are lucky, as it is only a short walk from the house. Even when the snow is deep, it wonât take you more than ten or fifteen minutes to get there.â Snow? It was strange to think that snow could ever fall here. Though it was only late spring, the air was already hot and sticky with moisture.
âWeâll get a lot of snow when winter comes. The children have great fun sledding.â She smiled at me in the mirror before continuing the tour.
âAs you can see, the green is surrounded by four streets. Main and Meadow are there on the long sides of the rectangle. Main is where the shops and businesses areânot that there are many of them, but we do have a few stores. Meadow is all houses, and, as I said, the oldest families in town live there. âYankees,â we call them. That big stone building to the south on Washington Street is the town hall. It has a couple of offices, a courtroom, and a lending library in the basement that is open three afternoons a week. And here on the north end of town on Duke Street is our church. Reverend Muller is pastor here.â
As she finished speaking, Reverend Muller pulled up to the curb. We stepped out of the car. The church sat dignified and firm at the end of a short expanse of lawn, the green anchored by its stately presence. The steps leading up to the wide black doors were balanced by two sets of gothic columns, pristine with white paint, as was the churchâs clapboard siding. The steeple was not really that tall, but in relation to the rest of the landscape it was a commanding presence, pointing skyward, a finger that existed to turn menâs attention to heaven. All my life I had lived in the shadow of great monasteries and cathedrals, but none of them possessed the elegance or simple grace of this plain, white clapboard church standing at the edge of a New England village green.
As we entered the sanctuary, I felt a great sense of peace. Inside, there were no impressive stone carvings or gilded statues with mournful faces, only rows and rows of waxed and shining wooden pews glowing in the light that spilled in through the tall, arched windows. The air was perfumed ever so faintly with a scent of lemon oil and old floral arrangements. The view of the tree canopy outside the window and the outline of the hills in the distance was much more beautiful than any scene in stained glass could have been. The Mullers watched as I walked up the aisle toward the simple altar with its plain, unadorned wooden cross.
I saw the piano sitting to one side, clean and curved and gleaming ebony black. Without thinking, I reached for the keyboard. The lid lay open, revealing lovely carved hammers clothed in green velvet and touches of brass. Without striking a note, I knew how rich and full the tone would be, how quick and light the action of the keys.
âIt is so beautiful,â I breathed in English. âMay I play it?â
Reverend Muller grinned at his wife and bounded toward me, swept me off my feet, and deposited me on the piano bench. âOf course you may,â he said. âYou may play as much as you want.â
Chapter 3
S even pairs of eyes fixed upon me as I descended the stairs into the Muller kitchen the next morning. The whole family was seated around a big table in the kitchen. There didnât seem to be a dining room. There was a smell of bacon lingering in the air, but the plates were all cleared except for two cups of coffee that sat before Reverend and Mrs. Muller.
Clearly I had slept through breakfast. I was embarrassed to be so late and to feel the eyes of the Mullersâ five children following my every move with as much curious interest as if Iâd been an animal on exhibit at the zoo.
True to his word, Reverend Muller had let me play as long as I wanted, piece after piece, Beethoven, Brahms, Purcell, and, of course, Mozart. I played all the music my mother had taught me. Then I played everything Iâd taught myself
Josh Pahigian, Kevin O’Connell