The Key of Love

By Laura Kalpakian

Her husband has no understanding of music. And she doesn't get the games he loves. But in a crisis, they suddenly find themselves in harmony.

I'm stuck in traffic, the kids are squabbling, and I'm feeling completely overbooked, what with dinner needing to be early be cause of a flute recital and late because of a soccer game and the dog still at the vet's.

"The light's changed, Mom," says Juliet, 17. Gridlock lets up; I hang a left and get on the freeway. "This isn't the way to the dry cleaners, Mom. If I can't wear my blue dress, I don't even want to play at the recital tonight."

"You look like a pincushion in that blue dress," says 15-year-old Mary from the backseat. Mary insists on being called Mojo, in keeping with her cheerleading, track, and gymnastics skills. "You're so skinny, you stick out of it," she adds.

"Shut up, muscle head," Juliet replies good-naturedly. "You're coming with me tonight, aren't you, Mom?"

"Mom's coming to our game," says Mike, 13, already taller than I am and still growing into his enormous feet.

"Your dad and Mojo are going to your game, Mike. I'm going to Juliet's recital." My announcement sets off a new scuffle, which I try to ignore.

Actually, we hardly ever miss Mike's games. I missed a couple when I had double pneumonia. But my husband? Never. Greg's a physical therapist, and he's at work before seven every morning just so he can leave early for games and practices, track meets and pep rallies, planning boards for sports parents.

When Greg Kelly and I first started dating, I thought going out to endless sporting events was tons of fun. He liked to stand up and shout. He kept his eyes on the game and his hand in mine while I tried to follow his running patter of stats and tactics. I'd never met anyone like him. I was a music-ed major from a family who used Super Bowl Sunday to go to the mall because it would be deserted. But sports were like a religious faith to Greg's family. To this day, my in-laws' house is full of trophies won by Greg's brothers. Not by Greg. He was born with weak knees, so hardcore athletics were out.

What did I care about bad knees when I fell in love with him? He had a strong mind, a great smile, energy, and enthusiasm. Early in our marriage, we could see that we'd need separate rooms for music and sports or we could not live together. So when we moved to this house, we put the piano in the living room. The TV occupies center stage in the family room, just off the kitchen. When Juliet was an infant, Greg would pace in front of the TV, patting her to sleep while he watched reruns of games. Sometimes he'd get so involved with the action, he'd shout and wake the baby up.

I chose Juliet's name for its musical lilt and romantic association. Greg liked the name because "Juliet Kelly" had the ring of an all-star athlete. He had great plans for Juliet.

"Look at her knees," Greg used to say when she was just learning to toddle and would fall down. "Her knees are great."

But Juliet surprised him. Surprised me, too, for that matter. One day she announced to her father that she didn't want to play Girls Little League. Then, at age nine, she gave her dad the bad news: She wanted to play the flute.

Greg couldn't believe it: his daughter turning her back on athletics? But he accepted her decision gracefully, like a defeated coach, crossing the field to shake hands with the winner. No hard feelings.

Juliet's recital was held in a small church with fine acoustics. I got misty listening to my daughter play Debussy's "Girl with the Flaxen Hair." In her blue dress and high heels, she looked very grown-up performing with an ensemble of advanced wind instrumentalists.

I'd taught several of these young musicians and knew almost everyone there. However, I couldn't place the woman who came up to me after the performance, older than I, with an anxious air and a deferential manner. Her shoulders were hunched, and her hair was badly dyed-too dark for her pale face.

"Mrs. Kelly, I'm Cathy Waiters," she began. "My son is so impressed with your daughter Juliet. She's such a fine musician."

I told her thanks and asked her to point out her son. She nodded toward a corner where Juliet was deep in conversation with a tall kid with black hair, olive skin, and a bemused smile on his face. "Shannon," the woman said, "Shannon Walters is my son."

Juliet had mentioned Shannon. But I'd always assumed she was referring to a girl. "Shannon tells me you are a music teacher, Mrs. Kelly," she said.

"Call me Sara, please. Yes. I teach a few piano students at home and part-time in the elementary school."

"Music is a great gift. I am so grateful my son has a passion for it. Music has given me a lot of solace in life." Cathy looked wistful, and for a moment, I thought she might tell me why she had needed solace. But the moment passed.

On the way home, I asked Juliet, "Why didn't you ever mention that Shannon was a boy?"

"You never asked."

What could I say? I'd never asked.

