Tuning – Zary Fekete
“I hate you! I wish you were dead!!”
The words echoed off of the walls of the living room and were punctuated by the slam of my daughter Claire’s bedroom door. It happened every day…more and more every week. I couldn’t keep the fights straight anymore. There seemed to be so many reasons why she was upset. I smothered her. She had no freedom. I didn’t respect her choices. I didn’t like her friends.
Was this what I had been like when I was young? Surely not. I couldn’t ever recall having the energy to really care about something so deeply. Or, at least, I didn’t want people to think I had forceful opinions of my own. I wanted to flow along with what everyone else wanted to do. I didn’t want to cause ripples. Claire seemed so forceful. So full of spirit when something spited her. That seemed so foreign to me. When I was in high school I was always content for other people to decide for me. It always seemed easier to go along with what my girlfriends wanted to do.
I stared at Claire’s closed door for a moment, trying to remember what I had done wrong this time. I couldn’t remember. I stood next to the piano and traced a finger across the key cover. I willed my mind to slow down. What had we been arguing about? Something about algebra. But it wasn’t really about algebra. It never was.
I took a deep breath. Claire would come back out shortly. She always did and then we would make up, only to start at it again later. The cycle was endless and exhausting. I needed something to take my mind off of it for a moment.
I sat down on the piano bench, fingering through several loose sheets of music. Maybe this would calm me? Maybe if Claire heard the music she would be curious and come back out. Maybe the music might calm her mood.
I studied the pages uncertainly. I hadn’t really played since high school. The piano was a gift from a friend who moved last month. The instrument came with several sheets of beginning music and a few simple pieces by Beethoven. I picked a simple-looking piece randomly and started to plink out some notes, but I immediately stopped. No. No, not right. I thumped the black key a few times. My friend told me it would need tuning. I kept putting it off and dealing with the off-key D Flat. Come to think about it, that was very much like me, too. I’d never been one to fix things or take matters in to my own hands. I usually waited for others to do the fixing. That’s why the piano wasn’t tuned. I hadn’t the energy to make a call. I just put up with the out-of-tune D Flat. But today my ears couldn’t take it.
I stood from the piano and walked toward the kitchen when the doorbell rang. I opened the front door and saw a middle-aged man in a grey suit. He held a leather bag which looked well-used.
“Hello, madam,” he said. “I understand you have a piano in need of a tune-up?”
I hesitated. How did…?
He produced a few tools from the bag to show me he was the real thing. Wordlessly I stepped aside. He came into the entryway and took off his shoes. They were scuffed, but well-cared for otherwise.
“It’s down here, I believe?” he said, indicating the hallway which led to the den.
“Yes,” I said. “Did Mary call you?”
He smiled at me and turned to walk down the hall. “No,” he said. “I could hear you playing from the street. That D flat key isn’t quite right, is it.” He chuckled as he turned into the den.
When he saw the piano against the wall he let out a sigh. He passed his hands over the dusty top like he was petting a cat. “She’s a nice one,” he said. “How long have you had her?”
“Only about a month,” I said.
“Did you have experience playing piano before she arrived?”
To my surprise, I felt glad he was here. “Yes,” I said. “I bit. I mean, I played some when I was a young girl, but nothing much recently until…she arrived.” I smiled to myself, enjoying the female pronoun he had given the old instrument.
He nodded. “May I?” he said, indicating the bench.
“Please.”
He sat down and began to trill his fingers up through the keys a few times. I noticed he purposefully didn’t strike the guilty D flat key, almost as though he was saving it for greater attention.
“Lovely,” he said. “She has a lot of life in her yet. Now then…” He straightened his back and struck the D flat key a few times. With each thump the note gonged off-key. “Has it always sounded like that?”
“Yes,” I said. I felt ashamed. “I have been meaning to get it checked out, but I wasn’t sure…”
“…wasn’t sure how to get ahold of me?” He turned to me with a smile.
I smiled back. “Yes, I suppose.”
He stood up and opened his leather bag. He took out a small, gold-colored instrument. It looked a bit like a cross between a tuning fork and a hammer. He stood up and opened the top of the piano. With a small grunt he lowered his arm into the piano back. I could hear the faint tinging of strings as his hand moved around in the piano’s depths.
“Strike that D Flat a few times, would you please?” he said.
I moved forward and thumped the black key. As I did so, I could hear the note subtly change. It went from twanging off-kilter in the room to a more rich, refined sound. As the note changed the man’s face changed with it, his smile increasing in joy.
“Ah, that should do it,” he said, and pulled his hand out of the piano. He closed the top and sat back down on the bench, putting the tuning hammer down next to him. He cracked his knuckles quietly for a moment and placed his hands on the keys.
