The Christmas Song - by Phillip R. Hurlbut

by Phillip R. Hurlbut Jr.

Jim Henderson looked the piano over with a critical eye. The cabinet was of a very old composition. The ornate woodwork had been carefully stained and varnished in bright tones of red and white and green. The wood showed no sign of chipping anywhere and the keys were yellowed as only ivory could yellow. For all appearances, it seemed as nice an instrument as could be bought. He couldn't believe the Cohens want to give it to him for next to nothing.

Then he sat down to play it. Someone may as well as have poured lemon juice into his ear. Jim looked up at Irv Cohen. Irv shrugged. "It could use some work. It's not like I didn't warn you."

Jim breathed a sigh and struck a high C. A discordant triad chimed out. It was going to need a lot of work. But, it was a piano, and it was going cheap, which was, even then, more than Jim could afford. He turned to Irv and asked, "Saturday afternoon okay?"

"You couldn't make it Sunday?"

"How about Friday?"

"I'll be here."

Jim and Irv shook hands. Now all he needed was a few strong backs and a truck.

Grandma Nellie, had always been a part of Jim's Christmas Eve. His father had been her only child and she was always grateful for a chance to enjoy her grandchildren. Christmas Eve had always found her at the keyboard of the family Kimball leading all the joyous Hendersons through every carol they could remember, teaching them the newest additions to her Christmas repertory and then going through them all again. These yearly songfests more than anything else, influenced Jim to take piano lessons himself.

In all his life his grandmother had never missed a Christmas until the previous year when age and illness had kept her in the nursing home. Christmas Day had been held at her bedside, but the evening before had seemed so empty without her music. Although Jim had been coaxed into taking her place, the faltering voices trying to follow his fumbling fingers could not seem to grasp on to the most familiar of melodies, and the attempt was soon abandoned.

Since then two events had occurred which it seemed would change the face of Jim's Christmas Eves thereafter. The first was the fire in his parent's home which, although it was brought under control quickly, and harmed no one, completely devastated the Kimball. The technician's diagnosis: Beyond repair.

The second incident was Jim's marriage to Rachel; a marriage which, had it involved Rachel alone, would have turned Jim's life around and a half, but because it included her two sons it may as well have left him standing on his head.

He understood that the little family would need time to get used to having him included in their circle and a Christmas with his folks might offer them a chance to see what sort of a Christmas he grew up with. But, for the experience to be complete he needed to have a piano, and the next Friday afternoon, the Cohen piano came into his possession.

The boys, Ronny and Josh, soon learned the delights of pounding on the keys; Rachel felt it took up too much of the living room; the technician just shook his head slowly.

"You're looking at a lot of work, Mr. Henderson. That tends to mean a considerable amount of money. You can't just slip in a hammer where there's one missing. To do it properly you need to replace them all. Otherwise your sound's not consistent. Handsome cabinet, though. You might do just as well to gut it and slip in an electric keyboard."

Jim shook his head fiercely. "No, it's got to be a real piano. And I'd like to keep that ivory."

"Can't blame you for that."

"Is there any way," asked Rachel, "to clean the yellow off of it?"

The technician shook his head, "That's all part of having ivory on your keys. It may start out a shining white, but it all turns yellow in the end. No fighting that."

Jim and the technician had a few more words and decided that for this Christmas the piano would get tuned, have its missing hammers replaced and a few sticking keys loosened on the condition that Jim told no one who had done such a halfway job.

With only three days before Christmas, the technician handed Jim the bill and said he'd done what he could. Jim gulped at the amount and wrote out the check, then sat down to the keyboard. He tried a C major chord with the right hand, following it with a clumsy scale. He had to admit that the sound lacked a certain unity of tone. However, it had been so long since he had really tried out his skills, that just being able to run his fingers up and down the ivory brought a sensation much more pleasurable than the sound it produced. He did not take long to get around to trying out some of the pieces he had learned in his youth For Elise, Spinning Song, The Gold and Silver Waltz. How the cares of the day fled from him! How the music carried him into that euphoria known only to those who have spent the hours at practice, the years of staring at those five bespeckled, horizontal lines, whose secret can only be unlocked by the magic of "Every Good Boy Deserves Favor." No longer sat Jim Henderson in his living room; he was performing in Carnegie Hall; he was the main attraction in some high class piano lounge; the man with magic in his fingers! And walking through the door were Rachel and the boys. What wonder filled their eyes. What a talented husband Rachel had latched onto. No one had a greater dad than Ronny and Josh! Beneath the music, Jim heard the awed voice of Josh.

"You know Mom doesn't like us banging on the piano!"

The music stopped. Jim turned to the trio in the hallway. "That wasn't banging. That was Aragonaise!"

"It was noisy!" said the five-year old.

Jim's ego deflated and he turned to Rachel for help. "You recognized it, didn't you?"

Rachel s face dropped into the concentrated look it took on when she was trying to puzzle out why the bank statement came out three cents off balance. Finally, she said, "Have you ever considered playing it in rhythm?"

As Jim's face dropped, he could tell that Rachel regretted her chosen response and was trying to think her way out of it.

