Thank you for reading False Choices. So often history is buried with the people who lived it. Most of us like it that way. Who really wants the next generation to know all the wrong turns, the stupidity, the failures of our everyday lives. It takes extraordinary courage to admit to any of it, much less all of it. But one there was one man who owned a grand piano and beautiful desk. If you enjoy this story, please
Light tapping on the door, one knuckle gently tapping. Three taps then four or five. I finally sat up, rolling my legs to the floor.
“You there? You up?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“We’re leaving in a few minutes, Ok?”
“Ok.”
Leaving? Where are we leaving and where going. Standing over the toilet, thinking. Right, helping my housemate and her boyfriend move some stuff. I brushed my teeth, threw a hand through my hair and grabbed a cap, easier. Dressed and ready.
Waiting for me on the porch.
“This won’t be so hard, the piano is the big one, the other stuff is no big deal.”
Right. No big deal. Saturday morning, rain overnight, muggy, not hot but it’s going to be. Three of us in the truck, her in the middle, the trailer bouncing along behind us.
“Where is this place?”
“Oh, not far, couple of blocks really.”
We drive for fifteen minutes. Passed by his shop. Off the main road into an upscale neighborhood. He pulls the truck beyond the driveway. We get out then so he can turn around and maneuver the trailer into the drive and up near the front door.
Nice neighborhood, nice older homes, different, like each one had it’s own architect. College professors. Boston. Older, could use a bit of work maybe. Thick, tall trees and shrubs, dripping wet in the morning. Muggy.
He entered a code on the little lockbox and took out the key. Unlocked the door.
Nice home, interesting inside, cool. Each doorway round cornered and the plaster with that wave in it. Craftsman style. And there were steps between rooms. Right up front the piano, a real deal piano, a Steinway, huge, three thick legs.
“How’re we gonna’ move this?”
“It’s really not that heavy.”
“You’re kidding, you gotta be kidding.”
He let the top down and moved the bench out of the way.
“Let’s see if we can lift it, take that end.”
He takes the keyboard end. I face him at the long end.
“Ok, on three.”
He counts and we try lifting. I get my end three inches off the ground. His end doesn’t really move at all. Then the two of them try together. Not much. They couldn’t lift it.
He leaves. We hear the trailer bounce down the street. I find a chair to sit in. A chance to pull myself together a little. Still waking up. The desk was in front of me.
“Did he buy the desk, too?”
“Yeah, I think he did. Hey, thanks for helping out. I think he’s going to get another guy to help. So thanks.”
“Yeah, sure.”
I open the front desk drawer. It’s still full of stuff. Little books, some with photos, old stuff, pen knives, little screwdriver kits. Some loose change.
“They didn’t clean out the drawers?”
“I guess not. They were from out of town, just here long enough to sell everything.”
“Hmm. You mind if I have a look see?”
“No I don’t care.”
She walks over to the window and looks out, waiting for him to return.
“When do you have to get to work?”
“Noon.”
“He shouldn’t be long, the shop is just a few minutes away.”
I open the drawer all the way. The desktop had inlays, several inlays, very cool, very worn but you still see some of the luster on the edges.
I read some of the entries in a little black book. He must have been in France during the war, addresses for hotels on Rue this and Avenue that. A photo of a girl, woman maybe, alongside a wooden fence, black hair, combed back, windy, bobby socks, pleasant but not smiling. The girl’s name on the back, Maureen. Other little photos, three men in uniforms in front of a small hotel somewhere, Germany, looks like Germany. Or even England, maybe England. The building had timbers visible in the front, old style.
I find another book, larger, little diary. First entry, 1941, December 12. Cryptic handwriting. Difficult, slow going. More photos. Aerial photos.
Three drawers on the left. Bottom tax returns, medical records, paid bills? Middle drawer empty. Top drawer. Letters, old letters, tied with string. Arranged in two long rows. Hmm. I wonder why they left them. Maybe they already knew it all. Maybe the old man had told all the stories. No interest. Who really wants to read their parents’ letters?
“He’s back.”
I see them coming in the door, the boyfriend and two Mexicans, short and stocky, still waking up, too.
“Hey you want the stuff in these drawers?”
“No, hell no, take it.” He waves me off. He explains to the Mexicans how he wants to take the piano out.
