Play to your Heart's Content

A hamper of dirty laundry, a purse, and an unopened toothbrush: Claire knew the rideshare driver must have questions. Thankfully, the woman had stopped trying to make conversation after the first five minutes of polite, unengaged replies. Claire regretted not being nicer, but it was all she could do to clench her jaw and keep her sobs as quiet as possible.

It had been a struggle to get that laundry. Jeff insisted that as the household's primary earner, Claire's clothes were more his property than hers. The purse's contents included the ATM card to Claire's personal savings account (thank goodness she'd managed to stash away a little from each paycheck without Jeff noticing!), but he had taken and destroyed her cards to their joint accounts. The toothbrush had been a hasty addition, between getting off the train at West Gloucester Station and climbing into the back seat of the rideshare.

The gray, misty haze of pre-dawn gradually gave way to the summer sunrise. The driver put on a pair of sunglasses and continued uncomplainingly eastward. Claire closed her eyes.

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Claire sat at the end of the couch, curled up, hugging her knees and leaning against the arm. Jeff sat on the middle cushion, his open hand nudging her leg. "What, you won't even hold my hand?"

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Claire opened her eyes and found herself sobbing in the back of the stranger's car. She hastily stifled her noise and dabbed her eyes with her sleeves.

The driver reached back, handing her a box of tissues. "Let it all out, Honey," she said. "Cry as much as you need to."

Fresh tears streamed down Claire's cheeks. For twelve years, she had heard, "Okay, I'm going to go play video games. Let me know when you're done crying and ready to be fun again."

Jeff's voice in Claire's mind had a stronger influence than the driver's.

"Thank you," Claire said. She willed herself to regain composure. She blew her nose. "I just…" What could she say? What would possibly be Enough without being Too Much?

"Don't worry about it, Honey," the driver said. "Sometimes, all a person needs is a good cry and a ride home."

Home.

Gloucester wasn't home, really. It was a long ride to The Aunts for a week in early July and two nights for Christmas. It was the setting of haunting dreams and fey daydreams. It had once been a tense hour-and-a-half drive for a twenty minute introduction, after which Jeff had decided, "These judgmental old crones aren't worth my time." Then Gloucester had become a distant memory. The source of polite birthday cards which never received a reply.

For the moment, Gloucester was shelter. It was like that what's-his-name Hierarchy of Needs that Dr Bringer talked about. Shelter and rest were right at the foundation.

Maslow. That was the name Dr Bringer said.

At some point, Claire nodded off. She woke up when the car stopped.

"Sorry," the driver said, "But is this the right place? The map says we're here, but I don't see a number."

Claire took stock of her surroundings and suddenly felt her childhood excitement of a summer week on the quarry. "This is it."

The driver turned up the driveway, bringing Claire face-to-face with the stately old barn. It had had a new roof since her last visit, but the brown shingled walls and copper weathervane remained untouched. Growing pears dotted the branches of the espaliered tree beside the barn’s entrance, and peaches ripened on a tree to one side.

On her left, Claire saw a little garden with a low brick wall, then the large white house. More gardens extended off to the right, out of sight.

The driver helped Claire take out her laundry. Claire thanked her.

"Thank you," the driver said. "If you get a chance to give me a five star rating…?"

"You got it," Claire said. She watched the car recede down the driveway.

"I'm telling you, I heard a car!" said a voice from somewhere in the garden depths.

"I am not deaf!" another insisted.

After a moment, two short silver-haired women in matching floral shirts approached. They pulled off their gardening gloves to embrace Claire.

"I'm so glad you're here, Kiddo," Ruby told her.

"Me, too," Pearl said. "Hate the circumstances, but love to see you."

"I'm sorr--"

"Stop," Ruby said firmly. "That is the one and only thing I don't want to hear from you. You have nothing to apologize for. Have you had breakfast?"

Claire shook her head.

"Eggs or oatmeal?" Pearl asked. "We also have cereals and soymilk."

Claire studied her shoes. "I'm not really hungry."

"How do you like your eggs?" Pearl insisted.

Claire blushed. "Scrambled."

Ruby bustled away with Claire's laundry while Pearl made breakfast. Then the two merry widows insisted that Claire make herself at home with every comfort and resource the house had to offer.

They set her up in a cute little bedroom with a view of the quarry. There were three framed paintings on the wall opposite the bed, with space for a fourth. Each one showed the same scene of the pond in different seasons: covered in floating red and yellow leaves in autumn, frozen in winter, surrounded by budding flowers and greenery in spring. The paintings bore Pearl's signature.

Before long, Claire made her way to the living room and stretched out on the antique sofa to watch a comforting movie. One of the household cats, a plump white princess of a thing, climbed on top of Claire and promptly curled up for a nap.

The next thing Claire knew, her movie's menu sequence played on repeat. The white cat laid in a different position on Claire's chest, and a warm weight on her lap suggested the presence of another pet. A small table had been placed beside the sofa with two of Claire's favorite childhood treats: a can of root beer and a packet of cheesy popcorn.

