by Ann Hite

My mama always took the time to tell me a story each night before I fell asleep. She was good like that. My favorite story was one she called, Ghost on Black Mountain. For the longest time I believed it was a story about our family, but when I told Mama my thoughts, she shook her head and told me that just couldn’t be because my mama and daddy were alive and didn’t die a tragic death, but I found myself imagining I knew the people in her story that seemed so real. A husband named Hobbs Pritchard who left home and never returned, driving his poor little wife, Nellie, to walk out into a fog and be lost forever. Of course I loved the ghost part, a man who comes to warn the couple, but they didn’t listen. Somehow that story stuck with me and became part of my life. It was much more exciting than my boring life, a daughter of the pastor for Darien First Baptist Church. We were boring happy family, no secrets. We had a house that sat right on the ocean. Growing up I never thought much about having the sound of the ocean right outside my window, filling my whole room on a hot night. It was home. My mama was everything someone would expect a pastor’s wife to be, a leader in our little town, even if she hated people saying that. She also wrote little articles for the newspaper. She was pretty good, and folks looked forward to read what she had to say.

MaMa, my mama’s mother, lived with us. She was my favorite grandparent because she believed in ghosts and loved telling the future, which was more fun than Daddy’s God with his stern face and his black robes, reminding me of all the bad things I did and thought about doing.

But Mama was different from all the others both in our family and our church. She worked hard at being proper and reserved, but something told me deep inside this person didn’t hold a candle to who she once had been. Sometimes she’d begin telling me a story from her life and stop, laughing it off, but I knew she had a lot to tell. I don’t know if it was just part of being a teenager and wishing for more mysterious life like most young girls do. It was this wishing that brought me most of the pain in my life, but that’s a story for later.

I took to loving music young. Daddy liked to play his guitar and carried it most places. Of course he never sang nothing but gospel music. He was straight lace as any pastor could be except when Mama lost my baby brother. The baby died when I was two and he was two days old. Granny Nora said she feared Daddy, who was wild-eyed with grief might walk a straight line out of Darien and never come back. His faith was truly tested. He took to playing the harmonica too. This I remembered because he played the saddest songs, the kind that stirred up a person even when I was two years old. Granny Nora said it was hard times. She said Mama closed herself up in the old attic of our house for days and that I sat outside the door crying for her. I don’t recall anything like that happening. I guess I just picked out the good stuff and held on to it. It was MaMa that got Mama to come out. No one knew how. She was real special like that, calm and practical.

Me, Iona Harbor, was just a dream that floated between my mama and daddy. They both loved me more than they should—too much love is as bad as not enough—and the older I got the more they had no idea what to do with me. So, they held on tighter than ever, nearly smothering me. Mama was the worst.

There are defining moments in every person’s life. Mine were just a little more defined than most kids. That summer—I knew deep in my heart I’d leave Darien when I was old enough and go to better places—started real normal. The day was Monday, but all the days just ran together because school was out. That morning it was already hotter than most afternoons. I ran my fingers across the imaginary keyboard, eyes closed; music played in my mind, beautiful and sweet, taking me to a place where people applauded my effort. I hummed into the air, keying the magic notes on the old wooden table where my family ate each meal.

“Iona! Are you daydreaming again?”

My musical note banged to a sudden stop, sour. “I’m just thinkng.”

“You think way too much. All those silly daydreams eating away at time you could be using for useful things” Mama cracked eggs into a frying pan.

“I just learned so much from Miss Stewart, Mama. I know if I had me a piano, I could play professionally. I could prove it to you.” I faced Mama eye to eye. At the age of thirteen and a half, I was growing like a weed, taller than all the boys my age, or so Daddy said. Tall like Uncle Charles was Daddy’s comment. Uncle Charles was Daddy’s older brother who had died in the war right when I was born. Daddy being a pastor and having flat feet kept him from going. So, he missed being the shinning star of his family.

“The only thing in your head is fluff, cotton candy fluff. It will bring you to no good. You have to trust me on this, Iona. I know. I know all about making the wrong decisions.” Mama was so pretty, but at the time, I just hated her for trying to control me all the time. She handed me a basket. “Go gather some apples for a pie. That’ll be a nice dessert don’t you think.” Mama had this little apple tree Daddy planted out back when they first met. It was a June apple tree, so the apples were smaller and sweeter than most apple trees.

