Chapter 3: The Hot Summer Begins

The summer started slowly. After my initial welcome home and an official barbecue party with family and old friends, I settled into my summer job and lazy weekends hanging out with old friends, few of whom were still around. Many had gone elsewhere for summer work since not many jobs were available in our small town, and some of those who remained had changed and it just wasn’t the same hanging out with them anymore. So I began spending more and more of my evenings and weekends at home.

It was easily three weeks before Mom brought up the promised recital. I hadn’t forgotten it, I just didn’t know how to bring it up. Reacting on gut instinct, I decided it would be better if Mom first broached the topic. On a quiet Wednesday evening, after she finished a book and Dad wasn’t keen on talking since he was in the middle of his own who-dun-it, I did just that.

“So, when are you going to start practicing for the recital?” Mom just came right out with it.

I looked up, feigning confusion. “Recital?” I asked.

Mom threw a couch pillow at me. “Don’t be a brat. You know darned well you promised me last Christmas that you would play for the Church.”

“The Church?” I mused.

Another pillow. “Father!” Mom cried.

Dad looked up, first at Mom, then me, then back to Mom, then back into his book. “A duet, I believe, if my memory serves me right,” he said.

Mom and I looked at each other, mouths open, then at Dad, shocked by this indisputable evidence that he was actually aware of what happened around him.

“You’d both better get to it, I imagine, and leave a man to read in peace,” he said, nose still buried between the pages.

Mom and I looked at each other again and she crooked her head at the piano in the next room. I got up and led the way, sitting a little to one side to leave room for my mother. I waited for her to pick something to play, thinking about how fortunate it was that Mom was wearing a light and breezy summer dress and not the shorts or pants she typically gardened in during the summer. In fact, I realized now that I thought about it, she had been wearing dresses almost every day since I got home.

Mom sat down, sweeping the loose material of her dress under herself and then smoothing the topside over her thighs.

“You pick something,” Mom said, seeing that I was waiting for her to choose.

“Alright,” I replied, thumbing through the books, looking for something that wasn’t designed as a duet, something that would put the onus on one player, Mom, leaving me with little to do. I was keen with anticipation, my body tingling so much, it was hard to breathe.

“This isn’t a duet,” Mom complained about my choice.

“It can be played like one,” I assured her.

“But which parts should I play?”

“You play the whole thing, and I’ll chime in.”

Mom shrugged and began to play. I slipped in with little bits here and there, then more and more frequently with longer and longer parts. I ad-libbed the whole thing, thinking it up on the fly, enjoying the chance to put the long hours of improvizing with fellow music students into practice. Mom was really worked up. Not just her face but her whole body showed how delighted she was with this new experience. She sweated joy, and it was very endearing and quite infectious.

We finished with a resounding flourish and Mom threw up her hands and then turned to hug me.

“That was fantastic!” she cried. “Oh, this is going to be so great, everyone will be bowled over.” Mom clapped her hands, turning to the living room where Dad’s feet were just visible, propped up on the Lazy boy chair tucked out of our sight in the corner. “Drew, did you hear that? Wasn’t it incredible?”

Dad’s head struggled into view, peeking around the wide entrance into the living room across the hallway and into the music room.

“What’s that?”

“Our first duet,” Mom said. “Wasn’t it beautiful?”

“Oh yes, quite,” Dad replied, settling back into his chair. “Remarkable.”

Mom turned back toward me. “Let’s do it again,” she said, settling her feet near the pedals and smoothing her skirt down but spreading her hands sideways this time, over her thighs rather than down to her knees, leaving the hem a few inches above her knees where it had settled on her agile legs as she played. “Ready?” she asked, starting before waiting for my answer.

I wasn’t sure if I could remember my ad-libs but they actually came easily, leaving me lots of time to admire Mom. All of her, not just her shaking breasts and legs, but the way she switched from laughter to concentration, the arc of her neck, the delicate way she held her hands over the keyboard, and the softness of her arms. A warm glow enveloped me as I watched her play.

Mom showed as much joy the second time as she did the first, but this time she shared it all with me and didn’t bother calling Dad.

“Do you want to do another piece?” I asked.

Mom nodded eagerly, then said, “But I’m playing so much and you’re the one everyone wants to see.”

“I’ll find pieces we can both play but let’s start with ones mostly by you.”

Mom nodded, understanding that she needed practice more than I.

“But we’ll be even in the end,” I assured her.

“Oh, Jon. I don’t know if I can,” Mom seemed suddenly nervous.

“Don’t worry. By the end of the summer, people won’t be able to tell who’s playing which parts.”

Mom didn’t look convinced.

“Trust me?” I asked.

Mom’s face relaxed into a smile, “Always.”

“Ok. This next piece needs a lot of footwork. What kind of shoes are you wearing?”

I dropped my hand to the side of Mom’s knee and pried it toward me, looking down at her feet. Mom reacted by lifting her knee high to show me her feet, wonderfully letting her loose skirt slide high enough to show the thickening of her leg under her thigh.

“Hmmm, maybe you should play barefoot,” I suggested.

Mom slipped her shoes off and placed her toes on the pedals, arching her feet with her heels held high, further slipping her dress up her legs. I nodded my approval.

That song was more difficult and we had to stop and start many times. But it was fun. Every time we stopped, Mom patted my thigh with her left hand as a kind of ‘good work’ signal. When we moved onto a third piece, I suggested that we each play with one hand.