Downstairs in the kitchen, Emily Parmalee washed dishes, the suds up to her elbows. Minna’s mother was unloading books from her book bag. McGrew was reading his science report to them.
“The beaver,” he read, “uses his teeth for several reasons. One, to eat trees. Two, because of nervous energy. Last and least, to shine his teeth. Shiny teeth are highly valued in the beaver community.”
Emily Parmalee and Minna’s mother burst into laughter.
“Where did you get those facts?” asked Emily, scratching her nose and leaving a spot of suds there. “Did you interview a beaver?”
“I made them up,” said McGrew, looking pleased. “What do you think?”
“McGrew, you can’t make up facts!” Minna protested. She thought of Imelda’s facts. The researched facts. The truths. “Made-up facts are not true,” she said, exasperated.
Minna’s mother leaned the broom against the wall and folded her arms.
“But Mama makes up facts,” said McGrew. “In her books. I can, too.”
“That’s fiction!” said Minna, her voice rising. “It’s not true!”
“It’s about people and feelings and places,” said McGrew, “and all those things are true.”
Minna thought suddenly about the sign over her mother’s desk. FACT AND FICTION ARE DIFFERENT TRUTHS. She thought about the letter folded in her pocket, full of feelings and facts about the person who was truly Minna Pratt though the letter could not be signed by her. “Truths, untruths; facts, fictions.”
Her mother put her hand on Minna’s shoulder, and Minna realized she had spoken the last out loud.
“Don’t you remember, Minna, when you were five?” said her mother. “I once said to you, ‘Is that true, Minna?’ and you answered, ‘It’s one of the truths, Mama!’”
There was silence then. Minna stared at her mother. What did I know then, thought Minna, that I’ve forgotten?
“One kind of truth, Min,” her mother said. “A different kind.”
She looked at McGrew. “And not,” she said sternly, “for a science report.”
“Unless you interview a beaver,” repeated Emily Parmalee, scouring out the bean pot, making them smile.
Minna leaves them with their truths and soapsuds and beavers. She goes up the stairs, past her father’s study, where he is singing. He does not sing well most times, except every so often when he happens on a beautiful note or two. As she listens he sings a phrase from La Traviata, his favorite opera. It is a long and lovely phrase, a sad phrase, that he sings to his books and papers. He does not see her, but she smiles at him, then leaves quickly before he sings badly again. His voice follows her down the hall.
. . . Misterioso, misterioso, altero,
croce, croce e delizia
croce e delizia, delizia al cor.
In her room Minna takes out the letter to her mother.
Dear Mrs. Pratt,
My mother doesn’t really hear what I say. She doesn’t listen. She asks me the wrong questions. She answers with wrong answers.
The letter is not yet signed. Minna slips the letter under her pillow, and that night she dreams about truths and untruths, facts and fictions. They are, all of them, dressed in furry suits and they scurry about the woods chewing on trees. “Misterioso,” they sing as they run from tree to tree. “Misterioso.” If she looks closely Minna can see they are beavers. They have shiny teeth, highly valued in the beaver community.
NINE
It is a cloudless day and the bus is full of excitement. Lewis’s baby has been born.
“Beautiful she is!” Lewis exclaims to everyone who boards the bus. “Have a cigar. Fifty-five cents, please, exact change, please. Beautiful she is!”
McGrew gives his cigar to Emily Parmalee, who takes the paper cigar ring off and puts it on her finger. Minna zips her cigar into the music pocket of her cello case. Next to her letter. The letter has traveled everywhere with Minna: in her pocket, once barely saved from the laundry; in her case nestled next to Mozart. It is a troublesome reminder, like a spot of soot in her eye or a stone in her sock. Yet it is also a comfort, like the gargoyles. Like Willie, who is always there. Sometimes the sight of it makes Minna smile, the rustle of it settles her mind, its truths please her. The letter is neatly addressed to her mother, but there is still no signature. Signing the letter is a problem, though it hasn’t always been a problem. For years Minna has been writing to people, some of them well known, using her own address and names she has borrowed or invented: Phoebe Crosstitch, Portia Puce, Veronica Jell.
