I have been around fur-ones all my life. They do not have fur on the tips of their fingers, but it is everywhere else. On some it is pale, touched but mostly unseen, and on others—the nose-ones mostly—it is an encapsulating seed, the vessel through which they experience the world. As you can see I am one of the wood-ones. I do not experience the world through skin or fur, but through sound.
Many years ago, when the fur-ones brought me into this world, I thought I was one of them. I tried so very hard to see, and to feel. I tried to taste the air. I heard the fur-ones speak, their voices creaking, the chords in their throats expanding, the buttons on their coats snapping up, the keys turning, ripping like ice through the metal interior of the lock. I tried to call out to them, but I could not even do that, not of my own will. I could hear, and that was all I could do for myself.
The first fur-one to play me was a boy-one. He had never been inside the metal walls before, but I’d heard his breathing sometimes, on the outside, by the hollow tin where the fur-ones threw things. His fingers sounded like stubs of snow, approaching, approaching. The idea of music startled me. He played a very simple piece. For the first time I felt, rather than heard, and it was a glorious warmth, a sun-glow, a something I would call joy. I saw this something, too; the color yellow, or maybe it was gold. I did not have a word for it then. I remember it as something unworldly. Something ancient; a bridge through time. By the time the boy-one left, I knew why I had been created.
I was happy to leave my birthplace. A family of fur-ones brought me to a sunny corner, and they pushed another wood-one in front of me, a four-legged thing with a cotton-heart, but he could not speak. We listened to each other, how we creaked when the air shifted, deep in the quietest moments before the fur-ones rose.
Some days we could hear the whistles of the feathered-ones, beyond the net of glass, but most often we heard the scurrying of the fur-ones. The more I listened to them, the better I understood their ways. Two large fur-ones stepped slowly, one with the swish of her fabric bell, the other with the swoosh of his leg-tubes. A nose-one ticked wildly in a quadruple rhythm, one-two-three-four, scat-scat-scat-scat. Similar to these staccato footsteps were those of the girl-one, scat-scat, a duple rhythm.
“Isn’t it about time for your practice, darling?” the woman-one said.
“I already did.”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
“I played when you were outside.”
“Beatrice, you need to practice twenty minutes per day. Remember what Mrs. Patterson said.”
“But Mommy, I don’t feel like it.”
“Come on. Let’s have a concert. Daddy and I will be your audience. Right, Phillip?”
Creaking, as the fur-ones sat. The woman-one clapped her hands, a sound like feather-one beaks on tree-one husks. “And now, here to play Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart for you on this fine afternoon, may I present, the fabulous and talented—Beatrice!”
The man-one clapped as well. The nose-one nudged up close to me, and rounded himself into a circle by my pedals.
The girl-one began to play.
Some days I like piano. Mommy says all ladies should learn an instrument. She learned the violin when she was young, but she hasn’t played it in years. I’ve never heard her play. Sometimes I think she’s making it up.
But I like to play piano sometimes, like on rainy days, on afternoons when it’s so dark we turn the lights on early. Whiskey sits at my feet. He breathes heavily, huffy nose-breathes, and I know he’s fallen asleep. It’s easy to play on days like that. But not when it’s sunny. I want to go outside, or I want to teach Whiskey how to play hide-and-go-seek.
I stop playing. Whiskey lifts his nose.
“Honey, you need to play a little longer,” says Mommy.
“I don’t feel like it.”
“Don’t talk to your mother that way,” Daddy says.
I stand. Whiskey stands too.
“I don’t want to.”
Why do they care if I practice or not? I want to be free like Whiskey. All day all night free to nap or play as I choose. I wish I was a little doggy. All covered in soft fur, with floppy ears and a snout with whiskers.
I am daring. I clench my fists. “You can’t make me!”
“That’s earned you a time-out.” Mommy points to the hallway. Daddy’s eyebrows curve. That is a good way to tell that he’s mad. I cross my arms but my daringness is gone.
There is a corner in the hallway, the time-out corner, where I’m supposed to stand when I’m in trouble. I stomp my feet against the wood floors. Like drums. See, I’m playing an instrument now. See, Mommy and Daddy.
“Twenty minutes,” says Mommy. “Think about how you can be more respectful toward your parents.”
I lean my forehead against the green-flowered wallpaper. I start to cry. Mommy and Daddy are mad at me. I’ve been bad. I know it. Why do I always do this? I stomp my feet again. Stomp stomp. Stomp stomp. All with my forehead glued to the wall.
Last time I got in trouble I refused to eat the liver and onions we had for dinner. I don’t like liver. It tastes like metal, like you’re licking a pure metal spoon, and it’s always really dry. I told Mommy I wouldn’t eat it. Never. I would never eat it again. I would rather have a grumbly tummy all night than eat liver. But Mommy didn’t like me talking back to her like that. She didn’t like my tone. I thought my tone was very grown-up. That’s how Mommy talks half the time. Daddy doesn’t mind as much, but he goes along with what Mommy says. I think if it was just me and Daddy here I could get away with almost anything.
But I have been bad. I shouldn’t be mean like that. I love my Mommy and Daddy. And the poor piano. I don’t hate the piano either. I love the whole house.
“I’m sorry,” I yell into the wall.
The girl-one does not like music. She is eager to run instead. Perhaps she is too young. Perhaps she is more a nose-one than a girl-one.
One night the man-one played something lovely. The girl-one had already gone to bed, but the woman-one sprung out from behind the corner, and she said, “Phillip, you never told me that you play.”
He pulled his fingers away. “I don’t. Just tinkering around, love.”
“Sounded like more than just tinkering around to me.”
The man-one laughed. It was not a real laugh, but a pressure of air through his nose.
“Well don’t stop. Keep playing.”
“I’m a bit tired,” he said, and he closed my cover.
The next time he played, the house was empty, the woman-one and girl-one ridden away in a wheeled basket pulled by hoof-ones. The man-one played the same piece again. I did not recognize it, but I could tell it was something old, something that he was trying to remember, because he paused at certain passages and hummed along with the notes until he found his way. He mastered it just before the other fur-ones returned. Whatever it was, it was exuberant.
Daddy comes out and cups my chin. “Don’t you like the piano, dearest?”
“I like it sometimes.” I sniffle. “When I feel like it.”
“It’s something that requires absolute dedication. Day in, day out.”
“Daddy, did you ever play an instrument?”
“I used to. When I was a little boy, I played the piano just like you.”
I jump. “You did? You did? What happened?”
“I loved it so much I wanted to become a pianist.”
“A professional piano player. But your grandfather told me that that wasn’t a good job, and so I stopped.”
“Daddy, do you still remember how to play? Oh, play something for me, please!”
A short silence, and then the man-one sat down. “This is a song I made up, long ago.” The girl-one curled up on the sofa, and she stroked the nose-one’s ears. The woman-one returned to the room.
All the fur-ones breathed softly. Their chests rose and fell together, legato. The music was like a rush of moving air, like the girl-one and the nose-one as they played together beyond the net of glass, soft, and frantic, and young. Wind in head-fur. Wind in body-fur.
The girl-one asked: “Daddy, will you teach me?”
The nose-one curled up at my pedals. Together, the fur-ones played.