The Old Piano

A fictional story about a war veteran

Photo by Timothy Eberly on Unsplash

In a different life, Jeb Withers sprinted through a rainforest in Vietnam, M-16 gripped tightly in his hands. His pal Mikey Dominguez was beside him every step of the way as the two twenty-year-olds evaded enemy patrols on their quest to relocate their platoon. They had somehow lost them in the heat of battle. After thirty-six hours, the two young soldiers succeeded. Mikey might have been better off lost in the jungle for another day and a half; he was blown to bits the following morning.

Jeb tried not to think about those days, those events, anymore. Still, the memories from the war plagued him. They often returned to him in the middle of the night, tearing him from sleep. He was never fully granted peace.

He had lived a good life, all things considered. After raising a family and reaching the pinnacle of his career as an architect in the Big Apple, he moved to upstate New York to a town that looked the same as all the others surrounding it. No matter which direction you looked, there was nothing but green rolling hills, fields, and forests. Rivers cut through the landscape and occasional ponds and lakes dotted it, too.

He could think of worse places to be.

Jeb and his wife Melinda began their retirement dream. Instead of flocking south to warmer weather, they braved the boonies. Both became avid gardeners, and they both learned how to play the piano. The old farmhouse they purchased came with one. When they first moved in, the piano was coated in a thick layer of dust and thicker cobwebs, too big a hassle, and too heavy a haul to be worth the previous owners’ time, they assumed. After a good clean, they learned it was still in usable condition.

“Not the prettiest thing in the world,” Jeb said.

“Neither are we,” Melinda added. They both laughed.

Melinda caught on faster. Her fingers were more slender and graceful compared to her husband’s clunky and rigid movements. But he persevered and was able to play along with her, side by side, within a year.

Jeb’s nightmares lessened. He would still wake once or twice a month in a cold sweat, having just returned from a land of bullets, napalm, and death. Instead of trying to go straight back to sleep, he’d wander downstairs for a glass of ice water and to play the piano with the light dimmed low.

Without fail, his breathing steadied and his mind calmed.

When he returned to bed and pulled up the covers, Melinda burrowed into him. “You alright, honey?” she asked. She’d never lost the concern in her voice after all these years.

“Yeah, I am,” he replied. He kissed her gently and closed his eyes. She was his comfort, his protector, in the middle of the night – always had been. Her touch, her voice, helped to ward off the evil thoughts and hellish memories of his most troubled times.

And now when he closed his eyes in the dead of night, he could hear the piano playing, too. It served as an extra layer of defense and always seemed to be lingering somewhere in his subconscious. The purity of each keystroke flowed through him, his being, and dulled the nightmares even more.

Though they would never wash away fully, Jeb couldn’t help but feel peace at last.

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