Page 41 of Caught in a Storm
“Okay. Are you a little blind blind, too? Because that one’s striped and that one’s got polka dots.”
“I guess it’s been a while since I cared,” she says.
This could mean a couple of things. Perhaps she’s too much of a mad genius to care about such inconsequential things as socks, like how Einstein used to forget to put on pants. Or maybe it means she’s been on her own for a while, and there’s been no one around to match socks for.
On their way back from Camden Yards, he asked if she wanted to stop for a drink or maybe ice cream. “I think that’d be more of a production than you realize,” she told him. After the kiss cam, their cover was totally blown. People came up to them to wave and take pictures, to shout encouragement and to tell Margot that she rocks. Billy found it impossible to follow what was going on in the game. Now that he thinks about it, he’s not even sure who won.
“I have other things to drink,” he says now. “Beer, soda? I have some pot gummies. That was a true story, by the way—the gummy bear thing.”
“All good.” She holds her palms over the keys and leans in to look at the sheet music he made for Sophia. “I like how you simplified it.” She plays it perfectly.
“Damn. So, you’re not…”
“Just a drummer?”
“Would that be an insult?” he asks. “Is being called just a drummer offensive, if you’re one of the best drummers of your generation? Like, oh, so, LeBron, you’re not just a basketball player, you play a little tennis, too.”
“Stop it,” she says, smiling. It’s not a break-the-Internet, full-wattage smile, but he’ll take it. She plays the beginning of “Let It Be” then “Karma Police,” and it makes him dizzy to imagine the Billy of twenty years ago seeing this: Margot Hammer in mismatched socks, afraid of caffeine, wearing an O’s cap, playing Radiohead beside him. He’s glad she didn’t want to get a beer or ice cream earlier, because what could be better than this?
“All right, move it, sister,” he says. “My turn.”
He plays “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” by Elton John, then “Oh! You Pretty Things” by David Bowie.
Margot rolls her eyes. “Ugh, dudes,” she says, and then plays “Borderline” by Madonna so well that all he can do is watch with his mouth open.
“Did you prepare for this?” he asks. “I’m calling bullshit. You rehearsed.”
“What, this?” She keeps with Madonna, starts “Like a Prayer,” but stops because someone is yelling outside.
“Yo, Piano Man! Where’s my Stevie at?”
They look at each other then go to the window. It’s the guy with the pit bull. He and his dog are looking up from the sidewalk.
“Hey, man,” says Billy. “How are you?”
“Good. But I don’t remember requesting no Madonna.”
“Hold up a sec.” Billy guides Margot back to the piano bench. “You don’t know any Stevie Wonder, do you?”
“Not off the top of my head. Do you know that guy? Do people just yell at you from the street?”
“Sometimes, yeah. Here, you can help me.” He finds his iPad under some books. “I have to cheat on this one. I didn’t practice.” He searches his sheet music app and sets “Superstition” on the stand between them. “You play these,” he says, pointing. “I’ll play these. Ready?”
Billy starts, then Margot comes in after him. “Goddamn right!” he hears from outside. The dog barks a few times. “That’s what I’m talking about, Piano Man!”
Billy returns to the window. “What do you think?”
“I think I’ll take that over some old white lady any day. I’ll swing by next week with some more requests. Maybe Jay-Z. Need some hip-hop in this neighborhood.”
When the man and his dog are gone, Billy lets his eyes linger on his view of Fells Point. By next week he’ll be gone, of course. As far as goodbyes go, however, this isn’t so bad, because Margot is there at the Steinway. She pushes her sleeves up over her elbows and looks at the keys like she’s trying to decide what to play.
“I know I said it before, but you really do look great in that hat.”
She touches the bill. “It’s kind of itchy, but I like that it’s like I’m hiding.”
He sits again and takes the cap off her head, sets it on the Steinway. “Why would you want to hide, though?”
She doesn’t respond, but he gets it. The world hasn’t seen her in a long time, and that’s probably not an accident. There’s a red line across her forehead from the cap rubbing against her skin, and he kisses her there. The small overnight bag she brought sits by the door next to their shoes, and he’s not sure what to make of it.
