I looked back, I couldn’t help myself.
The weapon of unexpectedness:
“Get up and get back in there—we’ve got ten fucking minutes left.”
* * *
—
Inside again, I was wrong.
I knew it was wrong to admit it—to buckle—but I did.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“For what?”
She was staring straight ahead.
“You know. Fucking.”
Still, she stared forward, that music-language, unblinking. “And?”
“Saying I hate you.”
She made the slightest of moves toward me.
A move with no movement at all.
“You can swear all day, and hate me all day, if only you would play.”
* * *
—
But I didn’t play, not that night, or the next.
I didn’t play the piano for weeks, then months, and if only Jimmy Hartnell could have seen. If only he knew the pains I was going to, to free myself from him:
Damn her in those slim-cut jeans, and the smoothness of her feet; and damn the sound of her breathing. Damn those murmurs in the kitchen—with Michael, my father, who backed her to the hilt—and while we’re at it, damn him too, that groveler, and his sticking up for Penelope. About the only thing he did right in that period was giving Rory and Henry a clip on the ear when they refused it, too. It was my war, not theirs, not yet. And they could come up with their own shit, of which, believe me, they were capable.
No, for me, those months were endless.
The days shortened into winter, then lengthened into spring, and still Jimmy Hartnell went for me; he never got bored or impatient. He nippled me in those toilets, and his punches bruised my groin; he was good at boxing’s low blows, all right, as both he and
Penelope waited; I was there to be pushed, and broken.
How I wanted her to erupt!
How I wanted her to slap her thigh, or tear at her shampooed hair.
But no, oh no, she did him justice this time, that monument of communist silence. She’d even changed the rules on me—the practice hours were extended. She would wait in the chair beside me, and my father would bring her coffee, and toast with jam, and tea. He’d bring her biscuits, and fruit, and chocolates. The lessons were journeys of backache.
One night, we sat till midnight, and this was the night it came. My brothers were all in bed, and as always, she waited me out; Penelope was still upright when I stood and staggered to the couch.
“Hey,” she said, “that’s cheating—it’s piano or off to bed,” and it was then I made myself known; I crumbled and felt the mistake.
Disgruntled, I got up; I walked past her, into the hall, unbuttoning my shirt, and she saw what lay within—for there, on the right side of my chest, were the marks and signature fingerprints of a ginger-fringed schoolboy nemesis.