by Aimee Stoddard
I turn on the water again, feeling it in hot waves as it reaches my toes. It moves up my ankles to the nerve in my back. I stare down at my feet. I reach into the water, moving my fingers back and forth.
His fingers are arthritic, the bones crooked, and the skin fleshy. He reaches down to pick up his faded yellow cello. He places it carefully between his legs, while lifting his eyes to look around the room.
He studies his distorted fingers as he places them on the fingerboard. He adjusts his index finger, moving it to the correct spot.
I cross my arms and look around his office as he adjusts in his chair. His office is small, without windows. It’s at the end of the music faculty department hall. His door is just opposite the glass doors through which yellow, red, and orange leaves cover the cement.
He catches me looking at the photo of the woman on his filing cabinet.
I lost her six years ago. She was sick with the cancer. I told her to forget what they said and eat the goddamn pizza. Enjoy something for once.
The floor is black. It does not reflect the hot blue and red lights radiating onto it. A few of the chairs in the room are filled with students, pens in hand, papers balanced on slightly raised knees. Most of the chairs are empty.
He begins to play the introduction to the Beethoven quartet. The other three sit, clutching their smaller instruments. They study the floor as if waiting for the prayer to end.
You need to be kind to that two-year old inside of you. That part of us is always inside. It doesn’t grow up.
The air tastes humid and stale. I close my eyes. I feel my hands go numb except for the spots where moistness evaporates from my palms. The bow trembles in my fingers.
I take a sharp breath, contracting the muscles in my abdomen. My shoulders round.
You were the worst one.
He hunches further into his cello. He moves his eyes from the page black with notes to his fingers.
There was a lot of money in engineering. I was good at it. The math was no problem. It came easy to me. Did I ever tell you about the airplane propellers that I designed? Someone designed the same thing ten years later. Made millions.
He shakes his head as if he had known all along.
I knew I could never be great; I didn’t have the talent.
A bad note. Damn fingers. Another.
My father taught himself how to make violins, cellos, and basses. Whittled away on the cello after work. He points toward the open black case against which his faded yellow cello rests. That was his first try.
The cello usually sits right there. I don’t have the energy anymore.
His wavy hair is motionless as his body jerks in anguish.
I look at my reflection in the mirror. The white walls of the bathroom outline my face. The fluorescent lights make me squint. The worn red hand towel hangs clumsy and tattered. I move my big toes, creating tiny ripples in the water.
I cup a handful of water, sliding it up my shin. I spread my fingers, letting the water run through. I pull my wet finger from the roots of my hair to the ends. My head jerks back with the strands.
I don’t play much anymore.