Then he played. The air in the room filled with a cascade of notes, tumbling across one another. The air seemed to shimmer around him from the rich, thick chords. Satisfied he stood from the bench and snapped his case shut.
“Well, no problems now,” he said. “May I wash my hands in your bathroom?”
“Of course,” I said. “It’s just down the hall.”
He nodded, moving down the hall. I followed him. A moment later I heard the water flowing from the tap. I marveled at how quickly the whole thing had happened. I was strangely delighted. The problem was fixed and I didn’t have to do anything. The water in the bathroom shut off, and he returned, straightening his suit.
“Madam, I thank you,” he said. He handed me a card. It was white with black lettering. It said, Mr. Anderson, Tuning. “If you have any more problems, just call me.”
“What…what do I owe you?” I said.
“Oh, nothing,” he turned to me with a smile. “I love any opportunity to tune something in need of care.” Then he walked down the hall, opened the door, and was gone.
#
Slam! I heard Claire’s steps disappear outside as she ran for the school bus. My hands were lifted, mid-argument, where she had cut me off. Clearly my attempt to coax her out of her angry shell with music had failed. This time it was about the tattoo she got last week. I asked her where she got the money to pay for it. Her faced flushed red, she called me a bitch. And, now, as usual, she was gone.
I dropped my hands and went to the kitchen. The unwashed dishes in the sink stared up at me. Below the sink on the ground there were several day’s-worth of accumulated food stains. I felt like a poor excuse for a mother. All my energy seemed focused on gearing up for the next confrontation with Claire. Everything else in the house was falling by the wayside. Looking at the dirty dishes made me feel guilty and tired. I didn’t feel like cleaning, but clearly it couldn’t be put off anymore.
I reached for the sponge in the drain dish. It was soggy and ragged. I bent for the lower drawer to get a new one. The drawer stuck as I pulled at it. I had to yank extra hard and then it gave way with a jerk and the face plate struck my knuckles. I winced and sucked at my hand as I took out a new sponge from the drawer. Slowly I soaped the sponge and gave a few limp passes across the plates.
I piled the plates in the drying rack but I couldn’t bring myself to tackle the silverware in the bottom of the sink. I stood in the kitchen for a moment listening to the drip drip of the water gurgling down the drain. I turned and wandered into the den. Maybe I would try the Schubert piece this time.
I stopped, my eyes on the piano bench. The tuning hammer. It was still on the bench. Mr. Anderson forgot it. But, surely, he would be back once he realized it was gone. I reached down and picked it up. It had a heavy, balanced feel. Holding it made me feel a strange sense of calm. The hammer felt warm against my fingers.
I walked back into the kitchen and reached for the lower drawer. As I did the tuning hammer bumped against the face plate. I braced myself this time, ready the drawer to stick. To my surprise, the drawer slid out effortlessly. I felt like I was touching melted butter. I slid the drawer in and out a few more times.
How long had the drawer been sticking? Several weeks at least. And now, suddenly, it was smooth? I frowned as I looked at the drawer face. I bent down to look under the bottom of the drawer. As I did I put the tuning hammer on the ground. I didn’t see anything under the drawer but smooth wood.
I closed the drawer and reached down for the tuning hammer. My mouth dropped open. The hammer lay on the floor with circle of clean tile around it. The food stains around it were gone. The circle was perfect as though it was drawn with a compass.
Slowly I reached for the hammer. I touched it, half expecting it to shock me. It didn’t, but it did feel warm. I picked it up and cradled it in my hand for a moment, enjoying the odd calm it produced in me. I turned it over a few times. I noticed a small engraving near the handle. It said, Mr. Anderson. Tuning. I looked at the drawer and then back down at the circle in the stains.
Feeling ridiculous I lowered the hammer over another dirty section of the kitchen floor, keeping it hovering in the air above the tiles. Nothing happened. Then I touched the hammer to the floor. I gasped. The stains dissolved as though they were oil separating from water. I dropped the hammer in surprise. It skittered across the floor a few inches and came to rest on a new section of the floor, and, once again, it was surrounded by a perfect circle of clean tile. There was a traced path of clean tile across the floor, neatly marking where it had slid when I dropped it.
I stood up and backed away from the hammer. The kitchen was silent. Outside I could hear birds in one of the trees twittering. I stared at the hammer. Then I reached into my pocket to took out the card. Mr. Anderson. Tuning. I couldn’t understand what was happening. I took several deep breaths.
Carefully I reached down and picked up the hammer. I looked around the kitchen. My eyes settled on the wall mirror. There was a small piece broken from the corner, a casualty of one of the arguments with my daughter from the last few days. She had thrown a mug, missing me and striking the mirror instead.
