Little Black Book

My legs were sticking to the patchy leather seats of our rusty, beat up Buick. We must have picked the hottest day of the year to move everything we owned across the country. My mom and dad split up, I was moving far away from my hometown, and everything I knew in my nine years was changing. Mom kept saying how wonderful our new life would be. I was not so sure.

We pulled up to a run down, tiny house. I couldn’t believe my mom thought this was the place to call home, so I stayed in the car while she started to unpack, knowing it was real once I stepped foot inside. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an old man peeking through his window at the house next door. I was creeped out, so I ran in to tell my mom. She assured me that we were safe and nudged me back out to start helping unload.

I settled into my room and put my favorite poster on my wall. It was the only thing I had to remind me to keep dreaming of better days. A piano. I dreamed of playing piano in the lobby of one of those fancy hotels, like you see in the movies. For now, all I had was the hand-me-down keyboard my aunt had given to me for my birthday that year. Some of the keys stuck and my cousin had spilled something on the speaker, so I had to imagine what it sounded like when I played. I sat down on my freshly made bed and before I knew it, had drifted off to sleep.

A week went by and I was so tired of being cooped up in the house. I was sitting at my window, overlooking that old man’s house, daydreaming and playing my keyboard. Just as I was thinking I had never seen him come outside, I saw him getting his mail. I shouted out my window, “Hi, I’m your neighbor!” He hunched his shoulders and turned away. Every day at the same time, he ventured out to get the mail, and every day I would shout, “Hello, sir!” After all, he was the closest thing I had to a friend in this new town. But he never would acknowledge me.

On a breezy day, playing my keyboard, I could hear music playing softly. Are my speakers working? Couldn’t be, I had never plugged it in. Does my neighbor know how to play the piano? Somehow, I couldn’t imagine that grumpy old man sitting at the piano. This intrigued me. I wanted to play the piano SO bad, but my mom always said lessons were too expensive. I had taught myself the notes from a book at my old school, but I hadn’t really played them. I recognized the tune. It was the song my Mom sang to me every night for as long as I could remember, You Are My Sunshine.

I was starting school that September and Mom was going to start her job then, too. She mentioned she would need someone to watch me after school until she got home from work. I told her there was a man next door who seemed lonely and played a piano. I thought maybe if he met me, he would like me and want to teach me how to play. I told her what time he would get his mail and that she should ask him then if I could take lessons while we waited for her to get home each night. I could tell by the look on her face that she had caught onto my plan, but she agreed to ask him for help.

Mom sat me down and went over the ground rules, “Use your manners and always call me if you need me.” I couldn’t believe it; she was really going to let me take piano lessons! I asked her if the man seemed excited to teach me, and she paused. “I have spoken with him several times now. His name is Mr. Turner. He is a reserved man, without much expression,” she said. “He is a nice man, but it might take him some time to get used to you. Therefore, I need you to be on your best behavior.” I had waited for an opportunity like this, so I promised I would.

It was my first day of school and all I could think about was when the bell would ring. I was so excited to go over to Mr. Turner’s house. When I got there, I sat down at the piano and he sat down on his recliner. He picked up a little black book and started writing. I remembered what my mom said about using my manners, so I quietly sat and waited for his instruction. I waited and waited, but he never looked up at me. I was heartbroken. There I was, in front of a real piano, and I couldn’t even play it. It felt like forever before there was a knock at the door. It was my mom. “How was your day, honey?” she asked as she yawned. I knew she had had a long day and I didn’t want her to think I was ungrateful, so I simply replied, “Good.” After all, it was only the first day.

This went on for days. He sat there on his recliner writing in that little black book. What could he be writing? Why won’t he speak to me? Will I ever learn to play the piano? I could only sit on that piano bench for so long, so I started pacing around the room. There were pictures on the walls, and one caught my eye. It was a younger Mr. Turner standing next to a beautiful woman with long, brown hair and a little girl stood between them. She was wearing overalls and had the biggest smile. She seemed to be around my age in the picture. I asked Mr. Turner about her, and he grumbled.

