PART 2 of 'The Last Piano Player' by DHMcCarty

Moreta made the trip in three days. Margaret and the girls were already asleep when she pulled into their driveway in Wilkes Barre. Moreta was a sight for sleepy eyes. The wind and the sun had chapped her skin and molested her hair. She had worn the same sweat soaked T-shirt and low riders for three days.

“Lord A’Mighty, Moreta. You need a shower. I was expecting 4″ high heels and a skin-tight cocktail dress slit to Sin City.”

aaaaa1aaa

Moreta settled in. She moved to Scranton with her mother Marie, the house she grew up in. Her mother was in Early Onset Senility/Dementia. and was having increasing difficulty managing on her own. She regressed to a near infantile state with brief, occasional, moments of lucidity. Marie had a massive stroke two days before the Thanksgiving of Moreta’s first year back East. She did not recover.

Moreta met a gentleman that attended Margaret’s parish whose wife had passed away at 38 of breast cancer. They had no children. He was a NE Regional Sales Manager for USSteel. When Robert asked her to marry him on their third date she smiled and patted his hand.

“Only if you agree to move into my house. You’ll be on the road so much and I feel safe in my familiar.”

Robert was on the road 5 days a week. USSteel was being buried under a mountain of cheaper and higher quality steel from Japan and Germany. As Regional Sales Manager, it was Roberts job to stem that tide in the NE territory. He was never home longer than a day or two. She watched him age fifteen years in three. The pressure of his job so intense he barely rose from his recliner. He slept in his suit pants with his tie loosened at his open collar.

On the morning of his third day home, he would rise at 0500, shower and pack two fresh pinstripes from the cleaners and ten starched and folded dress shirts with a cardboard ring tucked under the wings of the collar. Moreta had two pair of freshly polished Florsheims sitting on the morning Philadelphia Inquirer. He had taken to tipping his hat when he left.

Amanda and Angela would stop by to visit once Amanda got her driver’s license. They loved to hear Moreta tell stories of the peaks and pitfalls of the entertainment business. Aunt Moreta was their link to a seemingly glamorous world outside of Wilkes Barre. Within a few short years, Amanda was off to college and Angela was involved in a half a dozen endeavors at her High School. The visits became fewer and farther between.

One week before the sixth anniversary of Moreta and Roberts marriage, she got a call from the General Manager of USSteel’s Albany, NY branch office. Robert had suffered a heart attack in the warehouse and though the employees and EMT’s had done everything possible, he had died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. One hour later she received a call from Corporate Human Resources in Pittsburg. As a young man, Robert had invested wisely. Moreta would never want for anything.

Moreta was used to spending time alone. she would sit on her porch every afternoon and sip a glass of Rose’. She would watch people pass and wave back at the children that would smile and say, “Hello Ms. Moreta.”

But she could not remember their faces from day-to-day. She was not making new memories. Her mind would drift to thoughts of her childhood. She would smile at memories of her Father and the times they would walk down the block to the ‘B Sharp Lounge’ at the ‘Wonderland Motor Inn’.

The ‘B Sharp’ would feature Jazz acts from Philadelphia and New York City. Moreta would sip a Pepsi and memorize the moves of the singers. Moreta was blessed with a fine smoky baritone, far beyond her years, at the age of 11. The Jazz Divas were drawn to her wide eyes and enthusiasm. To Moreta, it was the ‘show’ as much as the sound. The moves, the coordination with the rhythm, the rapport between players. To Moreta, it was this slow, smoky dance. It was romance. She would sit next to her Father during breaks as he picked out tunes from the ’40s on the piano. Often breaks were extended as players sat at the side table as Moreta crooned, ‘There Will Never Be Another You’ or ‘Don’t Get Around much Anymore.’

At 9:30 pm they would leave with Moreta’s heart pumping in 3/4 time, holding her Father’s hand as she skipped down the street to home. Inevitably her Mother would scold her Father for keeping her out late. Her Father would ‘Yes dear’, ‘Yes dear as he glanced sideways to wink at his little Chanteuse. A few minutes later he would come into her room to turn out the light and kiss her forehead.

“Sweetheart, Peggy Lee better watch her back. There’s a new songbird starting to spread her wings in Scranton PA. Antoinette almost fell out of her chair when you belted out ‘Your Time is Coming’. She asked me how I managed to squeeze Billy Holiday into that 11-year-old body.”