"I was wondering if we could invite Shannon and his mother to my family birthday party next week," Juliet went on.

"What about your girlfriends? You always ask your girlfriends."

She ignored this observation. "I thought if you and Dad met Shannon's mother, then you'd let us date."

"We let you date! You went to the prom last year with Mike Weinstein."

Keeping my eyes on the road, I felt Juliet's patronizing look. "I've known Mike since the first grade," she said. "He lives down the street, remember? That doesn't qualify as a date."

"Tell me about Shannon," I said calmly.

"Well," she laughed, "he's not a girl."

Shannon was the only child of hardworking Cathy and a feckless man named Dusty Waiters. Cathy had divorced Dusty several years ago, but he still lived in town. Once reminded of his name, I recalled a guy who'd broken up a couple of PTA meetings with his boisterous demands; he had seemed to those present a bully who indulged in chaos for its own sake.

Juliet said that Dusty never showed up at Shannon's recitals or jazz concerts and only visited Shannon when he thought he could embarrass him or hurt Cathy's feelings. Shannon was very protective of his mother. He was incredibly talented. The music teacher charged Shannon half of what she charged everyone else, Juliet went on, because he was so gifted and Cathy's salary as a receptionist was so paltry. Shannon had already picked out the university music schools he would apply to--all top places. "He wants to write music, not just play it," Juliet added. "He wants a music scholarship more than anything else."

I listened silently. Clearly, their relationship was established. How had I missed this? "Don't worry, Mom," Juliet added. "I just want to go out with Shannon, and I know what you and Dad are like."

I wanted to ask, "What are we like?" But I didn't venture there. I was half afraid she would tell me--and half afraid she would duck the question and that her evasion would keep me awake at night.

After we got home, I slipped into bed beside Greg, who was reading some coach's memoirs of a winning season. He asked about the recital so he could be specifically enthusiastic when he talked to Juliet tomorrow. I told him, though I didn't mention Shannon Waiters. I was not at all sure how Greg would react to Juliet's affection for this boy. He kissed my cheek, turned out the light, and rolled over.

I lay there, listening to his quiet breathing. How odd, I thought. All these years I have lived with Greg, our separate strengths and weaknesses, values and instincts have braided together, so that to our children, we seem to be a single unit. And yet he still has a tin ear for music, and I have little understanding of the sports he loves. What are we like? Could I even answer that question?

As summer drew to a close, baseball fans statewide were suddenly ignited into a frenzy of excitement when our usually lackluster major, league team, the Condors, started winning. Collective euphoria reigned when the Condors qualified for the division play-offs. The Condors had a chance at the World Series! For the first time ever!

During the games leading up to the play-offs, Greg, Mike, and Mojo all took places at the table where they could see the TV. They barely spoke. After they ate, they would slide to the low couch in front of the TV.

Juliet and I did the dishes, looking over our shoulders now and then at the TV. One night, during a commercial break, Juliet walked over to Greg and asked about having Shannon Waiters and his mother as our guests at her birthday.

Mojo laughed. "Shannon's a geek!"

I was about to reprimand Mojo, but Greg did it for me. Then the commercial ended, and his attention returned to the TV.

"Dad," Juliet repeated, making a move as though she might step in front of the TV, "I want to invite Shannon and his mother to my birthday."

Greg nodded, still spellbound by the Condors. "Sure, honey, invite her. Any friend of yours is welcome."

"Greg," I said.

Juliet shook her head. "Wait till the next commercial, Mom."

Birthdays are a big deal in our family. You don't have to do any chores, and you get to choose whatever you want for breakfast and dinner, no questions asked. One year, Mike wanted frozen corn dogs. Mojo wanted pizza.

For her birthday dinner, Juliet asked for my special pasta with clam-and-artichoke sauce, a recipe I had gotten from the chef at Café Eden. To go with this, she asked for a big summer fruit salad and a green salad, a spectacular plate of hors d'oeuvres served with rustic Italian bread, and her favorite chocolate orange cake. We tied balloons to the light fixture over the table. I ironed the best tablecloth and put out china and crystal glasses for both wine and water.

Yes, all was in perfect readiness for Juliet's 18th birthday, complete with special guests Shannon Waiters and his mother. Except that the Condors' final play-off game was scheduled for that same evening. We had to have the TV on.

I tried to reason with Greg, to no avail. "You'll watch TV and ignore the party. Ignore Shannon and his mother. Ignore Juliet."