Claire roused the cats and got up. After a brief stop in the bathroom, which included the first time in three days she'd brushed her hair, she went looking for the Aunts. The spacious kitchen, formal dining room, and library were empty. The living room's only occupants remained the white cat and her orange brother. Claire checked the bedrooms upstairs, not expecting to find anyone there.

She stepped back down the stairs.

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Claire stepped down the stairs to her condo's basement. Jeff paused his video game and asked, "What?"

Claire wiped her tears away and tried to keep her voice steady. "Jeff. Are you up for a talk? If you don't have the bandwidth for it right now, I can wait."

"Come down," he said. She obeyed. "What is it?" His face revealed no emotion.

"I'm struggling," Claire said. "I feel like there's less love in the whole world--"

Jeff threw back his head and laughed.

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Claire found herself in the hall at the Aunts' house. She shook her head, as if doing so would shake her bad memories away. She made her way out the back door and was struck once more by the beauty of the place.

Concord grapes dangled from an arbor which had been fashioned from gigantic timbers reclaimed from old quarry derricks. Sparrows flitted about freely, unconcerned by the presence of a human.

Claire followed the sounds of her aunt’s voices around the back of the barn. She found them by the circular granite table overlooking the water.

Pearl stood before an easel with a standard 17.5×12.5 inch canvas, painting the idyllic August scene. This must be the fourth in her series for the bedroom wall. She had perfectly captured the verdant trees' twinkling reflections in the water, the puff of a benign white cloud, the dots of deep red from the wild cherry tree.

Ruby worked at the table. She studied photocopies of a strange script with a magnifying glass. She occasionally consulted some books she had at hand, and made notes in a Composition notebook. It was no doubt another of her Middle English translations.

"You two look like you've been trapped in time," Claire said. "Unchanged since my childhood."

Both Aunts smiled at her.

"Everyone changes, Kiddo," Pearl said. "Everyone grows and learns, all the time."

"Everyone ought to, anyway," Ruby added. "But some things stick with us forever." She gestured to the stone bench next to her, where a thin black box laid in wait.

Not a box. A flute case.

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Claire stood in her kitchen, doling out a large portion of roasted potatoes beside a sizable steak. "By the way, Love," she said. "I was looking for my flute today, but it wasn't in my closet. You didn't happen to bring a small black case out to the garage, did you?"

"I thought we agreed it was noisy," Jeff said from his seat on the couch.

"I love to play," Claire said. "I'm sure there are times when I'm home and you're out, when--"

"You don't want me around?" Jeff asked indignantly.

"Of course I want you around," Claire said soothingly. "I love you."

"I'm confused," Jeff said. "If you love me, why do you want to fill the air around me with noise?"

"Not noise. Music. And it doesn't have to be when you're--"

"Right, 'music,'" Jeff interjected. "But unless someone is actually in the mood to listen to flute music, it's just flute noise."

Claire's lip quivered. "Where is my flute?"

"What, are you holding my steak hostage?" Jeff demanded. "Let's eat. You're impossible to talk to when you're hungry."

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Claire blinked. Her hands gripped the stone table with white knuckles. She stared at the flute case.

"Jeff pawned my flute," she said quietly.

Ruby turned and put a comforting hand on Claire's. "Sometimes, cruel people try to separate us from the things we love," she said. "But our friendships, our talents, our true loves? They can't be sold off."

Hot tears welled in Claire's eyes. She placed the flute case on the table and opened it.

"That one was mine," Pearl told her. "I don't know if you remember me playing in the Cape Ann Community Orchestra. That's how I met my William. Haven't touched it since he passed, until yesterday, when I made sure it was functional and clean. Just in case you wanted it."

"What did Uncle William play?" Claire asked, running her fingers over the treasure.

"Also flute," Pearl answered. "I don't need two."

Claire's fingers trembled a little as she checked and assembled the instrument. She played through a few scales. With each breath, she made the flute sing sweetly and clearly. She laughed and cried at the same time.

"Any requests?" she asked.

"Just that you play to your heart's content," Pearl said.

Ruby smiled. "Do you know anything pastoral?"

"Joaquín Rodrigo, from his Concierto Pastorale," Claire said. "It's been a while, but…"

She didn't play with perfect technique. She didn't always time her breaths right, or nail the fingering exactly as she wanted. She didn't care. She played.

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The setting was heavily inspired by the Manship Artists Residency + Studios, where each of the pictures included in this piece were taken. The author would like to thank John Forti and MARS's Executive Director Rebecca Reynolds for providing so much insight into the place.

The characters of the Aunts were inspired partially by Margaret Manship and her sister Clare Condon (two of the author's great aunts), partially by Beth Macomber and her twin sister Bonnie Coro (the author's grandmother and great aunt, respectively), and just a dash of Alice Hoffman's Owens family in Practical Magic. May we all have Aunts when we need them, and become Aunts in our own turns.