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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Inspirational
- Subject: Miracles / Wonders
- Published: 11/28/2019
Music of The Night
Born 1945, M, from Farmersburg, United States.jpeg)
Pain shot through Ruth's hands. The hands that The New York Times once called the hands of an angel were now
twisted with arthritis. The hands that once made audiences weep as they flew over the keyboard of the Steinway were now gnarled and knotted. Now Ruth was the one who wept when she thought of her wasted life. Her dreams were gone, dashed on the jagged rocks of reality. The gorgeous silk gowns had been replaced with the rough clothing she wore to clean the concert hall where she once performed. Foolishly, she had taken this job just to be near the stage that had once brought her so much joy. Tears misted her eyes and blurred her vision. Never again would she hear the thunderous applause or thrill to the standing ovation of thousands. In those days, when she
stepped onto the stage, the audience held its collective breath. Even in the largest concert hall, you could hear the smallest sound. An inadvertent cough would be met with the frowning disapproval of concert-goers aimed at the offender. At the first stroke on the keyboard, audiences would breathe an audible sigh. Then they would sit for hours mesmerized by the melodious reverberations emanating from the grand. Those days were past. Groaning with pain, Ruth picked up the cloth and began polishing the main doors’ brass handles. Through these same doors, thousands of excited people had once rushed to hear her play. It seemed a lifetime ago.
"Yo, Rosy," Ralph called. "What you doin'? Yous s’post to be done with these doors like hours ago."
Answering to the name she had adopted for her new life, Ruth said, "Sorry Ralph, somebody upchucked in the third
row. It took a while to clean it up."
"Yeah, okay. Well, yous better hurry it up. Mr. Wheeler's gonna be here any minute to check the place. He wants everything to be perfect for the Christmas concert Sunday."
"I'll be done," Ruth assured him.
Fifteen minutes later as Ruth was cleaning the glass on the ticket booth, a limo pulled to the curb. John Wheeler stepped out. Two years ago, he had pleaded with her agent for her to perform the Christmas concert. Now he brushed roughly past her.
"Make sure that glass is clean,” he snapped. “Last time there were smears right at eye level."
At the doors leading to the concert hall, he turned and studied her face. "Say, don't I know you?"
"No sir," Ruth said, feeling her stomach lurch and turning her face away. "I just started last week."
"Well, if you want to keep your job, make sure every inch of this place is gleaming like a gold tooth. The last one
was sloppy. That's how you got her job."
"Yes sir," Ruth said, keeping her head down.
For the next hour she worked, polishing the glass until it sparkled. Then she got down on all fours and scrubbed spots from the carpet. Twenty moments after he arrived, Wheeler left without so much as looking at her. Two years ago he had paid her $20,000 to perform at the Holiday Gala. Now he paid her minimum wage. That had been a fantastic concert. Ruth became lost in the music as she always did, her fingers dancing over the keyboard. The orchestra’s accompaniment was superb. As the last note died, the audience sat in astonished silence. Then the hall erupted in thunderous applause that refused to end. Finally, everyone exited the hall in almost reverent silence.
Back then, Ruth played almost every night. Her tours took her to every major city in America. Every day her agent
would call with new offers. Booked a year in advance, she sometimes felt as though she couldn't drag herself on stage. Weariness overwhelmed her. Yet it was always the same. As soon as the music began, a surge of energy flowed through her. She forgot her problems, closed her eyes and was lost to this world. Heaven seemed to open to her. At the end of each piece, Ruth opened her eyes only reluctantly.
It was customary for the performer to rise to receive applause at the end of each piece. In Denver, Ruth broke with
tradition. Instead of rising, she remained seated. Unsure what to do, the conductor began the next piece. The newspaper reviews tore at her, calling her ignorant, snobbish and classless. She didn't care. She came off that stage refreshed and eager for the next concert.
