James Reynolds sat on the chair in front of the piano in the dimly lit room, his hands sitting on the keys as he scanned the music in front of him. The room smelled faintly of cigarette smoke hovering near the ceiling, and the light streaming in through the window, set slightly ajar to let in a breeze that sticky August afternoon, filled the room in a way only electricity could rival. Outside the tenement, cars rattled down the cobblestones, honking at each other like ducks fighting over a pond. He could hear newsies yelling the afternoon headline, screaming something about Charles Lindbergh over the constant noise made by those dratted automobiles. Shaking his head, he stood and pried the window open further, hoping that at least a tiny breeze would stir the still, humid air that caused his beat up, box Chickering to malfunction. Looking for something to keep it propped open, he spotted an old album on one of the bookshelves lining the wall across from the piano in his cramped, one room apartment. It looked to be about the right size, and he delicately removed it from the shelf, pushing it between the bottom of the frame and the windowsill and enjoying the fresh burst of air that entered the building. The power was out, and would be until he paid the electric bill. That meant nothing to run the fan with, and no lights. But it didn't matter to him, really; He'd survived worse summers back when he was a kid selling papers like that one screaming out there… There were several hours of sunlight left anyways, and candles stored away for when that waned.
Turning to head back to the piano, he saw a piece of paper flutter out of the book. It faintly looked like a photograph—no. How could he have used that album to keep the pane up? Dashing back to the window, he grasped futilely at the fluttering picture, but succeeded only in driving it further away. Swearing vehemently under his breath, he yanked the book out from between the window and frame and let it crash down as he threw open the door and charged downstairs and outside to chase the photo.
Reaching the front door to the tenement, he rushed out into the street, ignoring the fact he caused cars to screech their tires as he ran in front of them to grab the paper. Snatching it off from the middle of the road and ignoring the curses thrown his way, he began heading back up to his apartment. Halfway there, it occurred to him to see what it was he dropped anyways, and he glanced down at the picture. Smiling out of it cheerily in black and white was her, the girl he'd loved like a sister since meeting her, the girl who trusted him with her whole heart preserved on paper. The girl grinned happily at the camera, striking a pose with her daily papers cradled in both arms, balanced delicately near one hip. Her blouse, as he remembered it, was a yellowed white that was always a little bit loose, and that vest was the same gray vest she wore all the time. Of course, looking at the picture fell short of actually seeing her in front of him. The black and white photograph didn't show her flamboyant auburn hair, or the ordinary hazel color of her eyes that didn't quite match those locks. The skirt she wore was the only thing true to life (color wise, if nothing else) in the photo: it was the same black in print like it was in his memories of her, memories he'd long forgotten. Lost in his thoughts about her as he headed back up into the building, he didn't notice the teenaged girl jogging up behind him and trying to get his attention until she tapped him on the shoulder as he reached the top of the stairs. Turning around in response, he couldn't help but stop and stare at her. Familiar hazel eyes stared back at him from a tan, freckled face.
"Um… Hello…" the girl began awkwardly. "Sorry if I surprised you or anything… I don't think you heard me when I tried talking to you before back there…" She twirled a strand of her straight, red hair absently, gesturing towards the street with her other hand. "I just really need to know if this is where—" glancing at the crumpled paper in her hand, she tried to decipher the handwriting scribbled on it. "A mister Reynolds lives? Did I pronounce that name right? I need to talk to him about piano lessons—someone over at Irving said he still gives them occasionally." He stared quizzically at her for a moment before realizing what he was doing and shook his head to clear his thoughts. Now that he thought about it, she didn't look that much like Shannon—better known as Story—Wagner after all. Her hair was too light and frizzy, not the deep, voluminous orange Story's hair once was. The only thing that resembled matched the memories of her completely were those eyes, the kind that caught your glance and refused to let it go; the same eyes that caught his attention in line at the Distribution Office so many years ago.
The girl gazed innocently up at him—she couldn't be more than fifteen. The same age Story was when they first met… He suddenly realized he was staring and blinked heavily.
"I'm James Reynolds." He informed her gruffly, pushing the memories back and resuming the façade of a grumpy old man. "And yes, I give piano lessons. Have to pay the bills, don't I?" She quaked visibly, and he softened. "Sorry, kid. If you're looking for lessons, you've come to the right place." He turned to head up the stairs, gesturing for her to follow him. "What's your name?"
