Jude's Music

Ten

Sunday, the next day, I returned. I had to know if he was better. But when I got to his house, I didn't see him outside. It was still the weekend, so I didn't think I should go to the door. Fathers worked on weekdays, but on Sundays they were home. At least, that's how it had been with my father. Still, I knew I wanted to see Jude. I had no idea if he was home or not, but I decided to wait and find out.

I grew cold sitting out in the open. So I crept to the toolshed in back and slipped inside. In the duskiness, I looked at the piano sitting there. The keys were hidden by a cover, and the bench was pushed close against the instrument. Suddenly, I felt as though I was back at the old stump in the pine forest. The same sense of sacredness came flowing through me, as if I stood in the presence of something inanimate but alive – more alive than the world around me.

"Why did you leave yesterday?" said a voice behind me. I turned, and there stood Jude.

I blinked. "I . . . didn't think you wanted me to stay."

He shrugged. "Don't touch it," he said.

A moment passed before I realized he was talking about the piano. To convince him that I had no intention of touching it, I took a step to the side. I expected him to move forward, but he stayed where he was. Somewhat uncomfortably, I asked, "Were you all right yesterday? You didn't look well."

"I told you I was sick."

"But you aren't sick . . . at least, not the kind that you stay home from school for. And when I saw you yesterday you seemed more as if you. . . . Well, it didn't look like the flu or any normal sickness. And today you look better."

"Today I am a little better."

I raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

He frowned. "Just a little. But it will come back." His voice lowered a notch. "It always does." Before I could ask him what he meant, Jude pushed past me. He went to the piano, pulled out the bench, and lifted the cover off the keys. Then he seated himself at the instrument. Both of us were quiet for a while. I could only guess what he was thinking while he stared at the black and white keys. Was he wishing he didn't have to look at them? Was he hating them with his very soul? Was he loving them despite his hate?

"If you're staying," said Jude sharply, not bothering to face me, "don't come any closer. I don't want to see you there."

I didn't have the chance to wonder whether he was insulting me. With a sweep of his thin arms, Jude brought his fingers to the piano keys. His hands hovered above them for a moment, and then his left hand dipped into broken chords.

Just as he'd asked me to, I kept my distance. I watched him play, and it was incredible. There were no words to describe it. The melody was beautiful, but it hurt to listen to it. This time, though, the feeling was somewhat different. The sorrow was not quite as strong in me as it had been when I'd listened the two other times. Jude's touch on the notes was lighter, it seemed. While I continued to feel a deep sadness in my chest, I also felt a faint glimmer of hope. The melody Jude produced carried some small promise that whatever was wrong could be put right.

As I watched him, his bony shoulders hunching over and his dark head leaning downward as if his whole body was being drawn to the instrument, I began to wonder about him. How on earth did he know how to play so beautifully? So intricately? So delicately? When I'd heard him playing the school's piano, the tune had been more furious in its bitterness. Now, it was ever-so-slightly sweeter. I didn't know what to make of him. Although I wanted to move closer, to see his face while he played, I stayed away. I wasn't going to give him any reason to lose trust in me, no matter how badly I wanted to go against his words.