"I won't. I'll pay attention. I'll be…whatever you want. But I have to see the game, Sara!"

"It's only the play-offs."

"Right! More important than the World Series! If they lose, they may never get another chance.… "

"What about Juliet?"

"She can watch the game too. So can Shannon and his mother…what's her name--Cathy?"

"What if they don't want to? What if they don't care about the game?"

"That's not possible. Everyone cares."

"OK, here's a compromise," I offered. "You can sit in a place at the table where you can still see the TV, but the sound will be off. Then you can still carry on a conversation with Cathy and Shannon."

"Shannon sounds like a girl's name."

"I assure you, he is not a girl. Just ask your daughter." Something in my voice must have rung Greg's alarms, because he agreed to the compromise.

Mike and Mojo grumbled audibly and said they'd rather watch the game upstairs than have dinner with the Waiters. I forbade this. It was Juliet's birthday.

Juliet grumbled, too, though she knew that muting the TV was the best she could expect under the circumstances.

On the afternoon of the party, the overhead fan cooled the kitchen and family room; lemonade in crystal glasses and the hors d'oeuvres were laid out on the coffee table in front of the couch. Juliet looked lovely in a pale summer sheath. Shannon wore a tie, a dress shirt--long sleeves and cuff links, no less. Cathy looked prim and uncomfortable in a beige summer suit. Mike and Mojo were planted on the family-room floor, right in front of the TV. Greg hung back and chatted with both Shannon and Cathy, though his gaze hardly strayed from the game. His face registered the Condors' every run, hit, and error.

After a few minutes, Juliet and Shannon strolled outside to the patio and the garden. I passed the hors d'oeuvre plates to Cathy and made small talk about the kids being seniors this year, applying for colleges and the like, asking about music schools. Cathy spoke in her slow, cultured fashion. "Shannon plays tenor, soprano, and alto sax, all three. I sometimes cry just to hear him practice. He has a gift. I will rejoice when he goes to college. But I'm afraid I will be diminished. Alone."

Though I could imagine her being a very gracious receptionist, she was clearly ill at ease with me. Spreading a bit of Brie on her bread, Cathy asked, "What will I do with myself?. My job is nice but quite dull. Certainly not like yours. Being a music teacher must be wonderful."

"I like watching kids improve at things. Training, discipline, and experience. Musicians have to work every bit as hard as athletes."

"Sports uses the whole body," Greg offered, then added, "Top of the fourth."

"So does music," said Cathy before I could even reply. "Look at the hands of a pianist. Look at Sara's hands."

My hands, strong, with long fingers and short nails, are really pretty undistinguished. I laughed and passed the roasted red peppers. "Do you play an instrument, Cathy?"

"I read music. I used to play the piano. We don't have one anymore."

I would have invited her to play ours in the living room, but then the whole birthday party would be broken up, Juliet and Shannon outside, Cathy at the piano, and the rest of them mesmerized by the Condors.

My pasta water was about to boil, and though I had the salads all done, this clam-and-artichoke sauce has to be done all at once and served immediately, so I left Cathy on the family-room couch with Greg and went into the kitchen. My family erupted with loud cheers as a Condors batter hit a home run and brought three men in.

I looked over and saw Cathy Waiters smiling. She asked if the Condors had ever played in the World Series. Astonished, Greg told Cathy that this would be their first, assuming they won the play-offs.

By the top of the sixth, we were all at the table, the meal served, and we'd sung "Happy Birthday to You" to Juliet at least three times. I was pleased at the lemony scent, the fresh-chopped parsley, and the whiff of the sea from the clam sauce. Now I was free to enjoy my lovely daughter's 18th birthday and study her guests.

Shannon Walters was livelier than his mother, but there was a low-key quality about him just the same. Very different from the high school kids I was used to. He glanced over at Cathy often, as if to offer confidence to his mom, rather than the other way around.

Throughout dinner, the phone kept ringing after every base hit--Greg's brothers calling from Oakland and Seattle. Finally, Greg just put the phone on the table. I wanted to throw it across the room but knew it was hopeless.

And then I heard a knock at the front door. I got up, fully prepared to send away Mojo's cheerleading girlfriends.

A man stood at my door. Perhaps. 50. Tall and broad shouldered, he exuded a burly confidence. He wore jeans and a T-shirt, and, I realized with a start, he was the image of his son, Shannon. Shock scrambled across my face.

