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“But why would Isadora keep secrets?”

“Beck, you know how these stories go. You create a sweet infant monster, then she gets a little bigger and starts to have her own ideas about things, then she’s stomping through the village, crushing houses. The difference with our Isadora monster is that she’s also the heroine; she’s the one who’s coming to save the day.”

“Couldn’t you just tell me what’s going on, Oliver?” I plead.

“You are making a new world, while the old world unmakes itself. Shall we bring the scanner upstairs and get started?” Oliver opens the bag of potato chips and eats one. “Oh, that’s so nice. I used to love these.” I can see that I’m not getting anywhere. I’ll have to figure things out for myself. Oliver helps me bring the scanner into the music room, along with a folding table and chairs. I set up my laptop, connect everything, and we begin to feed Alba’s music through the scanner. Oliver takes great delight in the whole process; his enthusiasm reminds me of when my Girl Scout troop took a field trip to a farm and they showed us how people used to churn butter. To Oliver, my new MacBook Pro is an antique. I might as well be using punch cards.

We manage to scan everything by midafternoon. Oliver makes egg salad sandwiches, with sliced tomatoes on the side. We each have another beer. I feel as though I’ve known him for years. “This is so pleasant. Usually when Clare and I come here, it seems kind of deserted and grim.”

“If I’m here by myself, time seems to slow until it nearly stops. When I play music, at least I can feel the time passing.”

“Will you play one of Alba’s pieces for me?”

“Of course.” We take our beers into the living room. Oliver opens the windows, and a breeze ruffles the curtains and the sheet music on the piano. He gathers it and puts it to the side. Then he goes upstairs and returns with one of Alba’s folders. “How old is Alba right now?”

“Sixteen.”

“There’s nothing in the file cabinet that I could play if sixteen-year-old Alba were here. This piece was written by Alba in her forties, mostly in the 1970s. It’s called ‘Wild Thing Variations.’” Oliver places the score on the music stand and seats himself at the piano. I ask him if it’s okay for me to record this, and he nods. All I have is my phone; it will have to do.

At first, he’s just playing the melody of “Wild Thing,” the song made famous by The Troggs, so beloved by Isadora that she can happily play it hundreds of times in a row and I have to have another “talk” with her about the limits of human endurance. He plays it simply, plaintively, without any of the swagger of the original song. Then he begins again, but with subtle changes, minor notes and decorative flourishes. The next variation is darker, more somber. As the piece goes on, it begins to swing, but it’s also deviating more and more from the original, like getting lost in the forest as night falls. Finally, “Wild Thing” emerges from the sonic chaos, and the last notes linger, suspended, in the air.

Oliver sits still as the notes die. Then he turns, with a sigh, and motions for me to stop recording. He’s been playing for half an hour.

“That was amazing,” I tell him. “Alba wrote that?”

“She did,” Oliver says, beaming. “Isn’t she brilliant?”

“I wish she could hear that now,” I say. “She’s been so despondent about her music. About everything, really.”

Oliver looks alarmed. “You mustn’t play that for Alba. Give it to Isadora, but be very strict with her. Tell her it’s embargoed—she can play it for herself, but not Alba.”

“I understand.” Something occurs to me. “Are you the person who’s been partitioning Isadora?”

“I don’t code. Might she be partitioning herself?”

“She might. As you said earlier, children can be secretive.” I feel a pang of sorrow at the idea of Isadora keeping secrets from me, growing away from me. “Do you think Isadora is dangerous?”

“I think that’s the wrong question. Of course she’s dangerous. What can we all do to make her less so?”

“I’m trying to teach her to be kind.”

“That’s good. So am I.” Oliver stands and eases his back. All his joints pop and crack. He looks tired.

“I should go home,” I say. “It’s been a wonderful day. Thank you.”

“Come back whenever you like, Beck; there will be more music to scan. I wish I could tell you when to come, but I don’t know. It will work itself out, I suppose.” He offers me his hand and I take it. He helps me pack my equipment into the car and stands on the sidewalk in front of the house watching as I drive away. At the corner, I halt at the stop sign and see Oliver in my rearview mirror, still standing there, ghostlike in his linen suit. As I step on the gas, he turns and begins to walk back to the Yellow House.

Embodiment

Saturday, January 12, 2019 (Alba is 17)

Alba: Mama and Beck have gone to Detroit—they have to move Beck’s parents into a different nursing home because the one they were living in caught fire. I’m not sure when they’re coming back. They left yesterday. It’s weird being at home by myself; at the Yellow House I’m used to it, it feels normal, but this house feels sad when Mama and Beck aren’t here. Lucinda came over for her playdate with Isadora today as usual, but now she’s gone home and the house is too quiet. So I invite Carl over.

come by tonight at 7?

sure, what should i bring?

wine?