When we finally get to Jennifer’s house exactly twenty-six minutes later I jump out of the car and run up the driveway, which is on a big hill like a castle. I’m the first to the doorstep and I ring the doorbell, just once, because it’s polite.

By the time Jennifer comes to the door Mom and Tory are waiting with me so she doesn’t know I was there first. So I tell her “I’m going first today!” just in case Tory changed her mind.

She looks so excited to see us and she lets us in and says “Hello! It is your turn to go first, isn’t it? How are you girls doing?”

Tory says “Fine” and walks past her down the hall into the other living room
where we wait when we aren’t getting a lesson. Mom talks to Jennifer for a minute about something boring and I carefully take my shoes off slowly so she’ll see. When she doesn’t I put them back on again so I can take them off again even slower this time. She’s still talking so I wait awhile and then when Mom leaves I take off my sandals again, but now Jennifer has already turned around and is arranging papers at the coffee table which is in front of the couch where she sits while I play the piano, which is off-white and not very soft, like sand. The couch, not the piano.

No time to waste! I leave the shoes by the door and rush over to the piano with my books. I arrange them very carefully on the wooden part above the keys, where music goes.

“How was practicing this week, Rachel?” she asks, writing today’s date at the top of a piece of paper. She has nice handwriting.

“Good,” I say. I sit on my hands again.

“Yeah? Did you have any problems?”

“No,” I say.

“All right. Let’s start with the one from the purple book, then. ‘Upstairs, Downstairs.’”

She didn’t ask about school! When am I going to tell her about music class? I look in the wrong book by accident and she has to say “Page fourteen” like I don’t know while I drop it and have to pick it up first and then find it in the other one.

“I know,” I tell her. Obviously.

“Okay. Let’s hear it.” She says and sits on the edge of the sand-couch so she can see my fingers from there.

I nod my head and hope I play it right.

First I have to move my butt so it’s right on the edge, but that doesn’t feel right so I move it back, and then move the book so its middle is a little to the left of the word YAMAHA and then I brush my hair aside and look at the little gold clock on the piano and then I move to the edge again. And then I put my fingers on the keys and put my foot on the pedal, just in case. I stare at the notes. “Upstairs, Downstairs.” Where do I start? This-does-not-compute. I start to tell her I’m a robot but she’s already saying “Whenever you’re ready” which means start. She’s too serious to pretend right now so I laugh inside a little before I start to play.

I know this song kind of but for some reason I can’t see the notes and my fingers bend at all the wrong times! I lean forward and squint at the page but I can’t think of what each note means. This-does-not-compute. Ha ha! I cough and wiggle again. She knows it’s just because I can’t get comfortable. Stupid hard bench.

Jennifer stands and comes to stand behind me. She smells pretty. “One note at a time, remember. You know these.” She waits. I stare at the note. “What does this say?” and she points to the first one which has a little white “C” inside it.

“C,” I say.

“Okay,” she says, nicely, “Where’s the C?”

I find the C.

“Good. The next one?” She points again.

“D.”

This is stupid because I practiced. I don’t know why I don’t know the notes and I hate this. Why did I have to wear the pretty sandals today?

“E.”

“Good.”

“F…G.” Oops.

“Don’t rush—this isn’t about playing it fast, but playing it right, okay?”

“Okay.”

“What’s the matter, sweetie?”

“Noth—there’s something in my eye. Wait a minute.”

She puts her hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, just take it one note at a time. I know you know this because we did it last week, remember? You played it without my help at all! Were you able to play it okay this week?”

No. I want to tell her I tried but I couldn’t find it or my fingers wouldn’t play it. I did try but it didn’t work.

“Did you ask your sister if she could help you?”

I shake my head again. Tory! Of course not. I didn’t want to anyway. I could only do it when Jennifer was around. I rub my eye like there’s something in it.

“I know this is getting hard, Rachel, but it’s because you’re learning new things every week. I need you to keep practicing, everyday, if you want to get better, okay? Do you understand?”

I nod. But practicing is hard, and a big hot tear comes out of my eye. I hope she can’t see it and then another one comes out after it. I stare at the picture she has of her and her boyfriend on the piano. I bet he could play it if he wanted to, or he doesn’t have to because he’s grown up. I wish I were older so I didn’t have to play “Upstairs, Downstairs.” Everybody would think I could play it if I wanted to, and I just wouldn’t ever play it because I’ll never want to.

“Okay. Let’s start over. Let’s pretend you just got here and you’re just
sitting down. That was our warm-up, so here’s the real start. Sound good?”

“Yes!” I jump up and run to the tiles that are around the door where I left my shoes under the coat rack. I put my shoes on quickly and turn around like I just walked in. “Oh hello there! Am I late for my lesson?” I say, pretending I just got here.
“What—oh, hi there, Rachel! Time for your lesson! How are you doing today?”