Backstage, she remained in her dressing room for hours, resting, trying to sleep. Sleep never came. When she was sure everyone had left, she emerged to a darkened theater. In the dim shadows, she played Beethoven, Mozart and Bach. Then something caused her to revert to the hymns of her childhood. In her mind, she saw the little white clapboard church sitting on the knoll between the pasture and the cornfield. One day when Ruth was six, her father left her on her own while he spoke to the old minister outside the church. Bored, she wandered into the sanctuary where the antiquated grand piano seemed to beckon to her. Climbing onto the bench, she gently ran her fingers over the yellowing keys. Ruth’s mother loved classical music, and she remembered a piece she had heard on the radio that afternoon. She touched the keys lovingly. The melody flowed through her mind. She closed her eyes and let the music take her away. As she ended the hymn, she opened her eyes. Her father and the minister stood in the center aisle. Her father looked puzzled. The old preacher was smiling broadly.
For the next 10 years, Ruth’s parents sacrificed greatly, saving every penny for lessons with the best teachers. It hurt
her to see them going without, so much so that she would practice extra hours each day. While her friends enjoyed
parties and other youthful activities, she studied. Her only diversion was attending services at the little clapboard church. She was 12 when the pastor's wife suddenly passed away. The following Sunday, Ruth stepped into the role of pianist for the worship services. She dreamed of the day she could repay her parents for their sacrifice. In her senior year of high school, Ruth applied to Julliard and was awarded a full scholarship. She was so excited. Now
she could do what she loved and her mother and father would be relieved of their financial burden. Six weeks after she arrived at Julliard, Ruth’s parents were killed in an automobile accident. She made it through the funerals in a trance. Returning to school, she stayed in her room and cried for three days. She had nothing left but her music. Drying her eyes, she threw herself into her lessons. Her teachers remarked at the change in her playing. Before, she
was detached, clinical. Now she played with a passion unmatched by anything they had seen before. Ruth developed the habit of playing with her eyes closed as scenes from her childhood flashed through her mind. She
played for hours on end, closing off the world with its pain.
Some of the other students tried to be friendly and get to know her. Ruth was always polite, but distant. She never joined in any activities. Finally, they gave up and simply left her to her music. It was clear it meant everything to her.
Even before she graduated, the world's stage opened to her. Offers poured in from all over the globe. She had
everything she ever wanted, yet she wasn't happy. The only time she felt at peace was late at night when she played to an empty theater. There her heart soared as her mind returned to the old church. She became the small child straining to reach the pedals. Finally, she would lower the lid over the keyboard, return to her hotel room and sleep for a few hours. Hurrying to the next city, she would do it all over again. Money meant nothing to her; only the music had the power to soothe her soul. Keeping only enough for expenses, she gave most of her income away. This she did anonymously through a firm specializing in contributions to charities. Ruth cared for nothing but her music.
It started one morning while she was making coffee. Ruth noticed a bit of stiffness in the fingers of her left hand.
She attributed it to the long hours of practice, performing and her late-night playing. She tried to ignore it, but it persisted, spreading rapidly to her elbow, then to her right hand. The stiffness became a dull ache. Then one night while performing in Los Angeles, a sharp pain caused her to hit a sour note. She struggled to continue but managed only to ruin the piece. She fled the stage in tears. The next morning, she made an appointment with a prominent physician. Sitting in his office, she trembled with apprehension. The doctor finally breezed in, his white coat flapping. Dropping to the chair behind the desk, he sighed. His diagnosis terrified her: rheumatoid arthritis.
"I'm afraid there is no cure. However, we can try to arrest its progress with medication," he said, his voice tender.
"There is also pain management available."
Ruth’s heart sank and she began to sob. Tears flowed unchecked down her face. "My performing, what about my
playing?"
The doctor leaned forward and tried to soften the blow. "With medication and pain management, many people live
very productive lives," he said gently.
She persisted. "Concerts?”
“No. I’m sorry, Ruth. But there’s always teaching."
She fled from his office and the city.
Back in New York, Ruth retreated to her apartment, only coming out at night. Turning off all the phones, she shut
herself off from the world. If anyone knocked on her door, she hid in the bathroom. Her mail went unanswered. Even her agent couldn’t reach her. She would rather drop off the face of the earth than have anyone learn of her condition.
Three months later, she took a tiny apartment on the Southside. Yearning to be near the life she loved, she swallowed her pride and applied for a job with the cleaning crew at the concert hall. For fear of being recognized, she dyed her light brown hair black, darkened her eyebrows and wore glasses to the interview. Now she masqueraded as a cleaning lady just to be near the piano she loved.
