Piano in the Snow

Can I tell this story yet?  Yesterday morning was sunny and nearly cloudless.  We had been offered a piano.  So on the weekend, Jared had cut a path through three feet of ice and snow from our driveway, around the back of the house, up four steps, to our sliding glass doors.  And I had booked a U-Haul.  We got up bright and early.  Most of the children were still asleep as we snuck off to pick up the truck, laughing and holding hands.  The truck was ready and waiting.  We had no problem finding the house.  Four of us were able to cover, load and strap the piano in without real difficulty.  We thanked the woman and her son for their help.  We wrote a cheque and took off.  On the ten minute drive home, we chatted and I remember saying, "I'm so excited!  We have a piano!  I'll wait to believe it when we get it inside."  Why did I say that?  Was it a premonition or an omen?

We had some help at our end.  We were quite impressed with ourselves.  We got the piano off the truck, around the corner, the length of the house, through the back gate, around another corner, up two steps. 

And then the piano fell in the snow.

Here the story diverges.  There's the version I tell on the phone with a smile and a self-deprecating chuckle.  "Well we almost had it.  One inch to left and it wouldn't have caught on that bit of deck.  But it did.  I'm just glad no one was hurt.  When it fell like that, we knew it was time to call in some professionals.  They got that thing dislodged, up the steps, and through the doors in twenty minutes.  The piano is completely fine.  We're so happy to have it."

Then there's the other version.  The piano fell with a sickening clang and a crunch.  The relief I felt that there were no crushed ribs or broken limbs was heady.  "Okay, this isn't what we hoped for, but we can still figure this out.  It's alright."  There was no answering expression of optimism.  Jared wouldn't look at me.  He was ready to push that thing back down the steps--so it would land on its end, he said, and we could try again, he said.  I could see the recklessness in his face.  He was not intending to try again.

"Let's talk about this.  You might get it unstuck, but you'll definitely break it."  I tried to speak calmly.  He took a step back.  He still wouldn't look at me. 

Nobody knew what to do.  We pretended to make suggestions, but it was useless.  Finally, Jared thanked our helpers and stepped inside for some 'space'.

I kind of laughed and thanked them for the help on what was a bigger job than we thought and apologized for the unexpected danger of the whole thing.  They had to go.  But they offered to come back anytime to help finish the job. 

And then I was alone.

Later, after the movers had gone home with their straps and a story, I looked at the bits of two by four that had seemed like sturdy steps, just that morning.  I think I can mend them.