"It wasn't just you, though," she said. "You should probably wait until it's tuned before you try it out."

Jim closed the music book and nodded sappily as he resolved to keep his practicing confined to moments when he was alone in the apartment.

Christmas Eve brought with it Jim's parents, his sister, Elaine, and the most honored guest of all, Grandma Nellie, enfeebled by age, yet chipper with the Christmas spirit. The evening s meal passed joyously from plate to mouth where it was savored as completely as possible, and following the hasty dismissal of dinnerware to the dishwasher, the celebrants all gathered with their cups of steaming wassail into the living room.

Jim, himself took the honor of steadying Grandma Nellie on her journey to the side of the over burdened tree where stood the piano. He watched as the matron stood admiring how artfully the festive red and green trim embellished the white surfaces. After several moments of hushed silence, Jim asked her.

"Would you please play for us, Grandma Nellie?"

A smile broke across the old woman's face; a smile that seemed on the verge of turning to tears. "I only wish I could, Jimmy," she said as she gained control of her emotions. "But my hands can t do it any more. They've finally given way to the arthritis."

Around the room, faces fell in disappointment. Grandma Nellie looked about apologetically before she spoke again.

"It's not easy to keep traditions like this alive, but even though I've drifted from

the center of the picture, there will always be someone to replace me. Jimmy's been taking lessons since before he knew how to whittle. I hand my Christmas torch to him. I know he will carry it well."

The inhabitants sat around in stunned silence remembering well the previous year's fiasco. Jim felt his chest tighten violently.

"Sit down, then, Jimmy," continued Grandma Nellie. "Let's see how many carols we get out before these boys of yours have to be off to bed." She sat down in a chair beside the piano and patted the bench.

Jim looked around the room for some salvation from this ordeal. He felt he could read the pitying thoughts behind all the eyes that watched him. A year ago he had merely been a substitute; a pinch hitter who had botched it. No one thought the less of him for it. But now he had been given the charge to take over for his grandmother; to fill the shoes of one of the richest memories of his youth. As he gazed about the room, not even his father showed any signs of being able to get him out of this mess, though every face showed a deep desire to avoid the next few embarrassing minutes.

Giving a weak smile, Jim sat down at the piano. He cleared his throat, probably three times too many, and then set his fingers to the keyboard. A sudden delaying ploy swept into his mind and he asked if there was anything in particular anyone wanted to start with, a question he immediately regretted for as he considered some of the favorites that often bore repeating several times each Christmas, he recognized them as being some of the more complex carols ever to be written. At this point he doubted he could even make it through a one fingered rendition of Mary Had a Little Lamb. Mercifully, his family sat in silence, a silence Grandma Nellie broke.

"It sounds like we could use something rousing to get us going. How about Deck the Halls, Jimmy?"

A cold sweat broke out over Jim's brow as he turned back to the keyboard. Awkwardly thumbing through the books before him, he found an arrangement of Deck the Halls using only one flat; one too many he thought. He braced himself for disaster and began to play.

Oh, how the notes he played clashed in his head. He quickly lost grasp of the rhythm and his fingers staggered from key to key reeling about in some chaotic dance. His eyes tripped clumsily along the staff as each note swelled to enormous proportions on the page obscuring its own identity as well as those of its neighbors.

"Why don't I just stop?" he wailed within his heart. "Why am I even bothering to go on?" But he did go on, and as he did he began to hear the voices trying to follow his awkward melody; and they were doing quite well, too. Looking down at the keyboard, he found his fingers fairly flowing over the white ivory. His ears began to perceive not just precision and accuracy in performance, but heart, as well; and the quality of sound coming from the piano was as pure as one could ask for. He dreaded to awaken from this fantasy.

As his fingers formed the last chords he looked over his shoulder at a room full of happy joyous faces. Before they could finish their last "Fa la la la la" he had transposed to the key of G and led them into O Tannenbaun. Nor did he stop there, but led the carolers through one favorite after another. They Awayed in a Manger and wished Joy to the World; they Harked the Heralding Angels, First Noeled, Heard the Bells on Christmas Day, and invited the Fideles to Adeste.

Song after song they sang, the Christmas spirit deepening in each heart with each carol sung. Jim watched in wonder as his fingers played unceasingly over the flashing keys. Then, without understanding how he knew it, Jim realized that it was time to stop. He modulated into C and led the carolers into a quiet rendition of Silent Night.

As the last notes faded into the Christmas night, Jim turned his back to the piano and found the boys sleeping and Grandma Nellie fast into the same happy dream. The less somniferous carolers sat looking at him in wonder. More out of confusion than anything else, Jim closed down the evening's events and finalized the sleeping arrangements for the night.

The next morning, Jim sat on the piano stool during the opening of the presents. He seemed as content as anyone there, but occasionally stopped to consider his performance the previous night. Turning to the yellowed keyboard, Jim struck the high C and heard three separate notes, one of them slightly tinny. Thus satisfied he turned back to the celebrations at hand and reveled in the remainder of the Christmas Day.