I stepped across to the mirror. I looked at my reflection, surprised to see my mouth was still open. I closed it. I bent down, and gently touched the hammer against the broken corner of the mirror. Noiselessly the glass extended itself, as though it was liquid mercury, and filled in the broken corner.
My throat felt constricted. I stood up and closed my eyes. Breathe, I said to myself.
#
Later that afternoon I sat in the living room on the couch. On the coffee table were several objects. I had collected them from throughout the house. A broken doll, forgotten from under my daughter’s bed. A sweatshirt from a camping trip from last summer with a stain on its arm. The broken coffee mug Claire had thrown at me. They were all lined up on the table. I had touched each one with the hammer. They were flawless with no cracks or stains. I stared at them. And I kept looking down at the tuning hammer in my right hand, feeling its warmth pulsing against my fingers. What was this thing?
A loud crack shattered my thoughts. I jumped and looked up. The living room window had a crack running from top to bottom. What happened? I stood and walked to the window. I looked out through the glass at the ground outside. There was a small sparrow flittering on the ground. It had flown against the window and broken its wing. Wordlessly I held the hammer against the window and watched the crack repair itself. Then I walked to the front door and went outside.
In the backyard I stood over the sparrow. It was frightened. It kept craning its head around, trying to make its useless wing work. Slowly I crouched down next to it. I held out the hammer. The tiny bird shuddered and was still. It was looking at me with one terrified eye. Gently I touched the hammer against its wing.
With a small hop the sparrow righted itself. It took a few practice flaps. It folded both wings against its body and looked at me for a moment. Then it flew up into the sky and was gone.
#
It was late afternoon by the time I heard Claire’s step outside the front door. I sat in the living room on the piano bench. The hammer was in my hand. I was nervous, breathing rapidly. The front door opened and closed and then I saw her crossing the doorway toward her bedroom.
“Claire?” I said, willing my voice to stay calm.
She stepped back into the doorway, tapping her foot impatiently and cocking her head. We looked at each other for a moment.
“Well?” she said.
“Would you come in here and sit with me for a moment?”
She rolled her eyes. “I’ve got homework.”
“It will just be a second.”
She shrugged and came into the room, dropping her bag on the floor. She circled around to the couch and sat down, twirling her hair in her finger.
“What are these?” she said, jerking her head in the direction of the repaired objects on the table.
“Nothing. I was just cleaning up a bit.”
She nodded and sat back against the couch. “What do you want?”
Nervously I tapped the hammer in my hand for a moment. “Claire,” I said. “I have been thinking about us a lot today.”
She snorted and looked up at the ceiling. “Here it comes,” she said.
“No,” I said. “I want to know…to understand. I just need you to…”
She laughed and stood up. “I don’t have time for this.” She crossed the room and grabbed her bag. I stood, holding the hammer. Her back was to me. I took a breath and stepped toward her, lifting the hammer. I stretched it toward her back.
A split second before the hammer could touch her back the doorbell rang. Claire disappeared into her room. I stood, frozen with the hammer still extending into the air. A moment later the doorbell rang again. I swallowed and shook my head, trying to clear my thoughts. I went to the door and opened it.
It was Mr. Anderson. He smiled at me.
“I’m terribly sorry to bother you, madam. I seem to have forgotten…” His eyes landed on the hammer in my hand. “Yes, there it is,” he said. “May I?” He extended his hand.
Instinctively my hand closed around the hammer for a moment. Then I handed it to him. He took it and the warmth of its presence in my palm slowly faded away. As he took it his eyes registered a moment of surprise. He looked at me and then past me at the hallway behind me. A burst of loud music began playing from the direction of Claire’s room. He looked back at me and then glanced down at the hammer in his hand.
“It feels it has been used a few times since I was here,” he said.
“I…” I said. “Yes. I’m sorry.”
He nodded. “It happens. You must have found a great many things which needed tuning.”
I was surprised to find my eyes welling with tears. He put the hammer in his bag and snapped it shut.
Then he noticed my eyes. His face softened. The sound of my daughter’s music continued clanging in the background. He smiled and gestured in the direction of the music. “I’m glad I came back when I did,” he said. “Before you made a mistake. Some things may be tuned. But other things require a different kind of attention.”
He turned to leave, but then paused and looked back at me.
“But don’t give up,” he said. “Everything can be repaired given enough time.”
He turned and walked to the sidewalk and then disappeared down the block. I stood in my doorway, hearing my daughter’s music, and looking at the large world outside.
Zary Fekete grew up in Hungary and worked as a teacher in Eastern Europe and East Asia. He has a debut chapbook of short stories out from Alien Buddha Press and a novelette (In the Beginning) out from ELJ Publications and a novella coming out in early 2024 from Darkwinter Press. He enjoys books, podcasts, and many many many films. Twitter: @ZaryFekete
