Running Barefoot

The door to the garage of the largest home stood wide open, and the white Cadillac was parked demurely inside. I couldn’t see anyone around - no boxes or moving van, no children’s toys abandoned haphazardly on the walk.

I didn’t dare knock, and peeking through windows when someone was home was far too brazen for my cautious nature. I turned to go when a violent noise startled me into dropping my bike and yelping in surprise. Belatedly, I realized someone was playing the piano with serious gusto. I didn’t recognize the song, but it wasn’t pretty. It was crashing and intense and reminded me of the kind of music that would be in a scary movie - a scary movie where the little girl who is snooping on someone else’s property gets murdered by the crazy owner. I was seriously spooked and picked up my bike, only to discover that the chain had come off when I’d dropped it. I squatted down and quickly began trying to force the greasy chain back around the sprocket - this had happened to me before, and I knew how to get it back on.

As I worked, I listened nervously to the powerful music pouring out of the house. All at once the music changed and morphed into something equally powerful, but infused with joy in every note. The music swelled in my heart and had tears filling my eyes and overflowing onto my cheeks. I wiped at them in amazement, leaving a streak of grease down the side of my face.

Music had never made me cry before. And these weren’t sad tears. The music I was hearing made me feel the way I sometimes felt in church when I sang songs about God or Jesus. But it made me feel that way without any words. I loved words. I was surprised that the music could talk to me without speaking. I listened as long as I dared, and when the song seemed to near its soaring conclusion, I picked up my bike and sped away, pedaling in time with the music that now filled my head.

“It’s a retired doctor and his wife,” my dad told me at dinner time that night when I relayed the story of the white Cadillac. “Name’s Grimwald, or something or other.”

“Grimaldi,” Jacob corrected with his mouth full of mashed potatoes. “Rachel and her mom helped clean the house before they moved in.”

Rachel was Jacob’s girlfriend. Rachel’s mom was the president of the women’s organization at our little church, and duty made her a busy woman. It also provided an opportunity for firsthand knowledge of all the town’s goings-on, although she wasn’t the type to abuse her position.

“Rachel said the doc’s wife insisted on paying them,” Jacob continued. “She got kinda feisty when they refused. Rachel said her mom kept saying they were glad to help and wanted to serve. The doc’s wife finally gave in, but said that if Rachel wanted to come back she would pay her to clean once a week.” Jacob settled back with a satisfied burp.

“Why did they move to Levan?” I questioned. “Are they related to somebody?” Levan was a far cry from St. George, three hours south, where retirees commonly moved to soak up sun and enjoy easy winters.

“Rachel says the old man is writing a book and he wants peace and quiet,” Jacob said matter-of-factly. “The doc’s wife said they are old friends of the Brockbank’s, and Levan seemed like a good place to find it.”

I thought of the loud and passionate music of earlier that day. It definitely hadn’t been quiet then. I resolved to wheedle Rachel into taking me along when she went to clean again. And that was how I met Sonja Grimaldi.

Rachel was a tiny, pretty redhead who was good-natured and very hardworking. She was always moving and doing. She referred to everything as a thingy or a dilly, and she would probably never gain a pound, as she worked as fast as she talked and never seemed to tire. I loved her, but too much time in her presence made me long to sit down and drown in a deep book. She was a perfect compliment to my laid back, slow talking oldest brother, and I was grateful that someday she would probably be a Jensen and I would have a sister.

That Saturday she was happy to let me tag along to the Grimaldi’s, and I found myself looking forward to hearing more music, hoping that whoever had played before might do so again. The Grimaldi’s were nowhere to be found when we arrived, though Rachel didn’t seem concerned and immediately got to work. I tried to help her clean, but she shooed me away good-naturedly, saying she didn’t want to share her profits. I tiptoed through the kitchen and into the room where I thought the piano must be. The piano was an enormous, black, shiny showpiece, the lid raised high, the seat a long smooth slash of ebony. I desperately wanted to sit down and run my hands across the keys. So I did. I slid onto the bench and rested my hands gently on the glistening whites. I played each one very, very softly, enjoying the individual sounds, the clear tones.

“Do you play?” A voice said behind me.

My heart jumped out of my chest and tumbled to the floor as I sat frozen, my hands still on the keys.

“You touch the keys so reverently, I thought you must play,” the voice continued.

My heart returned to my chest, pounding loudly to let me know I was still alive. I stood and turned guiltily. A bird-like woman, not much taller than me, stood just behind me. Her silver hair was fashioned in an updo, all swooped the way Jane Seymour had worn hers in ‘Somewhere in Time’. She wore black horn rimmed glasses on her very long nose and a deep purple pantsuit with matching purple gems that I later learned were called garnets at her ears, hands, and throat.

“I’m Josie,” I stammered. “Josie Jensen. I came with Rachel. I don’t play…but I wish I could.”