ngtheirun-guardedversations,andoverheardDadssuspisduringonesuchpillowtalk.

    "Haveyounotiythingoddabouttheboylately?"

    Sheslipsintobedbesidehim."Odd?"

    "Theresthesingingaroundthehouse."

    "Hesalovelyvoice."

    "Andthosefingers."

    Ilookedatmyhands,andinparisonwithotherchildrens,myfin-gerswereexceedinglylongandoutofproportion.

    "Ithinkhellbeapianist.Billy,weoughttohavehimatlessons."

    "Andtoes."

    Icurledupmytoesinmybedupstairs.

    "Andheseemstohavegrownnotaninchorputonnotapoundallwinterlong."

    "Heneedssomesunisall."

    Theoldmanrollsovertowardher."Hesaqueerlad,isallIknow."

    "Billy...stop."

    Iresolvedthatnighttobeeatrueboyandbeginpayingcloserat-tentiontohowImightbesiderednormal.Oncesuchamistakehadbeehingcouldbedone.Icouldntverywellshortenmyfingersandtoesandiherskepticism,butIcouldstretchtherestofmeabiteaightandkeepupwithalltheotherchildren.IalsomadeitapointtoavoidDadasmuchaspossible.

    Theideaofthepianuedmeasawaytoingratiatemyselfwithmymother.Whenshewasntlisteningtoersontheradio,shemightdialintheclassics,particularlyonaSunday.Batmyheadspinningwithburiedreveries,juringanethedistantpast.ButIhadtofigureawaytomentionmyiwithoutMomrealizingthatherprivateversa-tionscouldbeheardnomatterhowquietorintimate.FortuhetwinssuppliedtheaChristmas,mydistantgrandparehematoypiano.Nobiggerthanabreadbasket,itprodu