There was something about the way she sat at the piano that tugged Mrs. Jordan’s heart. Girl’s head cocked to the right and her tiny feet dangled as she struggled to play those white keys; she’d get to the black keys a week later.
Mrs. J: Don’t swing your legs, honey.
Girlie’s big eyes tracked Mrs. J’s face for approval, followed by two short head bops – meaning: “Ok now?” Mrs. J gently straightened Moira’s wrists and placed them on the keyboard. She’d barely finished playing the C major scale without making a mistake when…
Mrs. J: What did you have for breakfast?
Moira: (teeny voice) Pancakes.
Mrs. J: With syrup?
Moira: (nods)
Mrs. J: What kind?
Moira: (I don’t know)
Mrs. J: You don’t know what kind of syrup?
Moira: (No)
Mrs. J: You didn’t ask your mother?
Moira: (ask?)
Mrs. J: Knowledge does not live just in books, dear. It’s in the questions you ask, no matter how silly or simple they may be. You got that?
Moira: Ok.
Those big eyes again. Trying to understand what Mrs. J just said had anything to do with piano lessons.
In fact, Mrs. J was not only Moira’s piano teacher, she’s also her tutor and babysitter (just don’t mention that word around Moira). She came in 5 days a week, late afternoons, to give Moira’s mom a chance to go out and conduct her clothing business, which she ran out of her tiny apartment.
While Moira’s at school, Moira’s mom (Mm) bough fabric, cut, sewed, and accessorized. Mrs. J would usually be waiting at the door when Mm brought girlie from school. During those three hours of tutoring, piano lessoning, and listening to Mrs. J’s stories and fables, Mm would go out to meet with other Moms – who’d returned home with their own kids – and take orders for custom made outfits for the children. She’d listen to what occasion they wanted an outfit for, listen to their color choices and sketch out designs on spot. Mm’s self-taught in all aspects of this process and her genius was knowing what color and shape worked best on a person.
On weekends, Moira accompanied Mm to her clients. It was a chance to do business and have little girl interact with other kids. When Mm got sick she would stay home, but work she did not put on hold for anything. Before this gig, Mrs. J was a paying client. When money had to be stretched, she offered Mm to do the babysitting/tutoring combo in exchange of her design skills. Mm had always liked Mrs. J. whose punctuality was more reliable than the sun coming up on time each day. But at 6pm, after home work and piano lessons were over, Mrs. J would loosen up with a cup of tea, sit Moira next to her on the couch with a glass of apple juice, and begin telling stories. On this day:
Mrs. J: When I was a little girl like you, about a year or so older than you are now. (pause) How old would that be, dear?
Moira: (thinks) 8.
Mrs. J: Good. One summer morning I held my father’s hands and went to see the ocean in Coney Island…
She stops. Contemplates. Then…
Mrs. J: Actually…I remember correctly now. It was my mother who I went with. I’d never seen the ocean before, only read about it in books. But you know, pictures don’t have sounds. And the thing about the ocean is…it’s the sound that hits you first. I didn’t understand how water could make soo much noise. It was a bit scary in the beginning but once I stepped on sand…
Mrs. J’s voice had faded out at this point. Moira’s eyes were on Mrs. J alright but her ears had traveled 4 years back to the night her father tucked her into bed, held her tiny hands, and cried.
She remembered looking at his face and wondering: how could water make so much noise?
