Free The Distance Between Us by Noah Bly Page A

myself. The list is enormous, even if you subtract all the times I was sorely provoked. Is that why this is happening now? Is this what I get for living as I have?
    And beyond all that, far beyond, there’s Jeremy.
    No. I will not think of that right now. I will not. There are limits to how much blame I’m willing to take on.
    Maybe Paul was right to try to get me fired. Maybe I should just accept the inevitable and step down with dignity. Maybe Arthur and Martha deserve the house more than I do. Maybe …
    A fugitive spasm of anger tightens the muscles in my chest.
    Like hell they do.
    Whatever I am, whatever I have done, Arthur is, and has done, too.
    With an effort I lift my head and look in Miranda’s eyes. I speak as clearly as I can. “Look, child. I’m a crabby old woman and I can be difficult at times, but I can also make you a better pianist than you’ve ever dreamed of being, if you’ll just bear with me.”
    I nudge her shoulder. “Move over.”
    She slides to the left on the bench and I sit beside her. I put both hands on the piano and start to play the Prokofiev again. My left wrist immediately begins to ache, but I ignore it and plunge my fingers into the keys.
    “Be adaptable is all I’m saying,” I murmur as I play. “Be soft when you’re supposed to be soft, be loud when you’re supposed to be loud. Think. Use your brain. Use your ears. The phrasing will tell you what to do if you just listen.”
    She sniffs. “But it says
mezzo forte
there, not
fortissimo.”
    “So what?” I snap. “Dynamics are relative. So is everything else, for that matter. Hush now and I’ll show you.”
    I can’t help myself. I know how much this will hurt but right at this moment, I don’t care. I’ll dope myself out later on Motrin and brandy.
    I dig in and the music explodes around us; my fury couples with Prokofiev’s genius, and the notes fly through the air like shrapnel. I close my eyes and breathe, and I let myself play for nearly a minute, in spite of the horrific pain in my wrist. Miranda disappears from my mind, and so does Paul, then Arthur, then Caitlin—all vanishing one by one, shoved out of the spotlight by wild, pungent chords and unpredictable, frenzied runs.
    After that I move on to the worries about my house and my future. I may have no control over anything else, but I can control this particular piano long enough to vanquish
those
feeble anxieties. When they’re gone, I jettison the awareness of my damaged old body, and then I go deeper, tossing out memory after hateful memory, hunting them down and destroying them like rabid animals. I use whatever hurts as kindling, burning it all up inside of me, feeding it a stick at a time into the raging inferno in the center of my chest that used to be my heart.
    It builds and builds and builds until finally there’s nothing left but Jeremy.
    Jeremy is always the last to go.
    Most days I give up long before he departs, but today not even he can survive the noisy apocalypse I’m making. In my mind, he stands in front of me and begs for my attention, but I just play louder and louder, and he eventually has no recourse but to cover his ears and step into the blaze, too. Before my eyes he turns into flame, then ash, and still I keep playing.
    There’s nothing in the world but this wall of sound and fire I’ve created. While it’s still standing, nothing can touch me. Nero may have fiddled while Rome burned, but Nero was a rank amateur compared to me. Rome be damned.
    If I had the stamina I’d burn the whole bloody, stinking world to a cinder.
    I know that Jeremy and all the rest will reappear, phoenix-like, the instant I stop, so I refuse to quit until my left hand goes numb, and it’s all I can do to not scream. The pain is overwhelming, but it’s preferable to what’s waiting for me when it’s gone.
    Burn, damn you, burn.
    I can’t take it any longer.
    The music ends abruptly and I open my eyes. I have to bite my lips to keep from