Busby Berkley dancers flitted in and out of Moreta’s dreams that night. She skipped through Dreamland in pink ballet slippers.

When Margaret came to Scranton to visit, she would notice mail piling up on Moreta’s dining room table. Moreta had trouble remembering Amanda and Angela’s names. Moreta did not voice her confusion but Margaret could see the searching behind Moreta’s eyes, searching her memories for something to grab onto. Margaret had seen the same behavior in her Mother when she was in the early stages. She wondered whether she should bring Moreta to live with her now that the girls were gone off to lives of their own.

It was on the 2nd of October. There was a chill in the air. Moreta rose from her cushioned Adirondack chair and walked in to get a jacket from the closet. She pulled out a crimson wrap and draped it over her shoulders. For some reason, her hips did a little shimmy and her lips puckered.

“Wonder if I’m getting a case of the Rockin’ Pneumonia. It’s either that or it’s the Boogy Woogy Flu. Or maybe there’s just a chill in the air. Should I be shakin’ the tomaters too?”

She did a giggling’ two step to the screen door and grabbed her hat, gloves, and handbook from the end table as she passed, stepped out onto the porch, placed her hat on her head and brushed back the side curls.

She looked down at her gloves and slipped them into her handbag. She shook her Tomaters, shimmied down the steps and took a left at the end of the front sidewalk.

“1422 Burnett Ave. Blue house, white porch with a porch swing. 1422 Burnett Ave. Blue house. . . .Theres the sign ‘Burnett Ave 1400’ and ‘Demond 1300’. . . .Oh, looky Moreta. Theres The Wonderland Motor Inn. B Sharp girl, B Sharp. Daddy must be out-of-town. I have to cross the street by myself. Be careful. Look both ways. Be sharp girl, be sharp.”

Moreta stopped outside of the door to ‘The B Sharp’ and fished in her bag for her lipstick. Estee Lauder ‘Scarlet Siren’. It almost matched her crimson wrap. She wondered what had happened to all of her high heels. She once owned a killer pair of 4″ scarlet KMFM’s. She doubted she could find an Estee Lauder shade to match her baby blue All Stars.

It was dark inside. Bars were always dark. She felt she was half cat. She slinked like a panther up to the bar inhabited by some vaguely Hispanic appearing bartender. She tried to think of some warm mysterious or romantic Hispanic name. Roberto? Too much like Robert. Francisco. . . .Enrique’. . .yes. Enrique’. She raised her finger to get Enrique’s attention just as he turned to address her.

Nametag. . . . .Xavier

Oh.

“May I see a B Flat menu? Uhm Xavier. Do you have any Rose?”

“Yes certainly Ma’am. Well. . . .B Flat ‘ huh? Well now.” Xavier draped a towel over his right arm and moved the bar tray next to the partition. “Where will you be sitting?”

Cheaters swiveled sideways on his bar stool.

“Hey, X-Man. Can I see you for a sec?”

“What’s up, Cheaters? Feeling’ numb?”

“Do you know who that is? That’s Moreta Bronkowski. When she was 11 -12 years old she would come in here and sing Billy Holiday or Peggy Lee. Her old man would bring her so she could hob-nob with the talent. Back then the hotel was The Wonderland and the bar was called The B Sharp. She ended up in Vegas singing with Bobby Darin. Then all of a sudden she was back in the neighborhood. Mrs. Hershowitz says she’s losing her mental faculties. Can’t remember anything recent. Remembers 30 – 40 years ago though.”

“Hey Cheaters, do me a favor and hang in here tonight. I know your limit but CC’s on the house tonight. You have been a good customer.”

Xavier held Cheaters eye for a good ten seconds longer than normal.

“Sure Xavier.”

“Excuse me Mr. . . .Xavier. will there be any entertainment tonight?”

“Sure. Antonio’s set starts at 5:00 but he usually shows up around 4:00 for a little practice. His practice is as good as most players best set. It’s 3:45 now so he could be here any minute.”

Moreta settled in at a table across from the piano. She would be able to see the pianists fingers. She always liked that.

At 4:05 Antonio Vitale ducked through the lobby door and into the bar. He was carrying a white envelope in his hand. Mr. Satvinder Singh had met him as he passed through the lobby, with a smile and a hand on his shoulder, as he handed him the white Holiday Inn envelope.