"Hi!" he said. "Dusty Walters. Cathy's neighbor told me where Shannon and Cathy were off to, and I got your address out of the phone book." He opened the screen door and shook my hand with a grip a little too tight. "I need to talk to Shannon."

"I don't think you can come in right now," I said. "We're having a family party."

"Won't take a minute," he said, pushing past me into the living room. "You play the piano, huh? What a waste of time. Are they back there?" He waved in the direction of the voices, and, speechless, I followed him into the kitchen.

Greg, Mojo, and Mike tore their gaze from the TV and stared. But their shock was nothing compared with the look on the faces of Shannon and Cathy Waiters. Cathy blanched. Shannon's face seized up as Dusty burst in and greeted them.

Shannon stood up. He seemed about to vault over the table, to stand between Dusty and Cathy. He glanced at Juliet. "This is my father," he said, color flooding his sallow complexion.

The phone rang again, and Greg picked it up. His brother from Oakland.

"Don't mind me. I just wanna talk to Shannon, but it can wait," said Dusty, plopping down on the couch. "I'll just watch the game till you're done."

He popped a couple of olives in his mouth, found the remote, hit the mute button, and turned up the volume. The noise and clamor of the game filled the space around us.

Shannon turned to me. "Excuse me for a moment." He walked to the couch.

"Great game!" cried Dusty without turning around. "Except the bums are losing."

Suddenly I saw, or thought I saw, the whole tapestry of Cathy Walters's past: the bright-eyed woman she must have been when she married Dusty Waiters, how he must have seemed to her larger than life. And then how she had lived in his shadow. I understood how Shannon gave her strength and purpose and how she would indeed be diminished when he left home. And yet I knew that she would do everything in her power to help him leave, to help him fulfill his dreams.

As I listened to the drone of Shannon's voice while he spoke quietly to Dusty, I felt I was in the presence of a kind of heroism. Not gold medals, not triumphs on the court or the mat or the field or the ice, but just as hard earned, practiced, and demanding. I felt bad that I hadn't been able to protect Shannon and Cathy from Dusty Waiters, but I knew that Shannon and Cathy had been protecting each other for years.

"I said I'll wait," Dusty insisted, brushing Shannon off. "I'll just sit here and watch. Everyone in America is watching the game." He popped a few more olives. "Hit the ball!" he cried out to the TV.

Shannon went back to Juliet. "Maybe Mom and I should leave."

"No." She took his hand. "I don't want you to leave. Either of you."

Greg barked into the phone, "Don't call back--I'll call you," then hung up on his brother. He looked at me. Suddenly, I knew the answer to the question "What are we like?" We're in accord, that's what we are. No matter the ways in which we are different, fundamentally, we are in accord. Maybe that's the gift of a long marriage: that you give up a part of your individuality to be part of another person, and he gives up his to be part of you.

Greg strode across the family room and took the remote from Dusty Walters. He turned the TV off. The sudden silence fell upon us like the collapse of a huge tent, billowing out to the farthest corners of the room. It was quiet, save for the hum of the fans. A distant dog barked.

"Mr. Walters," Greg said, "maybe everyone in America is watching this game, but we're not. You need to go somewhere else to watch it."

Greg then tossed the remote over to the counter. He offered his hand to Dusty Walters, said it had been a pleasure to meet him, and in the same fluid movement, pulled him to his feet, clapped him on the back, and escorted him out of the family room, talking nonstop about stats, RBIs, and the inadequacy of the shortstop as he ushered Shannon's father to the front door. We heard it close.

"Is everyone ready for birthday cake?" I asked, looking at Cathy Walters's frozen expression. "Cathy?"

We heard a car start up and drive away. Cathy's face seemed to thaw, and though it would be too much to say she smiled, her features assumed an uncertain ease.

Mojo cleared the plates, and I sent Mike looking for the birthday candles. Greg came back into the room and sat down in my place, beside Cathy. His back was to the TV. Mike handed me the birthday candles and reached for the remote. He popped it on, and the roar from the stands, the crack of the bat filled the room.

"Turn it off," said Greg.

"But, Dad," Mojo cried, "it's the top of the ninth. And they're down by two runs!"

"Turn it off," Greg repeated. And this time Mike did so. The fan turned overhead. "It's a birthday party. What we need is some music."

Yes, I thought: This is where discipline, training, and experience pay off. In this family, there are no weak knees.