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This appears in a pre-2010 issue
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I DIDN’T TELL HER
Frank Kennedy
People should behave themselves in times of sadness, especially when they’re sitting in a funeral parlor. It’s my Dad we’re burying, after all, and here’s Mrs. Murphy giving me the evil eye. Here’s Mrs. O’Leary staring me down like I’m a criminal. Mr. Boyle turns around and says to me, “What are you, some kinda moron? Don’t you have no respect for your father? Why aren’t we hearing some nice music instead of this filth?”
It all all started when Mom asked me to choose the music for my stepfather’s service. “Jimmy,” she said, “I don’t know nothing about music, and you being such a music lover, your dear father’d bless you from heaven if you’d pick one of his favorites--you know, something sweet and tender like the man he was, most of the time.” She dabbed her eyes. Mascara ran down her bruised and messed-up face. 1 knew the kind of stuff she wanted me to pick. Junk like Danny Boy. “Come to think of it, Mom,” 1 said, “there was something he really loved. He just couldn’t get enough of it.”
“Jimmy, that’s the piece you must play. Is it something our guests would like, something fitting?”
“Mom, it’s a real classic.” Now, she was never into classical music, so I felt safe telling her what I had in mind. “It’s called Bolero.”
“Is it a nice piece, Jimmy? Does it have a pretty melody?”
“It has a great melody, Mom. It’ s so good, the orchestra plays it several times so we can really dig it.”
“Well, OK. If you think your father’d like it.”
The piece had very special meaning for him, Mom. You know, he asked me to play it for him the day before yesterday, before he passed away. It gave him such happiness.” I didn’t tell her how I strapped him down and put masking tape over his mouth.
“You’re such a considerate son, Jimmy. I’m glad he had some pleasure before he died.” I didn’t tell her how I placed the earphones over his head, how I revved up the amp full volume, how I played Bolero twenty-seven different times--all by different orchestras. I didn’t tell her my fantasy headline: Yonkers man murdered by Maurice Ravel. Found with eardrums ruptured, death caused by heart attack. Coroner’s inquest suggests man addicted to piece he loved too much. Warnings go out to all music lovers: Bolero kills!
Mom asked me how long Bolero would take, whether there’d be time to play Danny Boy. “It depends on the orchestra, Mom.” I didn’t tell her how Dad evaluated many different interpretations that night. He heard the Boston Symphony, the Dallas Symphony, the Boston Pops, the Canadian Brass, Benny Goodman, a synthesizer and so much more. Dad actually became one of the world’s greatest Bolero authorities before his unfortunate passing. The music world will certainly miss him.
“Jimmy, you said you played the piece for him before he died. I never saw him sit still for any classical stuff. He sure must’ve loved the piece.” I didn’t tell her how he’d passed out in his chair, an empty Jim Beam bottle laying on the floor. I didn’t tell her that by the time he came to, he was already harnessed up, mouth taped, earphones on, all ready for his concert. I 4idn’t tell her why I planned to kill my stepfather.