“Good.” I walk around in my shoes for a minute before I take them off, but she still doesn’t notice them.

“Are you ready to start your lesson?”

“Yes!” I put them by the door and run back to my seat. Now I can play it. I don’t care if she doesn’t see the shoes because they’re just shoes anyway. If she starts to talk about the pedal I’ll put them back on. I’ll say “Oh wait I’d like that very much but I can’t unless I have something tall on my feet like these shoes, oh good thing I wore them today!”

Okay. I sit farther back on the piano bench and take a deep breath. Some people say deep breaths help you relax but they don’t really help me but I sometimes do it anyway. I already know that we start on C because I already played this song but since I’m starting over I get another chance.

“Good,” she says when I play all the first line right.

The second part is slower. “F,” I say out loud so she knows. “E. D. C.”

“All right. And is that a repeat sign I see?”

I nod. When she says it like that, duh. I play it again but this time my fingers get all mixed up and I have to start over.

“Okay,” says Jennifer, “Good. I like how you took your time that time, so you knew each note before you played it. That’s very important.”

I nod. I know. She picks up a pencil and starts writing again.

“I think I’ll need to hear that again next week, though.”

I wonder if I’m getting sick. My eyes are hot again.

“But you know what? No matter how well you played that today, Rachel, and
you did fine, I would have asked you to take it another week. Do you know why?”

No. She waits for me to look up at her. She looks all excited and she’s leaning forward on the sandy couch.

“Because that’s your C scale.”

I pretend to look surprised because it looks like that’s what she’s waiting for to start talking again. She smiles because I look surprised.

“What we just played is an extremely important part of almost all piano music. I use the C scale when I play Beethoven. I still practice my C scale, it’s that important. So now that you know it, you’re going to have to play it everyday from now on. Do you see? Even the best pianist in the world still plays their C scale.”

My jaw drops like a cartoon character and I tell her that’s really something. I know she’ll like that.

She does because she smiles some more. “See? It’s very important, so let’s aim to have it perfect for next week, okay? Don’t be afraid to ask Tory for help. She learned her C scale when she was your age and I still ask her to play it for me. Sometimes by surprise.” And she winks.

Like I’d ever ask Tory for help. She’d just say no and call me weird.

“Okay. What else do we have?” She tucks her hair behind her ear like I
sometimes do. Her hair is straight and prettier than mine though.

I start flipping through my book for a second before I decide to just say it right now: “I had music class today.”

She looks up from writing on the piece of paper. “Oh yeah? How’d it go?”

“Good,” I say. “I mean, really good. We’re learning the recorder. And I knew what a whole note was.” I don’t tell her I forgot the name when Ms. Witzenstein called on me. I did know what it was, though.

“You did! That’s great!”

“Yeah. And I have an ear for music.”

“Well that’s for sure.”

“I mean Ms. W. told me that. In front of the class.”

“Congratulations, Rachel! What a compliment. Of course, it’s true.”

“Yeah.” I was hoping she’d say something about the pedal now. I waited to give her time.

She keeps looking at me but doesn’t say anything. I give her another second.

“Are you ready? What’s the next piece?” she says. “‘Alligator.’ How’s this one coming?”

I turn back to the piano. “Good. I don’t really like this one as much.” I flip through some pages.

“Aw. Well hopefully we can get rid of it today. Why don’t you warm up while I write instructions for next week, and I’ll ask you to play it for real in just a minute?”

“K.” I look at the clock. There are still fifteen minutes left. I wish I’d practiced more or were better at piano. Or I wish I was an alligator because they don’t take piano lessons and have to learn C scales.

I stare at the picture of the alligator in a pond on page twelve. Whoever drew it can’t draw. It only has three teeth.

“This one’s really hard,” I tell her.

“Do your best,” she says.

I take another deep breath and try to play it. It’s in the left hand. I know the first note but the second one is too far away so I guess.

“Whoops,” she says.

I guess again. “Whoops,” she says again.

I squint at it so she knows I’m thinking hard. This song really is hard.

“What letter name does it say?”

“G.”

“Good. And we’re in bass clef now, left hand. Where’s the G?” There. “Good. And the next note?”

“E.”

“Which is…”

“Good.”

Finally I play all the notes right and she didn’t even help me through all of them. “Great job, let’s get rid of that one” I hope she’ll say.

“Oh look, another repeat sign!” is what she does say.

I almost start crying again. I wish she wouldn’t give me these hard pieces! How am I supposed to learn a song that jumps around like that? I can feel my eyes again and that makes me feel worse so I lean forward so she won’t see. I have to do it all again.