"Helen Wagner." The girl replied shakily, mounting the squeaking steps cautiously. Well, he thought, for all she looks like Story, she sure isn't as fearless as that girl was… Pushing open the door to his apartment, he stepped inside and wondered when the place gathered so much dust. Crossing to the window, he grabbed another book from the shelf beneath it to prop the glass up and let in some air.
"Wagner, huh?" He repeated thoughtfully, making sure the window wouldn't crash down anytime soon and pulling the shabby drapes out to let in as much light as possible. Sitting down on the piano bench facing outward, he motioned to a chair near the bookcases. "Have a seat, don't mind the dust." Helen awkwardly sat down, compulsively pressing out invisible wrinkles out of her dark green skirt with her calloused hands. She sat like a lady, he noticed, straight backed and nervous, her eyes darting around to absorb every inch of the cramped space. "You from around here?" he asked casually, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a box of cigarettes.
"Yes." She replied honestly, watching him as he shook a cigarette from the box and in one fluid motion produced a match from another pocket, lighting it. Smoke curled up to the ceiling as he took a drag from the cigarette and exhaled quietly. "My father's a repairman on Typewriter Row. He runs the Oliver shop." Reynolds nodded comfortably. That explained her discomfort; Typewriter repairmen on Broadway were some of the better-paid workers on Manhattan, what with Newspaper Row and the financial district just around the corner.
"No relation to Shannon Wagner, are you?" He asked her finally, his curiosity getting the better of him. The girl started at that, leaning forward as if suddenly interested in him.
"My mother… You really knew her then?" She asked anxiously. Maybe she hadn't come for piano lessons after all, Reynolds thought wryly.
"Story Wagner? I sure as hell did. Newsgirl for the World and one of the best backstage pianists New York's ever known," he told her. "Haven't seen her in years though, not since…" He trailed off as Helen's use of the past tense suddenly hit him. "Knew? What's happened to her?"
"She died six years ago—when I was ten." The man sighed.
"I thought as much." He informed her sadly. From where she stood, the sun shone through the grimy windowpane and illuminated her face, letting light dance acrosswhisps of herflaminghair whenever she moved her head. The girl sat awkwardly for a moment before timidly volunteering any more information.
"Someone told me that you knew her. That's why I'm here." Somehow, he expected that remark. Memories he surpressed slipped throughspiderweb fractures inching their way through the barriers he built around them so long ago. Sixteen years old… he thought, stunned. She's sixteen now. It's been nearly twenty since I last saw Story, that winter when she and Jack left…
"Well, you know now that I did..." He shook his head toclear it and sighed heavily."Have people said how muchyou look like her?" he asked.Helen nodded, relaxing a little bit. Taking a deep breath, as if bracing herself for something, she started talking again.
"Yes... Whenever I meet her old friends—it was Lisa McGarrity who sent me here. See, I was talking to her, and I mentioned that I wanted to learn about Mother, and how to play the piano better, and so... So she suggested you." Helen explained in a rush, as if terrified that her newfound courage would vanish.
"Lisa McGarrity?"Reynolds laughed, surprised at the sound. It seemed like years since he'd laughed about anything, much less something she'd done. "Leave it to Spy to pull something like this." Helen looked at him, puzzled, and he waved his hand dismissively. "Never mind. She was another old friend, like your ma was.. Now,do you play the piano some already, or are you starting from scales?" She blinked at the abrupt change of subject.
"I've played before, but nothing exciting." It was his turn to look puzzled. Raising one eyebrow, Reynolds felt the corner of his lips twitch with amusement. It felt so foreign… Maybe he had been away from people for too long. From optimistic people like Spy and Story and Jack, anyways.
"Exciting?" He repeated. How so?"
"Well, you know, like…" she lowered her voice, hesitating as if revealing some terrible secret. "Ragtime, for one." She waited for that to sink in,again looking scaredthat this would cause all hell to break loose.When it didn't seem to affect the older man in the least, she continued, words rapidly tumbling out of her mouth. "And Broadway shows. And popular tunes—I don't know. All I've been taught to read and play are classics. And sure, I love them, but they're not the same as having that kind of music in your fingers. People want to hear normal things, not just the same old minuets and that sort—You know?" Reynolds, amused,smothered a laugh byturning it into a cough. So the girl was more like her mother than he gave her credit for. Story always was rebellious—too rebellious for her own good at times. Always out against society.. He could remember her trying right there with the suffergites the day she turned 18, protesting in Central Park in her Sunday best. Ready for anything, she was.
