Rock Music
by Mark Joseph Kiewlak
Bobby had stared at the rock for weeks. It was just one of many along the walkway that led from his front door to the driveway. It was shaped like a potato, oblong, a sandy color, with small flecks of white like tiny chips imbedded in its surface. Bobby didn’t know why, but he was pretty sure that someday that rock could play the piano.
He had first noticed the rock in early spring. His toy soldiers were in the midst of battle, guns blazing at each other, when one of them dove behind the rock. Soon Bobby forgot all about the battle and left the soldiers to their fate under the merciless noonday sun.
He got down on his belly and stared at the rock. His first impulse was to pick it up, but then he remembered how he often found worms or other yucky creatures crawling beneath rocks, and so he left it there and stared at it.
The more he stared, the more he found of interest. Sometimes when the sun hit them just right, the tiny white chips would gleam like diamonds. Bobby was not one of those kids who feels the need to immediately share his discoveries with others. When his mother asked him what he’d been doing crawling around on the walkway all afternoon, Bobby replied, “I was just playing.”
The next day it rained, and Bobby went out in his slicker and shielded the rock beneath his umbrella. The rain seemed to bother this rock more than the others. Bobby couldn’t say why. He just sensed that this rock would eventually be better off indoors.
There was one room of the house where Bobby wasn’t allowed to play. His parents called it “the front room.” It had a big picture window and a lot of knick-knacks on a lot of shelves in a big cabinet. It also had a fireplace and, in the corner, a big piano.
Bobby thought that the rock would feel right at home in that room. He thought it would look good sitting atop the piano. He could even imagine it dancing on the keyboard, bouncing back and forth, happy and free. When the rock was ready, Bobby decided, he would move it inside.
In the meantime he went back to his other activities — playing with his soldiers, with his radio-controlled cars, watching cartoons. It never occurred to him to mention any of this to his parents until one day when he heard them out in the front yard talking about putting in a pond. He went to the screen door and stood and listened.
His father was explaining where was the best place to dig, and then his mother asked if the walkway was going to lead to the pond. “We can create an offshoot,” his father said, “right here. The walkway will branch off and circle around the pond back in on itself. We just need to dig up this one small section to make a fork in the path.”
Bobby was alarmed. The spot his father was pointing to was right where his rock was living. He’d have to mount an immediate rescue mission.
Later in the afternoon, when his parents had gone inside, Bobby went out and stood over the rock, indecisive. He was afraid of what he’d find underneath it. But there was something else too. He was afraid the rock wasn’t ready.
It was a nice place they lived in. The summer sun was warm and bright. There wasn’t much traffic this far up in the development. The trees around them turned pretty colors in the fall. Bobby hesitated. He decided to explain to his father about the rock and have him change his plans about that stupid pond they’d been talking about.
He waited until Sunday morning, when his father had settled into his easy chair with the morning paper. That was when he was always in the best mood. Bobby went to him and stood with his head down, waiting to be noticed. “What can I do for you, son?” his father said.
“I heard you talking about a pond,” Bobby said. “What were you talking about?”
“Your mother thinks that a pond would look nice over in the corner of the yard, in that big empty spot along the fence. It won’t be anything too big. Just like a puddle with rocks all around it. It won’t interfere with your playing.”
“Oh,” Bobby said.
His father went back to reading the paper. Bobby stayed where he was, with his head down.
“Is there something else bothering you?” his father said.
“No,” Bobby said. “It’s just that, well, Dad, are rocks alive?”
“Excuse me?”
“Rocks,” Bobby said. “Can they think like we do? Can they feel things?”
His father smiled in a way that made Bobby feel stupid. “Whatever gave you that idea?” his father said. “Was it one of those crazy cartoons you watch?”
“I don’t know,” Bobby said. “I was just wondering.”
“Well, son, I’m pretty sure they can’t. But if you find one that can, let me know.”