Dear Leonard Bernstein,
Your hair moves nicely when you conduct. . . .
Dear Mr. Baryshnikov,
Your legs are very excellent. . . .
“Why?” asked her mother, mystified. “Why don’t you sign your own name? Don’t you want people to know who you are?”
“No,” said Minna, knowing her mother didn’t understand. Her mother wrote all kinds of personal things in her books, some of them embarrassing, and her mother didn’t care. But Minna cared.
Dear Portia,
Thank you for your letter regarding my hair. Do you prefer it when I conduct Stravinsky or when I do Debussy?
Dear Ms. Jell,
As Mr. Baryshnikov’s secretary I am writing to thank you on his behalf for your favorable comments on his legs. . . .
Easy names for those letters. But not for this one. Her own address for those letters. Not for this letter.
“Beautiful she is.” Lewis’s voice intruded on Minna’s thoughts. “Nine pounds and a bit more.”
Minna leaned forward.
“What’s her name?” she asked suddenly.
“Eliza,” said Lewis, smiling. “Sturdy little thing, with a face like the night moon.”
Minna smiled at his poetry. And a good stout name, too, at last, she thought. After a moment she unzipped the pocket of her cello case and took out her letter. She glanced at McGrew to make sure he wasn’t paying attention to her. He wasn’t. He was stretched across the aisle singing headlines to Emily Parmalee and a surprisingly undersized woman in a white turban and a fur coat.
“Man Weds Horse,” he sang. “Pinching Your Nose Increases Your I.Q.”
Very carefully, Minna signed the typewritten letter. She wrote a script that was tall and straight, unlike her own writing:
Yours very truly,
Eliza Moon
A nice name, her mother would say.
“Is that true?” A voice spoke close to her ear. Startled, Minna slid the letter into her coat pocket and turned around.
“What? Is what true?” she asked.
Behind her an old man leaned over the back of her seat.
“That,” he whispered, “what the boy there said. Is it a fact? Pinching your nose makes you intelligent?”
Minna looked at McGrew. McGrew and Emily Parmalee sat, holding their noses, reading. Behind them sat a busful of passengers, all holding their noses.
“I’d believe it for a fact,” Minna told the man. “That boy knows nearly everything.” She faced front again. And what he doesn’t know he makes up, she added to herself, thinking about his science report. The bus lurched to a stop, the door opening.
“Fifty-five cents, please. Exact change, please. She’s born!” Lewis chanted to a new passenger. “Beautiful she is!”
The bus ground up again and Minna smiled at the look of the man as he walked up the aisle, his hand immediately flying up to pinch his nose, too.
“Does something smell?” he asked in a high nasal voice.
Willie was not on his street corner, but the dog was, as if waiting patiently for his instrument to be delivered to him. He greeted her with a crooked dog smile. When Minna reached down to pat him he lifted his head to meet her hand and smacked his tail against the pavement.
“Where’s Willie?” Minna whispered to him. “Where?” She looked down the street. Maybe he had chosen another place to play. No, he wouldn’t have done that. This was his place; here by the
conservatory steps, by the gargoyles. Near the dog.
“Two-hour rehearsal today,” Minna called to McGrew and Emily Parmalee.
“Yep,” said McGrew. “We’re going to the movies.”
They sat for a moment, their backs against the building, and the dog collapsed in a fury of friendliness against them. Minna looked around once more for Willie, then she dragged her cello up the steps.
Hello, gargoyles. Hello, door. Hello, stairs. Hello, Mozart.
Upstairs it is not peaceful. Lucas has a buzz in his viola and he loosens and tightens strings. Orson has lost his music. He crouches over his case like a dog unearthing a buried bone, music flying out behind him. Haydn, Schumann, Donizetti, a piece of Ives flies by. No Mozart. Imelda sits peacefully, the eye of a storm. A muscle in Porch’s cheek twitches and his eyes are dark.