“No way, senor, no way.” The Mexicans won’t hear of it. I’m laughing to myself. Keep it up. He’s not thinking clearly.
“Remove the legs, senor, remove.”
I find a box in the bedroom, mostly empty. Just two old picture frames, no pictures.
They’re still arguing.
“What do you think?”
“You have to remove the legs, no question, man.”
His girlfriend looks at him. She’s anxious. A little disappointed.
“Ok, I have to go get tools.”
He runs out the door. Angry now, too. The Mexicans talk in Spanish and laugh together. They try playing the piano.
They look at me. “He comes no tools?”
I shrug I guess so “I don’t know the guy, her boyfriend.” This confuses them.
“How much you get?”
This makes me laugh. I hadn’t thought about pay. It’s a favor. Nothing in return. I joke “Big money.” My hands drawing crisp hundreds off a large pile. They understand immediately.
“You get no monies?” They laugh at this. Crazy gringo.
I load up my box. Mexicans look it over. Not interested. I walk it out front. Take a break on the steps.
The boyfriend backs the trailer up into the drive next to the walkway to the front door, for the third time this morning. He’s already a wreck. Sun is up now. Getting hot and the humidity is 100%. Night’s rain burning off. I throw my box in the bed of his truck.
The four of us lift and roll the piano onto its side. the boyfriend finds the right socket and begins removing the nuts. There are a lot of nuts. We are all sweating now. Just balancing the weight is a job. One Mexican holds the leg he’s removing while the other Mexican and and I balance the weight.
“Ok, up and to the door, let’s see how this goes.”
On three we lift it. Still a huge weight. We strain to move forward. Damn thing is heavy. We get about 6 feet and set it down. This is how it goes. Six or eight feet at a time. The girlfriend walks in front or beside us. Putting down a moving blanket to rest the monster on as we gather our strength. Three steps off the front porch almost ruin us.
Finally we make it to the trailer. Now we have to lift it up a couple of feet. We get one end on and then all four of us lift the keyboard end and slide it along on the blankets. We almost lose it for a minute when it starts to fall to one side. I jump up and get underneath it with him. We push it back up on its side. We position all four of us on one side. It starts to drop onto the blanket. The Mexicans begin yelling first. Then we are all yelling. I manage to get my feet out from under the weight. We all let go at once. It falls the last six inches. The sweat is in our eyes. The sun burns through the haze slowly. I want to go back to bed and forget this ever happened. The Mexicans are laughing. Waving their hands at the damn thing. The piano lies there, looking ridiculous on the bed of a trailer. Why would anyone want one of these in their home?
The unload and move into the antique store is easy. Easier. Ground level door. Straight in. We are experienced now. He puts the legs on. We attempt the big flip. One of the front legs catches for a split second. The wood cracks. I heard it. We all heard it. The Mexicans for sure heard it. Their faces say it. But it is standing up. The proud owner is under the table. Minor damage. He can fix it. He’s sure of it. Little glue.
On the way back to the house for the rest of the stuff. They drop me off. I lug the box upstairs. I’m soaking wet. It’s already after 11. I have to shower and get to work by noon. Just going to make it.
Two months later I move again. New job, new place. I pack up everything and find the box. Letters. Little books trinkets from the desk. Pain to move. I kept it this long, one more month. I’ll read it all and toss it. Got it this far, right?
A year later I move again. Better job. Moving up the ladder. Still the box. Still haven’t read through it. Through it? Haven’t read anything. Not one. Got it this far, right? Open the knot, waxy string. One letter, read one and decide. I open the top letter. Woman’s handwriting. Neat, proper, in a straight line. I was never able to do that on unlined paper. Barely did it on lined paper. Date. September 3, 1942. Wow. Old. I feel a little sketchy reading this. What am I going to find? God forbid.
Dear Dan,
She’s away at school, and he’s in the service, sounds like. Mentions all the other students who have left now, nine months after Pearl Harbor. Rationing. Even some professors have left, war effort. Nothing major.
love, Maureen
More than just a picture of a girl by a fence now. Sounds like they were dating, or could also be his sister. Nothing horrible, I guess. Don’t feel slimy. Nothing amazing either. What a day that was. Moving the piano. Wonder if the housemate and the boyfriend are still together? The two Mexicans? Still laughing at gringo somewhere. Someday I’ll read the rest of them. Got them this far, right?
