“You’ve only come to two classes.”
“You noticed.” Joe leaned back in the chair, which created a weird angle. He could observe Mary without her consent. So she scootched her chair back to be even with him. She turned to him.
“I notice everything. You wore a blue plaid shirt last time, and it reminded me of a blanket that was given to me when I graduated from high school. I see everything, and I feel everything. That’s the job of a writer, even though I don’t make my living writing. I teach piano.”
“So you play?”
“Not so well, but I know enough to teach children the fundamentals. And when they have talent, I send them uptown to a great Russian teacher at the New York School of Music. Yulia Dusman. Now,she’sa great pianist.”
“And you don’t think you are? Who told you that you weren’t a great musician?”
“My dad.”
“And you believed him?”
“Of course. He’s my father.”
“You should never believe anything your parents tell you. They make every decision based on fear. See, you were probably a great pianist, but your dad didn’t want you to become a musician because it’s a lousy lifestyle. You’re working nights in dark rooms. Not safe for a woman, and then there’s the smoke inhalation. Can’t be good for your lungs.”
“Or maybe I’m just not that good.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“You haven’t heard me play.”
“Don’t have to. You have beautiful hands. Beautiful hands mean two things: a person is adept at either playing an instrument or writing.”
“Or sewing,” Mary added.
“Or sewing. A lost art.” Joe nodded in agreement.
“How do you know all this?”
“Because no one in my family wants me to write. And I was over at the DeMatteos, and the Mrs. caught on fast that I loved to write. And she gave me some encouragement.”
“You’re lucky,” Mary said. “She saw who you are without you ever having to explain it.”
“See, you get it.” Joe grinned.
Mary looked away because the proximity of his mouth to hers was close. She slid away from him in the chair as far as she could. He slid toward her to make sure he remained close.
“So where do you live?” Joe asked.
“The village.”
“Around here? Too expensive for me.”
“It would be for me, too. I live with my parents,” Mary explained.
“Why?”
“Because all my sisters moved away.”
“Your parents are old?”
“On their way.” Mary smiled. It made her laugh. If you asked her mother, she’d say she was ancient, but she just turned seventy.
“Mine, too.” Joe squinted at Mary as if to read her or observe her in form and line like a painting. “The good news is you’re from a big family so you have help.”
