“Give me those matches, Wilma,” commanded Cecilia Fryt, towering over Wilma.

Wilma stood her ground. She sneaked a look down at the pile of leaves. A small wisp of smoke was the only evidence of the match she had dropped.

“Now, Wilma,” said Cecilia, holding out her hand, palm up. “Honestly. Give them to me.”

Wilma didn’t answer.

Cecilia squinted at her. “Are you—ill, again, Wilma?”

“Ill? No,” Wilma said. She lifted the book of matches, ripped one off and struck it. It didn’t light.

“Mercy, Wilma!” Cecilia reached for the matches; there was a struggle. Cecilia was much larger, stronger. Her big hands probably could have snapped Wilma’s wrists. Wilma let go.

“You have no right,” Wilma snarled.

“Well, what right do you have, Miss High on Your Horse?” said Cecilia, pocketing the matches in her housecoat. “You think you can get away with this? I’ve got a good mind to call the police! Don’t think I don’t see what you’re up to!”

“Of course!” Wilma snapped.

“Where is your family, Wilma? What have you done to your family?”

Me again! Always, it’s my fault! “Enough!” Wilma screamed, pushing past her neighbor, running inside the house, through to the parlor, sobbing, finding her piano with her icy hands.

They fumble, at first. Her hands.

But the feel of the ivory under her fingertips and the exuding music soothe her, too, and, as she calms, her hands navigate the old familiar terrain of the keyboard with increasing aplomb. She is glad, then, that Cecilia stopped her; foolishly, she had not been thinking of her piano.

Over the music of her hands, she hears footsteps rushing into the room, and voices.

“Mrs. Fryt said she was piling up leaves around the foundation of the house, and dropping matches into them, Jack! She called me at home when she couldn’t get you at work. I came as quickly as I could. Thank goodness you’re back!”

“Mom?”

Wilma recognizes Jack’s old shoes on the feet of the legs standing to the right of her stool, but she does not stop playing or look up. Immersed in a Mozart sonata, she is approaching her favorite delicate measures; all of her concentration is poised upon keeping the sixteenth notes rolling precisely from her fingers, upon keeping an unerring tempo. She is still wearing Chase’s old jacket, which is uncomfortably warm, but she cannot bear to stop long enough to remove it.

“Mom, what’s going on?” A pause; music fills the air. “Mom, is it true? What Mrs. Fryt told Mary?”

She will not interrupt her sonata. Let them wait. Her fingers feel perfect, dancing over the keys, though her brow is furrowed with effort. Amazing that, after so many years, she does not feel out of practice. Nor are her fingers tired, even after playing for so long yesterday.