Three Seasons of the Accordion
Detroit Short Story
Bernard, or Bern as he was known, stood in front of the pawn shop’s window. The awning, which had not been unfurled in many years because a storm had shredded it beyond repair, dripped rain on the brim of his knit cap, the first sleety rain of the turning season, falling on the sleeping city. On the other side of the window was an unremarkable black accordion, the piano keys on one side and the little buttons on the other. The pawn shop with so little to pawn would not open for another three hours, so the price of the accordion was unknown. Bern thought the cold rain was a possible omen, keeping other potential buyers away from the window. Behind him he heard the hiss and grind of the bus.
Bern took his place on the front of the bus, standing in the center aisle, leaning on the vertical rail next to the front door, looking out the window at the receding accordion. It was the last block before Eight Mile, the city’s border, and then there would be no new passengers allowed on after the bus passed the border. You could only get on the inbound bus in the suburbs, that was the rule. Every morning a few people waved at the bus, expecting it to stop, but it didn’t, it couldn’t. They don’t understand the rules, Bern thought, unfortunate.
Six miles later, after all the lights and stops, the bus hissed and reluctantly came to a groaning halt. Bern alighted in two quick steps, the rain steady in the streetlamps yellow light, his long sigh of breath spread out and rose into a little cloud. In the thick, damp air the city smells languished, rolling over in layers of wet cardboard, feral dogs, dripped oil, rotting leaves, rusted old steel weldments and fry grease. Bern kept his head down and walked several blocks into the Eastern Market and to the fence on the side of a large building. He inserted his hard plastic ID card into the card reader box and waited as the gate opened. Behind him another man whom Bern recognized but did not know, appeared and also inserted his card and walked into the open gate. Both men looked behind, but there was no one else.
At his locker Bern hung up the outfit he claimed from the company laundry, white pants and a long white cotton overcoat, and he began to undress. Other men walked in and nodded. In a small plastic bag from his local butcher shop he had three pairs of heavy cotton socks. Bern remembered the ragu his mother served the night before, the shredded beef and pork ribs, the large steaming plate of spaghetti. When he had his outfit on, he sat and put on the socks one at a time, and then struggled to pull on his thick rubber boots and his cloth work gloves.
Outside the locker room it was bright and cold. A truck was backing into one of the bays. When it hissed and stopped, Bern bent down and lifted the steel gate that bridged the gap between the truck and the building’s concrete floor, and let it fall, the heavy clang of the steel was the official start to his workday. Another man undid the latch and lifted the steel door of the truck, and a third man brought the track that the animals, hooked to an overhead trolley wheel, travel to the aging coolers. The trucks arrived all day; cattle in the morning, followed by hogs and lambs. The animals were still steaming as the men walked them along the trolley track and pushed them ahead to the aging cooler.
After the unloads, Bern retreated to his station and gathered his knives. Another long day of butchery began. Sides of aged beef were brought to the line, each man performed one or two tasks until they broke the animal into primal cuts; then individual butchers broke them again into muscles to be cut for the consumer. Bern’s job today was to take the forward half of the loin and make four cuts, the first to cut off the short ribs, the lower half of the ribs, the second to remove the chime, the intersection of the ribs and the spine, by holding the loin on edge and guiding it through a band saw. It is an important task, the cut is known as the Prime Rib for a reason, the supervisor was fond of reminding Bern. Once he chimed the loin he turned it, removed the fat cap and threw it into a plastic tub on its way to the grinding station, then he removed the beef ribs and tossed them into another plastic bin. Finally he took his large slicing knife and began cutting steaks from the loin. The order sheet wanted over six hundred rib-eyes, and three hundred whole prime ribs, packed and shipped to restaurants and shops in the city.
Bern worked methodically. He was the youngest butcher on the line, but adept and professional. He concentrated on his work, feeding the packers the cuts on the conveyor as he made them. His gloved hands were soon white with fat; from time to time he used the back of his knife to scrape away the fat. Bern looked behind him once and saw a bay door open. The sleet had become lighter, more snow than rain, and the wind picked up, scattering it about. Maybe the accordion is still in the window, Bern thought, sheltered from the cold wind and snow and eager eyes.
Morning break came. The butchers dropped their knives and wandered out to the dock. A catering truck was parked near the steps and the men purchased hot coffee and fresh donuts. Bern took coffee with cream and a large raisin roll, as he did every day.
“I think I might buy an accordion,” mentioned Bern to Stan, an older butcher. He removed the lid of his paper cup and dipped the edge of his roll into the steaming coffee.
