Love in G Minor

Chapter One

The dust felt grimy on the tip of my finger as I gently tapped a single piano key. The sound was out of tune and tinny but somehow fascinating. After carelessly wiping my gray finger on my khaki pants I bent down, slowly expelling a breath that blew clouds of dust into the stale air around me. On an impulse my hand reached out and pulled the piano stool back. The legs made a slight screeching sound on the floor. I lowered myself and fumbled through a melody I remembered from my childhood music lessons.

My recollections of the antique piano were few; it had always been an accessory throughout my childhood, sitting in the living room, a pretty mystery. My mother bullied me into beginning lessons at the age of 8 and she would lie on the sofa, asking me to play something for her. Then she would lie there with her eyes closed and smile as if she were listening to a perfect symphony instead of the flawed practicing of her son.

The lessons continued for about 6 months and then abruptly stopped when my father ordered the instrument to be locked away in storage. My mother’s protest showed in her eyes but there was a furious certainty to Dad’s tone, so she made no objection.

My mother had been like that: you always knew how she felt on a certain matter but she never voiced these opinions, or offered guidance or objected to a decision. She was full of views and thoughts that she never expressed, but they were known and usually complied to. My father must have had a good reason for putting the piano away and she knew this but never asked what the reason was. Mom was a simple woman, knowing there was a reason was enough for her.

My mom died 2 weeks ago, leaving my father, my two sisters and me to cope without her steady love. We were all adults, spread out in location as well as lifestyle, but the pain and loss rippled through our family and brought Lisa, Jaclyn, and I back to our childhood home and back to our father.

When he first saw me, he said,

“Wes, I need you to go digging around in the storage unit for me.” I nodded, thinking he was just ranting in his grief but then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a key as well as a membership card to one of those storage places.

“What do you need me to get out of there, Dad?” I asked.

“Just go digging around.” He said with a knowing look on his face, before turning to embrace Jaclyn, who had begun to cry.

Now in the family storage unit, I slid my fingers off of the keys and looked around. On a silver rack were Lisa’s old dance costumes, in the corner was Jaclyn’s antique typewriter that she had not allowed to be thrown away when she moved out, I even spotted my cardboard box of comic books. But what had immediately caught my attention was the old piano. I hadn’t seen it since I was 8 and there seemed to be something magical about it now. It had a story.

Suddenly remembering a feature I had seen on many other pianos, I fingered the stool beneath me, and directly under the cushion there was a seam. Rising off the seat, I lifted up to see the compartment I had never thought to search for as a child. At first it looked like just a bunch of sheet music but upon sifting through the Beethoven I found a handwritten sheet of music. In feminine script at the top was written “Lyla and Jack’s Song” and in the upper right hand corner was the date July 14, 1963.

My eyes automatically began to scan the music: it was a simple song in G minor and I began to hum it to myself. A slightly slow, sweet piece, the harmony was repetitive and upbeat, suggesting the impatience of a hot July day to have the song completed.

Jack was my father’s name. My mother’s name was Abigail and I was certain that Lyla had never been a nickname of hers. Besides, my parents had retold the story of them falling in love on many an anniversary and they had not met until 1968. So who was this Lyla woman, and why had my father kept a song they had written together?

I continued to rummage around in the compartment, eventually resting on the peculiar texture of faded silk wrapped around old paper, which turned out to be a stack of what appeared to be letters wrapped in a pale green ribbon. I instantly recognized the handwriting on the outside of the envelopes (addressed simply to “Jack”) as the same as on the sheet music. I assumed the handwriting belonged to Lyla, and eagerly untied the ribbon. The bottom letter was probably the oldest, so I opened that one first.

June 28

Dearest Jack,

I feel like a character in a book, writing silly love notes when I see you every few days, but the emotions I feel are so expansive that pen and paper only seemed appropriate.

I’ve never felt like this before, Jack. I don’t pretend to be innocent, but my pulse quickens whenever you’re near. Whenever your arm brushes mine I get goosebumps.

You’re the first thing I think about in the morning and the last before I fall asleep. I always considered myself a cynic, and this phenomenon is amazing to me.

I realize I am a foolish girl for writing this to you, we’ve never spoke of it, but I get the sense these feelings may be mutual. I just wanted to get my feelings off my chest. If I am wrong please correct me and I hope we can remain excellent friends.

Ever Yours,

Lyla

I folded the letter with a snort. This Lyla woman was right; she was being silly- gutsy, but silly. There was no way my straight-as-an-arrow father had fallen for her sentimental gushing. I had never thought of him as a romantic. It was not possible that this thing with Lyla had progressed. Or was it? Maybe he had kept the letter so he could have a laugh. There were only three more notes. Somewhere inside me I suddenly felt a deep and burning desire to see what my father had written back. I opened the second letter.

July 1

Dearest, Dearest, Jack,

Thank you for your kind reply! My heart is overjoyed that you feel the same way. I am so happy it is beyond description! You make me so happy, I hope you know that.

I guess we don’t have to keep up this sentimental letter writing because now my lucky eyes will see you ever day, and as much as possible! Once in a while I might write you a few lines to properly express my passion but no worry, I do not expect an equally foolish reply, or one at all.

You are much more level-headed than I am which might be why you have my heart. You are so kind and intelligent and I love the way your shirts are always freshly ironed! You set my heart aflutter, I long to feel your hands, so strong and sure, holding me…

Passionately Yours,

Lyla

A grimace crossed my face as I sensed the hint of erotica at the conclusion. It was surprisingly difficult to imagine my father touching my mother, let alone another woman.

The third letter was longer than the others, at least two pages long. When I opened it I realized the handwriting was larger and looser, almost as if Lyla had been upset or drunk when she wrote it. Maybe both.

July 15

Dear Jack,

My heart is dancing in my chest and I think my entire body is shaking from yesterday. Our song is lovely if I do say so myself. I had the time of my life writing it with you.

But what was even more lovely was what happened afterward, when you pulled me off the piano stool and into your arms and we slow danced and then you kissed me, and I could smell your crisp shirt.

Anyway, Jack, I am writing because I’ve gotten a letter from my cousin who has invited me to take a road trip with her. The trip takes place in 2 weeks and if I am to go I plan to be dropped off at the university for a rescheduled interview.

I know what you’re thinking, but you don’t understand. I want so badly to be accepted late to this college, it will help me so much! And the road trip will give me new experiences and get me there quicker.

I hate to leave you 2 weeks earlier than previously planned, but it really is necessary. I will consider it more.

Love,

Lyla

I was now strangely intoxicated by the story unfolding before me. I did not know the complete story, of course, no one could but Lyla and my father, but I was devouring what was available to me. Nearly tearing open the final letter, I began to read.

July 27

Jack,

I will admit I was surprised by your response. My feelings for you are not diminished, and I am not “choosing to leave”.

I have had a marvelous time with you, I love you, and I will come back. Please wait for me. I have had the time of my life and I want to spend the rest of mine with you. Don’t forget me, it will break my heart.

Lyla

PS. I’ve enclosed one of my hair ribbons, the green one I wore when we wrote our song. Keep it to remember me by.

I fingered the ribbon in wonder. If my father had such a passionate, brave, beautiful woman who promised to come back, why would he marry my mother?