"Last night. He played the piano. He sat on it and pressed one key. I saw him."
"I didn't hear anything," Sam said, offended.
"You were asleep. You sleep like a dead person."
"Libby," my mother said.
"Like a log," I corrected. "He sleeps like a log. It was at eight minutes to midnight. I heard it through the vent and I came down and Oliver was sitting on the piano, and he pressed one key, just one, and then he got down and went upstairs. He went into your room."
My father laughed. "Well, he's musical. Who knew? We'll get him lessons. Mrs. Laskowski down the street teaches, doesn't she, Carol? Five bucks a half hour. He can pay her in mice."
My mother did not laugh. She was stirring the oatmeal with a wooden spoon, and she kept stirring it, around and around, after it was clearly done.
"Mom," I said. "Did Grandma's piano get played a lot? Like at Grandma's house?"
"Your grandmother played every day of her life until her hands got bad," my mother said to the oatmeal. "Sam, sit down, it's ready." She spooned it into his bowl and put a pat of margarine on top and a spoonful of brown sugar, and set it in front of him, and then she went to the living room. I heard the soft thump of the fallboard closing.
When she came back she said, "There. Problem solved," and smiled at all of us, a bright, fast smile, and poured herself a cup of Sanka, and that was the end of it.
Except it wasn't.
* * *