Beau sat down at the piano, the bench creaking under his weight. He
started playing the piece he'd written most recently, though he was
still refining some parts. Beau had gotten up earlier then everyone that
Saturday, as he had been doing for the past few months, put the coffee
on and sat down to play. When Haiden came down the stairs, having woken
to the rolling and plinking – like rain on a cement pad – of the piano,
he stood at the bottom step and watched his brother play. Beau's eyes
were closed and his head was tilted to one side, as if he was listening
to the melody, to every piece, every part of what he was playing. His
shoulders rolled with the sounds, his whole body moved to the music.
Haiden
yawned and moved into the kitchen to pour a mug of coffee. Beau's
playing was like the ocean rolling and foaming around him, or like the
sun in the early morning warming him down to his toes. Without adding
anything to his coffee Haiden went to stand next to Beau before leaning
up against the piano. Beau's hands worked up and down the keys drawing
out rolling booms followed by soft echoes. Beau's right hand reached up
and over and played the alto keys in a way that sounded like the wind
kissing chimes. Haiden thoughtfully drank his coffee, watching the way
the muscles in Beau's hands, in between each finger, and in his wrist
and up his arms, moved. He watched the way his heart, his soul and
feeling went into the music, the story. It wasn't, Haiden observed, just
the hands that played the music but his whole body – his arms, and his
shoulders. His feet worked up and down, keeping time or pushing the
pedal at different intervals. His whole body swayed, his chin nodded,
his eyes closed, every last note was heartfelt.
Haiden hid his
expression behind his mug because he suddenly felt overwhelmed by the
emotion in the song Beau was playing. It was like Beau was admitting
some secret about himself. Like maybe how he misses his sister, even
still, or maybe it was that he used to cut. Hence the tattoos, though
Haiden knew better then that because Beau didn't mind telling people
about that. But Haiden hadn't failed to notice how Beau skipped the
reason for the cutting when he told people about his tattoos and that
was the part about his sister. But – the song could be admitting
something of a different secret entirely. It could be – and Haiden
grinned at the thought – that Beau liked Annette and wanted to tell
someone, or her, and hadn't yet and the playing was a good way to let
the secret out, without saying anything. And, of course, the intensity
of the chords could be how hard Beau took Irene's miscarriage. He'd
fallen so hard Haiden had worried. Beau had spent so many hours at the
piano, often getting no more out of it then frustrated banging and
plinging, that Haiden knew Beau'd taken it the hardest even if Beau
never said so, though not as hard as Irene, understandably.
Beau
rolled up his arrangement in a nice crescendo that ended with the memory
of the sound still echoing around the room. Beau hesitated a moment
before straightening. When he did the bench creaked beneath him. Haiden
drained his coffee and went into the kitchen to rinse out his mug.
"I know what you were thinking," Beau called after Haiden without turning. Haiden smiled, just barely.
"Well,
I'm right," Haiden replied, setting his mug in the sink, "when there's
an emotion to be played into the piece, especially a personal one, the
piece sounds a whole lot better." Beau agreed with a grunt but stood up
to say,
"Even if you're right, that wasn't what I was talking about." Haiden grinned sheepishly.
"Well, I'm still right, aren't I."
