Kay, Billy’s sister, practiced Beethoven’s 16th piano sonata for her recital. Her piano teacher invited a professor from Julliard’s piano faculty and she hoped to impress him enough to gain admission and a scholarship.
Kay and Billy and their parents lived in a cramped row house. The living room barely fit her used upright piano. Their street was part of a neighborhood where everyone flew the colors on Flag Day and July 4th. Every August, the city closed the street for a block party, barbecues lined up like cabs at a taxi stand, a volleyball net for the girls, street hockey for the boys, televisions on extension cords so the men could watch preseason football, card tables for the women to play Gin or Hearts. On Christmas Eve, one of the fathers dressed as Santa Claus and delivered presents to every house. Kay still believed in Santa Claus.
Their parents did not want Billy to play basketball for Coach because the school was located in the city’s worst slum. “Think what it means for Kay,” Billy argued. “If basketball pays my way, you’ll have more money for her.” Kay aspired to a conservatory to major in piano, but the money her mom, a teacher, and her dad, a crew chief on a garbage truck, earned was not enough without substantial financial aid.
“What are those bruises?” Kay asked Billy one day.
“Freshmen hazing. Guys flicking towels in the shower.”
“The starting point guard isn’t exempt.”
“It’s a rite of passage.”
“It’s illegal. There are laws and court cases.”
“Boys’ll be boys.”
“The coach isn’t a boy.”
“It’s not like the diner.”
Kay knew what Billy meant. A few weeks back, they sat at the counter, she and Billy. She was reading All Quiet on the Western Front and he asked if it was a good war story. Before she replied, a shove jolted her shoulder, knocking the cup from her hands. Coffee soaked the paperback. Stained the pages. A man with upper arms bigger than Easter hams squatted on the stool beside her, squared his shoulders, then positioned his arms on the counter in a way that invaded her territory. Her muscles tightened. The man didn’t know what hit him. The cook and two waitresses backed her claim of self defense.
“It’s a matter of honor,” she said to Billy at the time.
Now, she fingered the piano keys. The light, breezy personality of the Beethoven didn’t lift her spirits. She didn’t feel the irony and humor of its movements.
“No, Billy. It’s too much.”
“It gives me a clear path to a basketball scholarship and a life I won’t otherwise have.”
“I know you well enough to know when the lie’s bigger than the truth.”
Kay resumed practicing the Beethoven. Fresh bruises and it will be a matter of honor.
Grey Sparrow Journal 