One day, when my mom picked me up, I had the best news. I couldn’t help but blurt it out when we walked in our door, “I played the piano for Mr. Turner today! I checked out a book at school and learned the notes for our song, You Are My Sunshine, and I played it for him!” I had indeed played the piano for him for the very first time. And surprisingly, he did not tell me not to. The only thing was, he still never looked up from writing in that little black book. I needed to practice. My fingers were clunky on the keys and I couldn’t quite keep the tune. But, every day after school, I practiced our song.

I had taken these “lessons” from Mr. Turner for a whole year, and he rarely looked up from writing in that little black book. At this point, it didn’t bother me. It was kind of relaxing to have that time, just me and the piano. I had mastered my favorite song and was thrilled to be able to show it off to Mom.

“Good evening, ma’am,” he greeted her. I had never heard him speak before. His voice was low and raspy. I started playing, and my mom got choked up. When I hit the final note, they both applauded. Is Mr. Turner proud of me? It was the only time I had seen him put that little black book down. He stood up and asked to have a word with my mom, alone. I was nervous. I wondered what he could possibly have to tell her.

The next day my mom sat me down again. “About Mr. Turner,” she said. “He hasn’t been feeling well and will no longer be able to watch you after school.” I was devastated. I only know one song! I have so much more to learn and I need his piano to practice on! It didn’t seem fair. I ran to my room and started crying. I cried so hard. It felt like I was losing my dream of playing the piano like a professional. I forgot my window was open, so it startled me when I heard a man’s voice. It was Mr. Turner. He must have heard me crying. He called me over and I anxiously shuffled outside. He had never spoken directly to me before. “Young lady, I am not doing well and am unable to play the piano anymore. I want you to have it,” he said. “Oh my goodness, thank you Mr. Turner, thank you so much!” I exclaimed. I couldn’t believe it, my very own piano! My mom had a couple of guys from her work help move it. Of course, we moved it into my room, per my request.

Months passed and I realized I hadn’t been seeing Mr. Turner peeking out his window or checking his mail. When I came home from school one day, I noticed an oddly shaped car at his house. My babysitter blocked my view and rushed me inside. “Why don’t you want me to look over there?” I asked. She said it was a question I needed to ask my mom.

When Mom came home that night, she sat me down, again, “I have some news that may be hard to hear. Mr. Turner passed away.” My heart sank. Even though we had never really talked, he was kind of like a grandfather to me. Being in his presence felt safe and inviting. If it weren’t for him, I would have never learned how to play my favorite song or been given my most treasured possession.

I’ll never forget the day of his funeral. A man dressed in black walked up to us. He shook my mom’s hand and asked, “Are you Mr. Turner’s neighbors?” “Yes, yes we are,” she replied. “In that case, ma’am, this now belongs to you. He had no family and no will, so he gave me this to give to you.” he said as he handed her a little black book. She looked at me. I looked at her. Could it be? Would I finally discover what he had been writing about all this time? I had told my mom that he was always busy writing in a little black book, so she was just as eager to read it as I was.

It was the first thing we did when we got home. After what felt like hours, but must’ve been minutes, I impatiently inquired, “What does it say, what does it say?” Apparently, Mr. Turner had been writing about me over the last year or so. He noticed me when we moved in because I looked to be about his daughter’s age when he’d lost her in a tragic accident. He didn’t speak to me because he would get choked up and didn’t like to show his emotions. He really was proud of me for learning You Are My Sunshine, partly because it was the song he would sing to his daughter every night before bed, while she played the piano. His wife had died several years back, so he really was lonely. Meeting me and having me play the piano for him brightened his days.

We were both sobbing hysterically. I didn’t know I had such an impact on this man or that he had all those thoughts and feelings, but just wasn’t sharing. We skipped to the final page. It read, “Check in the piano bench.” I raised my brow and my mom set the book down. We both looked at each other then bolted to my room. There was a keyhole on the side, which explains why neither of us noticed there was a drawer under the seat. We searched around for the key, finding it taped under the bench. We stood there frozen, as I opened the drawer to discover $20,000 in stacks of cash.