Please Sing Again, Papa

When people ask what Papa was like when I was younger, I tell them my favorite memory.

He was barbecuing hamburgers in the backyard one summer evening when I was 12. Pauly, my older brother who was trying to impress his girlfriend, said, “Catch this.” Then he said, “Hey, Papa, sing for us.”

Papa smiled beneath his bushy mustache and opened his mouth. Music from his baritone voice, like fine golden threads, wove through the smoke and drifted across the neighborhood. The yappy dog next door went silent, the neighbors opened their windows, and everyone mostly stopped what they were doing.

That’s how it always was when Papa sang. “Why aren’t you in the opera, Johnny D’Alesso?” people would ask. He’d wave his arms and answer, “But I’d have to leave my beautiful friends, my wonderful children, my gorgeous wife, and my horrible job.” Then he’d laugh.

He finished an aria from La Traviata. The hamburgers and music done, I said, “Did you always sing, Papa?”

“Of course, Maria. I always sing. I used to think that if there was a God in the heavens, he sent us music to show us love. And if I sing pretty he might think of me sometime. But now I know different. God sent music for joy, and he sent Mama to show us love. So now I sing once and kiss Mama twice. That way he remember me always.”

He pinched my cheek, and I knew if there was a God, he must surely love Papa.

Two years later, when Mama died of cancer, the part of Papa that was his music stayed in the cemetery. After her death, people sometimes asked, “Why don’t you sing anymore, Johnny?”

“Because,” Papa answered, “there is no reason.”

When I was 16, I was becoming concerned that alcohol might permanently replace the music in Papa’s life. I said to him one day, “Papa, if you sing again, maybe God will hear how beautiful it is and take away your pain.”

“Maria, if there is a God, it was him that took away my love. Why should I try to please him?”

He turned and walked out of the room, and I shivered from the coldness creeping into my life. I thought if there was a God, he had forgotten us.

My own musical talents were born in my fingers. I sat for hours at the piano. I loved to play even the technical exercises that Mrs. Talesworthy, the neighborhood piano teacher, gave me. We couldn’t afford the summer camps where richer talent went, nor could we come up with the money for expensive private teachers who taught at the university by day and inspired virtuosos in the evenings. But at school, I was one of the choir’s accompanists, and after school, Todd Loggins, the other accompanist, worked with me, encouraged me, and forced me to stretch my gift.

Todd, a senior, was the only true musical genius I’ve ever known. He could hear a popular song once and play it by ear in any key. Two times through a difficult piece of music and he had it memorized. He loved to improvise, and Mr. Tharrin, the choir director, had to continually remind him to “just play the notes on the page.” Todd would grin from behind his freckles and do something like play the next song in a key a whole step higher, making the sopranos leave scratches on the ceiling.

In our afternoon sessions, we had been working on the second movement of Beethoven’s Pathetique Sonata. The notes on the page seemed deceptively simple, but it never felt quite right when I played it.

“This time, Maria,” he said, “don’t hang on the notes like you own them. Let them sing through you. Pathetique doesn’t mean ‘pathetic,’ like in English. It means great, powerful emotion. Listen as you play. This second movement is flooded with hope. Remember, you and the piano are the instruments for the master.”

After that speech, what could I do? I thought of the master Beethoven penciling in the notes; then I closed my eyes and began. The feel of this movement had always eluded me. But this time the sounds told my fingers how to play, and the music shimmered in the room forming a momentary blanket against the coldness in other parts of my life. When I finished, I looked at Todd. A tear trickled down his cheeks.

“I can’t tell if that was for the master of the universe or from him, Maria.”

The Master he was talking about wasn’t Beethoven. I remembered Papa’s pain and said, “If you mean God, it was neither.”

“Then you know nothing of gifts,” he said.

“I know there is no God.”

He hesitated before he spoke. “Your playing says something else.”

“My playing says you’re a good teacher, that’s all.”

“Can I share something?”

“If it’s more of your Mormon religion, I don’t think so.”

“Why?”

I told him about Papa, about his singing, about his pain.

