Some more vocabulary and personages since I know I'd need it:
Zut, meaning 'dangit', 'gosh darn it', etc.
Louis Vola, a French bassist, was a part of the Quintette du Hot Club de France, a jazz band which existed from 1934 until 1939 at the start of the Second World War. The quintet was popular for Gypsy jazz.
WASP, White Anglo-Saxon Protestant.
Quoi?, meaning 'what?' in French.
Also, Erik's parents are Dana Miles Walker and Mariah Walker. When Christine is reading, she quotes from 'The Three Little Pigs'. The lullaby she sings is a French lullaby called "Dodo, l'enfant do" ("Sleepy time, the child sleeps").
oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Erik watched from his bedroom window as a silver Ford parked in front of the old colonial next door. The driver's door opened, and Erik saw a middle-aged woman, her brown hair graying, getting out. She spoke to the truck driver, and then beckoned to the car. The passenger door opened, and Erik stared.
A girl got out, with black hair and swarthy skin. Her short height did not hide her strong body— a dancer's body. But Erik stared at her hands. Even though she would be tiny next to him, her fingers were as long as his. She had the hands of a pianist, and Erik yearned to know if she played.
He snapped his eyes back to the woman when she called out to the girl; her daughter, Erik presumed. Likely the father would come down later. The two went inside the house, and Erik turned away to sit at his piano, mindlessly tapping out Für Elise with one hand. The other hand marked some notes on a manuscript in pencil.
The distant sound of a door slamming caught his ear and he stopped playing. His parents were home: Dana Miles and Mariah Walker. Erik went downstairs to greet them, silent as always.
"Hi," he said. Mariah Walker jumped, her usual reaction to realizing that her son was mere inches behind her without being noticed. She greeted him after calming, kissing his cheek. His mask. Dana Miles came in, cheerful; he raised a hand to his son with a grin.
"Have a good morning, son?" Erik grunted an affirmative. Dana Miles chuckled. "Glad to hear it. Say, did our new neighbors arrive yet?"
"Yes."
"Mariah, why don't we invite them for lunch? I'll go greet them. Like to come, Erik?"
Tempted as he was, Erik shook his head and disappeared back upstairs. If they were coming to lunch, he knew he couldn't be there. What would they think? Their cooky neighbor who wears a mask. Perfect.
No, it was much better to wait and learn about them, and know how to deal with them. He would listen. And wait.
When the right moment came, Erik would take it.
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"'And he huffed and he puffed and he blew the house down!'"
Aidan Murphy laughed at Christine's mannerisms; she knew he didn't understand what she was saying. She smiled, staring down at the book. The artist had made the wolf scraggly and thin, and the pigs plump and very edible looking. To a carnivore, at least. In real life, those pigs would probably die from obesity.
Christine wondered why any artist would do something so atrocious to their art, but she pushed the thoughts aside as just her vegetarian conscious getting to her.
She finished the story and hoisted six-year old Aidan onto her hip, humming a random tune as she sat him on his bed. He hummed along, though he couldn't quite keep up with her. Christine switched over to 'Twinkle, Twinkle,' and they hummed together. Aidan crawled under his blue comforter; Christine smiled down at him and began to sing.
Dodo, l'enfant do,
L'enfant dormira bien vite
Dodo, l'enfant do
L'enfant dormira bientôt.
Une poule blanche
Est là dans la grange.
Qui va faire un petit coco
Pour l'enfant qui va fair' dodo.
Dodo, l'enfant do,
L'enfant dormira bien vite
Dodo, l'enfant do
L'enfant dormira bientôt.
Tout le monde est sage
Dans le voisinage
Il est l'heure d'aller dormir
Le sommeil va bientôt venir.
Aidan gave a little hum, and Christine kissed his little forehead and his little nose and each cheek. He closed his eyes, and Christine waited on the edge of his bed, humming, until he was asleep. Mrs. Murphy came in just as Christine was getting up, and Aidan's mother smiled.
"You have an amazing gift, Christine," Mrs. Murphy said. "Your voice... It's magnificent. Like an angel."
