two:halfofmetinuingonwithMr.Martinandhisemphasisontheofclassics,poundingouttheold-posersuntilIcouldhammerlikeThorormakethekeyswhisperuhegepressure.Theotherhalfexpandedmyrepertoire,thinkingaboutwhataudiencesmightliketohear,liketheballadsedontheradioadoredbymymother.IlovedboththefuguesfromTheWell-TemperedClavierand"HeartandSoul,"andtheyflowedseamlessly,butbeipopularsongallowedmetoacceptoddjobswhenoffered,playingatschooldandbirthdayparties.Mr.Martiedatfirsttothebastardizationofmytalent,butIgavehimasobstoryaboutneedingmoneyforlessohisfeebyaquartero.Withthemoneywesaved,thecashIearned,andmymothersincreasinglylucrativeeggandchibusiness,wewereabletobuyauseduprightpianoforthehouseintimeformytwelfthbirthday.

    "Whatsthis?"myfatheraskedwhenhecamehomethedaythepianoarrived,itsbeautifulmaeryhousedinarosewoodcase.

    "Itsapiano,"mymotherreplied.

    "Iseethat.Howdiditgethere?"

    "Pianomovers."

    Heslidacigarettefromthepacketandlititinoneswiftmove."Ruthie,Iknowsomehtithere.Howeitishere?"

    "ForHenry.Sohepractice."

    "Wetaffordapiano."

    "Weboughtit.MeandHenry."

    "Withthemoneyfrommyplaying,"Iadded.

    "Andthechisandeggs."

    "Youboughtit?"

    "OnMr.Martinsadvice.ForHenrysbirthday."

    "Well,then.Happybirthday,"hesaidonhiswayoutoftheroom.

    IplayedeveryceIcouldget.Overthefewyears,Ispenthoursea