“You’ll see. I’ll show all of you.” I screamed this at the blue sky when I was well out of hearing rage. Why couldn’t Mama just listen to me? I marched over to the apple tree that reminded me of a old and twisted woman. The apples lay, pinkish red, on the ground. People were a lot like apples, each shaped similar, but different at the same time, marked with distinguishing traits. My traits were smooth, polished, buried in my music, waiting for a chance to prove to Mama how wrong she was. She thought she knew everything. Sometimes when she was looking at me, I could see fear like I was going to burst into flames that she couldn’t control. I had big plans. I was leaving Darien and going to college. I was going north and one day I’d be a famous musician. I couldn’t stay there all my life with Daddy, Mama, the grandparents, MaMa, and God.

On those summer days, I’d start walking on the beach and just walk and walk. The wind was good at wrapping me up in solitude. The birds dipped in and out of the ocean. Here and there I’d spy a shrimp boat way out on the horizon, fishing for the day. It was home. One morning as I walked the music in my head turned real, spilling through the wind, mingling with the crashing waves. I followed the music to Mrs. BoBo’s old house. She was living with her sister in town. Through the windows I saw a bare-chested man playing a piano. His dark horn-rimmed glasses made him handsome in an intelligent sort of way. He had to be the new music teacher. Darien High School had prided itself on adding music to school schedule that fall. I was real excited. But looking at this man pouring music across the beach, I knew life would change. I stood there for a while and then headed back home. I didn’t want to be caught watching like some peeping tom.

Mama worked dough for biscuits at the wooden chopping block that Daddy made. I washed the potatoes. “Do you want me to peel these?”

“I can do that, honey.” MaMa’s hands were gnarled with arthritis.

“Naw that’s ok.”

“You heard her, Mama. Sit down and relax.” Mama’s smiles always changed for MaMa. It’s like they had some special unspoken language between them that drew them closer together.

“Why we making so much food?” I must have had five pounds of potatoes to peel.

“We’ve got company coming tonight.”

“Who?”

“Your father has saw fit to inform me at the last minute. He neglected to tell me who.” Daddy was always bringing folks home for supper. It was the one and only sore point they had between them.

My stomach fluttered for no real reason. “It’s probably one of the deacons.” The air crackled with unexplained excitement like heat lightning chasing across the sky at sundown.

“Your mama fusses, but she was just as bad when she was a young girl. I never knew who she’d bring home to eat. She was always trying to help folks. She spent one whole year working in a soup kitchen. Now that was tough place, wasn’t it, N..Annie?”

“Mama, Iona don’t want to hear about all that.” Mama gave MaMa the eye.”

I just couldn’t imagine my mama as young girl. The very thought made me want to laugh. “Mama working in a soup kitchen. Did you wear your white gloves?”

Mama looked at me like she could just run right through me. “Get on upstairs and change clothes.”

She wasn’t mad cause she tried to hide her smile.

When they thought I was out of hearing, Mama puffed real loud. “Mama, you got to be careful. Iona doesn’t need any of those old memories to think on. And you almost slipped up.”

“I can’t help it one little bit. I’m the one that named you. I can’t help things went like they went.”

“I know, Mama. I live with it everyday of my life. I just want more for Iona. I want her to have smarts and not get herself tangled all up in trouble.”

Mama didn’t make a bit of sense most of the time, but on that time, I wondered just what trouble she’d got herself into. Daddy always gave me our secret smile when Mama started planning my life. It’s like he was saying not to worry somehow he’d saved me.

Daddy’s old car rattled into the drive forty-five minutes later. I was hanging out my window, fiddling with my transistor radio, a birthday present, instead of a piano; by holding it toward the north, I caught snatches of a melody from a station in Savannah. On a clear night I could pick up Atlanta. Static rattled from the single speaker and then went quiet. Daddy emerged from the car followed by… were my eyes fooling me? The music teacher; he was the most handsome man.

I put on my pink jumper with white strap sandals—the ones Mama thought were way too old for me—and went down the stairs. The music teacher sat at the table laughing with Daddy, even Mama wore a smile. The mantle clock struck six. Warm air wafted in the window, heavy with humidity. The little curls began to form around my face, the stray strands of hair not captured by my ponytail.

