Middle C

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Earlier versions of some chapters in this novel have appeared as fictions in Conjunctions, a magazine for whose loyalty I am deeply indebted through all of its history and much of mine. “The Apocalypse Museum,” in no. 37, 2001; “The Abandonment of the Family,” in no. 40, 2003; “The Piano Lesson,” in no. 44, 2005; “A Little History of Modern Music,” in no. 47, 2006, as well as in The O. Henry Prize Stories, 2008 (New York: Anchor, 2008); “Garden,” in no. 49, 2007; “Professor Skizzen Gets the Word,” in no. 53, 2009. I have pilfered a few lyrics from some old-time tunes from a quaint book called Songs That Never Grow Old by Anonymous (New York: Syndicate Publishing, 1909).

Miriam, whom Joey Skizzen thought of as his mother, Nita, began to speak about the family’s past, but only after she decided that her husband was safely in his grave. His frowns could silence her in midsentence; even his smiles were curved in condescension, though at this time in his absence, her beloved husband’s virtues, once admitted to be many, were written in lemon juice. He had a glare to bubble paint, she said. Her recollection of that look caused hesitations still. She would appear alarmed, wave as if she saw something gnatting near her face, and stutter to a stop. Joey was helped to remember how, at suppertime, for only then was the family gathered as a group, the spoon would become still in his father’s soup, his father’s head would rise to face the direction of the offending remark, his normally placid look would stiffen, and fires light in his eyes. His stare seemed unwilling to cease, although it probably was never held beyond the lifetime of a minute. But a minute … a minute is so long.

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