“I may stop in to hear you play later Antonio. Cookie is going to set up some buffet dishes in the bar. Not a big deal but a little thank you to the people who have given so much here. Thank you, Antonio.”

As Antonio passed the bar he noticed another white Holiday Inn envelope propped up against the Chivas. Xavier watched him all the way to the piano. Antonio took his seat on the bench, moved the tip jar to the shelf and raised the backboard. He retrieved the contents from the envelope and propped up the envelope over CDE.

Two $100.00 bills and a short, hand written note in Mr. Singh’s singular style.

Antonio. I would like to personally extend my thanks for everything you have done for our enterprise over the years. We will be closing the bar tonight for good. It is no longer economically viable. Thank you again for your service. Satvinder Singh.

Antonio slipped the note back in the envelope and placed it in his inside breast pocket. The two bills he slid into the tip jar.

He saw the crimson wrap out of the corner of his eye. He raised his eyes to the back mirror and froze. The crimson wrap, the Estee Lauder lipstick, nothing else was that rich. Lips he had wanted to possess.

He had always known she was from Scranton.

Here he was, on a Tuesday night, the last piano player to ever play the lounge of the Scranton Holiday Inn. The hell with it. He was going to go out in a cherry red Coupe De Ville. He jerked back his head and a rush of white-hot thirty weight oil shot to his fingertips. His fingers were submissive mercury, hellbent to his will. He loosed his fingers on New York City Serenade. One of the few songs that Antonio played that was not from the Piano House catalog. He then went into a series of pre-Vegas classics. He glanced up at the rear mirror. Her eyes were glued on his fingers. Her mind was 100 miles away. His fingers stalled.

He was playing his story, not hers.

Should I. . . .?

“Well the shark Babe has such teeth dear. And it shows them, Pearly white.”

Her eyes locked on his. She looked right inside him for a few seconds and then raised her hands to her head and removed her hat. She placed it on top of the table, picked up her pocketbook, rose primly and headed straight for the lady’s room.

Antonio stopped. He shouldn’t have started that song. He wanted her attention. He placed his hands on the bench beside him and rose wearily. He circled to the end of the bar and took a seat two down from Cheaters. Xavier placed a snifter of Hennessy in front of him.

A double.

Antonio raised his eyes to Xavier’s.

“Hey Anthony, it’s the last night. Let’s go out in a Coupe De Ville.”

“A cherry red Coupe De Ville Xavier, with a beautiful redhead wearing Scarlet Siren.”

“So Anthony, you uh. You know her?”

“Yes, Xavier. For a very long time.”

“Anthony my friend. love is timeless.”

When Antonio finished his Cognac, he circled the bar back to his piano bench. She was sitting on the end of the bench plinking keys. She had her powder blue All Stars gripping the edge of the bench, as she balanced her chin on the top of her knees. Her mind had a firm grip on her present. She was grinning. It was a Busby Berkley grin segueing from happy to content.

“Toni? What was the name of that song about the guy that falls in love with Stubby’s girl.”

Her grin was going to spill over any second.

“It had such a haunting beautiful tune. I wanted to smile and cry at the same time.”

“I Still Remember Her Face. ‘Just out of touch. . . . .just out of touch. . . . . , but I still remember her face.”

“There was a reason that Bobby turned down that song. He couldn’t pull it off. Bobby did everything for the money and the glory. He didn’t love the show the way we did. There was honesty in that song and Bobby had long forgotten what that meant.

I never loved Stubby. I slept with him because I wanted to be on that stage so bad. I never missed him when I left. I did miss you. The way you would stay for an hour after the show and unwind with soft songs. You reminded me of my Daddy. You had his soul Toni.

I would have been your girl. Any time. Anywhere. Didn’t have to be Vegas. Could have been, who knows. Scranton, Pennsylvania.

By the way, how do my lips look? I went to the ladies room to refresh them for you.”

“They look Scarlet Siren to me Moreta. They look very kissable.”

“Toni. Do you think you could walk me home tonight? It’s not far. The blue house with the white porch. 1422 Burnett.”

“You feeling numb yet Cheaters?”

“Half past a Monkeys Doo Wack A- doo X-Man. How about a Chivas?”

“I think I’ll join you, Cheaters.’

“Well let me dust off the leather X-Man. Why don’t you slide in behind the wheel? Next stop, Oblivion, PA.”

The End

I’ll bet you thought I was going to use Dionne Warwick.

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