Christine blushed. "Thank you." She slipped out the door to the guest bedroom to give Mrs. Murphy some time with her son.
It was nice, really, to be able to see a mother and child together, outside of pictures of Madonna and Jesus. Christine wished it could have been her own mother comforting her, with her father dying—
"No!" Christine squeezed her eyes shut. "He's not dying. He can't be." A tear fell, and then two more. "There's still hope. Oh, Papa!"
A dozen tears, and counting.
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To Meg's surprise, all the furniture was in the right room by six o'clock, and she and her mother managed to eat some sandwiches in the kitchen for dinner. Meg decided the water in New York was worlds better than in Georgia.
The neighbors had invited them over for lunch, to "share the Sunday meal"; they had politely refused, but promised to come the next week. Meg didn't know why, but she supposed in small towns, neighbors were friendly.
Not like Binghamton at all. I just hope the school isn't too far behind, Meg thought, or they'll have to put me in senior classes. Maybe the seniors'll be smarter. Meg almost laughed; their neighbors, the Walkers, were happy to live in such a run-down place like Keysville. Meg thought she'd die when she first heard the news. Leaving Christine, especially with her father the way he was— it didn't make Meg feel any better about the whole thing. Her mom wasn't too happy about Gustav Daaé's illness, but she said this job was the best she was going to get.
So off the two of them went, to come here, where Meg was busy brushing her hair and staring out the window. She started when she realized someone was staring back at her, and she blushed to see she'd been staring in one of the Walkers' windows. Meg gave a halfhearted wave.
The Walker opened his window and motioned for her to do the same. Meg did and stuck her head out the window, her chin in her hands. The other person was a boy, but that was about all of what Meg could figure out.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi," the Walker said. Meg flinched— had he been a girl, he would have sounded like Christine. The musical sweep, the clear enunciation, the silky smoothness of it all was the same. Yet his voice was strong, not like Christine's hesitant one.
"I'm Meg," she said after a pause.
"Erik. Do you play piano?"
"What?" Meg gave a little laugh. "Not anymore."
"Why? Weren't you good at it?"
"Sure I was good. It took too much time, that's all." Erik snorted; Meg scowled. "Hey, dance is a pretty rigorous hobby."
"And are you any good at that?"
Meg lifted her chin. "I was one of the best teenaged dancers in New York, once upon a time."
"New York? Tell me about it."
She couldn't resist telling him. "I'm from Binghamton, but the real city, it's huge. New York, it's just always alive, you know? All the time. The musical theater is amazing, not to mention the music scene." Meg could almost see Times Square, but decided Erik was more intriguing. "Do you play piano?"
"I play anything that makes music."
"Even double base? I love double base. Oh my god, Louis Vola is my hero." Meg clasped her hands in front of her heart, sighing wistfully. "Awesome bassist, he is."
"I'm sure he is."
"Was."
"Was, then. When did you stop playing?"
"What?"
"Piano, of course."
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe four or five years ago? No, six, I think. I'm not sure." Meg frowned. "Yeah, six." ...Pause. "Any particular reason?"
"You have long fingers," Erik said; was he testing her? Meg wasn't sure.
"I do. Like a spider or something." She hesitated. "Or an octopus. Nothing wrong with spiders or octopi, is there? I can make other similes, if you like."
"No, that's quite alright. Spiders are my sort of thing."
"Do you weave things?"
"No." Amusement.
"Are you, like, a parasite or something? Wrap up your pray in your invisible web and then eat them alive? Shelob?"
"You've read Tolkien?"
"You have? Wow. I never thought I'd meet someone who knew who Shelob was down here." Meg clapped her hand to her mouth, suddenly realizing she was being extremely rude. "I didn't mean it like that—"
"No, I know what you mean," Erik said drily. "We're more polite than folks up north, but you guys are a lot better read. And Tolkien's not so amazing at writing. Just at linguistics."
"Tolkien is my god, Erik Walker."
"Hm. Do you want to start learning piano again, Meg..."
"Giry? I'd love to. Do you know any good piano teachers around? Cheap ones?"
"I know someone who will teach you for free."
...Pause. "Quoi? For free? Who'll do that?"
"I will."