Mary’s daughter every Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning. Then
Mary had a friend, Eve, who needed a babysitter for her three children
on Tuesdays and Thursdays.
A mile down the road, a man named Randy ran a business out of his
home, selling cashews, almonds and macadamias. He stopped by the
post office one afternoon and chatted with Myrna about how tired he
was of packing the boxes himself, how he wished he could hire some
kids but they were all tied up with football and band.
“There’s at least one kid in this town who isn’t,” Myrna said. “And I
think she’d be real eager.” She pointed to my card, and soon I was
babysitting from eight until noon Monday to Friday, then going to
Randy’s to pack cashews until supper. I wasn’t paid much, but as I’d
never been paid anything before, it felt like a lot.
People at church said Mary could play the piano beautifully. They
used the word “professional.” I didn’t know what that meant until one
Sunday when Mary played a piano solo for the congregation. The
music stopped my breath. I’d heard the piano played countless times
before, to accompany hymns, but when Mary played it, the sound was
nothing like that formless clunking. It was liquid, it was air. It was rock
one moment and wind the next.
The next day, when Mary returned from the school, I asked her if
instead of money she would give me lessons. We perched on the piano
bench and she showed me a few finger exercises. Then she asked what
else I was learning besides the piano. Dad had told me what to say
when people asked about my schooling. “I do school every day,” I said.
“Do you meet other kids?” she asked. “Do you have friends?”
“Sure,” I said. Mary returned to the lesson. When we’d finished and I
was ready to go, she said, “My sister Caroline teaches dance every
Wednesday in the back of Papa Jay’s. There are lots of girls your age.
You could join.”
That Wednesday, I left Randy’s early and pedaled to the gas station.
I wore jeans, a large gray T-shirt, and steel-toed boots; the other girls
wore black leotards and sheer, shimmering skirts, white tights and tiny
ballet shoes the color of taffy. Caroline was younger than Mary. Her
makeup was flawless and gold hoops flashed through chestnut curls.
She arranged us in rows, then showed us a short routine. A song
played from a boom box in the corner. I’d never heard it before but the