“Huh,” responded his mate, thinking about it, watching Bern hold his cup, its lid and the raisin role in one hand while tearing pieces off the raisin roll. “I tried to pick up the guitar again last year, but my fingers are so thick, it was hard to, you know, get on the right string, on just one string, like I was always pressing two strings. But I liked it all the same. Yeah, I liked it. I still play some times. If I had fingers like you, I’d be a virtuoso, if that’s what they call it?”
Bern was surprised to hear the man talk about the guitar. He had not considered his idea as a common one, that other men enjoyed music and wanted to make it. But the more he thought about what the man said, returning to his station, the more he began to worry about his fingers. If he became adept at the accordion would his work as a butcher, his fingers growing thicker by the animal, by the year, put an end to his ability to play. Would his new life of music, the Saturday nights dances, come to an abrupt end, crippled by fat fingers. Would he eventually have to hand over the accordion to a younger man, a man with delicate fingers who never knew the butcher’s line?
At lunch Bern sat with two men nearly as young as himself. The talk was of the recent Saturday night, the band they’d heard, the girls they’d met, the drinks, the laughs, the lack of a plan for the next weekend. Bern mentioned the accordion, and the other men laughed, thinking he was kidding. The talk turned to polka dancing, and clubs in the city were you could meet girls and polka. Bern made a mental note of this as he thought of how much he’d be willing to pay for the accordion.
Nine hours after arriving, Bern punched his timecard and walked over to the bus stop. The girl from accounting was also there, her brown hair stuffed into a bright knit cap, the matching scarf around the collar of her coat, and she gave Bern the same curt, disappointed look she did every day. He wanted to say hello, but the look stopped him every time; there was something about it that was absolute, though Bern could not put his finger on it.
On the way home the bus was pretty full. Bern looked but saw no empty seats. The girl from accounting always entered via the back side door, and always managed to find a seat. Bern never tried to enter from that door, the look told him he was not welcomed at that door. You can enter the outbound bus in the city, but you cannot alight until you cross Eight Mile, the border, that was the rule. Some people pulled the cord for the bell and Bern suppressed the notion to explain the rules.
Twenty minutes later, they arrived at Bern’s corner. He alighted with his sack of socks and walked immediately across the busy avenue to the pawn shop window. The accordion was still there. He hesitated to walk in and ask the price, thinking it would just disappoint him. But the girl from accounting might think better of him, if she knew he played music, even played music in a band. He walked in.
The owner, an old man in old clothes, looked up. “We’re closing in ten minutes,” announced the old man.
“Right, I know,” responded Bern. “What are you asking for the accordion?”
“Oh, the accordion,” declared the old man. “You’re the second fellow to ask about it today.”
Bern heard these words and his head whirled with one thought after another. He was lucky it was still there, an omen to bless the purchase, possibly. But why had the other fellow walked away without it, the price too high, the instrument too old, maybe unplayable?
“Why don’t you try it on, young man”?
“Yes, please, sure,” responded Bern, his spirit lifted by the old man’s confidence in the instrument.
Bern removed his coat while the old man retrieved the instrument. The old man, facing Bern, held up the accordion by the straps and Bern slipped his arms through the shoulder straps on either side.
“Ahh, it fits well, you have the same build as its owner,” said the old man with a thin, wry smile. “Now you must unlock it, there are clasps on the top and the bottom.”
Bern looked down his nose and saw the clasp. He undid it, and his hand searched the bottom of the instrument and he undid the second clasp. The instrument began to open.
“To play it,” the old man began, “you must place your left hand under the bass strap on the side. Now you can open and close it. But to close it you must press the keys with your right hand.”
Bern gently pulled against the leather bass strap with the back of his left hand, and then he pushed gently with the same left hand while holding down several of the keys with his right hand fingers. The accordion made a small noise. Bern was delighted.
“Go ahead and draw it open, give it some air,” cajoled the old man.
Bern did as the old man said and the instrument bellowed beautifully. Bern began playing three successive keys as he opened and closed the instrument, smiling at the beautiful sounds he heard, and already feeling some minute but compelling mastery of the instrument.
“You have nice fingers for the accordion, strong but not thick. Now as you open and close the instrument, use the fingers of your left hand to play the bass notes with the buttons. Can you feel this button?” The old man placed the middle finger of Bern’s left hand on a small indented button. “This is C.”
The delightful music soon became a cacophony, no less glorious to Bern’s ears, as his left and right fingers moved up and down their respective keyboards.
