Rock Music
By Mark Joseph Kiewlak

(continued)

The next afternoon he went into the front room and opened the big glass cabinet in the corner. He put the rock on the bottom shelf. He felt terrible leaving it there all alone, but at least it was closer to where it was supposed to be. It was supposed to be on top of the piano. At least for a start.

When Bobby had his next piano lesson he told his mother that the rock was his good luck charm and asked if he could put it on top of the piano while he played. She asked where it was now.

"I don't know," Bobby said. "I'll have to find it."

During a break in the lesson his mother left the room. Bobby took the rock from the bottom of the cabinet and placed it in front of him atop the piano.

"I see you found your lucky rock," his mother said. "Where was it?"

"Around," Bobby said.

Once he had the rock there with him Bobby didn't feel so bad about playing the piano anymore. He didn't feel trapped. The rock seemed to be encouraging him, telling him he could do it. But he still wasn't enjoying it the way his mother thought he should.

One day, early in the fall, Bobby told her he didn't want to play anymore.

"I think it's terrible," his mother said. "I think it's a terrible waste."

"I don't want to," Bobby said.

She lifted his rock from the piano. He felt an immediate urge to take it away from her. "Look," she said, "it's your lucky rock. Doesn't that make you feel better?"

"Don't be mad at me," Bobby said.

He thought she was going to start crying. She got up from the bench and stood at the big window with her back to him. She was quiet for a long time. She still held the rock in her hand. "I won't force you to play," she said. "I don't want to be that kind of parent."

"Okay," Bobby said.

"But," she said, "you have to realize that some people wait their entire lives to find something they're good at. And some people never find it. Some people are still waiting."

"It's not me, Mom," Bobby said. "It's the rock. The rock wants to play."

Without turning around, she shook her head in away that scared Bobby a little.

"Maybe it'll only happen once," Bobby said. "Maybe that's all it wants. Just to play once. Then it'll be happy forever."

His mother hunched her shoulders. She took a deep breath. Then she turned and walked to the piano and placed the rock on top of it. "The lesson is over," she said. "Go get ready for bed." Bobby wondered why she didn't look him in the eye as she said it. He didn't like the way she left the room.

The rock sat atop the piano for years after that. Bobby would wipe the dust from it, but he never moved it or picked it up. The piano itself was covered with dust. Bobby was in high school now, but he never surrendered his beliefs about the rock. There was something about it that he still couldn't put into words. He'd read stories about American Indians who believed that the rocks and the trees possessed a consciousness. He'd seen TV shows where shamans spoke as if the thunder were alive. A part of him wanted desperately not to believe. It was just so ridiculous, rocks being alive. His was the only rock he'd ever sensed anything from. It had become such a burden, hiding this belief from everyone. He was sure that if he spoke his mind they'd lock him up and throw away the key.

His mother had been right about one thing. Bobby became a science fiction writer. He sold his first story when he was sixteen years old. By the time he was ready for college, he'd already amassed a list of magazine acceptances that assured him the attention of a book publisher when he was ready. His parents were happy for him, though he felt they could never really understand what it was he did when he sat down to write. He didn't really try to understand it himself. But he kept his mind open to every possibility.

On his last night before moving away to college, Bobby went into the front room, dusted off the piano bench, and sat down. He stared at the rock. It still fascinated him endlessly. It was beautiful. It had a voice. Why was he the only one who could hear it? He said a silent goodbye to his friend, dimmed the lights, and went upstairs to get ready for bed. On the way past his parents' bedroom he hesitated. They still left the door ajar, as they always had, just in case he had a nightmare and wanted to come in and talk about it. Bobby pushed open the door. They were both asleep. He went to his mother and bent over and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

It was then that the music began.

It was drifting up slowly from below, a sad song, a beautiful song that swept him away upon its melody almost immediately. The song mesmerized him and buoyed him and spoke through its lament of a time when things would be different, when understanding would be greater, when the thunder could come alive again. Bobby began to weep. He moved away from the bed, backing toward the doorway, straining to better hear the song. It seemed to last only an instant. And yet it seemed to go on forever.

The moment it was over he opened his eyes. He was standing in the hallway. His parents had not awoken. Bobby rushed down the stairs two and three at a time, swinging around the railing when he reached the bottom. He bounded toward the front room and stopped, hesitating in the archway. He peered into the darkness. The rock was sitting atop the piano as it had been for years. Nothing was changed. Bobby felt deflated. His imagination really was a powerful thing. And then, as he turned to make his way back upstairs, he remembered something that made him smile. He peered again into the darkness. Sure enough. All those years, as the piano sat in disuse, the keyboard had remained covered.

Now it wasn't.