Again his father went back to reading the paper. Bobby went into the kitchen where his mother was making breakfast. He stood near her elbow as she stirred the pancake batter. “Mom, can rocks talk?”
“What, dear?”
“Rocks,” Bobby said. “Can they talk?”
“I’ve never heard one talk,” his mother said. She looked at him the same way his father had. It made him feel dumb.
“But what if, maybe, they could talk,” Bobby said. “And they just never had anything to say?”
“What a wonderful imagination you have,” his mother said. “Maybe someday you’ll grow up to be a science fiction writer.”
Bobby hated science, so he ignored most of what she said, although it sounded like a compliment, so he enjoyed that part.
“If the rocks couldn’t talk,” Bobby said, “how would we know if they had feelings?”
His mother stopped stirring and wiped her forehead in her apron. “That’s a good question,” she said. “But I’m a little busy right now, dear. Why don’t you ask your father about some of these things?”
“Okay,” Bobby said.
He went out into the yard and stared at the rock. It just wasn’t ready to be moved. It was afraid of the piano the same way Bobby was afraid of it. His mother had been giving him lessons for several months now. She said he had a natural talent.
“If I have a natural talent,” Bobby said one day, “then why do I have to practice all the time?” His mother had laughed then in the same way she had laughed earlier.
“I don’t really know,” she said. “I guess you have to practice to refine your gift — so that you use it to its full potential.”
“Why?” Bobby said.
“Well,” his mother said, “you don’t want to waste it. Not everybody is good at everything, but if you’re good at something... I don’t know, Bobby. You’re just supposed to do the things you’re good at it.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re happier that way,” his mother said.
Bobby placed his fingertips gently upon the pebbly surface of the rock. Wouldn’t it be happier if it could play the piano, too?
He stayed outside, wondering about this, trying to figure it all out, until well after dark. At some point his mother called for him to come inside. Bobby wasn’t sure how — maybe he’d heard them talking about it, or maybe he sensed it — but he knew that tomorrow was the day they would start tearing up the yard. He didn’t know what to do.
His mother called to him again. She was getting angry. Bobby bent down and picked up the rock. Without looking at the underside, he wiped it once across the top of the grass and then put it in his pocket. It didn’t really fit and it made his jacket sag heavily to one side. When his mother saw him, she knew immediately that something funny was going on. “What’s that in your pocket?” she said.
Bobby took out the rock. He felt ashamed for it. He tried to shield it from the bright lights in the kitchen.
“Is that a rock?” his mother said.
“I don’t know,” Bobby said.
“Is it a pet rock?” she said. “Is that why you were asking me all those questions about rocks?”
“I guess,” Bobby said. “I don’t know.”
“Well, don’t put it on the kitchen table,” his mother said. “Now go get ready for your bath.”
Bobby was elated. He took the rock with him into the bathroom and washed it off and dried it. He slept with it under his pillow. But something still wasn’t right. The rock belonged downstairs, in the front room.
The next afternoon he went into the front room and opened the big glass cabinet in the corner. He put the rock on the bottom shelf. He felt terrible leaving it there all alone, but at least it was closer to where it was supposed to be. It was supposed to be on top of the piano. At least for a start.
When Bobby had his next piano lesson he told his mother that the rock was his good luck charm and asked if he could put it on top of the piano while he played. She asked where it was now.
“I don’t know,” Bobby said. “I’ll have to find it.”
During a break in the lesson his mother left the room. Bobby took the rock from the bottom of the cabinet and placed it in front of him atop the piano.
“I see you found your lucky rock,” his mother said. “Where was it?”
“Around,” Bobby said.
Once he had the rock there with him Bobby didn’t feel so bad about playing the piano anymore. He didn’t feel trapped. The rock seemed to be encouraging him, telling him he could do it. But he still wasn’t enjoying it the way his mother thought he should.
One day, early in the fall, Bobby told her he didn’t want to play anymore.