“Slowly,” she says.

I say them out loud again so maybe she won’t notice how slow it is.

“G…E…F…”

“Whoops.”

After a minute I can’t even see the notes anymore because now everything is fuzzy and hot. I rub my eyes again so she thinks there’s something in them. My hands get wet.

“It’s okay, sweetie. You can do this.”

Thirteen minutes left but by then I’ll have to stop crying because I don’t want Mom to see me.

“Here, let me play it first,” Jennifer says, and sits next to me on the bench. She thinks she’s being nice and I guess she is but that won’t help me at all. She feels warm and I wish I could snuggle up to her and go to sleep but then I’d feel babyish.

“Listen. G, E, F, F, E, F, G. C, C, D, D, E, F, G. And, repeat.” She plays it again. It sounds good when she plays it.

“Okay? Now let’s do it together. I’ll play it up here. Ready?”

I nod and put my hand in the right place, I hope.

“One, two, three, go. G…G…there you go. E—no, we’re in bass clef, remember? Good. E, ef—what’s that note? F, whoops.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Where’s the F? …There. G. You know G. Good. Okay, let’s do that line again. This time you say the notes.”

“G…E…F…”

“Mm-hm…mm-hm…see, you can do it. That was good. Second line.”

I say the notes out loud and only mess up once. She has to let this one go now so we can move onto “Starry Starry Night” on page thirteen, which is halfway through the book.

She gets up and moves back to the couch saying “All right, let’s hear that one again next week too, okay? I want to hear every note right the first time.”

Not listening. I turn on the bench and stretch my back by leaning really far over one side, like a cat. Cats don’t have to take piano lessons.

“Are you feeling okay, Rachel?”

I don’t look at her but I keep stretching and nod. I would’ve played them all right the first time but I’m too tired. I hope we’re done soon.

“Are you sure?”

I nod again. I wish she’d stop asking. I stretch to the other side like a cat again.

“Okay…okay, well let’s pick one more song for next week, okay? And then we’ll do our quiz and we’ll be all done. How’s that sound?”

I nod again.

She plays “Starry Starry Night” for me and says the same thing she always says, to play it slow, but I’m not excited because I’m still on stupid “Alligator” so I’m not really halfway through the book yet.

“Okay. I want you to practice every day, got it?”

I nod again. I can’t say anything because I might start crying.

“All right, five more minutes. Here’s a pencil and paper for you, so come sit by me.” I do. “Ready?...K, number one. Draw a treble clef.”

I stick my tongue out like an artist while I draw.

“Two, draw a quarter note.”

Easy. I do it really fast.

“Three, how many beats does a whole note get?” Duh.

“Four, what is my middle name?”

I giggle. She always does a funny one at the end and this time I know it because it’s my middle name too which means that we’re a lot alike like sisters.

“All right, are you all done? Are you sure? Are you posolutely, absotively sure?”

I can’t stop giggling because she knows I’m sure and I keep telling her I am but she
won’t take my paper.

“Okay, I guess you’re sure. Oh, hi, Tory! One more second, sweetie. Beautiful treble clef. Remember to keep the curly-Q on the G-line. Quarter note, very nice, whole note gets…uh-oh. How many beats does a whole note get?”

“Four,” says Tory the Snob from the door.

“Tory, that was for Rachel. Rachel, do you remember how we talked about the whole note being the heaviest, because it has the most beats?”

Duh. “Yes.”

“So how many beats is a whole note?”

“Four.”

“Good. And, Lynn. Bonus points. Nice drawing, sweetie! Okay, thanks for all your hard work today. See you after my next victim…” And she makes a cackling sound like a witch. Tory and I laugh.

I take my books and walk past my shoes down the hallway and into the second living room where we wait. Mom is reading a book on the couch.

“Hi, hon. I heard you playing—that sounded great! Did you play the whole song at the end there?”

I sit down next to her. “No, that was Jennifer.”

“Oh. Well, how’d the rest of the lesson go?”

“Good.” I don’t want to tell her how I got in trouble for not practicing.

“New songs?’

“One.”

“Very good. Let’s make sure we practice a lot this week, okay?” She goes back to her book. She keeps reading but she lets me snuggle next to her and doesn’t notice when her shirt gets wet where my face is.

1. The Elegant Universe: 8.7/10. What genre shall we assign this mind trip through space and time? Adventure, history, science fiction without the fiction, philosophy? Physicist Brian Greene hosts this journey through the topsy-turvy worlds of the theory of relativity and quantum mechanics, and the explanation that unites them—the controversial, multidimensional string theory. Beware not of all these science-y words—you’ll learn all of them and more, before the 3 discs of this delightfully campy masterpiece are finished with you.

