Black Coal and White Lies

Ah, the wonderful summer of 1955—when it all started.

I love hearing the fantastic voice of Johnnie Ray singing “Such a Night.” The music can be heard flowing from the living room into the street, filtered through the wooden screen door on the front porch. I play the last verse of the song, which relates the story of how his girl is gone, and then comes the dawn, with the night, heart, and love all gone. The song continues with a lot of oo oo oo oos. I play this verse over and over, again and again.

As I accompany Johnnie with my soprano voice, I know it probably doesn’t glorify the song in the least, but who cares? I don’t, as singing makes me feel good just like it did in church this morning. Still wearing my blue taffeta dress trimmed daintily in black velvet with crinoline slips underneath, I pretend I’m standing in front of a microphone, and I feel like a star. Something about this song appeals to me, and I can’t stop playing the last verse.

Eight or ten times after the night, heart, and love disappear, a man’s voice is heard shouting above the redundant words, “Anna, shut that damn thing off before you drive the neighbors and me crazy. If I told you once, I’ve told you a million times, that’s not music. It sounds like someone’s in a lot of pain and needs a doctor.”

I grimace and arrogantly say, “Believe it or not, Dad, this guy is in pain, as his girl has left him and taken her love too. He doesn’t need a doctor. He needs her and her love.”

He shakes his head while running his big coal miner’s hand across his crew cut. My reply has placed a tiny grin on his face that I certainly would have missed had I not turned to give him a dirty look, as “Such a Night” is probably one of the greatest songs ever.

When Dad yells, I know he is disturbed, as few things upset him. The oo oo oo oos have really pushed him to the point where he is compelled to say something or become utterly senseless. Deep down inside, I already knew it was bothering him, but I guess I was pushing him to see how long I could get away with it.

Up until this outburst, he had been enjoying the lovely Sunday afternoon by relaxing comfortably in his favorite brown leather chair, tucked in the corner of the dining room where the blue-and-beige–striped wallpaper-covered chimney juts out from the wall. His small wooden humidor with its bowed legs and curly design carved on the door is lined with tin inside and stands next to his chair, with a jar for a spittoon, and there’s no more room for anything else.

In the humidor he stores his Half & Half tobacco, cigarette papers, and Copenhagen snuff. On the top of his smoking stand, a small lamp and ashtray sit on a starched white, lacy doily. This is my dad’s corner, even though we all like to sit in his chair, as it’s so cozy; you can smell him here, including the sweet smell of his tobacco. We all know to automatically relinquish the chair to him when he appears, even though no words are ever spoken.

His corner is situated across from the stairs leading to our second-floor bedrooms and bathroom. Now that I think about it, from that point he has the advantage of seeing everyone coming and going up and down the stairs or through the house to the front or back doors.

He enjoys reading the Pittsburgh Press on Sundays, which he had been doing while listening to my sad love song. Two of Dad’s favorite things are reading the newspaper and listening to the Walter Winchell program on the radio. I really don’t care for Mr. Winchell, as he talks fast, mixing entertainment gossip with world news, punctuated with the tapping of a telegraph key.

When Dad’s doing these two things, I know I shouldn’t bother him and try not to, but I can’t just sit around and do nothing. Today I feel quite bored, so I’m searching for something, but I don’t quite know what that something is.

Dad definitely isn’t interested in today’s music. “Listen to some jazz, the blues, or the big bands if you want to hear good music. Your idea of music is loud and noisy, and half the time the words don’t make sense.”

With a little sarcasm I reply, “Loud? Noisy? Gosh, Dad, maybe you can write a blues song using those words. I never say anything when you sit down at the piano and start playing ‘Wish I Were Single Again,’ even though it upsets Mom quite a bit.” Of course we both know that is when he’s had a few too many whiskeys.

He shakes his head again, mumbling something about teenagers and how he’ll never understand them, as he sits in his chair to continue reading the Sunday paper.

Dad actually loves music and is a great piano player. He can’t read musical notes but can hear a song once, sit down at the piano, and play it perfectly. I heard Aunt Ida say once that he’s really good even though he plays by ear. I was little at the time when I heard it, and I told Aunt Ida, “He plays the piano with his fingers, not his ear.” Everyone laughed at me and had to explain what they meant.

He plays the old songs that he loves so much on our old Chauncey grand piano, which devours our small living room. He can easily play the songs I like, but he always tells me they don’t make any sense. I disagree with him, as they certainly make a lot of sense to me. They appeal to my emotions, and sometimes the words are so true that I feel like many of the songs were written just for me.

Even though I love listening to Johnnie Ray, I realize the time has come to get on with another song. Actually, I’m surprised I got away with playing it over and over this long. I’d have continued listening to Johnnie Ray all afternoon if Dad hadn’t yelled at me.

Maybe if I played one more song, Dad might begin to enjoy my kind of music. Playing “Cross Over the Bridge” by Patti Page is just not the same. After listening to it twice, I shut it off and close the door so the entire turntable folds into the Philco radio and phonograph console.

I push open the creaky wooden screen door to the front porch and let it slam shut, thus allowing Dad to know I wasn’t very happy giving up Johnnie Ray.

Deciding not to sit on the glider, I slide my hand down the back of my dress to smooth it out and sit on the front steps of the wooden porch, being careful of splinters.

I’m underneath a green canvas awning that extends outward from the porch roof and can be rolled up when not in use. A wide scalloped edge trimmed in white hangs from the awning and not only keeps the sun off the porch but also helps to hide anyone sitting on the glider. People walking down the front brick sidewalk would actually have to stick their heads under the awning to see who’s sitting on the glider. That’s why I sit on the steps—so I don’t miss anybody or anything.

With my elbows resting on my knees and palms upward, I rest my chin in my hands and listen to the sounds around me. I can hear Janet, Susan, and Connie, the three little neighbor girls, giggling next door in the other half of our double house; Matt and his twin brother, Mark, who live in the next double house, arguing; a screen door slamming shut; and a dog barking in the distance.

The odors of the Polish, Slovak, Russian, Hungarian, Irish, German, and English Sunday dinners cooking in the various houses mingle together, creating a chef’s symphony and permeating the air. After all, it is Sunday, and everyone, no matter what nationality, always has a huge meal on Sundays to share with their family.