“What fool would give up such a beautiful instrument,” yelled Bern over the wonderful noise of the accordion. The old man’s head fell off to one side and his eyebrows raised slightly at the question. Finally he held his hand up to Bern to slow his enthusiasm.
“If you really want this accordion, and promise to learn it and play it, I’ll make you a good price.”
“Yes, yes, yeah, I’ll learn it and play it everyday!”
“OK, ok, well then,” the old man looked at the tag held on one of the shoulder straps, “I’ll take fifty off this, and you can have the travel case, too.”
Bern looked at the tag and did the math. He couldn’t believe it, he was going to own an accordion. He promised to be right back after a quick run to the bank.
“I’m going to lock up, but come back and knock and I’ll let you in.”
Bern walked to the bank and took the funds out of the ATM. He returned to the shop and didn’t even need to knock as the old man was right up front, taking the accordion case out, the last item from the window display. He showed Bern how to store the accordion in the case and gave some instructions on its long term care and use. The old man’s wife came down the stairs from their apartment and stood off to the side, smiling a little and holding one hand in the other.
“You’ll meet the loveliest people as an accordion player,” said the old man, glancing at his wife.
Bern placed the bills atop the closed accordion case, his enthusiasm consumed his attention, and he had no mind for the world around him. He made the largest purchase of his young life besides a car he once owned in high school.
“Thank you sir, thank you,” repeated Bern as his labored to the door with his new instrument, waving a quick good-bye to the elderly couple. Once outside in the cold air, he remembered his bag of socks and returned to the store, hiding his embarrassment in a chorus of “thank you again”.
Bern spent much of the weekend, playing his new instrument. He found instructors online, and instruction manuals. He practiced scales and learned chords, a few chords anyway. He also learned the oom-pa-pa of the waltz with his left hand on the bass side. It was difficult but exhilarating. He actually taught himself the opening notes of Frere Jacque, unbelievable. When he told his buddies about it at the bar on Saturday night, they were curious, and amused, and a little surprised. They all had stories of trying to play an instrument, but Alan was the only one who still stuck with it. “The best way to do it is to be patient, man, you know, set aside an hour like three or four times a week to practice. It’s worth it. It takes time, but you’ll be amazed at how much you can learn,” he told Bern.
At morning break on Monday, Stan found Bern in the crowd. He especially liked to talk to Bern because Bern was young and had some new ideas, something new to say. “So did you pull the trigger on the accordion,” the older man asked between sips of coffee. A third man overheard and joined the conversation.
“Sure,” responded Bern, “the price was right, and there was a case that came with it, so yeah, played it all weekend, love the music it makes.”
The men nodded in agreement, happy at Bern’s enthusiasm. “Just get a handle on it before your fingers look like mine,” Stan the old butcher said, showing Bern his five thick deformed sausages.
“And if it doesn’t work out,” started the other butcher, “I guess you can always sell it back to the pawn shop.”
“Not an option now,’ replied Bern, “they’ve closed up. Whatever was left has been sold or something, and the building is up for sale now, there’s a sign up in the window.”
“No kiddin’, then it’s yours for good,” Stan responded.
Bern got as far as he could on his own with the accordion. He spent an hour on it every evening that fall and early winter. He also became obsessed with his fingers. After a long day butchering meat in the frigid break down room, it took time to relax his fingers and touch the keys and buttons easily. His eyes told him that his fingers were not changing, but you get so used to seeing the same hands every day you may not notice the fingers thickening. Bern started to measure the circumference of his fingers with a piece of white thread dotted with marks from a pen.
It soon became necessary to look for a pro teacher. Not easy to find. Piano and guitar were very easy to find, but accordion was a different question. Bern visited a few musical instrument stores but no one had a line on an accordion teacher. In fact none of the stores sold accordions. Talking to one of the band members at the local bar one Saturday Bern learned of an accordion group that met in the basement of St. Florian in the old Polish enclave of Hamtramck. On Wednesday after work he took a couple of city busses to Hamtramck, had sausages and potato pancakes at a Polish restaurant, and headed over to St. Florian at 7:00 to attend the meeting of the City Accordionists. When he walked into the room, the other dozen or so gathered there looked up. He was asked to introduce himself. He met all their faces, except one, and said “I’m Bern, pretty new to the accordion, about two months now.”
