Upright Piano Player

He knew it was unforgivable to drive to the funeral in the old Land Rover, but it was the only transport he had. And anyhow, what difference did it make? What did any of it matter now? The day the police had returned the car he had taken it to the local dealer and they had ripped out the old seat belts and fitted the modern, retractable kind. They had done it in a few hours as an act of kindness, but to him the quick turnaround had felt more like a reproach.

He was not expected at the church. He had told his son that he was not up to it and could not come. That morning, he had found he could not stay away either, and had shaved in a hurry, cutting himself on the neck so that the collar of his white shirt had picked up specks of blood as he fumbled with his tie. A week ago, the doctor had given him sleeping pills, but he did not want oblivion and had not taken them. Now his eyes were almost closed, like those of a boxer at the wrong end of a good left jab, and driving to the church he had strayed onto the verge and mown down fifty yards of cow parsley before regaining the road. Following the arrows chalked on the gateposts, he parked in the meadow next to the church.
The sun was high in the sky and the number of red cars in the field depressed him further.

As he walked into the lane he listened for music. There had to be music. It had been a bond between them. Favorite tapes played over and over in the car, a phrase in the lyrics or an exuberant riff prompting delighted laughter, always on cue. He hoped someone had thought about the music—chosen something suitable, not too religious. He would have done it himself—would have done it better than anyone—but they had spared him the task. Get some rest, they had said. Rest?

That night, in the small hours, he had consulted his battered copy of
Hymns Ancient & Modern
. In the index, trying to second-guess his son, he had looked through the list of hymns for special occasions, but he had found evidence only of the Victorians’ preoccupation with sin and self-improvement. There were hymns for a temperance meeting; hymns for a teachers’ meeting; hymns for the laying of a church foundation stone—but he could find no recommended send-off for a small child dangled from a moving Land Rover.

The church door was closed, but through the open windows he heard the ebb and flow of a prayer and knew that it was too late to go in. He imagined the creak of the door and the click of his heels on the flagged floor, the heads of the congregation scrupulously not turning.

He walked down the path towards the newly dug grave. The grass matting draped over its sides reminded him of displays in garden centers, overly emphatic in this place of tired
turf and ancient stone. The grave’s opening seemed almost jocular, little more than a slot in the soil. But then the replays started running in his head and he was sitting on the sofa with his arm around the boy’s narrow shoulders and he knew there had been no mistake.

Dear brain, please stop, he pleaded.

He looked around for distraction. The surrounding gravestones bore the name of his daughter-in-law’s family. In the next plot, leaning protectively towards the new grave, was the headstone of John and Clara Burnham, the boy’s maternal great-grandparents. In a hundred years’ time, visitors to this church might wonder how an eight-year-old boy named Cage came to rest here among the long-lived Burnhams.

Then he heard it.

From the church, came the familiar sound of a cha-cha-cha. One night at supper, they had all agreed that Ruben González was the best musician in Cuba. He saw once more the boy slip down from his chair and jig around the kitchen, arms held high, dark hair flying, the back of his head so perfect. He felt ashamed of his worries about the music. Why had he doubted that his son would get it right? God knows, no one was closer to the boy; no one loved him more. Not even me, he thought, and I loved him mightily.

The church door opened and he stepped back from the grave. He did not want a place in the front row and retreated to the cover of the blackthorns by the churchyard wall. Two men carried the small coffin on their shoulders while the last chorus
of
La Engañadora
spilled out from the church. He realized that his foot was beating time. He stopped it, reassured that no one could have seen its movement in the long grass. How difficult it must be for the bearers to maintain that slow, measured tread when the music demanded a wilder gait.

Out from the porch came his son and daughter-in-law. She was holding Beth, now two and his only grandchild. Behind them were her parents and her three sisters with husbands, partners, and children clustered around them. He knew the Burnhams would overcome this loss, draw together and consolidate. Through the trees he could see the roof tiles of their family home—the house a mere fifty yards from the church, snug in the fold where the lane dips down into the valley. His grandson’s grave would be well tended. The Burnham side of the family would not let the boy down.

As the mourners gathered around the grave, his son saw him. There was a small smile of recognition, but no attempt to wave him closer. He stood for a while, not really hearing, not really seeing, and then slipped away through the side gate and back to the car. They had planned a buffet lunch at the Burnhams’ after the service, but he would skip that. He could not meet people right now. He sat in the car and closed his eyes. He would rest before driving home.

There was a rap at the window.

“Dad, open the door.”

He stirred, almost asleep.

“I’ve come to get you. You must come.”

His son’s dear face was the other side of the glass, only inches away. He looked ill, terminally so. Well, he was in a
way, wasn’t he? Don’t they say you never recover from the death of a child? He opened the window and shook his head.

“I can’t go in.”

“Dad, I need you there.”

“Ah, no.”

“I need them to know that I haven’t lost you as well.”

The Burnhams’ house was handsome. A white stucco façade, Dutch gables, and the windows and doors arranged with a pleasing symmetry. The sun had shifted, so that the windows of the crowded drawing room were in its full glare. Uncomfortably hot, Henry sat on a low chair that had been brought down from the nursery as emergency seating. He waited patiently for it all to be over. His head was at hip level to the crowd and as long as he did not look up no one could catch his eye. From time to time, someone patted him on the shoulder and moved on. Two pats were the most common form of sympathetic currency. The vicar had given him just one, but he had left his hand there for a beat longer than anyone else, and there had been the hint of a squeeze. Not knowing what to say, people had said nothing.