2. Chocolat: 4.2/10. Despite glowing recommendations from last summer’s I Love You Man, the presence of Johnny Depp, and a really sensual cover, this lukewarm movie fails to charm on several levels. First, Depp’s character, “river rat” Roux, is a lifeless ghost of his glory days as Captain Jack Sparrow. Leading lady Juliette Binoche seems misguided and unsure of her character Vianne, and in the midst of their (yawn) “romance,” the movie strains to include the dubious subplot of church versus chocolate. Sorry, Peter Klaven—this movie is neither sweet nor satisfying.

3. The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus: 5/10. If you squint you eyes to make it hazy, you might actually start to think you’re dreaming. Really! This movie positively nails the associative structure, unreliable logic and visual fireworks of a vivid, long-lasting dream. If you don’t mind unresolved subplots, sizable gaps in storyline, and undertones of statutory rape, or if you really want to see Tom Waites in a “Sympathy for the Devil” type role, then sit back and let yourself get lost in someone else’s imagination. Bonus points for Johnny Depp making another excellent cameo, plus the debut of a fairly hot new actor (if you don’t know who I’m talking about, it’s the guy who’s not the midget, the old man, or Heath Ledger).

4. New Moon: Still haven’t seen it. Probably sucks.

5. It, disc 2: 10/10. Best Valentine’s DVD ever. Two and a half hours of highlights from Phish’s 2-day festival in Limestone, Maine, in 2002 = beautiful. Not to mention the unreviewed disc 1, which includes interviews with the band that truly enhance their stage presence and interpersonal chemistry that they display so effortlessly onstage. This movie has everything: trance jams, party jams, terrible vocal harmonies, jazz, electric ecstasy, mind-blowing rhythms, David Bowie…everything.

6. Fargo: still deciding/10. As stated in previous conversations, this writer simply does not understand the Coen brothers. They seem to me like inside jokes between strangers. Honestly, if someone hadn’t told me this was a great movie, I probably would have thought it was made for TV. Except for a couple great shots (namely the one where Steve Buscemi walks to his car, shot from way above), some passably funny exchanges, and the adorable-ness of Margie and her husband, this movie mostly confused and bored me. Still, I look forward to dressing up as the cat-sweater wearing, roller-banged prostitute for the upcoming Fargo-themed birthday party.

10 Minutes Off

She liked the kind of voice that didn't announce itself, a low flame licking over charcoal. What came next pierced the air like an ice pick: One hour, ladies, and where is the pianist?

The Dust

The painting took up the entire wall. It was so big, you almost didn’t notice what it was of: the painter herself, in the room it was in, being critiqued by a man in a suit.

“Is this all right?” asked Jacqueline, one foot propped on the ladder, just like in the painting.

Bobby was inspecting his own image. He stood next to himself, slightly larger, and squinted at his liking, which stood looking at Jacqueline’s, arms crossed and frowning.

“Well…I was expecting something different.”

She stepped back and stood, hand on hip, trying to take it all in. After a few moments she took the ladder and moved it six inches to the left.

“Like this?”

“Yes, that’s closer,” he said. He cupped his chin in his hand and still looked pensive. He frowned.

“I could start from scratch, you know,” she offered.

“No, don’t bother.”

“Okay. As long as you’re satisfied.”

“Are you?”

“Am I? Of course I am.”

He crossed his arms and sighed. “Well, now that that’s settled, how about we figure out how you are going to deal with the problem.”

She hooked her thumbs in her overalls and looked at him inquisitively. “The problem,” she said.

“Yes,” he said impatiently. “How are you doing to deal with it?” He began pacing in front of the painting, as if he was looking for a way out. He snooped around the edges, by the floor, along the corners. There was no give. The canvas must have been exactly the dimensions of the wall. He looked nervously behind him at the clock. It was unnerving that the clock in the painting read the same time.

Jacqueline watched him, amused. “You don’t think things are fine as they turned out?”

“Some things are, well, up in the air.”

“Well, sure.”

He looked at his watch repeatedly, distracted, and continued to poke frantically at the edge of the painting on his hands and knees.

Jacqueline tapped her foot, as if she were dealing with a stubborn child. “What do you expect me to do that couldn’t also end up making things worse?”

Bobby was crawling on the floor now, searching for a gap between the canvas and the wood. He looked up when she finished speaking, first at her and then at the painting. Suddenly his eyes widened and he began to back up slowly. Eyes sweeping left and right, he brought his hands to his head in horror and let his mouth hang upon. When he finally was able to speak, he sputtered: “Jacqueline. Where is the door?”

She continued to watch him, bemused, the beginnings of a smile betraying her composure.

“Oh,” she said finally. “I didn’t paint one.”