"Okay," I said and watched him do it. As he prepared a cup for himself and me. I walked around the basement, looking at the posters on the wall and some of the photographs in frames.
"Your mother's pretty," I said.
"She's gained a lot of weight since that picture," he told me. "I guess I take after her in that respect. Maybe in most respects," he added.
He put my cup of tea on the bar and I sat on a stool. He remained behind it, sipping from his mug and watching me mix in some honey.
"My father is so precise about everything he does, including eating. He's proud of the fact that he hasn't gained or lost a pound in twenty years. He once tried to starve me to make me lose some weight," Balwin revealed, shame in his face.
"Not really?" I said. He nodded.
"I could only have a glass of apple juice for breakfast and then he had everything I ate for dinner weighed on a small scale. Of course I snuck candy bars and ate: what I wanted at school. He actually searched my room the way someone might search it for drugs and found two Snickers bars and a box of malt balls. I love malt balls. He went into a rage and put a lock on my piano and threatened to sell every piece of equipment if I didn't lose five pounds that month.
"My mother was so upset and cried so much. I had to do it. Finally, he relented and took the lock off the piano. But I regained the weight the following month and he threw his hands up one night and told me he was giving up on me."
He looked away to hide the tears that had come into his eves. When he turned back, he put on a smile quickly.
"It's all right. We've got a sort of fragile truce in the house now. At least he's happy about my grades. I guess he loves me. He's just one of those people who have a hard time revealing it. He thinks it's weak to show too much emotion. He came from a very poor family background and made a success of himself. He says no mature adult can blame failure on anyone but himself. There's always a way to get around an obstacle or solve a problem if you really, truly want to do it.
"I guess he's right."
He sipped some more tea and then shook his head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to blab like that."
"It's okay," I said and smiled.
"You're cool. Ice. Sounds funny to say that, I know. but I can't imagine you blabbing. I bet you would have been great in silent movies."
I laughed.
"No, really. You say more with your face, with your eyes, than most of the girls do talking all day. I like that. The fact is," he said looking down. "I've written a song about you. I hope you don't mind."
"Me?"
He nodded.
"It's not that great."
"Where is it?"
"In here," he said pointing to his temple. "I haven't written it down yet. I'm still playing around with it."
"I want to hear it," I said,
He took a deep breath and looked almost as terrified as he had upstairs in front of his father.
"Please," I begged.
"If it sounds terrible, promise you'll tell me the truth. okay?" I nodded.
He walked around the bar and went to his piano. I followed and stood by it, waiting. He glanced at me, looked up and then began his introduction. He sang:
.
There is music in the silence of her smile.
There's a melody in her eyes.
She glides unheard through the clamor that's around her,