The Piano That Paid for College

I dusted it every Saturday. I kept a lace runner on the lid that our mother had made. Some evenings I would sit on the bench with my hands in my lap and not touch the keys, just to sit where Celia sat.

It was the one thing of hers I kept. Her clothes went to the church rummage sale. Her car went to Myron to sell. Her coffee can of wedding money went into a savings account for Rowan. The piano stayed with me, because I could not stand to see it go.

The week after Easter, Rowan came into the office at the high school. I have been the secretary there for nineteen years. I know every kid in that building by their first name and their mother’s maiden name, and I know which ones need a granola bar out of my bottom drawer before second period.

He leaned on the counter the way he had since he was a freshman. “Aunt Jana, can you send my final transcript to Illinois State? They need it after graduation but I want to make sure it’s on the list.”

“It’s on the list, honey. I put it on the list in January.”

“Okay.” He didn’t leave. He picked at the edge of the counter where the laminate has been peeling since about 1998. “Can I ask you something about loans?”

So he told me. He had sat down at the library computer and done the math. The university had given him a merit scholarship, four thousand dollars a year. As a freshman he could borrow five thousand five hundred in federal loans. That still left him well short of tuition, fees, and a room in the dorm.

“I could commute from home,” he said. “Dad would let me, I think. Or I could do Heartland for two years and transfer. That’s cheaper. I’d just have to tell Coach Brandt I’m not playing intramural at State with the guys.” He tried to laugh. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is a big deal,” I said.

“It’s fine. Lots of people do it.” Then he said, very quietly, looking down at the counter: “I get it, Aunt Jana. Kenna and Laine are his real kids. I’m not mad. I’m just not dumb.”

I have had a lot of hard things said across that counter, and I have kept my face straight for every one of them.

I did not keep my face straight for that.

“Rowan Wexler, you look at me. Your dad has loved you every day of your life. Whatever is going on, it is not that.”

“Then what is it?” he asked, and I didn’t have an answer, and he knew I didn’t, and he patted the counter twice and went to fifth period.

I want to be clear about something, because people always ask. Why didn’t I just make Myron pay? Why didn’t I call somebody?

Because there was nobody to call. Rowan was Myron’s son, legally and in every way that counted. It was Myron’s money and Myron’s decision, and no law says a father has to pay for college. I could not make my brother give that boy one dime. All I could do was give.

So that night I sat down with Steve at the kitchen table and went through what we had.