“I think it’s terrible,” his mother said. “I think it’s a terrible waste.”
“I don’t want to,” Bobby said.
She lifted his rock from the piano. He felt an immediate urge to take it away from her. “Look,” she said, “it’s your lucky rock. Doesn’t that make you feel better?”
“Don’t be mad at me,” Bobby said.
He thought she was going to start crying. She got up from the bench and stood at the big window with her back to him. She was quiet for a long time. She still held the rock in her hand. “I won’t force you to play,” she said. “I don’t want to be that kind of parent.”
“Okay,” Bobby said.
“But,” she said, “you have to realize that some people wait their entire lives to find something they’re good at. And some people never find it. Some people are still waiting.”
“It’s not me, Mom,” Bobby said. “It’s the rock. The rock wants to play.”
Without turning around, she shook her head in a way that scared Bobby a little.
“Maybe it’ll only happen once,” Bobby said. “Maybe that’s all it wants. Just to play once. Then it’ll be happy forever.”
His mother hunched her shoulders. She took a deep breath. Then she turned and walked to the piano and placed the rock on top of it. “The lesson is over,” she said. “Go get ready for bed.”
Bobby wondered why she didn’t look him in the eye as she said it. He didn’t like the way she left the room.
The rock sat atop the piano for years after that. Bobby would wipe the dust from it, but he never moved it or picked it up. The piano itself was covered with dust. Bobby was in high school now, but he never surrendered his beliefs about the rock. There was something about it that he still couldn’t put into words.
He’d read stories about American Indians who believed that the rocks and the trees possessed a consciousness. He’d seen TV shows where shamans spoke as if the thunder were alive. A part of him wanted desperately not to believe. It was just so ridiculous. Rocks being alive. His was the only rock he’d ever sensed anything from. It had become such a burden, hiding this belief from everyone. He was sure that if he spoke his mind they’d lock him up and throw away the key.
His mother had been right about one thing. Bobby became a science fiction writer. He sold his first story when he was sixteen years old. By the time he was ready for college, he’d already amassed a list of magazine acceptances that assured him the attention of a book publisher when he was ready.
His parents were happy for him, though he felt they could never really understand what it was he did when he sat down to write. He didn’t really try to understand it himself. But he kept his mind open to every possibility.
On his last night before moving away to college, Bobby went into the front room, dusted off the piano bench, and sat down. He stared at the rock. It still fascinated him endlessly. It was beautiful. It had a voice. Why was he the only one who could hear it?
He said a silent good-bye to his friend, dimmed the lights, and went upstairs to get ready for bed. On the way past his parents’ bedroom he hesitated. They still left the door ajar, as they always had, just in case he had a nightmare and wanted to come in and talk about it. Bobby pushed open the door. They were both asleep. He went to his mother and bent over and kissed her lightly on the cheek.
It was then that the music began.
It was drifting up slowly from below, a sad song, a beautiful song that swept him away upon its melody almost immediately. The song mesmerized him and buoyed him and spoke through its lament of a time when things would be different, when understanding would be greater, when the thunder could come alive again.
Bobby began to weep. He moved away from the bed, backing toward the doorway, straining to better hear the song. It seemed to last only an instant. And yet it seemed to go on forever.
The moment it was over he opened his eyes. He was standing in the hallway. His parents had not awakened. Bobby rushed down the stairs two and three at a time, swinging around the railing when he reached the bottom. He bounded toward the front room and stopped, hesitating in the archway. He peered into the darkness.
The rock was sitting atop the piano as it had been for years. Nothing was changed. Bobby felt deflated. His imagination really was a powerful thing. And then, as he turned to make his way back upstairs, he remembered something that made him smile. He peered again into the darkness. Sure enough. All those years, as the piano sat in disuse, the keyboard had remained covered.
Now it wasn’t.
Copyright © 2010 by Mark Joseph Kiewlak
