John introduced himself to Edna, and Howie explained that she was a neighbor who didn’t get to town very often. “Edna is our town’s seamstress. She reupholsters furniture and does alterations out of her home. Her mother is in ill health, and she takes care of her.”
“That’s a wonderful thing to do,” John said, moving all the way down so that now he sat on the end of the row, next to the outside aisle. “I’m sure your mother appreciates your kindness.”
“It’s not a kindness, really,” Edna said. “I don’t mind at all.” She sat next to John, with Howie and his mother on the other side. Howie leaned back to talk to Pearl, who regarded him with aloof politeness.
Edna pointed down the front of the theater and said, “Oh, there’s Alice. Doesn’t she look lovely in that blue dress? Alice is my best friend, you know. I don’t know what I would have done without her when my mother had her attack. Alice came as soon as she heard.” She turned to face John. “Apoplexy. It was horrible. Mother is better now, but the doctor says she will never be the same as she was before.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” John said, aware of how insufficient the words were. He knew that apoplexy could strike a healthy person down in an instant, leaving their limbs paralyzed or their thinking affected. He had read of one patient who’d lost the ability to read. “Your mother is lucky to have you.”
“And I’m lucky she is still with us today,” Edna said. “So many who suffer in that way are not as fortunate. I could so easily have lost my sweet mother.”
As they watched, Alice sat on the piano bench, and a man stepped into view. The crowd hushed in anticipation.
“Good evening, and welcome to the Victory Theater,” the man announced grandly. “I’m Floyd Kramer, the owner of this establishment. I’m pleased to announce that our film tonight is The Floorwalker starring the very funny Charlie Chaplin. Ladies, please remove your hats.” He looked off to one side. “Cut the lights, and we shall begin. I hope you enjoy the show.”
As the audience clapped, the owner walked away, and Alice’s fingers ran the length of the keyboard and back again, a warm-up for the event. The lights went down, and now the only lights in the theater came from the screen and the one small light over the piano. In other theaters, John had noticed the piano player working off sheet music with an assistant to turn the pages, but Alice worked alone, nothing to go by, just her hands dancing on the keys creating a swell of music, the backdrop for the moving pictures on the screen.
While everyone else concentrated on the movie, John had eyes only for Alice, the delicate way she swayed and leaned into the piano, her hands leaping and flying, brilliantly aligning the notes with the flickering images in front of them. He’d seen her play many times in the parlor of the Bennett home, but this was different. She was different.
John’s mother often said the most successful people lived a life of passion and service to others, something he hadn’t quite fully grasped until that moment. He’d always thought the two concepts were at odds. Following one’s passion was self-serving. How could you do that and live a life of service to others? He saw now that Alice embodied both by bringing passion and service to everything she did. No task was too menial, no person too unimportant, no place too dreary for her enthusiasm and good cheer. She brought a handful of sunshine everywhere she went.
He sat, captivated by the sight of her at the piano, not paying any attention to the film on the screen. The rest of the audience laughed at Charlie Chaplin’s tomfoolery, but John’s grin was for the girl on the bench. She kept her face tilted up to the movie, making sure the music matched the action. Occasionally, when her face was angled that way, he thought he caught a glimpse of a smile, but it was fleeting. She took the accompaniment seriously. Her music gave the story sound and brought it to life.
As he watched, her handkerchief dropped out of her sleeve and fluttered to the floor behind her. John knew that his own mother kept a hankie on hand to dab her forehead when perspiring. She often said that ladies never sweat.
At some point, Alice would reach for her handkerchief and find it missing.
Without even a thought, he rose to his feet, stepped into the aisle, and made his way down the incline. When he got to the bench, he reached down to pick up the handkerchief and set it on the bench next to her. With a quick glance, she realized what he’d done, gave an appreciative nod, and continued playing.
An impulse overtook him. Silently, he slid onto the left side of the bench, his heart pounding. Why was he doing this, joining her without an invitation? It could all go wrong in a very public way, ruining everything. Part of him wondered at his own boldness, but it didn’t matter what he thought. It was not up to him anymore; his body had moved of its own volition. His heart had taken over.