Trouble With the Truth (9781476793498) by Edna Robinson Read Free Book Online

father’s hearing, how one goes about buying a cheap piano. Both times Ben said he had to think about it, and my father just went on silently doing whatever he was doing at his jumbled desk. Late in the afternoon, when I thought Fred might be in a better mood, I tried him. Though calm, he said, “I declared I wouldn’t help, and I’m a man of my word.”
    Even later, when I judged that my father may have softened to a call for help—he was reading the evening newspaper and appeared to be far removed from the realities in his immediate household, and therefore more easily persuaded to face them with detachment—I brought up the subject again, in a louder than necessary voice.
    â€œBen, how can we find a piano? Where?”
    The paper didn’t move from its position in front of my father’s face.
    â€œI’m still thinking about it,” Ben said.
    My voice grew louder. “But the book Miss Bunce gave me to learn from has sixty-four pages, and I only have seventeen days.”
    Without moving the newspaper so that we could see his face, myfather said, very low, “When you want something, you have to let other people know.”
    â€œWe have let you and Fred know,” I said indignantly.
    â€œYou have to let other people know, people who may have cheap pianos that they wish to sell,” the voice spoke from behind the paper.
    â€œBut we don’t know who the people are who have cheap pianos and want to sell them,” Ben said.
    â€œYou have to find them, dig them out, separate them from all the people who don’t have cheap, ugly pianos for sale.”
    I felt like punching the newspaper. “How?” I said desperately.
    â€œYou’ll have to deduce the answer for that yourself. I’m busy reading a notice about an auction in Marin where I may pick up one of the tapestries Mr. William Randolph Hearst missed.”
    Ben was no more intelligent than I. His intelligence was, characteristically, just put to use more quickly than mine.
    â€œMay we see that newspaper when you’re through?” he asked politely.
    â€œYou may, if you don’t construe this as aid or report it to Fred.”
    A moment later, with me at his shoulder, Ben found a column headed, “Merchandise For Sale.” One two-line ad caught our fast and slow intelligence. Ben read it aloud. “Piano. Uprt. Chp.” The address was on a business street on the way to our school. The ad was signed “A. Forelli.”
    My father suggested that I stop in to see Mr. Forelli in the morning, but Ben could not come with me because “Nobody, not even Ben, should influence my decision whether or not to buy a cheap, ugly piano.” The responsibility was to be mine alone.
    The next morning, Ben left me at the address—a recently opened dry-cleaning shop; Mr. Forelli was its proprietor.
    â€œAvanti, Avanti,” he said. “Your mamma, she send a little girl to look first? C’mon, it’s in the back.”
    The instrument had a muddy-brown, scarred case and chipped, yellowing keys. Its top was higher than Miss Bunce’s piano’s, and its backboard was nicked around the pedals. In large, gold Gothic lettering above the keyboard, “Needham” was printed, and beneath that, “New York.”
    â€œYou see?” said Mr. Forelli, “She’s American.”
    To the right of Needham and New York was the designation, “Upright Concert Grand.” I didn’t ask what that meant and Mr. Forelli didn’t say.
    â€œYou know Milano?” he asked. “The shoemaker had this store before? He liked music, so he had this here. When he die, his wife, she say she ain’t payin’ to move it out…I can have it. But I don’t want it. So he liked music? So why couldn’t he listen to the radio like me?”
    From under a pressing table, he pulled a dusty bench over for me. Even with my fledgling instruction, I