A Swing in the Park

5. The Lounge

"Why were you in Mrs. Finkelstein's room?" My mother said. "I saw you go in there. You're not supposed to be in there. You're to stay in the lounge."

"But the lounge is boring," I said.

"Maybe it is," she said, "but I don't earn enough money with this job to afford a baby sitter. We take you to the park during lunch. The rest of the time you're to stay in the lounge."

"But I'm bored there," I said.

"Bring some books," she said. "You have so many books at home."

"How is Mrs. Finkelstein's hip?" I asked.

"It's the oddest thing," she said. "It's not broken at all. It's dislocated. The doctor is putting it back in place this afternoon."

"How come she thought it was broken?" I said.

"The X ray was wrong," she said. "They are frequently wrong. I must go back to work now. I'll see you at lunch."

She turned and walked down the hall and disappeared.

The lounge was a large room with tall windows that looked out on the garden. On the left wall hung a large flat screen TV with several rows of chairs in front of it. To the right was a tennis table, a large table with a chess and checkers board, and a small round table for playing cards.

In the middle stood an old Steinway with its lid perched all the way open. There was a bench pushed underneath the keyboard. The piano stood silently on bowed legs, remembering its former days of glory when ten fingers brought the strings to song.

I stood before it with awe, not being able to touch it. I saw my face reflected in the black polish. I saw the keys lying side by side waiting to be pressed down.

"She's beautiful, isn't she?" A man's voice said behind me. I turned and saw an elderly man in a wheel chair. He had a thin blanket spread across his knees. He was gripping the wheels and pushing himself toward me.

"I've seen you here before," he smiled. "You're that Desoto kid, aren't you?"

"I'm Katie," I said. "My mother works here."

"I'm Mr. Reins," he smiled. I'm very pleased to meet you."

He sat slightly hunched over, his short white hair uncombed, his keen blue eyes studying me through thick glasses, his feet stuck in blue slippers.

"Why aren't you in school?" He said.

"It's summer," I smiled.

"Of course it is," he said. "How foolish of me to think a child should always be in school."

He reached out with his right hand and rested it on the keys, like one would touch a small child.

"Do you play, Mr. Reins?" I asked.

"A long time ago, child," he said, his voice coming from a far off place. "It was before my legs went bad. I dazzled audiences all over Europe, playing in the huge concert halls, awing the critics. There was nothing I couldn't do then. I was a prodigy."

"What's a prodigy?" I said.

"It's a child born a man," he smiled. "A boy without a childhood. A child that frightens his parents, mystifies his teachers. A child that doesn't dream but does."

"How did this happen to you?" I asked.

"No one knew," he said. "The first time I climbed on a piano bench I played what was on my father's records. It was Bach, I think. It happened in church on a Sunday after the service and no one left the sanctuary. My parents stood beside me, horrified."