Can I Try Again?

"Dad keeps asking for you," Maggie said. My stepdaughter's voice on the phone was quavering with emotion. Unexpectedly, I felt the same way. I sank into a chair, and for a few seconds could do nothing but stare out the window.

It was a bleak February, and since our divorce six years earlier, Maggie's father and I hadn't been in touch. Not a letter, not a Christmas card, not a phone call. Now Ernie was in the hospital, asking to see me. He had cancer.

"Tell him I'll be there tomorrow." After hanging up I went to my piano. My fingers played over the keys, sounding familiar notes, seeking the solace music always brought me. As I struck a few chords from a favorite Bach fugue, I thought, Ernie would rather hear Chopin. I stopped playing, unable to concentrate.

I'd been happy on my own, living and working as assistant manager in a retirement home near Boston. But I had to be honest: Something was missing. Thinking of Ernie put a face on it, and I realized how much I wanted to see him again.

Cold rain drummed on the windshield of my station wagon as I headed north the next morning. My mind raced ahead to Peterborough, New Hampshire, where Ernie was waiting. He had been a recent widower when we met, and lonely in spite of his teenage children still living at home.

I understood. I'd lost my husband several years before. My young daughter and my job as a first-grade teacher kept me busy, but I missed having a companion. Ernie and his ready laugh were a blessing.

During our seven years together he wasn't always easy to live with. He worked two jobs and considered himself the head of the house as well, especially when it came to the children. He often made me feel out of place.

Our best times were spent in the vegetable garden, just the two of us, each day after work. There we were equals, planting and harvesting side by side. "The peas are almost ready," I said one June evening early in our marriage. "Fourth of July, I'll bet," Ernie agreed. "Let's have them with that salmon I caught." Offhandedly I said, "Someday I'd like to have a piano again. When I retire, I guess."

A few days later Ernie came home with the local weekly. "A used piano!" he said excitedly, pointing to an ad. "Want to go see it?" I was skeptical, but it was in good shape and well tuned. What's more, it had been painted a whimsical blue, a match for the walls of our den.

My skills were rusty, but I practiced, and soon everybody gathered around as I played. Music rippled through the house like Ernie's laughter. But it wasn't enough to save our marriage.