One Fine Place

The assistant director greeted her in the lobby and instructed one of the male ushers to show the young woman to the reception suite. It included a spacious sitting area furnished with several ornate chairs and love-seats, all pleasantly arranged but none as yet occupied. A black baby grand piano awaited her in the far corner between two sets of french doors. She peeked into the dining area. There stretched a long counter-top laden with food platters and bowls wrapped in cellophane. No concern on her part. Gillian had made sure to eat something before coming.

She left her music binder to rest on the piano’s stand and stood gazing through one of the outer doors at the patio area set with wrought iron tables and chairs and various potted plants. The early afternoon light left impressions of swaying oak branches on the brick palisade. “Sure would make one fine place to settle down,” she mused, “if it weren’t for all those old ugly stones out there.”

A returning procession of cars and pickups marched past and into the front parking area. Beyond the drive, there stretched the grounds scattered with evenly spaced limestone plaques for each person firmly planted in earthly repose for the rest of time.

The sight sickened her.

A middle-aged woman in light blue with a corsage appeared in the main doorway. “Oh, Gillian, you’re here.” She glanced behind then said, “we just got back and they’re on their way. You can start whenever you like.”

Before Carolyn first approached her talented neighbor about playing the post-burial reception, she’d been letting the young pianist into the Durham Baptist Church on Saturdays to practice on the Steinway used for Sunday services. Nothing further was required except to make sure the lights were out and the self-locking side door pulled shut. She would be left to herself, no one to disturb her. She would stay there for two maybe three hours, only rising from the bench for restroom breaks. Her only companion, Frederic Chopin’s Nocturne in D-flat.

Perhaps as a return favor, she assumed, Carolyn expected her to practice the complete list of popular songs she’d compiled. Yet as a friend, the older woman seemed to be proposing to pay her only because she saw that Gillian needed the money, offering $100 for one hour’s worth of music. Feeling thus obligated to try at least, Gillian spent the evening scouring the net for sheet music and was able to print out about ninety-percent of the total. In the morning she pretended to her boss to be sick, then ran through the whole collection on her electric keyboard till noon.

While preparing lunch, she scanned for the hundredth time the MacDowell Piano Competition flier stuck to the refrigerator door, especially noting the dollar figure for the entry fee. The due date gave Thursday. She had been sick for real for two days the previous week, following a Monday holiday, resulting in collateral damage to last Friday’s paycheck. She needed this gig. Finished eating, Gillian headed out for the six-block drive to Sweet Memories Funeral Home.

The hired pianist now seated herself behind the keyboard and opened the binder. Part way into Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’”, her peripheral vision picked up well-dressed figures, two or three at a time, wandering in. Some sat nearby and chatted, while most filed into the dining area. The den of voices increased, but she kept her dynamics subdued for the sake of avoiding complaints. After all, this was not a performance to exhibit her talent and skills. She was there simply to supply atmosphere, with the same purpose for which the flower arrangements lining the walls were selected. Carolyn had assured her that no one was there to judge, all well informed in advance that Ben would’ve approved.

To contrast with the upbeat opening number, she chose Bread’s “If” to soften things a bit. An elderly gentleman came and placed a filled wine glass on the piano’s edge and winked at her. She smiled and nodded to the gesture. As was her habit, Gillian gently swayed in rhythm with the music’s phrasing. A woman about twice her age was seated nearby, holding a glass of her own, and appeared to be swaying along while struggling to keep the corners of her lips from turning downward.

Carolyn came around and leaned in close, whispering, “just so you know, Ben’s ex-wife is loving this one so much she’s stopped listening to her boyfriend’s jabbering. You’re working magic, honey. Keep it up.”

Gillian felt a trembling enter her fingers, rendering them harder to control. She tried breathing deeply to compensate. Holding down the sustain pedal to let the final chord fade on its own, she took sips from the glass of wine. She wished Carolyn hadn’t said anything, had just let her stay aloof in the little corner, preferably oblivious to her audience’s presence.