Mama spied me standing near the back staircase. “Iona, we’ve been waiting supper on you.” She raised her eyebrows at my dress and then looked at the music teacher. “Now, this one is something else. Music, music, music, I never know what to do with her. She’s had some piano lessons. She’s good, but I want her to have more than just music, something practical.”

Daddy cleared his throat. “Let’s not plan the child’s life right now, Annie.” He winked over at me. “You look nice, pumpkin. Come and sit down. This here is your new music teacher. I thought you might want to meet him. I hear he’s pretty good at teaching music.”

I dearly loved my daddy but sometimes I could just shove something in his mouth. I took a seat.

“This is Mr. Mackey.”
The handsome man—up close he looked more like a boy—held out his hand. “Call me J.T. My daddy is called Mr. Mackey. So you love to play?” His voice reminded me of the notes that played in my head.

“Yes sir.”

He made a face. “What kind of music do you like?”

I knew I was supposed to say gospel, but I just couldn’t. “I like all kinds. I really like a song that just punches me in the stomach.”

Mama dipped mash potatoes from a big bowl. “See I told you she can’t think straight when it comes to music. Songs don’t punch you in the stomach, Iona.” But I saw the truth in Mama’s eyes. She knew exactly what I was talking about and it sacred her more than anything.

“No, I know what Iona means. I love all kinds of music. I like a good hymn.”

Daddy smiled real big. “I do too.”

“I would hope so.” MaMa smiled from where she ate, listening to all of us.

“Iona, I hope you’re going to take my music class this year.”

“Of course I will.”

“I’ll tell you what come around at two tomorrow. I’ll give you a chance to play what’s in that head of yours.” When he smiled I felt tingling through my chest. He looked at Mama like he knew she would be the one who stopped the whole idea. “Of course your mama must agree.”

I held my breath. Mama made herself busy covering the breadbasket like a storekeeper closing up shop. “I don’t know.”

“Please Mama.”

She looked at me, and I saw her all soft. “I guess just for fun.”

I could barely sleep that night, thinking of those ivory keys under my fingers and Mr. Mackey’s handsome face.

The next afternoon music led me right back to his house where I rang the old-fashioned pull bell mounted on the door jam. The melody came to a gradual stop, trailing into the air as if sad to cease, clinging to objects in protest. I looked away from the glass panel next to the big door so as not to appear rude.

“Hello.” He wore a faded pair of jeans, a pale blue oxford shirt opened up the front, and no shoes. He buttoned his shirt. “I’m glad you made it. I needed a break.”

“What were you playing?”

He ushered me into the house with a sweep of his hand. “A song I’m writing.”

“You don’t act like a teacher.”

“I guess that’s good. How do teachers act?”

“They’re stuff and wear a frown.” I looked around the room. “And they’re old.” His world held a baby grand piano in the middle of a high ceiling room. Sheet music with penciled notes were scattered around the floor. A whole wall was dedicated to bookshelves where the record player sat. A large leather sofa took up the floor space at the far end of the room, under tall windows opening onto the ocean.

“It’s beautiful.” I stood before the piano.

Mr. Mackey sat on the bench. “So, let’s find out what you’re made of, Iona? You say you hear music, prove it.”

“I don’t know. It’ll probably sound horrible. I’m scared.”

He ran his fingers over the keys. “It’s scary the first time you look your dream square in the face. But, there are two things you can do. One, you walk over here and show me what you’re made of, or two, you walk out that door and forget about music.” A tune worked around the room. “Come and try to make the notes in your head.”

“I haven’t played in awhile. Mama doesn’t like me to.”

“Shame on your mama. When are you going to stand up for what you want? Either you hear the music or not.” A challenge ran through his eyes.

I sat down next to him on the bench.

He leaned close. “Play,” he whispered.

My fingers worked like rusty hinges on an old gate.

“Go to that place in your head where the music plays, Iona. Listen. Trust yourself.”