This place has been good to me. Two years here. Time to pack up again. Time to move. New Job, big move. Hall closet. First place I had a hall closet. The box. I see it every change of season, three times a year. Reminder to read the letters. Never happens. Maybe soon though, first house. Maybe just chuck’em. Read one more, same packet, string is open. Date December 21, 1942.
Dear Dan,
Rose Billings sends her regards. Her brother Mike is also gone to the war effort, in D.C. You should look him up next time you go up. He was a nasty little boy, but he might be ok now. Rose said he grew up a lot in the last year.
It kills us all to think of you all alone on Christmas….
More like this. Might be his girl, might be his sister. A few lines at the end
Your sister met me downtown last Wednesday. She’s so grown up all of a sudden. Making plans for nursing school. We were going to get sundaes at the Woolworth’s but it was too cold, so we just got hot chocolate..
Love Maureen
Ok, sounds like it is his girl. More interesting. What happened? Why save the letters all these years later? Wanted someone to read them? Tied them with string. He wasn’t going to read them again. I’m responsible for them. Can’t just throw’em out now. Got them this far right?
New job travel. Three hour flight from St. Louis to West Coast, sometimes D.C. Everything is three hours from St. Louis. My roller bag in the closet. The box. The letters. I take the first packet with the loosened string. Read on the plane. Why not? Put them into a front pocket. Forgotten.
Trip home. Tired, bored. Aisle seat is a luxury. Right the letters. Get them down. Woman in the middle seat, looking, intrigued. We don’t talk. I read the other letters. Some of them two or three times. Some story this. Young people. Different time. War. Everything is the war. Surrounded by war. War anxiety. I manage to put them all back in the right order. Retie the string. Next month’s trip another packet. Read them all. Damn interesting.
Getting married soon. Six months. Girlfriend moves in. Saving money.
Long trip. Back home. Relax.
What’s new?
Oh, I found this box of letters in the closet
Really?
So you saved all these love letters? (Thinks it’s cute.)
They’re not mine
I know they’re not yours, but you saved them, that’s so romantic
How many did you read?
I read all of them, of course. Once I started I couldn’t stop
You read all my letters?
You just said they’re not yours!
I know what I said, but I own them
What? Own them? How? You bought them?
In a fashion, yes
Are we fighting about this?
Yeah, it takes some moxie to just go read my letters
Well, Ok, I guess so, but still what’s the harm?
And then get all cute about it and call them romantic!
I can’t believe you, this reaction is, I can’t believe it!
They’re not romantic. They’re full of, you know, some things, some things that are hard to even name, it’s more intense than loneliness, and it’s not depression, it’s more intense. Not psych babble…
Yeah, you’re right, you’re right
And death and destruction yearning and betrayal hope and loss and sorrow and just giving up, and faith and climbing out and surviving they’re not cute
No they’re not cute you’re right
Did you put them back in order and retie the strings?
Yeah
Ok, good
Moving again. Downsizing. One bedroom condo. Lake view. Nice. Lonely. Quiet.
Thanks for driving up. I appreciate it. Really do. Last move maybe
Oh, c’mon Dad
Well, I have something for you, for your trouble
What’s this?
A box of letters my letters
Letters, who’s Maureen?
One of the women who wrote the letters
Did Mom know about these?
They’re not to me, I just own them
Own them, I don’t understand
Well it’s a long story, but they came into my possession, let’s say. I kept them. I feel they are mine. I bequeath them to you.
Bequeath them? That’s funny
Right. It’s funny. But take a weekend when Pablo and the boys are camping and read them. You’ll see what I mean. They’re a gift. And keep them in order and retie the strings when you’re done. Never let them be forgotten. Have Pablo read them too
Wow, ok
You’ll find out what I found out. And your mother found out, too
Mom read them?
Yeah, we had a fight about it, but later we talked about them. More than once, many times. They meant something, a lot really, to us both. We never met any of these people in life, but we came to know them in a way that’s pretty unusual, sacred maybe.
Into the back of the car.
Bye Dad, love you
By Dear, love you too
Hi to Pablo and the boys. I’ll be down when the weather cools. We can talk about the letters
Yeah, sure, we’ll talk then
Thom,
Your writing is equal to Taylor Sheridan. Number One. Fantastic stuff.