Chapter 10
Opal whipped up her laptop on the front porch, the sun was still holding fast to the autumn and she wanted to soak up as much of the sun as she could before the rainy winter came in. She sat cross legged on the concrete with her computer in front of her, the light breeze playing with her curls. She did a Google search on Orpheus and clicked the Wikipedia link. Son of Apollo, played the lyre.
A lyre. Opal remembered seeing one on a class trip years before, back in Victoria when she was in grade school. Staring at it though the glass, she wondered what kinds of sounds it made. She had asked the museum interpreter if she could play it, and consequently learned museums were very strict with their policies. Sidetracked she clicked on the link for the instrument. Scanning the page she learned Hermes had been the one to design it, from a turtle shell and the entrails of a cow he had stolen from Apollo. He presented the lyre to the God of the Sun in apology for stealing his cattle. Kind of seemed counter intuitive, kill the god's cow to make him an instrument in apology for stealing said cow. Why not just give it back with intestines still inside?
"Hey Chickadee, what are you doing?" she jumped when her father reached down a hand to ruffle her hair. He was just getting home from work, smelling of fish and ocean salt.
"Hay dad," she smiled, closing her laptop to walk inside with him, "just looking up about Orpheus for a school project."
"Orpheus, eh?" he rubbed the blonde stubble on his chin in thought for a moment, "let me wash up and then I'll show you something."
"Kay," she nodded leaving her father for his usual post work shower, taking a seat at the piano to pass the time while she waited. When he came back downstairs he was carrying an old leather book, his wet hair was freshly combed back, and dressed in pajamas. Opal took a seat beside him on the couch. Even though he had just showered the smell of his profession always lingered on her father, she could still smell the harbor on him.
"This is your mother's, it's been passed down for generations," John passed her the book, and gently she lifted it from him, "There's some neat stuff in there, but can't read a word of it, came from the ancient Greek days apparently."
"Orpheus," Opal muttered, running her fingers over the engraved letters. She opened it on her lap to find pages after pages of music, "Do you know who he was?"
"A musician," he offered her a smug smile, like he always did when he thought he was being funny.
"Thank you for that riveting information father, what would I ever do without your keen advice," she shot back and they laughed.
"Your mom doesn't seem to think it was the Orpheus, but I don't know, it's fun to believe so sometimes," he smiled, "Though he did have a large religious following back in the day, I would imagine his name was put on a lot of things."
"Shouldn't it be in a museum?"
"Play some of the music and you'll know why no one ever took it to a museum," he tapped his crooked nose, from various breaks, and pointed at the piano. Opal nodded and took back her place in front of the instrument, turning the dusty pages with gentle care as she looked for a piece to perform. The music was not written for a piano, but nonetheless she played out the notes. It flowed together beautifully, enticing Opal to continue playing out the melody.
"Is this for a lyre?" she asked, taking her hands back to turn around and face her father.
"I'd assume so Chickadee," he nodded and got to his feet, "I'll start dinner, you go get your mother from the garden, and tell her she's my Eurydice."
"Kay," she nodded and let herself out the back door. Dressed in overalls, her mother was kneeling over some flourishing tomato plants directly in the sun. There was a basket of the plant's fruit along with other vegetables from the garden, green onions and radish. Percival was sitting in a lawn chair beside the garden, both of them laughing. The man wasn't around much, came in late and went out early most days, but the moments she could catch him Opal would inquire about her grandmother and her mother's childhood.
"Is your father home?" noticing her daughter Ophelia leaned back on her heals and wiped her dirt covered hand over her already smudged brow.
"Yeah, he's starting dinner and he says to tell you that your his Uri-dee," she struggled with the name.
"Eurydice," she corrected, "well you can tell him, my husband is not my Orpheus because the man was a fool."
"Why?" Opal asked.
"Eurydice was bitten by a venomous snake the morning of their wedding, so Orpheus went to the underworld and played his lyre for Hades to get her back. Hades agreed to let Eurydice free as long as he didn't look back at her before they were out of the underworld," Percival said, "Interesting character Orpheus is."
"And he did?" Opal said.
"He did," her mother stated, getting to her feet, bringing the basket of vegetables with her.
"That does seem foolish," Opal noted, turning to follow her inside. Ophelia dropped the basket on the counter beside her husband, who sent her a knowing smile.
"What did she say?" he looked over his shoulder to his daughter.
"Orpheus was a fool."
"Orpheus only looked back because his bride didn't answer when he called her name," he stated, leaning over to place a kiss on his wife's head as she washed the soil off her hands.
"Don't listen to him," Ophelia announced, "that's not written in any of the myths."
"I know that's what happened," he smirked, "I'd be scared shitless if I had to lead you through a tunnel in hell, I'd be calling your name every twenty seconds to make sure you were there Dove. I'd be hard pressed not to look back if you didn't answer."
"John, you're such a sap," she swatted him and plucked up a knife to dice the onions. He laughed and wrapped his arms around her, placing his hands over hers to guide the slices through the onions. Dropping the knife Ophelia turned around in his toned arms to face her husband and pull him in for a deep kiss.
"Mom, dad, get a room," Opal exclaimed from the kitchen table.
"We are in a room Chickadee," her mother looked over her father's broad shoulders to say with a smirk. Opal groaned and scooped up the book to retreat outside.
Theresa slammed the door behind her as she stormed into the brownstone, causing it to rattle in its frame. She stomped up the stairs and drew a curious Atlanta out into the hallway. The fiery redhead poked her head out of her room and called to her friend. Theresa snapped her head around, fists clenched at her side and chest heaving.
"What's the matter?" Atlanta asked, leaning against her doorframe, crossing one foot over her ankle.
"Jay," she huffed, tossing up tense hands.
"What he do now?" she smirked and waved the taller girl over. With an irritated huff Theresa took Atlanta's invitation and swept into her room, drooping down on the crumpled covers of her bed.
"He's just doing what he always does," Theresa tossed up her hands and slouched back, "Can't he just forget about Cronus for one second and worry about us?"
"Don't worry about it too much Theresa," Atlanta said, "Everything's been a little tenser around here, I mean with what Nyx said. We all know Jay cares about you."
"Yeah," she sighed and looked up to the ceiling light.
"You know what I do when Archie pisses me off?" she asked in cheery nature, smacking her friend on the arm with the back of her hand.
"What?" Theresa sent over an inquiring gaze.
Swooping over to her desk she picked up her field hockey stick and began swinging it around in the air, "I print off a picture of his face and slam field hockey balls into it."
"Ah," the corner of Theresa's lip pulled up in a sneer as she watched the unnatural joy that came to Atlanta's face, "I don't think disfiguring Jay's face will make me feel any better."
"Yeah, it's not for everyone," she shrugged and set her hockey stick back down to lean against her desk, "I'll talk to Archie about it though. Maybe if Jay hears it from one of the guys he'll listen a little more."
"Thanks Atlanta," Theresa smiled and got to her feet, "What do you say we hit the mall for a bit?"
"I do need a new pair of cleats," she said, "And I haven't had a chance to check out the new sports store in the mall yet."
"Perfect, let's go," Theresa sent the smaller girl a bright smile and ushered her out of her room and down to the landing. Atlanta may find violence as an anger outlet, but Theresa preferred to hinder her father's bank account.