“Aha!” exclaims Orson, straightening up with Mozart clutched in his hand.
The buzz stops when Lucas adjusts his bridge. Minna unzips her case and pulls out her cello.
“Do not threap us, we are ready,” pronounces Orson. “Scold, that means,” he tells Porch.
Porch smiles suddenly and they all smile back.
“Four weeks,” says Porch. “An A please. C scale, then G.”
Love, thinks Minna, peering at Lucas, who smiles a bright smile at her. Surely love is a fact. She misses a note and Porch points to her and glares. She glares back and stretches her fingers, furiously attacking the repeat of the andante. Porch nods and beckons her to play louder, stronger. She does and he grins. Love.
Cheerfully Porch loads them all into the elevator. Inside Minna leans back and closes her eyes as the elevator starts downward. Next to her Lucas stands close and his fingers drum the beginning measures of the presto on her hand. She smiles, her eyes still closed.
“I wonder,” says Imelda, “if we have to wear uniforms for the concert. You know, dress alike.”
“It’s not baseball, Imelda,” says Orson.
“I wish it were,” says Minna, opening her eyes.
“It’s a little like baseball,” says Lucas, thoughtfully. “Everything has its own rhythms, I guess.”
Minna closes her eyes again.
ANNOUNCER: Welcome, baseball fans, on a beautiful sunny afternoon where the Sox are here to play Mozart. Playing first fiddle is number 7 . . . the shortstop will play second . . . the left fielder will hum.
Downstairs, Willie had joined the dog.
“Willie!” called Minna.
Willie looked up from his tuning and smiled at her, surprised at her voice.
It was clear the dog loved Willie. He sat on Willie’s shoe as Willie began a mazurka, wagging his tail just out of time, a little on the slow side, like a stubborn metronome. He slipped in and out of the crowd when Willie had finished and watched the listeners toss coins in Willie’s case.
Minna fished a quarter out of her pocket and handed it to Willie.
“Thanks.”
Willie bowed and handed it back.
“Thank you.”
The dog whined, and Minna reached out and scratched his ears. He had wisps of brown hair that stuck out above his eyes and around his chin.
“He looks like an unfinished painting,” said Lucas. “You know, not all smoothed and complete?”
Like me, thought Minna suddenly.
“You know, you’re right,” said Willie, looking down at the dog. “I wonder if he’s mine.”
Minna and Lucas laughed.
“What I mean,” said Willie, “is that he’s been here for days. He has no collar, no tags. I’ve been feeding him. He loves Mozart,” added Willie. “My favorite, too.”
Willie stuck his fiddle under his chin and played Schubert. The dog lay down. Willie played Tchaikovsky. The dog yawned and stretched. Willie played Mozart and the dog sat up, wagging his tail.
“That’s it, then,” said Willie, grinning. “His name is Mozart and he’s mine. Just to keep it simple,” he said to Minna, “I’ll call him Dog.”
So simple. Minna wished that everything were that simple; her mother, her father, her vibrato, her life. Maybe it was Willie who was that simple. That must be it. The rest of the world—my world—whirls and dips and turns inside out. But Willie is simple, dependable. Like a fact.
“Willie?” Minna could see McGrew and Emily way off in the distance, walking toward them.
“What?”
“When did you get a vibrato?”
“Vibrato? It was like magic. Almost like magic. One day I was playing and it happened. Up to then I’d done everything I could think of.” He peered down at Minna. “Mostly practice.”
“Did you get frustrated? Angry?”
“No,” said Willie, smiling broadly. “I just played!”
There was a pause.
“Porch says it’s like a light coming on over your head,” said Minna.
“True, in a way,” said Willie thoughtfully. “Sometimes it’s unexpected. Almost natural and hardly noticed, like your eyebrows growing. And sometimes it comes as a great surprise after a lot of hard work.” He stopped. “Like becoming an adult.”
McGrew and Emily Parmalee came then, with popcorn from the movies.
“She cried,” announced McGrew.