When she finished vacuuming the dressing rooms, she sneaked behind some stage props. If Ralph caught her there,
he would fire her. It was worth the risk. She just had to touch the Steinway one more time. She pictured herself once again seated before an audience full of high society men and ladies dressed in their holiday finest.
She heard Ralph by the front door yelling, "Yo, Barb, where's Rosy?" She pressed her back to the wall and held her
breath.
"I don't know, boss. Looks like she left." Barb wasn’t a big fan of Rosy’s, thought she came across a little too hoity toity for a cleaning woman.
Ralph cursed. Muttering to himself and pacing, he passed within two feet of Ruth. "All right, let's go. We's done
all we can. If'n Wheeler don't like it, we'll blame it on her."
Barb laughed. "Yeah, that’s about all newbies are good for anyway.”
Ruth waited a full hour before coming out. She searched the theater to be sure she was alone. As she roamed through the building, she noticed an inexplicable glow emanating from the red exit lights. The balcony was bathed in it as well. She went to investigate. As she came close, the strange light disappeared. Returning to the stage, she sat down on the bench. Looking up, she saw that the glow had returned. She decided it must be a reflection.
She let her fingers run gently over the keys. Connecting with them always felt so good, like a lover’s tender touch. She played a few notes. It sounded bad, worse than a child struggling to learn Chopsticks. Oh well, she was the only one who was going to hear it. Closing her eyes, she played Silent Night. Her hands throbbed, bringing tears to her eyes. She kept playing. In her mind, the sour notes became sweet. She felt warmth envelop her. Once again, she was a child playing in the old church. She felt hands come out of nowhere and cover hers. Rather than alarm, a magnificent peace flowed through her. Her fingers stopped hurting and the pain melted away. Unafraid, she opened her eyes. All she could make out at first was a dazzling light in front of the piano. Then a man’s shape appeared in the center of a circle of radiance. He spoke to her in a voice as soothing as gentle rain. "Oh, Ruth, my dear sweet child, how I love you." His words were sweeter to her ears than even her music. Somehow, Ruth found herself on her knees in front of The Man. She leaned into Him and He embraced her. Tears fell from her downcast eyes. Reaching out a scarred hand, He gently grasped her deformed fingers. Before her eyes, they straightened. Hope, strength, and healing flooded her soul and body.
How long she kneeled there she wasn't sure. Finally rising slowly to her feet, she went back to her seat at the piano.
The Man was gone, yet some of His radiance remained. She still felt the warmth of His presence. Her fingers rested on the keyboard. She took a deep breath and played as never before. A new energy surged through her. Her heart swelled with love. A love for her Lord, her fellow man, and the music of the night. The melody drifted like stardust through the theater as Ruth lost herself in the wonder of it all. Her pain had vanished; her depression was a memory. Scenes from her childhood played out before her closed eyes as her mother and father lived again. She saw the Lord take them by the hands and lead them to heaven. Tears of joy trickled down Ruth's cheeks. Smiling, her parents vanished into a dazzling light. Her fingers flew over the keys, the music becoming sweeter and clearer with every note. She played for hours, the moments flying by in unfettered harmony. The stiffness was gone. She felt not a hint of pain in her fingers. Finally, she opened her eyes and lifted her heart in thankfulness to the One who had healed her. A peaceful hush overlaid the theater and her soul. She bowed her head as tears of joy fell onto the lap of her soiled dress.
Suddenly the theater erupted in thunderous applause. Startled and confused, Ruth looked out upon a standing-room only crowd. The soundman had accidently left open the outside speaker. Alerted by the police, Mr. Wheeler was the first to arrive. Passersby forgot their errands as they were drawn by the music. The hope, joy and tranquility flowing from Ruth's fingers seemed to pull at their hearts and give them hope. They filed into the theater to hear her magnificent concert. When the seats were filled, they stood in the aisles.
Today Ruth's music is different. Oh, she can still mesmerize audiences, yet there is a pleasing excellence about her performances. She plays with an obvious passion, as one who has felt the healing touch of the Master's hand.
In the night, His song shall be with me. ─Psalm 42:8.
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