"Yes, I understand…" He nodded, grinning. It's funny, he thought, how a person can forget such importantthings over the years--things like how wonderful it feels to smile."Alright. I'll teach you ragtime." Pausing for a moment, he continued on. "I remember your mother was good at that sort of thing—she had an ear for music, and could pick up rhythms like no one else I've ever met…" Trailing off again, Reynolds could remember her favorite rags echoing through Irving Hall at night after everyone else went home until ungodly hours. Ten, eleven, even midnight…
He could remember going to get her himself several times, dragging her, protesting, away from the piano backstage to the Lodging House so she could get some sleep before selling the next day. Sneaking her in after curfew became the standard, even to the point that no one bothered to lock the window to the fire escape after the time they nearly shattered the glass while trying to get someone's attention. Reynolds smiled genuinely at the memory. That was the night she finally nailed that new Joplin song, the night she, exhausted as ever, insisted on playing it for him when he came to get her to leave for the night.
"Just once more," she begged in that long ago memory, hazel eyes dancing as she looked up at him from her position on the rickety black bench at the piano. "Just to prove that I can."
"Can't it wait until tomorrow?" The sixteen-year-old version of James asked out of habit, knowing no matter what he said she would play it.
"No! You have to hear it now," Story explained, glowing. "Just listen." And then she turned back to the chipped, cracked ivory keyboard and played the rag. Straining his memory, he could hear the song echoing in his head. It still brought back memories whenever it came on the radio—that Maple Leaf became her favorite out of all of them. Somehow, on that beat up box piano, she still managed to fill the piece with as much life as she could. And he remembered counting the beats in his head while she played, marveling at her ability to stay on tempo…
"That girl could live on music alone, I swear." Reynolds told Helen reminiscently, returning from his reverie. Another awkward silence arose after that comment in which he took another drag from his cigarette and the two sat there taking the other in. Finally, he broke the stillness once more.
"What's your father's name again?" He asked, the question having tugged at him since he heard her mother's name. Did she and Jack really stay together all those years? Or did young love lead to disaster like it had for him?
"Fredrick. Will Fredrick. He runs the typewriter shop—well, he's really my uncle. But he said to say he's my father 'so people don't ask questions,' whatever that means. My real father died right after Mother did; I was there." Clouds filled her face, flickering through her eyes before they were pushed away. "He told me to keep her name because his would just get me in trouble." A smile twitched slightly on one side of his mouth as Reynolds smiled, stubbing out the long forgotten cigarette on an ashtray atop the piano.
"Your real father's name wouldn't happen to be Kelly, now would it?" She blinked.
"How'd you know?" She asked in a rush before her thoughts could catch up with her. And finally, the final walls fell, showing the genuine girl behind the prim, shy repairman's daughter façade. That last comment shattered the mask, and now a girl who he could positively identify as someone related to Story sat in the chair in front of him, awkwardness gone. Rambling on like his friend used to years before, the girl tried to backpedal fiercely from her blurted remark, but to no avail. "Well, I guess you knew my mother and her friends, so you'd obviously know who she was married to…" Helen trailed off, embarrassed at her latest outburst but too intrigued to put her wall of timidity back up. "But tell me-- please. How'd you know her? I don't remember meeting you before, or hearing about you at all before Lisa told me you lived here. Were you in the Great War all these years? Is that how you got the…" she gestured to her right eye. His left eye twinkled as his hand shot up towards the patch on the right side of his face.
"No, kid, I've had this nearly all my life. I wasn't in the war because of it..." He shook his head. "But that's not important." Taking a deep breath as a breeze wound its way through the room, he made a decision. It could cost him, he knew--that Frederickwould not be overjoyed to learn sheknew the truth about her mother; about everything.But he knew the look on Helen's face; the look of someone desperate to know the reality from the lies.
"You're really here to learn the truth about Story Wagner then?" he asked her. She hesitated briefly, then nodded firmly asall second thoughtsvanished with the knowledge he knew what he was talking about. "Pull that chair a little closer so I don't have to yell, and I'll tell it to you. Mind, it's not an entirely happy story, but I guess that we've all got to learn the truth one day." He leaned back in the chair that served as the piano's bench.
"The day I met Story Wagner the first time was the same August day I turned fifteen…"
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