She turned a page. Abba’s “The Winner Takes It All” seemed to hit too close to home. So, she flipped another over and found John Denver’s “Take Me Home, Country Roads”.

“This one’ll cheer them up,” she felt. Her fingers were dancing now, recovered from their former jitters.

While she played, a heavy-set man came in carrying a saucer of food and plopped down in one of the chairs. At the repeat of the chorus, he sang along, “Country roads … take Ben home … to the place … where he belongs … Louisiana … not Alabama …”

Someone in the dining area shouted, “Woooo-hoo!”

“Take him home … country roads …”

A woman stuck her head through the door. “Y’all are nothing but a bunch of LSU freaks, you know that?”

Another woman chimed, “Ben really loved his Tiger football, that’s for sure.”

The heavy-set man said to Gillian, “why don’t you play us another one there, uh, Miss, uh …”

Carolyn walked back over. “Everybody. This is Gillian. She’s Rick’s … y’all know Rick, don’t y’all?”

Gillian looked up at her and shook her head.

“Oh, sorry. Well, anyway, she has a whole book here of Ben’s favorites. Anything y’all want to hear, just ask Gillian.”

She hoped no one else would ask about the man she’d been living with who had packed his things on Saturday morning and gotten into a car driven by a woman in sleeveless halter, bracelets and long pink nails. He’d complained about their not spending enough time together on the weekends, not having fun like they used to. The only way she knew to work through the pain was to head to the church with the D-flat Nocturne and let its ecstatic flights of melody and shimmering waves of harmony dissolve whatever tears persisted.

“How about something with a local flavor?” the woman who had swayed with her asked.

She recalled one and began flipping back pages. Strangely, it had been the only one on the list hardest to find sheet music for — Le Roux’s “New Orleans Ladies”. Afterward, she continued with the one following it, Jimmy Davis’ “You Are My Sunshine”, and soon had the whole room singing along.

By two o'clock, while some lingered in the dining area still talking over coffee, most people had left. Gillian took up the binder and went in search of Carolyn.

The woman, who had been sitting and eating with some of Ben's relatives from out of town, came and placed a hand on her shoulder and said, “Gillian, I want you to know you did a wonderful job. I had a number of people say how they were so pleased to have stayed. Now, before you leave, I have just one last favor to ask.”

She led the younger one to the near-empty parking lot. After getting into a car, they drove around the grounds, past stone benches, a small pond with a fountain, a few memorial pillars, till Carolyn pulled to a stop under a shade tree. A truck and trailer were hauling away a backhoe, leaving a small mound of clay standing several yards up a grassy slope.

Gillian, a little apprehensive and lagging behind, was careful to side-step the other markers as she followed the woman in blue up to the spot. She then came and stood next to her, facing the mound and it's bright stone plaque.

Carolyn sighed and said, “Before he passed, I told Ben about your upcoming competition, how you’d been practicing so hard for it. Just so you know, it wasn’t my idea to have you here today. Don’t get me wrong. Ben didn’t know a single lick of music. All he knew how to play was the radio, after all. I didn’t even have to suggest it. That’s why …” She pulled a check from her purse and handed it to Gillian. It bore Ben Goddard’s scraggly signature.

When the younger woman read the figure, she felt her knees about to buckle from under her. She wrapped her arms around the older woman’s neck and kissed her cheek.

“So sorry I had to pretend to you, honey,” Carolyn said. “Buy you something really nice to wear before you go. OK?”

The following Sunday morning, the day after she’d performed the Chopin and saw her name listed third in the rankings, Gillian bought batteries for her keyboard and headed back to Sweet Memories. Besides the few cars parked before the stately building, no other soul was to be seen. The grounds appeared deserted yet peaceful. The weather had turned a little cooler from the day before, with a large sheet of clouds moving in and dampening the light. Nonetheless, having set up the stand and chair next to his mound, she opened the binder to the page and began playing, singing along even, “you are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me …”