“Perhaps Mormon missionaries can help—him and you,” he said.

“Don’t count on it.”

Sunday evening Todd showed up with two college-age young men. I didn’t think Todd and his friends could help Papa, but after our visit in the music room the day I mastered the Pathetique, I was willing to try. Todd talked that day of what he called eternal things, and although Todd’s words were strange to me, they were full of hope. Even if there was only a slight chance they could help Papa, I wanted to try. I had not told Papa, though. I was afraid he’d say no if I asked.

I let Todd and his friends in, and Papa entered from the kitchen, two drinks already down and another in his hand.

“Papa, this is Todd. I’ve told you about him. He helps me with my music.”

“Ah,” Papa said, crossing the room to shake hands. “You are the boy with fingers of gold, Maria says.”

“She’s kind. But she has gold of her own, Mr. D’Alesso.” Todd stepped back. “Mr. D’Alesso, this is Elder Sals and Elder Warran.”

“What, you have the same funny first name?” Papa asked, grinning.

“No,” Elder Sals smiled. “That’s what missionaries in the Mormon church are called.”

Papa’s lips tightened. “You have a business here? In my home?”

Todd looked at me.

“I forgot to tell you, Papa. I invited them over to talk to us about their church.”

“They go.” Papa turned, and over his shoulder he said, “Now,” and walked back to the kitchen.

I apologized to Todd and the elders, and they left.

Papa came back into the room. I wanted to yell at him for being so rude, but I knew most of it was my fault for not telling him.

“These boys. They fill your head with the funny ideas, and you believe them. Then you find out the truth, and you be bitter. Eh, I know. You listen to your Papa. There is no God. You stay away from that boy and his friends.”

“Okay, Papa. I won’t talk religion with him.”

“No. No more practice with him. He’s bad.”

“No, Papa. I can learn more from Todd in one afternoon than I can from Mrs. Talesworthy in ten years. I won’t quit my lessons.”

“You will stay away,” he shouted. “Final.”

“Please, Papa.”

“Final!” he screamed.

Where my relationship with Papa had been cool and distant before, it now became icy. To disobey Papa was unforgivable, to not work with Todd on my piano, unbearable. In the evenings I went to the library, to a friend’s house, or I occupied myself in my room doing homework or reading.

A few weeks passed, and Pauly came home from college for the weekend. We ate a quiet dinner where Papa asked questions, the same questions Papa always asked—How’s school? You keeping your grades up? You don’t do nothing to let them take your scholarship away? Then later, alone, I told Paul what had happened.

“Papa chooses to pine away his life,” Paul said. “We buried our mother; he buried his joy. Do what you have to do to live your life, Maria.”

Monday, as we walked together between classes, I told Todd I was ready to start piano lessons again.

“Did your father say it’s okay?” he asked.

“It doesn’t matter what my father says. It’s my life.”

“You should obey your father.”

“Then I’m destined to take lessons from Mrs. Talesworthy for the rest of my life.”

“There are worse things.”

“Yeah,” I smiled, “like watching you sight-read Chopin without even one mistake.”

“Oh, there are mistakes. You just don’t hear them, yet. But your ear’s improving. Look, there has to be a way to reach your father. I feel responsible for bringing up the idea of talking religion to him in the first place. Maybe I should visit him, apologize, tell him I won’t discuss religion with you, and ask him to let us work together again.”

“No. That’s hopeless, and maybe unwise—especially if you came when he was drinking.”

“Is he mean then?”

“No, not really. Just more stubborn.”

Todd seemed stumped. Then he shrugged his shoulders and said, “If it’s supposed to work out, it will.”

I stopped walking and grabbed his arm. “People can’t just hope things will work out. They have to do something, Todd.”

Todd turned to face me. “So, what are you going to do?”

“Men!” I said and whacked him on the shoulder.

We both laughed, but I knew he was right about obeying Papa.

The warning bell rang, and Todd started to walk away, then turned around. “You might pray,” he grinned, and was off.

The thought that I could pray had never occurred to me. I’d only seen it done by preachers on TV, or in the movies. I had to do something, though. I thought about Todd’s suggestion the rest of the day and decided I would try it.

