As I said, though, such moments were isolated, and they would soon reconvene at the piano:
Our symbol of boyhood misery.
But their island of calm in the maelstrom.
Once, he’d stood beside her, as she recovered by playing some Mozart; then he placed his hands on the instrument, in the sun on the lid by the window.
“I’d write the words I’m sorry,” he’d said, “but I’ve forgotten where all the paint is—” and Penelope stopped, momentarily. An inkling of smile at the memory.
“Well, that and there’s really no room,” she said, and played on, on the handwritten keys.
* * *
—
Yes, she played on, that one-woman band, and while sometimes the chaos spilled over, there were also what we’d call normal arguments—normal fights—mostly between us boys.
In that regard, at six years old, Clay had started football, both the organized kind, and the one we played at home, front to back, around the house. As time went by it was our father, Tommy, and Rory versus Henry, Clay, and me. On the last tackle, you could kick the ball over the roof, but only if Penny wasn’t reading on a lawn chair, or marking that flow of assignments.
“Hey, Rory,” Henry would say, “run at me so I can smash you,” and Rory would do it, and run straight over the top of him, or be driven back into the ground. Every game, without fail, they would need to be prized apart—
“Right.”
Our father looked at both of them, back and forth:
Henry all blond and bloody.
Rory the color of a cyclone.
“Right what?”
“You know what.” He’d be breathing hoarse and heavily, with scratch marks on his arms. “Shake hands. Now.”
And they would.
They’d shake hands, say sorry, and then, “Yeah, sorry I had to shake your hand, dickhead!” and it was on again, and this time they’d be dragged out back where Penelope sat, the assignments littered around her.
“Now what have you two been up to this time?” she’d ask, in a dress, and barefoot in the sun. “Rory?”
“Yeah?”
She gave him a look.
“I mean, yes?”
“Take my chair.” She started walking inside. “Henry?”
“I know, I know.”
He was already on hands and knees, collating the fallen sheets.
She lengthened a look at Michael, and a collegial, cahootsful wink.
“Goddamn bloody boys.”
No wonder I got a taste for blasphemy.
* * *