Chapter 29: Homecoming
The concert at New Hope Community Church was Esther's idea. "People here watched you grow up on that piano," she said. "They ought to hear where it led."
So on a Saturday evening in late autumn, the little church on the corner of Althea's East Philadelphia neighbourhood filled the way it filled at Christmas: neighbours in their best clothes, children perched on the edges of pews, old friends of Esther's fanning themselves with programmes, Jerome in a shirt he had ironed, standing by the door, phone ready to film everything. The upright piano stood where it always had, worn and honest, its keys yellowed by decades of hymns. Beside it, borrowed for the evening from Alden with Adler's blessing and Gus Fontaine's careful transport, stood a grand piano, black and gleaming, which made the small sanctuary look grander, as if the room had grown to hold it.
Althea arrived early, as she always did, and sat at the upright first, alone, while the light came through the tall windows in amber bars. She played a few quiet notes, and the old piano answered the way it always had, faithfully, without flourish. This was where she had learned: Esther beside her on the bench, her mother's hymn in the air, the whole world narrowed to ten fingers and a melody. She pressed her palm flat against the wood for a moment, the way you touch the shoulder of an old friend, and then she went to greet the people arriving.
Wendell Osei came in slowly, leaning on his cane, and took his usual seat near the front, the seat from which he had first heard her play and decided to take her seriously. Anita Cole arrived with a stack of printed programmes she had made at the library, each one carefully folded. Nolan Everett slipped in at the back, grinning, and gave her a thumbs-up. Professor Adler sat beside Esther in the front row, and the two women, so different in every outward way, leaned toward each other like old friends, talking quietly. Even Mrs. Feldman had come, brisk as ever, softening the moment she saw Esther wave her over. And Dr. Ashford, to Althea's quiet astonishment, took a seat near the back, alone, his hands folded, his face unreadable and attentive.
The concert began simply. Althea played the hymn first, the way her mother had sung it, plain and unadorned, and the congregation recognised it at once; a few older voices hummed along under their breath, the way people do when a song belongs to them. Then she played the pieces she had studied at Alden, the restrained repertoire she had learned to play with feeling rather than emptiness, and the room listened with the deep, respectful attention of people who knew how hard she had worked.
Jerome filmed, but he kept lowering the phone to watch with his own eyes, and once, when she caught his glance, he mouthed, "That's my sister," with a pride so unguarded it nearly undid her.
Then came the last piece. Althea moved to the grand piano, settled herself, and played "The River Remembers" in full: the simple melody, the gospel rhythm, the jazz harmony, the long classical arc, all of it, the way it had sounded in the Alden hall, but warmer now, played for the people who had given her the river in the first place. The music filled the little sanctuary and spilled out through the open doors into the street, where passers-by slowed and stopped, and neighbours who had not planned to come stood on the steps to listen.
When the final note faded, there was a beat of silence, and then the church rose as one, applauding, calling her name, and Esther stood in the front row with tears running down her face, clapping with hands that ached and did not care. Althea went to her and hugged her, and Esther whispered into her hair, "Your mother would have been so proud. I am so proud."
Afterward there was food in the church hall, as there always was: fried chicken, greens, sweet potato pie, lemonade in big pitchers. People crowded around Althea, telling her stories she had forgotten about herself, a child at the upright, a girl singing while she swept, a teenager who never missed a Sunday. Children asked her to show them the keys, and she knelt beside the upright and let small fingers press the notes, laughing when they made a glorious, crashing chord.
Late in the evening, when the crowd had thinned, Ashford came up to her. He did not linger. He simply said, "You brought it home, Miss Moss. That is rarer than you think." And then he left, into the autumn night, and Althea stood in the doorway of her church, watching the streetlights come on, feeling the whole of her life gathered in one place: the church, the neighbourhood, the conservatory, the family, the music, all of it belonging to each other at last.