That night I poured out my heart at my bedside and after a half-hour climbed in bed. There was no flash of light, no inspiration, no singing angels, nothing. But the melody of Beethoven’s Pathetique Sonata playing in my mind and an understanding that I must do something.

I stared at the dark ceiling and made a mental list of my options. I could try to persuade Papa to see a doctor. That hadn’t worked before; perhaps, though, it was worth another try. I could leave things as they were and hope that in time he’d heal. But Papa was growing more sullen each week. I could talk to Uncle Ricard and ask him for help. But he was a thousand miles away. I could let Todd talk to Papa, but that hadn’t gone over too well before. I had tried to bring Todd’s name up on two occasions since the missionaries’ visit, and Papa got angry. I told him I wanted to know more about what Todd believed, and he didn’t like that.

Of course I could confront Papa and insist that we either work together or threaten to move out. Chances were, though, I’d end up on the street. And if he threw me out, I didn’t know what would happen to him or me. What I really wanted to do was take responsibility for my own life, let Papa do with his what he would, and secretly start lessons with Todd again.

But that’s not what I did.

It was after dinner the next evening. We had eaten and cleaned up, mostly in silence. When we were through, Papa headed for the bottle of scotch and the TV.

“Papa?” I said.

“What?”

“Can we talk?”

“About what?” His eyes grew darker.

Oh, how I longed to see the brightness in them again. Why did Mama have to go? “Papa, I’m dying.”

“What? You make a joke?” His eyes widened.

“I don’t have a disease or anything, but I’m dying. My music is dying, and so are you.”

“Look. I don’t need you to tell me what I am doing.”

“Papa, I remember one spring afternoon when we were barbecuing and Pauly asked you to sing. You opened your mouth, and the notes came out like the Creator himself had touched your voice. And the world stopped to listen. I asked you that day if you had always sung. Do you remember what you said?”

“No. It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter. It matters to me, and it matters to Mama.”

“There is no Mama for you, Maria; no wife for me.”

“Papa, you said that you thought God sent music to give us joy and Mama to show us he loved us. Do you remember?”

Papa lifted his gaze and stared at the wall. “I remember.”

“I don’t know why she died, but you mock her life with your constant self-pity.”

He raised his voice. “I lost my wife.”

“And I lost my mother,” I shouted. “And now I’m losing you.”

“You will not talk to me like that.”

“Why not? If it’s not like this it won’t be at all.” I pounded the table. “The only talk you do these days is to the TV and your bottles of scotch.”

“You give your dad some respect. Hear?” He rose off his seat, his face flushed, and I knew I was close to a point of no return. I could stop now, and in a few days things would be more or less frigid normal. If I pushed him too far, I could lose him as surely as I had lost Mama.

“Papa, what if Todd is right? What if there is a God, and what if Mama is alive, living with him in another world, waiting for you? What if your being with her again depends on what you do here? What if your selfishness and self-pity kept you from being with her after you die?”

He looked as if each word was a well-aimed bullet. He sunk back in his seat. After a moment of silence, he said, quietly, “No one can know about these things.”

“Todd says he and a lot of other people do.”

For the first time in my life I saw Papa as a little boy, a frightened child who had lost hope.

“Father, may I play you a song?”

“You hate me, Maria?”

“No, I love you, Papa. Please, may I play for you?”

He nodded his head and followed me into the living room.

“Sit down, Papa, and listen.”

I closed my eyes and, this time, pictured the Master, like in a picture Todd had shown me. And Mama stood beside him.

I began the second movement of the Pathetique. When I finished, I looked at Papa, deep in his chair, and he said with a softness to his face, “You play like you want God to hear you.”

“I do, Papa. I want to play so well that he will tell Mama how beautiful it is.”

Papa came over and stood behind me. He put his strong hands on my shoulders. “This Todd. He taught you to play like that?”

“No, Papa. You did.”

I felt his hands tremble against my shoulders, and he said, “Tonight, you play for me, Maria, and inside I sing again.”