“That’s right. He has a real gift, though he’s a bit rusty on the “Dance of the Four Swans.” More practicing at home should straighten all that out. Now, I do want to talk to you about—”
“Wait, hold on.” I held my hands up to keep her from continuing. “I think one of us is confused. Jack doesn’t play the piano. He doesn’t play any instruments.”
Delores squinted at me, as though she didn’t understand my words. “What was that, dear?”
“Jack doesn’t play the piano.”
“Yes, he does.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Well then he does a good job of pretending to play Tchaikovsky.”
“Wha-what?” Why was it suddenly hot in the dance studio?
I turned my confused frown to my son and found him watching me with a gaze too much like Greg’s. His face was angelic, but his eyes held a hint of devilry and guilt.
“Jack?” I appealed to him. “What’s this all about?”
He shrugged. “I’ve been messing around a little.” I didn’t miss how his fingers stroked the white keys of the piano with affection.
“Messing around?” Delores and I asked in unison.
“My dear boy, one does not mess around with Tchaikovsky’s Swan Lake.” Delores straightened her spine and sniffed in his direction, as though he’d offended her.
“When? Where?” My head was swimming and I needed to lean against something sturdy. I walked to the upright piano and placed a hand on it.
He shrugged again. “Here. At school. At Professor Simmons’s.”
“Have you been getting piano lessons? At school?”
“No. But Ms. Pastizo lets me in the chorus room during lunch.”
“Ms. Pastizo lets you in the chorus room . . . ?” I repeated. I was so confused. Jack was only eight, never had a music lesson, never—to my knowledge—displayed any interest in music or taking lessons. I glanced between him and the instrument. “Play something, please.”
He swallowed, his gaze wide and watchful . . . and wary. “I still want to play soccer.”
“What?”
“If I have to choose between music and soccer, I want to play soccer.” Jack crossed his arms over his chest.
“I promised you, you can play soccer this spring and I will keep my promise.” My gaze flickered to Delores, who was now watching us with dawning comprehension.
“He’s never had a lesson.” She made this statement to the room rather than to any one of its inhabitants, and with no small amount of wonder and awe.
Her wonder and awe made me nervous. “Jack, play Tchaikovsky. Play the Dance of the Six Ducks.”
“The Dance of the Four Swans,” Delores provided gently, coming to stand next to me.
“Yes. That one.” I knew nothing about Tchaikovsky’s music other than what I heard on the local NPR classical radio station. I couldn’t believe my young son was capable of playing chopsticks, let alone anything so complicated.
Jack narrowed his eyes with protest, so I narrowed mine with warning. My mom-glare must’ve been sufficiently threatening because he sighed loudly and placed his hands on the keys. He gave one more dramatic sigh before his eyes lost focus and he began playing.
And ohmydearGodinheaven, my son was playing the Jig of the Even Numbered Birds by Tchaikovsky. And he was playing it well. Remarkably well. Without sheet music. My jaw dropped and I covered my open mouth with shaking fingers.
“Oh my God.”
Delores’s hand closed over my shoulder and I turned my gaze to hers. She was smiling at me, a knowing smile, an elated smile. And it terrified me.
“He’s never had a lesson?”
I shook my head.
“Then you know what this means.”
I shook my head again—faster this time—not because I didn’t know what his spontaneous piano playing meant, but because I didn’t want her to say it.
“How lovely,” she said, obviously not understanding the ramifications of her next words, “Jack is a prodigy.”
***
“You have to take a bath.”
“But the water is wet.”
“That’s the point of water.”
“Can’t I take a sand bath?”
I looked to the heavens beyond the ceiling of our apartment. “What are you talking about?”
“Jack says people who live in the desert take sand baths.” Grace’s little voice adopted an accusatory edge, as though I’d been keeping this vital piece of information from her. As though I’d been needlessly subjecting her to the horror of wet baths for the last five years, like some sort of barbarian water-pusher.
“We don’t live in the desert. We live in snowy Chicago, where water abounds—not sand.”
I heard the distinct ring of my cell phone over the rush of the faucet and Grace’s protests.
“But—”
“No. No more arguing, Grace. Get in the bath.”
“But—”
“If I have to tell you one more time to get in the bath . . .” I turned to leave, rubbing my forehead, the sharp spike of pain radiating from my temples. If Greg were here he’d know how to get Grace into the bath without a fight. He was the master of convincing our children to brush their teeth and go to bed on time, all the while making everything fun.