Page 24 of Requiem & Reverie

Tonight was the first time Jonah’s left her alone, so I stole the opportunity to see her.

To tell her some of the truth. Give her some of the answers I know she’s probably desperate for. How fucked up my family is, and exactly what she’s dealing with. A stab of pain strikes my skull, and with the heel of my hand, I settle the intense ache that threatens blinding pain.

I’d give anything for that metronome right now, to settle my head. It’s only the sound, itself, that puts me in a relaxed state. Unfortunately, the symbolism of what the metronome was, for me as a child, is much more ominous, and as I stare down the empty street, my mind slips into memories of the day I learned what it meant.

The same day my mother was murdered.

My fingers run over the keys to the simplified version of Mozart’s ‘Lacrimosa’ of the Requiem. It’s my mother’s favorite, and as she sits beside me, she sways, smiling, her palm against her cheek, as she follows the rhythm of the song.

When I finish, she leans in and kisses the top of my head, giggling. “That’s my boy! Soon you’ll be playing Chopin and Liszt!”

The deep clearing of a throat draws my attention to the doorway, where my grandfather stands with his arms crossed, eyebrows stern. Always so pissed-off looking.

“Time for the boy to practice scales.”

Every day, my mother leaves me to practice scales to the sound of the metronome. I don’t mind it. It’s an hour my grandfather doesn’t bother to hound me about chores, or studies. It’s an acceptable hour of relaxed play that I look forward to alone, while my mother helps Grandfather with his bookkeeping.

Setting one more kiss to the top of my head, my mother pushes off the bench and sets the metronome to seventy beats-per-minute. Face downturned, she always looks disgusted about helping him with bookkeeping. As if it’s the worst thing he could ask her to do.

I don’t blame her. I’ve always hated numbers, myself.

“Nice and loud, Barrett. So we can hear you,” she says.

With a nod, I place my hands to the keys and begin to practice, while the two of them leave the room.

Minutes later, Carl appears, resting his elbow on the top of the piano. He’s just turned twenty-two. Thinks he’s hot shit, or something, always walking around with that smug grin. I try to ignore him for the scales, to make my mother happy, but when he starts to laugh, my irritation heightens, and I lose concentration.

“What do you want!”

“Ever wonder why they make you play these scales for an hour?”

“To practice,” I say, starting over.

“You’re as stupid as you look.”

“Then, why, if you’re so smart, huh?”

“How ‘bout I make you a deal? I’ll play your scales, and you go look?”

“What for?”

“It’ll make more sense if you just do it.”

I want to tell him to go to hell, but Carl’s never offered to do anything for me, and, admittedly, I’m curious. “Fine.”

He takes my place, sitting down at the keys. Carl isn’t as good as I am with music, but he’s been forced to practice scales far longer than I have, and he does so with ease. As he plays, I venture down the hallway toward where grandfather’s office door stands closed. It’s dark, but a small beam of light bleeds from the keyhole, and as I approach, the deep sound of grunting slows my steps. Taking a knee before the door, I peer through the keyhole.

My mother lies on her back across grandfather’s desk, each of her bare legs bent up at either side of him. With every thrust of his hips, he grunts and flinches, and she turns her head in my direction. I can see the glisten of tears running down her temples, but she doesn’t cry aloud.

Her eyes flip open, and she must see me peering in, because she lifts her head, brows furrowed.

“Stop! Stop!” She kicks her legs, pushing her knees into his chest. “Stop it! He’s watching!”

Instead of stopping, he grits his teeth and yanks her to the edge of the desk, jabbing his hips faster. “Like hell, I’m going to stop now,” he growls. “Hold still, girl!”

“Stop! I can’t let him see this!”

I back away from the door, my heart beating inside my chest. Disgust and panic battle inside my guts. Her father? Her own father! Pushing to my feet, I set to run back down the hall, but a scream, cut short by gurgling, urges me to spin back toward the door.