Liz laughed nervously. “Maybe you should wait till thepetition’s over before you decide that.” One after another, the soloists scheduled before Liz played. The clock clicked ominously close to her 11:05 performance time. “Dad’s here,” Liz whispered to me. “I can hear him in the hallway.” Her father trooped in, carrying a video camera. I felt a flutter of anxiety for Liz. The next thing I knew she was no longer in the seat next to me but standing stiffly onstage beside the piano. Mr. Hillme, her social-studies teacher and apanist, winked at her.
“Hey, not as bad as one of my tests, is it?” Liz chuckled, the tension easing from her face, and lifted the flute to her lips.
Lord, please let her play her best.
Liz took a deep breath and launched into her solo. Her fingers danced along the silver keys. The melody4 floated out of the instrument, sweet and pure and honest. I closed my eyes, letting myself be carried away by my daughter’s song.
I forgot about thepetition. I forgot about Liz’s nervousness at performing in front of her father.
All at once I pictured my own father, patiently enduring my nightly accordion practice sessions though he must have yearned for peace and quiet after his long days at the pizza factory. My practical dad, adamantly opposed to any kind of debt, conceding to make payments on a top-of-the-line, full-size accordion when I’d outgrown my second-hand student model. My stern, serious dad, cranking up our Lowrey organ, picking out the notes of a swingy Big Band tune and getting the whole house jumping. My unsentimental, overworked father leaning ba