Silent Key

  Chapter Three: Sounds of the Rude World

  Mid-October brought a temperature drop. The tree-covered knobs around the campus looked like an aging man's head with strands of thin hair holding on for life. I hurried to the music building, purse and satchel clutched to my chest as cold rain poured down over my umbrella like a waterfall. Thunder boomed above my head as I reached the double doors.

  Inside, I closed my umbrella and shook my body out like a soaked animal. As I bent over to fluff my hair, I noticed a pair of tennis shoes approach. Slowly I looked up, hair hanging over my face like a soggy mop. 

  "Foster Anne Farraday. Nice to see you again."

  Dammit. 

  "Aaron Hagan. Hello." I used my free arm to push my hair back over the top of my head. "How have you been?"

  "Great. Things have been great. I thought I'd see you around more but I guess our classes don't match up." 

  "I guess not. I've been really busy, too."

  "Right. More benefits?" The way he smiled told me that he knew Grant had been lying.

  "I need to get to my practice room," I said and smiled sweetly, trying not to look directly into his eyes. Beautiful eyes. "I'll see you around. Maybe."

  "Wait!" He sounded so urgent that I stopped walking and turned again in his direction. A vocal professor passed by and grinned knowingly. Once again, my cheeks flushed. I wanted to get as far away from Aaron Hagan as possible. "I was just wondering ..." he continued. "Do you like basketball?"

  "Basketball?”

  He nodded and smiled. I noticed a dimple to the left of his mouth. “College basketball.”

  "Well, I was pretty much raised on Kentucky basketball, if that's what you mean."

  "Perfect! Me, too. I have two tickets to Big Blue Madness on Tuesday. You know, the opening of the season. Great seats. My Dad works downtown and gets them from his boss. Interested?"

  My lips felt numb. "Interested in ... what?"

  "Going to Big Blue Madness. With me. It would be fun."

  "Oh. Wow. That sounds like fun but I already have plans. I'm sorry. Maybe Reagan can go."

  Aaron took a small step toward me. "I'm not interested in taking Reagan. Or Grant, before you go there. I'm asking you, Foster." A wave of his cologne hit me. "Do you really have plans?"

  "I ... I do."

  "What are your plans?"

  "I ... I have to go to a ... a ..." My brain failed me. I stood there like an idiot, dripping wet, still clutching my bags.

  "A benefit?" he smiled and took another small step toward me. I could see a beaded necklace outlined under his Big League Chew t-shirt. 

  It was too much. I had gone out on a few dates in high school but this was just too much. I didn't like the way I felt around him. It was foreign and frightening.

  "Yes!" I said loudly. "I told you I have plans! I have a social life, too, you know. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go practice ... before my big date tonight. Yep. I have a date tonight … and Tuesday night. Same guy. So, thanks, but no."

  I quickly turned and walked down the hall toward the stairway leading to the second floor. I didn't look back but I knew he was still there, watching me. My wet shoes slid on the linoleum and I cursed under my breath before leaping up the steps to retreat into my practice room.

  ____________

  As I put my key in the lock and opened the door, a strange sensation washed over me. I always kept the room locked, but this time I felt an eerie sort of company. My hand found the light switch and I flipped it upward. 

  Immediately my eyes found it. My throat closed as if an invisible hand encircled it. I don't remember dropping my bags, but I heard them hit the floor. 

  On top of the black baby grand piano sat a fringed pink boot. It sat in the silence of the brightly-lit room, frozen, waiting for a response.

  "What?" My voice came out in a breathy vibrato. "What is this? What is happening?" 

  For a moment I didn't move. My legs felt wooden but I managed to jump into motion to close the door, kicking my bags out of the way. 

  "I ... I don't understand," I said to no one, my back pressed against the metal door. "What is happening? Whose boot is this? Whose boot is this??"

  With a lurch I grabbed the boot and flung my door back open. "Whose boot it this?" I yelled. "Who did this?"

  My practice room neighbor, a junior named Kristen, peeked at me through the window in the door, scowling. I continued to call out, begging for an answer, clutching the boot in my hand. Within seconds, my piano professor rounded the corner.

  "Foster? What is going on? Are you okay?" Dr. Alexander moved toward me, his palms out. It reminded me of the way my dad once moved toward a raccoon that had gotten trapped in our garage.

  "This boot! Someone put this boot in my room!" I was now screaming. A salty sweat was breaking out on my upper lip. 

  Dr. Alexander's eyebrows creased. "Okay. Calm down. Is it your boot?"

  "No! No! It's not my boot! I don't know whose boot it is!"

  From behind Dr. Alexander, Aaron appeared, mouth agape, trumpet in hand. Frantically I pointed the boot in his direction. "Did you do this?"

  "What?" he asked. "What are you talking about?"

  "Foster," Dr. Alexander quietly said, palms still out. "You need to calm down, please. Why don't you just give me the boot?" 