Eventually, Bern had a chance to play for the group, and though he was a little nervous he managed to pull off a small waltz quite well. The leader had a few tips for him which he immediately tried, as the others had. It was definitely worth his while. He also took a moment while in front of the group to announce his interest in finding an accordion teacher, but several people replied “good luck.”
“This group is as close as you’ll come to actual instruction,” one man said.
The others rose one at a time and played, their level of skill ran the gamut from a newbie like Bern to solid veteran players.
The last person to play for the group was the women who did not look up when he introduced himself. She was older, mid forties maybe, Bern thought. She played very well, her fingers were quick and decisive on both sides of the instrument. She smiled and even laughed at some parts of the piece, and moved around with the rhythm. She enjoyed playing, loved playing even. When she finished the others couldn’t help but applaud. Bern felt a little embarrassed as he thought of her playing next to his, and he was not alone.
“Ahh, Barbara, you always bring your best,” the group leader said as she returned to her seat. Then he gave a little lesson and asked everyone to learn a song that he handed out on poorly mimeographed sheets of paper. It was a polka, something Bern had not yet attempted, and it was written in scales, something he had not yet learned to read. But he took one all the same, wondering how he could go about interpreting it into letter notes.
The leader stopped Bern and spoke to him for a moment after the class, until he was the only one left other than Barbara, who was just zipping up her parka, with the furry hood pulled tightly around her face. She left without looking at Bern. He found his coat. There was a knit hat in one pocket and a pair of gloves in the other. Prepared for the hard cold of a January night, he walked out and over to the bus stop. The last bus was still 20 minutes later, if it was on time.
Suddenly a car pulled up. Bern saw a person in a furry hood and then realized it was Barbara from class. She lowered the window on his side and offered a ride.
“You don’t live in the city?”
“No just on the other side, two blocks north of Eight Mile.”
“East side or west?”
“East, Gratiot.”
“Come on then, I can drop you, it’s not far out of my way.”
Bern put his accordion on the back seat, next to hers, and took his seat up front.
“Thank you, it’s brutal out tonight.”
“Yeah, I couldn’t believe it when I saw you standing there. Really, I just assumed you were from the neighborhood. There’s a young bohemian group down here now, a few of them have joined us in the past.”
“Really? I had no idea.”
“Yeah, there’s a whole bar scene here now, from what I gather. I don’t go out to hear bar bands, well, not anymore.” She smiled and turned slightly to catch Bern’s reaction.
Bern stared straight ahead. He had never had the experience of being with an older woman, a good looking, confident woman like Barbara, alone before. He was a little cowed by the thought of it, and her remark about the bohemians made him wonder about how he looked to her. His short hair, his jeans and boots and army coat and knit cap, was that bohemian? He felt so young. Finally he felt he had to say something.
“I hope I’m not putting you way out of your way.”
“Oh, it’s no bother, it’s early yet, and standing out there is a crazy thing to have to do tonight, of all nights, in single digits. You don’t have a car?”
“I don’t have a license right at the moment.”
Now it was Bern’s turn to glance sideways and catch her reaction. An eyebrow rose, he was sure of it, more than a little.
“I drove home from a party, and I shouldn’t have. I didn’t hurt anyone, but I parked in the middle of the street and the police were called because the school bus and everyone else couldn’t get down the street. I was asleep in the back seat. Embarrassing. They had to break in to rouse me.”
“Oh, that’s not good. Do you drink a lot like that?
“No, hardly, actually I’m not supposed to be drinking at all right now. I do have a beer on Saturday nights, but that’s it. No more shots, not ever again. My Mom made me sell the car cause she didn’t trust me not to drive. Anyway, it’s been a good lesson, and I’ve managed to save enough of my pay for a new car in the spring, and even a house payment when I’m ready to move out. Sooner rather than later.”
“What do you do for work?”
“Butcher, I work for a large commercial butcher, we supply a lot of restaurants in the city, suburbs too, and I you know I butcher. It’s good work, pays decent. I’ve been there since high school, three years now.”
They were quiet now. Both digesting the confession that had just taken place. Bern concluded he’d told the truth and was glad he did; trying to dance around it is tiring and normally fruitless. Barbara took his honesty as a sign that he’d learned a hard lesson well enough, if not perfectly.
“I have children. They are older than you, settled down now, but they all did silly things, most of it I probably don’t even know about.”
“Yeah, I always make my biggest mistakes right out in the open. Before he died, my Dad always used to say that I was too honest for my own good. He just missed the car parked in the middle of the street, but I don’t think it would have surprised him.”