I closed my eyes as Mr. Mackey’s warm breath touched my cheek and ear. The ocean wind blew through the windows. In my mind, I played Daddy’s guitar. The music spread through my body and released into my fingers, across the keys; a sour note here, a bad chord there, but beauty and peace worked the music into my soul. Mr. Mackey joined me with his own accompaniment, covering my bad places, creating a new song, refining, a little wild. The music left me and went to him while I watched, hands in my lap. He played in another world; I rode the magic carpet his notes created. I loved him. I knew that. When he finished, we sat on the bench, waiting for the music to rest. Birds sang outside the open windows. The wind rustled the tall sea grass.

He took one of my hands and placed my fingers in position on the keys. “This is the chord you missed. You’re good.”

I looked into my lap. “I love music.” I met his eyes. “I heard Daddy playing his guitar. I think he wanted music instead of the ministry.”

“You have your own music, Iona.” He stood. “Can you practice with me?”

Could I practice with him? God could I! “I want to be the best.”

“You must come everyday, no exceptions.”

And, so it started, innocent. A new passion surged in my mind. When I played well, J.T. smiled and I saw all the love he held for me. I tried to picture kissing him, but I’d never kissed a boy. So, it took me by surprise when he bent over me one afternoon and kissed me full on the lips, holding my chin gently in his fingers. He was too old, but I didn’t see that. I was in love. Soon, I learned how to respond back when we kissed. One day after I played a challenging piece better than I ever dreamed, better than him, her ran his hand down my shirt, touching my breast. Electricity spread through my body. My skin stuck to the leather sofa as the summer heat closed on us. I loved him. There was nothing wrong with what we did. He was twenty-two and I was thirteen almost fourteen. When I was twenty, he’d be twenty-nine, not so bad. Our children would be beautiful.

Our summer continued on this way. Mama wasn’t the wiser cause I worked hard on things like math and sewing that meant so much to her. She couldn’t see her daughter had changed. School began. J.T. would smile at me when I came into class, but nothing more. I didn’t dare tell my friends. The whole town would run him out if they found out. Each evening I went to his house for my lesson. He cooked big bowls of chili and sometimes made homemade bread. I pretended we were married. Mama and Daddy never said a word. J.T. had agreed to play piano at church for free. It was J.T. who decided I was spending too much time at his home.

“People are talking. You need to stay home some, Iona.”

“What about my lessons?”

“You’re so good you can stand to take a vacation.”

So I agreed to stay away for a week or two. This agreement lasted all of two days. I knew he’d understand. I needed to see him. He was all I thought about.

I was in the kitchen ready to slip out when Daddy came in carrying a paper bag. “Look what I found in the attic.”

I looked inside and there was a toy piano, brown. “I’m almost fourteen.” He just didn’t get it. He saw me as his little girl and I wasn’t. I was all grown up. If he only knew.

“I bought it for you when you weren’t even two. I’m so proud of all your hard work, Iona.”

Anger just flashed through me. “I’m not a silly baby. I need a real piano, but Mama doesn’t want me to have one. She doesn’t want me to have anything.”

Daddy looked real sad. “I thought you’d like it. You can’t be so hard on your mama. She loves you.”

“I’m not a baby.” I ran from that room. I was so angry, but not at him. I was angry at all my lies. I was angry at Mama for loving me so much.

When I reached J.T.’s house, I just knew he would be happy to see me. Then I caught a flash of something moving and looked through the glass panel beside the door. I saw his naked body tangled with a girl. I watched. Was this some dream, a horrible nightmare? Then, I saw the girl’s face. It was Kathy Morris, a freshman who was sixteen. He was doing to her what we had done so well together. My heart beat in my face. He rolled to one side and his stare locked with mine. Kathy landed on the floor as he climbed off the sofa. I walked away.

The door opened. “Hey!”

I walked fast.

“Come back, Iona. I need to talk to you.”

“Kiss my ass, J.T.” I laughed so hard my breath left my lungs. I trotted up the road, tears rolling down my face. He was a liar! I could tell. I could bring his world crashing down. No more! No more! Mama was right! It was all cotton candy fluff.

The toy piano sat on the kitchen table. How crazy was Daddy? It was a toy. I was no longer a child. My fingers were drawn to the small keys and found a tune. The sound of applause made me jump.

“Bravo, Iona!” Daddy stood in the door.

My face was a mess from crying. My life was over. I would never play music again. But something inside my life was just beginning. I looked at Daddy and stuck out my tongue. We both laughed.