“Can you play ‘Baby, Baby, You’re My Life’ in B-flat?” asked Emily Parmalee tearfully.
Willie could. And he did.
Magic. Light over the head. Eyebrows growing?
Lucas walked Minna to the bus.
“Phone if you get your vibrato,” he called to her.
Minna waved good-bye from the bus window. Maybe it had nothing to do with organization, thought Minna. Maybe getting a vibrato had something to do with intelligence. She held her nose all the way home. Just in case.
TEN
The day was warm, though it had rained, and the grass had lost its winter brown that Minna loved. That brown, Minna thought, was the way the prairie would look. Lucas was coming to dinner tonight and Minna wished she were in the middle of the prairie, or perhaps sitting on the continental divide, just she and Lucas with a campfire and Devil Dogs for dessert. They would make wise and witty conversation in complete sentences with big words, adverbial phrases, and commas. Maybe even semicolons. Not conversations like her parents had at dinner, full of dashes and hyphens.
“I saw Mrs. You Know Who today—whatshername?”
“Ah yes—in all her glory?”
“Mr. Thing was with her—”
“With his great drooling dog, I betcha.”
“Shoot the potatoes down here—will you, luv?”
Luv. Her mother and father wrote notes to each other, almost always signing them “luv.” They kissed often, not only in the kitchen and in the quiet hallways of the house, but in the yard. Once she had seen them on the street, leaning against a tree, their arms around each other, kissing directly on the mouth for a great long time as if her father might be going off to war. Minna had been with McGrew and Emily Parmalee, who had been fascinated, mostly by the breathing techniques involved in such a long kiss.
“Do they breathe through their noses, or do they leave a bit of free space at the edges of their mouths, do you think?” Emily Parmalee asked, amazed. “My parents never kiss long enough to run out of air.”
“I imagine that they take a great gulping breath before they do it,” said McGrew, not embarrassed like Minna. “Though it’s hard to say. We could try.”
And they had, right there on the sidewalk in daylight, smashed their lips together while people walked by smiling and a cat, its tail in the air, stopped to peer up at them. Mortified, Minna felt surrounded by kissers. Afterward, McGrew and Emily had agreed that taking a breath didn’t work.
“You have to blow it out suddenly,” explained Emily, “you know, explode on your partner’s mouth.”
Minna shrugged away the memory and dragged her cello down the hallway, pausing outside her mother’s writing room.
“Lucas for dinner tonight,” she reminded her mother. r />
“I hope he’s plump and tender,” joked her mother, not looking up.
“Mother.”
“Okay, sweetie. We’ll have stew instead.”
“And no tofu,” said Minna. “Or hamburger pickles.”
“Check, luv,” said her mother, leaning over her typewriter to pen in a correction.
“Mother,” said Minna softly. “I want this to be a special dinner.”
“Um,” said her mother, her voice coming from somewhere far away. She stared at her page.
“Mother,” repeated Minna. “You’re not paying attention to me. Mother?”
Silence.
It is then, at that very moment, her mother’s head bent over the typewriter, Minna’s arm draped around her cello, that Minna’s anger overtakes her. It is like a spilled drink, the anger that flows over her. She leans her cello against the wall in the hallway, walks down the stairs, her face grim, and walks out the door to the mailbox. She passes the Parmalee house, crisp and still in its neatness; passes the big tree where her parents have lately kissed, and drops her letter without a return address into the mailbox. With a clatter of the mailbox door it is gone. Minna stands there for a moment, both frightened and pleased. Then she walks back past the tree, past the Parmalee house, back to the upstairs hallway, where her cello waits in its case. Her mother is still hunched over the typewriter, her back to Minna.
Frowning, Minna walked down the hall, down the stairs, through the dining room to her father’s office. The door was open and her father was inside, his feet up on his desk, conducting the Triumphal March from Aida. Minna slipped in and sat, waiting for the end. She looked around. It was a peaceful room, with comfortable chairs and book-lined walls. Full of facts, thought Minna. There are many facts here, many truths. Does my father know all these facts?
The music ended and her father looked up.