Barbara laughed at this, surprising Bern. He wasn’t used to amusing people. The car was warm now, very warm. Barbara was still wearing her hood, but Bern had to take off his hat and loosen up his army coat.
“You cut your hair very short. Don’t they wear it longer these days?”
“That’s another thing Pops used to say, ‘you zig when they zag.’”
“It’s handsome at that.” She caught herself then. Complimenting a young man, younger than her son. “How foolish,” she thought, “he’ll think I’m interested or worse.”
They were quiet again.
“I wish the girl from accounting thought my short hair was handsome,” Bern ruminated silently.
“Goodness he is handsome,” Barbara thought, “the moment he walked in he reminded me of Jack, the first time I saw him in the undergrad library, the same broad shoulders, same length and so lean and his gait, so confident.”
“You played well, for being self taught, I was amazed, really. Your two hands were right in concert, and you were smart to play a simple waltz.”
“Thanks. How long have you been playing for?”
“Since I was six, don’t ask me how many years. But really I mostly put it away when I got married, with children and everything it just wasn’t possible to play seriously. But when my husband Jack died, I needed something to look forward to, and I went out and bought a new accordion, almost on a whim. I play with a couple of groups now. I can’t tell you how much it’s meant to me, how it saved me from so much wasted, you know, time feeling sorry for myself.”
Bern had turned and was looking right at Barbara now and thinking how the man who sold him the accordion told him “you meet the loveliest people playing the accordion.”
For the next six weeks Bern was fortunate to have a ride home after the meeting.
On Saturday morning Barbara stood in front of the the full length mirror in her bedroom, bouncing her hair with her hand, it was no longer as full as it once was, and looking at her outfit, blue jeans and a long sleeve, soft flannel shirt. She stopped and shook her head. “What am I thinking?” She fastened two buttons of her shirt, leaving just the top button opened.
Bern caught a ride from his older sister who was on her way to a community college class in Warren that morning.
“So you’re taking this accordion thing pretty seriously, private lessons even. I mean I hear you practicing upstairs and you’ve gotten pretty good, but I didn’t think private lessons were in your future?”
“Neither did I, believe me, but this older student offered and, well, I couldn’t say no, the price is right, that’s for sure.”
“How much?”
“It’s a favor.”
“Hmm.”
They drove along without saying too much. The Valentine’s Day storm earlier in the week, and the hard north wind that always comes afterwards were old memories now. The breeze was from the south and the sun was out, finally. Melting snow dripped everywhere. “This is it,” said Bern, checking it on the hand drawn directions.
His sister turned around in a driveway and took a look when the door opened to see Barbara standing there, hair and makeup, dressed nicely for a Saturday morning date, smiling broadly at her brother. She gasped a little, “Oh my God,” she thought, “it’s just like Bern to walk into this, a free accordion lesson, really?”
Once inside Bern took his accordion out of the case, and put his arms through the straps, ready to play. Barbara realized she had not thought to bring her instrument out and made a bee line for a back bedroom where she kept it. When she returned Bern was doing scales, first in major keys and then in minor. She noticed that his fingers were supple and strong.
They practiced together for the first half hour and then Barbara removed her accordion and walked behind Bern to show him a hand technique from his own point of view. As she reached forward she pressed against his back, but he didn’t notice, so caught up was he in his playing, and the accordion’s thick leather straps had caught the best of her caress. He eventually turned around to face her, mastering the new technique and keen to show her. With a little effort Barbara smiled.
Later that day Bern stopped in the kitchen to put together a sandwich, the Trifecta he called it. There was Burkhard’s Sourdough Rye bread, Dearborn Ham and Red Pelican mustard with horseradish. His sister was there, smiling at him for some unknown reason.
“What?”
“So how was your date this morning?”
“What are you talking about, date? There was no date, it was just a little private lesson with a friend, ok?”
“Oh, really? Honestly, you weren’t just born at night Bern, you were born last night.”
“Get out, that’s ridiculous, she’s more than twice my age.”
When Bern turned around after finding the pickles in the fridge, his sister was still looking at him, her mouth a little open, not smiling, but concerned. “Ok,” she said, finally. And Bern ate the Trifecta in silence, happy to end the conversation.
“So how’s the accordion coming along, Bern?”
“Hey Alan, yeah it’s ok. Had my first private lesson today, went really well. I learned a bunch of new hand techniques, little tricks that experienced players use to move along the keyboards quickly. She also showed me some practice techniques to improve my hand coordination. Practical tips you know, pretty good stuff.”
