Peter Geye - Safe from the Sea

“I hope my father was awake to listen. Maybe you could play another?” He cracked his knuckles again, let his fingers hover over the keyboard for a moment. “Grieg?” he said and without waiting for a reply began.

Again it was beautiful. Noah listened, transported.

Gordy slid off the bench finishing the last few notes. “That’s the opening to his concerto in A minor. I love it.” “I’m no expert, but I know a pianist when I hear one. That was just terrific.” He was packing his toolbox. “Thank you. It’s what I do.” His modesty was as genuine as his look of concern for Olaf had been when he first arrived. “Not much use for it, but it’s what I enjoy.” “The world would be a better place if more people could play like that.” “The world’s not such a bad place,” Gordy said.

He wrote a receipt for Noah. Noah paid. He walked him to the door. It was cold.

“Tell your father I hope he feels better. I hope the music cheered him up.” “I’m sure it did. I really appreciate your coming. On such short notice, too.” Gordy turned up the collar of his barn coat. “My pleasure.” He looked skyward. “It is on the way. Get your vehicles up this hill.” “I will.”

And with that he left.

BACK INSIDE HE heard moaning coming from his father’s room. Noah opened the door. The light from the living room filtered in and he could see his father stabbing the air with his fingertips. What he’d mistaken for a moan was actually humming that sounded vaguely like music. The smile on his father’s sleeping face belied his voice, which was clotted and out of tune. Noah stood in the doorway and watched for a minute. His father soon set his arms down, quit humming, and settled back into sleep.

Noah moved the truck and his rental car up the hill as Gordy had suggested. Darkness was coming, and the cold was fierce. It even smelled of snow.

For a couple of hours Noah worked on one of his piano-lesson standards. It must have cut quite a contrast to the effortlessness of Gordy’s playing. When, between notes, Noah heard his father coughing, he went in to check on him. Olaf sat up in bed, his eyes sunken in the darkness. Noah opened the bedroom door fully for the light.

“Hey, you okay?”

Olaf looked at him, appeared stunned. “Noah? Is your mother here?” Noah went to his father’s bedside. He sat. “No, Dad, Mom’s not here.” His voice was so soft. “That’s funny. I heard her playing the piano. She was playing my favorite piece.” “That was the piano tuner. He’s gone now.”

“Tell her I’d like to see her,” Olaf said, looking up into Noah’s face. A look both empty and full of something.

“You’ll see her soon,” Noah said, though he had no faith in heaven, nor any in hell.

“I want to talk to her.”

“Tell me, and I’ll tell her for you.”

Olaf began to hum Rondo capriccioso , the sound a whir, barely a sound at all. Midsong, he stopped. “Tell her I’ll be home soon. Tell the kids, too.” “You are home, Dad. I’m here with you. I see you.”

Again Olaf looked at him. “Good,” he said, then shut his eyes and eased back into his slumber, silent now.

Noah stayed at his bedside for some time. The wind had returned, it assailed the house. When he rose to turn in himself, he looked from his father’s bedroom window. He could see the first of the snow slanting through the darkness, offering its whiteness. He imagined Vikar wincing under the bite of the driving flakes, bounding through the forest to beat the storm home.

TRY AS HE might Noah could not sleep. He lay in the bed and watched the snow radiating such paleness in the dark frame of the window. It fell furiously. He thought only of his wife now. He longed for her in a way he hadn’t in years, with a kind of abandon he attributed to his father’s love story. He’d come to realize, without any effort of thought, that he and Natalie had probably endured their bouts with failure. Those many failed pregnancies had been their trial, and now closer to fifty than to thirty years old, and with the education of the last ten days, he figured they had a pretty good chance. This thought appeased him deeply but also kept him awake when he wanted to sleep. There was a kind of euphoria attached to it.

Outside, he could see the spooky glow of the falling snow. He strained to listen, thought he could actually hear it. After a while he got up. He went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. The temperature in the great room must have been twenty degrees warmer than it was in the bedroom. He pulled his T-shirt over his head and stood bare-chested at the window.

The snow, the snow.

At nine o’clock he heard groaning from his father’s room. It stopped. It started again. When he cracked the door to peek in, he could see Olaf struggling to rise from the bed. He turned on the lamp near his father’s bedroom door and stepped into his room.

Olaf’s eyes cringed shut. His big hand went up to shield his face from the light. The moan went baritone, as if the light had changed the severity of his pain. “Chrissakes,” Olaf said, his voice slurring the profanity. “Goddamnit, goddamnit.” Noah hurried to the bedside. “What is it, Dad?” he said, helping his father remove the blankets and quilt from his legs. “Are you too hot?” “Ah, shit.”

“It’s okay. Tell me what to do.”

“Shit,” Olaf repeated. His legs were free of the bed covers. He swore again.

Noah took him first by the elbow, then sat next to him and put his arm around his shoulders. “Tell me what’s wrong.” Olaf’s shoulders crumpled, his chin fell, his eyes fluttered, and his arms went limp. His feet were on the floor now, his lips crusty and shuddering. In a voice barely more than a whisper he spoke into Noah’s chest, “I have to go, Noah. To the outhouse.” Without a word Noah helped his father stand. He helped him into his wool trousers. He helped him walk into the great room. In the light the old man’s pain became evident. He leaned lightly against Noah, would not have been able to stand without him.

Noah hurried him into his coat. He had Olaf hold on to the doorjamb while he put the old man’s boots on. He tied them tightly. He took from the shelf the blaze-orange hunting hat and a pair of leather mittens. He helped his father into these. Then he put on his own coat and boots and took the flashlight. He put his arms around his father again and opened the door.

Already snow had drifted six inches deep. Noah kicked it away as they stepped into the mean wind. The going was slow. Olaf relied entirely on Noah for balance. He felt light in his son’s arms, and after a few more difficult steps Noah simply handed the old man the flashlight and picked him up. He carried him up the path to the outhouse.

For fifteen minutes, maybe more, Noah held him steady, the two men alone in the utter dark now that Noah had turned off the flashlight. He’d hoped it would lend a hint of privacy to the ordeal. It was so cold.

On the way back Olaf clutched helplessly at Noah, his arms around Noah’s neck, a grip so feeble. Finally Noah lifted his father in his arms and carried him back to the house, snow now creeping over the tops of his boots.

Back inside, Noah undressed Olaf to his union suit. He offered him something to drink. Olaf declined. When Noah began to help him back into his bedroom, Olaf stopped.

“I’ll sleep in here,” he whispered, pointing at the couch. “Warmer.” “Okay. Good,” Noah said, somehow buoyed by the suggestion. “You’ll be more comfortable in here.” Noah helped his father into the chair while he fixed a bed for him on the sofa. He then carried him over to it. The old man’s head disappeared into the pillow. Noah covered him with the quilt and afghan. He tucked both under his feet and turned out the lamp. A dull slant of light from the window shone into the room. He could see only his father’s outline on the couch.