The Piano on the Porch in the Rain

Six pickups by dark

Hal’s Silverado came first. Behind it came Gene Martin’s old Ford with the dented tailgate, then Don Akers, then the Pruitt brothers in two trucks, then Mike Collier from the bank in his Ram with a utility trailer he did not end up needing.

Six pickups. They pulled along the curb and into the driveway, nose to tail, and they left their headlights on so the porch was lit up white.

The men got out slowly, the way men their age get out of trucks.

Gene had brought a four-wheel furniture dolly and a stack of moving blankets from his garage. Don had a piano board, an old padded one he had borrowed from the funeral home years ago and never given back. Steve Pruitt carried two long planks of two by ten for the steps. Mike had a blue tarp and a coil of ratchet straps over his shoulder.

Across the street, the porch light came on at the Hendersons’. Then at Mrs. Gill’s. A screen door opened somewhere down the block.

Hal came over to my car first. He had his seed cap in his hand, and the rain was beading on his bald head.

“Is she home?”

“She’s home.”

“All right,” he said. “You stay here a minute. Let me go ask.”

I got out anyway, and so did Lily, and we stood at the bottom of the drive. Hal walked up the porch steps, one at a time, holding the rail. He stopped and laid his hand on top of the piano for a moment, like a man touching a horse to let it know he was there. Then he knocked.

Renee opened the door. I saw her see the trucks, and then the men, and then the porch lights all up and down the street. Her face went red from the neck up.

“Mrs. Strand,” Hal said. He held his cap against his chest. “I’m Hal Pettit, from church. I sit with Dennis on Thursdays. I’m awful sorry about him.”

“I know who you are,” Renee said.

“Megan tells us you don’t want the piano anymore,” he said. “We’d like to take it off your hands, if you’ll let us. We’ll be careful of your porch, and we won’t track anything in the house. If you’d rather we didn’t, we’ll get back in our trucks and go home.”

It was the kindest thing I had ever heard said to a person who did not deserve it. And it was also the hardest thing, because every neighbor on that street could see six old men standing in the rain with their hats off, asking politely.

Renee looked past him at me. I did not look away, but I did not say anything either.

“Take it,” she said. “I don’t care what you do with it.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Hal said. “We’ll be about twenty minutes.”

She closed the door. The curtain in the front window moved, and then it was still.