“She? I’m surprised, thought it would be a man for some reason. How’d you find her?”
“She’s in this group, the one you mentioned to me that night a few months back, she’s in the group. Really nice older woman, she gives me a ride home after our group practice. She’s a really good player, and fun too, easy to learn with.”
“So it’s all accordion all the time, huh?”
“Yeah, well I wouldn’t say all the time, but I’m getting pretty good at it, I have to say. Hey you wouldn’t have a place for an accordion in your band, would you, just some backing music?”
Spring doesn’t just arrive in Detroit, it ‘finally arrives’, coming after one or three uncertain, indecisive, half hearted shows of interest, it wobbles to center stage, claiming the attention of every eye and ear in the house, and then hangs on to its long tender note for dear life. Bern left work and he could smell spring, like the city’d gotten a long washdown, the grime momentarily washed away, while the sun dried the concrete with little wisps of steam rising. He walked without hesitation to the second door of the bus, disregarded the young lady’s look of disappointment, followed her in and took the seat next to hers. They talked all the way to the other side of Eight Mile, and she agreed, with a smile, to come to a local club the next night, Saturday night, and watch Bern perform with a band. She was generally amused to hear the butcher to whom she’d handed a payroll check for the last three years, and who she believed would never bother to talk to her, played the accordion in a bar band.
Outside the city, Bern said good-bye, alighted, crossed the avenue and strode by the front of the old pawn shop, the for sale sign gone from the window. There was a moving van at the back door of the building and two men were moving furniture out, small tables and chairs, lamps and bookcases. Bern stopped, excited to have a word with the pawn shop owner who’d sold him the accordion.
“Can I help you?” one of the men asked.
“Well, I bought an accordion here months ago and wanted to tell the pawn shop owner that I learned to play it just like I promised and well, I guess that’s all really.”
“Huh. I’m sure Dad would be happy to hear it, he loved that accordion and was quite a player. He died in December, and Mom followed in March.” And after a long pause: “So you have the accordion, keep it well and play if often, it was like a fifth member of our family.”
Bern searched for something to say. He ended up with “Sorry, really sorry, and I will, I will take care of it and play it often.” A last nod, and he walked away, home.
On Saturday evening Bern played with the band and between sets he met Alice from accounting and three of her best friends. He had a pretty good night following the bands chord changes on his accordion. After the second set he sat again with Alice and her friends. They left before midnight, Alice with a smile and a wave. Bern was relieved that he’d been examined and found in good health.
Mornings at the bus stop became easier, less frost, less bite in the air. His time with the band increased to two nights a weekend, and he started to pick up some small solos, and enough cash to pay for a week’s raisin rolls and coffee. The sun was up now before his bus arrived, and one Thursday morning he noticed the trees were heavy with small green buds. He appeared in court that morning and was cleared to drive again, albeit with stern warnings about alcohol when behind the wheel. There was no mention of the accordion or the bar band, which Bern was relieved about though he hadn’t previously considered either an issue. That night he drove to St. Florian’s basement for the last spring session of the City Accordionists before the long summer break, and Barbara was again not there, and no one had heard from her in some time.
He stopped in the kitchen when he returned home to search the refrigerator for leftovers. “So did you tell your accordion teacher that you have a girlfriend?” asked Bern’s sister. He’d finally realized weeks before that his sister was right about the whole thing, and for that he felt awfully sad about his misunderstanding of the situation and for any embarrassment he might have caused Barbara. He recalled their conversations in the car every week about the accordion and reading music and the evening’s lesson and couldn’t remember any time he’d given her the wrong idea. But so be it. He had now played the accordion for six months and according to the white thread he kept on the desk in his room, there was no growth in the thickness of his fingers.
In May, he put in a bid on a small bungalow in St. Clair Shores but didn’t get it, which was fortunate since his application for a loan was also subsequently rejected. His driving record was still an issue. In July he tried again and secured both the house and the loan. Alice offered to help him pick out paint colors at the box store. Bern thanked her. He appreciated the offer, but his sister had already gotten some samples at Bessemer’s Paint and Wallpaper. She hadn’t, but she would soon, Bern thought.
Really beautiful story. I admire the detail and specificity with the butcher job and learning to play the instrument. I also like that you didn't go in predictable directions with the two potential romantic relationships. Very well done.
Good story. I enjoyed reading. The ending made me wonder if Bern's newfound self confidence was making him hard, ambitious. I liked him better when he was embarrassed and naive. That's life, I suppose.