  I stood there, shaking, sweating, slowly attracting the attention of students and professors. In an instant, an unexpected wave of calmness washed over me. I dropped the boot from my hand. It hit the floor and fell over on its side.

  Turning to walk back into my room I said, "Get rid of it," and slammed the door behind me.

  ____________

  Hours passed. My wrists were aching, yet I pounded away at the keys. Rachmaninoff would have been proud. Musical phrases from his Polichinelle in F-sharp minor bounced off of the walls as I pushed through the first section, playing as fiercely as I could. 

  The crowd outside the door during my outburst had dissipated after a few minutes. I saw Aaron peek through the window but when I flashed him a middle finger, he went away.

  I didn't want to think of the boot. I didn't want to think of Aaron. All I wanted to do was play and play until I was numb, until I had no memories. Tears flowed over my lips and onto my lap.

  For months I had tucked it away—the night in the ravine that had scared me into a life of simplicity and study. At one point I even wondered if it had been a feverish dream. Perhaps I had seen nothing and there was never any Schweppes can or wolf in the bushes. Perhaps there were never any pink boots, and today’s event was just a coincidence. I wasn't the only student with a key to the practice room.

  I continued to play, intense, my eyes on the music. But my thoughts were on owl song and a calm, smiling face. Those eyes, looking right through the stones, right at me.

  He saw me, I thought. He knows who I am. My God, he knows.

  "Son of a bitch!" I screamed out and jumped from the bench. Gripping my left hand I bent over trying to cradle it. "Dammit!"

  There was a quick knock on the door and Aaron walked in. "What happened?"

  I gritted my teeth and looked up at him, tears pouring. "What were you doing, sitting outside of my door? Shit! I think I just broke my finger."

  Aaron picked up my purse. "Let's go."

  "Where?" 

  "I'm taking you to the ER. Let's go."

  ____________

  It was 11:48 p.m. I sat on a sheet-covered stretcher in Room 4 of the Hayford County Emergency Room waiting for my release papers. My left ring finger was wrapped and supported with a splint. Though only slightly sprained, I was in pain and drowsy from the medication I had been given. Aaron sat across from me, watching my face. I refused to make eye contact.

  "Guess you missed your big date," he finally said.

  "What?" I slurred and looked up. His eyes locked with mine. "What do you mean?"

  "Your big date. You said you had a big date tonight. Do I need to call the guy fo
r you?"

  "No. I didn't have a date. I lied to you."

  "I know that."

      

  "I don't have one Tuesday either."

  "I know that, too."

  "Then why did you mention my date tonight?"

  Aaron smiled. "I wanted to hear you say it."

  I looked down at my wounded hand. I didn't know what to do with this guy. He confused me. Yet having him sitting beside me at the hospital made me feel safe and warm.

  "So, what was with the boot?"

  "It was nothing. It was a mistake."

  Outside of the room I heard a commotion and Reagan came bursting through the curtain. Her eyes scanned the room and when she saw me, she ran over with her arms open.

  "Foster, what happened? Are you okay? Did you break something?" Her embrace made me claustrophobic. I wiggled and she loosened her grip, but only slightly. 

  "I'm okay. It's just a small sprain. I must have been playing too heavily. I jammed it."

  "Thank God you're okay. So, what does this mean? No piano? What is going to happen to you?"

  I managed a woozy smile. "You're so dramatic, Rea. I just need to back off and let it heal. It's not the end of my career. The doctor said I should be fine in two weeks, max."

  “Oh, good." Reagan finally noticed Aaron. "Hey, thanks for bringing her here. That was very chivalrous of you." She winked at me. I groaned.

  "Well, somebody needed to look after her. Torrential rain, pink boots, a sprained finger, and a missed date." He whistled. "Rough day."

  "You had a DATE?" Reagan squealed. She began to bounce up and down.

  "No, no, no. Just ignore him." 

  Aaron stood. "Well, if you two don't need anything else, I'm going to head back." He patted his pockets, as old men sometimes do, making sure they have their keys and other belongings. It was quite charming.

  "Where exactly do you live, Aaron?" Rea asked. I pushed a non-sprained finger into her side.

  "In an apartment off of Oak Street. It's an old home, from the 1940's I think. Pretty groovy. High ceilings and such."

  "Well, that's not too far from campus, is it, Foster?" 

  I raised the corners of my mouth slightly. "Nope," I said. 

  Aaron returned my smile, though more genuine. "Cool. Well, see you guys around." He began to push through the curtain then turned to me once more. "Oh, and Foster. Try Debussy next time. I don't think anyone has ever jammed a finger playing Debussy." 

  Reagan turned to me. "Don't ask," I said, sliding off of the stretcher. "He's attempting to be witty."

  The nurse walked in with the papers and I was free to go. Reagan linked arms with me and talked all the way to her car about classes, auditions for the next show, and a new cassette she had bought that afternoon. But all I could think of was Aaron. And a pink fringed boot.