Crossroads and Unholy Water

Aunt Frances the Pianist

 Aunt Frances the Pianist In the rough rivers where she swam, Aunt Frances liked to anchor herself with one hand to a rock, then wave to us children lined up along the banks. The water slapped and sucked the unprotected parts of her body: petals of rubber daisies on her cap seemed like bouncing tentacles of one-eyed creatures positioned in surveillance around her small head; snorkel and mask channeled her sight and breath; hard-meshed nylon cups held her breasts within the bathing suit; black flippers extended her bunioned toes. Long-limbed, squared and no butt, she waddled. No curves on her body except for breasts which once had fed her only son (born deaf) who spent his time intent on solving mathematical equations or reading out of stacks of comic books about superheroes. She spoke little, smiled often, but her teeth were false. At night the teeth sat in a water-filled glass. Her husband had his own bedroom. We found her exotic, foreign . . . our American aunt! (A noted pianist once!) . . . shy to show photos of her parents’ house, a sister, a cardinal in a high tree, a field of wheat. The only voice left from her home was her piano.  Her husband, the ears-nose-and-throat specialist, always left the house when she played. Music also made the two dogs howl and howl continuously at her side, every time, until she gave up playing. For years the stilled piano remained planted on the front room’s green mosaic floor, used as a table at Christmas to display gifts. She drank. For years. Rum cocktails at noon. Rum cocktails alone. Rum cocktails always. In the bathroom, thin towels were always damp; tropical fungus blistered the walls. And all the while the dogs at her feet. Scratching. Grunting. Wheezing. Getting old. Dying. Replaced by the same. ...