Free Golden Delicious by Christopher Boucher Page B

my Dad.
    “Only one way to find out,” said the Possum, and he sat down at the bench. My father and I sat down beside him, and the three of us studied the keys.
    “We’re here now,” my Dad said to the piano. “So you can play.”
    The Possum looked at my father.
    My Dad leaned closer. “Do it. Play!” he said louder.
    “What are you doing?” said the Possum.
    “I’m waiting for it to start playing,” my Dad said.
    “It’s not one of those types of pianos,” said the Possum. “Is that the kind you were looking for?”
    “I didn’t know there was a difference,” my Dad said.
    “There is,” said the Possum. “There are automatic pianos and manual ones. This one’s manual.”
    My father nodded—the Possum would know. Something that is surprising about the Possum? Is that he was actually a very good piano player—a child prodigy. He used to travel the world, playing music that no one else could. You were probably expecting that we brought along the Possum for his truck only, and it’s true that we needed his truck. But we could have asked Uncle Joump; we could have asked one of the Muir Drop Forgers. Of the three of them, the Possum was the only one who knew anything about pianos.
    Which is why, sitting there on the bench in the field, I asked him to teach me something. “Can you show me a cord?” I said.
    “Chord,” he said. “There’s a silent
h
.”
    “C-hord,” I said.
    “It’s been twelve years since I’ve played a note of music,” said the Possum.
    I made my face pacific.
    The Possum put his paws on three keys and let themrest there. He closed his eyes. I leaned in—I was expecting to hear something amazing.
    The Possum pressed down on the keys, but I didn’t hear any notes—what I heard instead was a click, and the sound of the point of view shifting. Then the Possum and the Father andlooked at each other. “Where’s the music?” said.
    The Possum played another chord and the point of view shifted again: you were confused and disappointed.
    “This piano is out of tune, or something,” said the Possum.
    Just then a figure came running down the road. She was dressed in chartreuse green spandex and her face was hampden: bright but sad. She cut across the field and ran up to you. “You found the piano,” she said.
    Your father stood up. “It’s ours,” he said. “We got here first.”
    “I know it,” she said, catching her breath. “I’m the one you prayed to.”
    “What’s the story with this thing?” the Possum asked.
    “It was my mother’s,” said the spandexer. “But I don’t play.”
    “It doesn’t make any sound,” you said.
    “Of course it doesn’t,” she said. “I said that in the prayer.”
    “You did?” said your father.
    “I prayed, it’s a POV Piano—a point-of-view piano.”
    “I thought that was the name of the brand,” your father said. “I didn’t know—”
    “Watch,” said brightsad, and she pushed a single key on the right side. I heard the clicking sound again.
    “Hear that?” she said.
    “First person plural,” we said.
    “Do you want it, or not?” She pushed another key and the point of view was hers: I didn’t tell them about the stories in these fields, the other instruments beneath the soil. I didn’t tell them that my mother
died
at this piano. I just wanted to be rid of the damn thing.
    Then the Possum joined in. As the spandexer played the point-of-view melody, the Possum (I didn’t care what sound came out of it—I was just so happy to put my paws on the keys again) played the chords.
    My Dad stared at the piano. “This isn’t what I envisioned,” he said.
    “It
is
free,” said brightsad.
    “I think you should take it,” the Possum told my father. “Just imagine: to be able to see things from another angle
whenever you wanted
.”
    “I really wanted a
note
-based piano,” my Dad said.
    “And you’ll find one,” said the Possum. “But take this one, too! Put it out in the fields! Just in