Laura's Theme
An ebony grand piano filled the small stage. With a straight backed elegance unexpected in an adolescent, a slim girl of thirteen walked slowly up the short flight of stairs to the stage, reaching to greet the instrument as if it were a sweetly cherished friend. She wore a high bodice black dress that fell just to her knees, wrists protruding stubbornly from the sleeves as if, foal-like, her arms and legs had out grown her body . The chunky-heeled black shoes she wore added to a coltish demeanor. Thick auburn hair fell smoothly well past her waist line, the center marked by a lighter lock of sun bleached hair which had been pulled straight back from her face and gathered with a metal clip at the back of her head.
Struggling a bit with its awkward size, the girl pushed the bench back from the piano, settled herself, and found the peddle with her foot. She touched the keys lightly without striking for sound. Turning, she looked quickly out at the rows of movable chairs, a wing of hair falling forward across her shoulder as she did. Three women smiled encouragingly at her from about halfway back, but it was the empty seat next to them that drew the girl's attention. A slight pucker of her brow marred the smooth, freckled clarity of her face. She closed her liquid brown eyes, drew in a deep breath and arching her back slightly, pushed her slender rib cage forward in resolve. She reached for the keyboard, fingers poised delicately for a moment over the ivory steps before stroking the first haunting notes of Mozart's Fantasia.
Music grew and filled the room as the young pianist moved seamlessly on to a Bach three part invention, and concluded with a Chopin waltz. Even younger members of the audience were captivated as the girl effortlessly, and with touching emotion, found the soul of each composer in her performance. Her slight body moved in pursuit of the melody. When the final notes faded the room trembled with silence. A single set of hands began tentative applause, which rose to a thunderous response. Slowly the pianist stood and with grave dignity walked away from the piano, running her hand down its length as she left the stage. Eyes lowered, no smile acknowledged the audiences enthusiastic response to her performance. She returned to sit with the other students.
Laura stalked into her home ahead of her sister, mother and grandmother, barely pausing to make certain the door did not swing shut and hit her older sister, who followed closely behind her. She stopped short as she looked into the living room where her father was slouched in an armchair watching a television program. Their eyes met briefly before a mask of indifference fell across her face and she continued down a short hall toward her own room, closing the door firmly behind her.
"Hi Daddy," Frances tilted her head full of shoulder length reddish-brown ringlets, her gaze challenging her father as she spoke. "I wish you could have come to Laura's recital. She played beautifully."
"I can't believe you couldn't pull yourself together long enough to be there for your Laura."
Abigail followed Frances into the hall, her voice bright and brittle; a tight smile veiling the couched anger of her words. "She was looking for you all through the program, hoping to see that you had arrived. Doesn't matter to her that my mother came all the way from Connecticut to hear her play, or that Frances and I sat through all those awful beginners waiting to hear her. As if we hadn't had enough of that through the years! No, no, Laura just wanted her father there."
Upon entering the house, Anna, the girls' grandmother, put an arm around Frances' shoulder and drew her into the kitchen. Her soft voice could soon be heard chatting companionably to the teen about the recital and what sort of snack Frances might like.
John Holt, a man drowning in a sea of words, looked up at Abigail Holt.
Abigail was beautiful, even when angry, a spitfire of righteous indignation. Her ominously quiet rant continued for some minutes, concluding finally with, "It isn't as if we haven't all struggled with what happened, John. But life goes on. We've all moved on. You're the only one who can't seem to let go of the past. Get up now, come along. Be civilized and visit with Mother and Frances while I get dinner started."
Grasping her husband's arm Abigail firmly pushed him ahead of her into the kitchen where the other two women were sitting at the table drinking ice water. A plate with crackers and cheese sat untouched in front of them.
"Perfect! Thank you Mother! John has had such a head ache since his walk this afternoon, he's been lying low hoping it will clear up. I think a nice cool drink and a little snack will do him a world of good!"Abigail breezed blithefully on, as if her berating of her husband minutes earlier had neither occurred nor been over-heard.
"Of course! John, I'm so sorry you're not feeling well." Anna rose quietly to fill a glass, and setting it in front of her son- in-law, turned somewhat apologetically to Frances. "I'm just going to go check on your sister, Frances."
Anna walked out of the room that Abigail was now energetically filling with banging pots and slamming cupboard doors. Entering Laura's bedroom, Anna closed her eyes as leaned against the door frame with a sigh. Laura's dress was a puddle of silky black in the middle of the floor, partially covering her hastily discarded tights and shoes.
Walking through the room, Anna pulled the curtain aside to look out. A cool breeze blew through the open window. A dog barked monotonously somewhere in the dark.
Laura was nowhere to be found.
It seemed there were just too many wounded people in this family for Anna reach all of them.