The Next Masterpiece

The Next Masterpiece                    by Savanna Uland

                Maybe the weather knew. Maybe the rain falling off roofs, streaming down windshields, and pittering Frankie’s matador-red baseball cap was the universe crying for what it and Frankie had lost. It caused twisting anger to roil in Frankie’s chest that the same universe which had destroyed his sister now seemed to be crying about it.
                But anyone who looked at Frankie would not see a face filled with anger and sadness from a funeral that had ended fifty minutes ago. They would only see a young man with damp brown hair curling around his emotionless face and red cap, walking the path around the lake at Crown Hill Cemetery.
                That is what Berl Trazom saw from his bench, sitting under an umbrella and a Yamaha cordless keyboard.  When Frankie’s distant eyes noted the man a few paces away, his disconnected thoughts were, Freakin idiot. He’s going to ruin that piano doesn’t know this is cemetery hate universe…
                Berl’s inquisitive eyes noticed the steadily wetter, umbrella-less boy, and he thought, Looks troubled. Maybe I can help him, and he’ll give me some inspiration. Man I need it. This paper’s getting wet, ink’s bleeding… Berl pushed back his ancient puffy headphones. “Ullo, would you like an umbrella?”
                What is this guy, a bleedin’ guv’nar? immitated Frankie's thoughts. Then as the funny accent filtered into an invitation, Frankie realized with the force of an epiphany he was nearly drenched—and was on the way to being drenched, standing on an open path in the middle of a downpour. This vaguely freaky guy didn’t seem any more harmful than he seemed normal. And Frankie, perhaps naively, felt confident in his status as a proud owner of a large pocketknife and a greenbelt. His wet state propelled both his body and his words; he stepped toward the bench, and muttered, “Sure.”
                Berl lifted the Yamaha. Frankie sat down to stare at the dampened sidewalk and fold his arms tensely. Berl lowered the piano back down; where it had hovered over empty bench, it now hovered over jeaned lap. This also (inexplicably) angered Frankie.
                “I am Behrl,” he accented. “What is your name?”
                Shut up hate universe what a jerk… Frankie glanced steel at Berl Trazom, then re-fixated his stare on a new patch of water-strewn world. He spat, “Frank.”
         A silence draped over them like a damp blanket. And then the cheerful pianist said in an exaggerated English accent, “Wheare ahre you frum?”
Frankie twitched a leg to be further from the guv’nar. “Where’re you from?”
“Amer’ica.” Again, the heavy London cockney.
Frankie twisted in his seat, and his crossed arms dropped a little lower. However, this lax in an angry pose was entirely made up for by the incensed twist of his face. “Then why are you speaking with some British accent?”
         Plasticity fell from Berl’s clean-shaven face, as if he were letting down a toy shield he’d been trying to pass off as authentic 14th century armor. His accent became entirely normal American, and he shrugged cheerfully. “I like accents.”
         Suddenly, Frankie thrust two fists at Berl’s keyboard. In Berl’s frenzied dive to save the instrument, the umbrella tipped, sluicing rain into Frankie’s eyes and temporarily blinding him. A metal prong dug deep into Frankie’s moisture-beaded cheek. Blood began to pour.
         Frankie slapped both hands to his pulsating gash, yelling obscenities he’d forgotten he knew. Berl set the rescued keyboard aside, carefully still under the umbrella’s protection. “Good lord, son, sit back down.”
         Frankie stilled himself to look at the source of that solidly calm voice. Berl was totally relaxed on the bench and looked primed for listening. “YOU’RE CRAZY! YOU THINK YOU’RE ENGLISH! WHY AREN’T YOU MAD? I JUST THREW YOUR FREAKIN PIANO. I’M A JERK. SHUN ME! I DON’T CARE—”
         “Okay! ‘Kay, sit down.”
         Frankie crashed down, and suddenly felt hollow, flat, and drifting, like a balloon that was out of air after bursting through the world. Berl could see a little blood mingled with water ribbon out between the fingers covering Frankie’s face.
         Berl sat compassionately as Frankie finished choking his sobs back. Berl looked politely away, and saw Frankie’s red hat on the path, hollow up, and catching the now drifting raindrop mist. Somewhere along the line, the hat had fallen off. “…Why are you at a cemetery, Frank?”
         Frankie didn’t remove his hands. “Angelica… my sister died in a wreck.” He pressed his palm against his throbbing cheek. “God, when did I become such a jerk?!” Frank ripped his hand from his cheek’s already-crusting blood.
         “Mm.” Berl nodded, then mused, “Why do jerks become jerks?...” He paused. Frankie said nothing. “I don’t think you’re a jerk, Frank. You’re just on the brink of becoming one. But hey, even jerks got their reasons,” he jested. Then, seriously, he said, “What’s your story?”
         “Hah. …don’t want to talk about it.”
         “Mm.” The rain was lessening. “Well, maybe you could help me,” said Berl Trazom. “I don’t know what to do next.”
         Frankie barked a sad chuckle. “Ditto.”
         Berl slid the piano back on his lap. The keys lit up. “This is what I’ve got.” He positioned his fingers, pressed down, and the song started, slow but cheerful. Then, with a crash of keys, the notes seemed to run, dive, scream, race, each tone pushing to be faster and express a deeper anguish. It flowed. The rain stopped. Fierce grief resounded through the chords.
         Frankie’s thoughts stood still. He listened intensely. Like the music, images played for Frankie, of the wreck… of Angelica in intensive care…of the black car parade…her coffin…the moist grave dirt…distant thunder…  The piece abruptly stopped.
And Frankie knew he had just heard a masterpiece.
         Berl sighed. “That’s it. All I’ve got. …Have any ideas what next?”
         What is Frankie going to do next?... Would he pick up his red cap, push it on, stalk off, and stay an angry and brooding mass until all his friends hated his dark company even as Frankie himself did? Would he say, “I’m sorry, Berl,” and leave, and just try and revert back to a normal life? His fingers twitched. A final drop bled down his cheek. Would he, would he, would he…
         There is head knowledge and then there is heart knowledge. In heads, things are known like science and math and logical, true things. In hearts, things are known like how a thunderstorm makes you feel, and fear of the dark, and what it’s like to run, and how to smile, and to laugh, illogical and true things.
         Frankie had the head knowledge that he’d never more than touched a piano, and couldn’t read music. He had the head knowledge that he’d failed every music class since fourth grade. He had the head knowledge that he was clumsy with his fingers. He had the head knowledge that he couldn’t help Berl because he could, not, play the piano.
         But he had the heart knowledge to know what came next.
         The wet piano slid onto Frankie’s lap. He positioned his fingers, he closed his eyes. He replayed the final measure of Berl’s piece; and then softly, his fingers began to play the sound of a red hat dropping. Stronger, he poured his heart-knowledge onto the keys of how he was going to go on surviving when Angelica hadn’t.
         Frankie played what came next. And Berl Trazom, sitting on a cool cemetery bench, knew that he was hearing a masterpiece.