The Lady and The organ

Cole Teague

I can’t quite remember my great grandmother’s house in perfection. I was 10 or so when

she died. That’s not to say that I did not know her well, I was very close to her as a child. But

when I imagine her house, the first thing I imagine are tones of yellow, beige, and auburn. Her

family room – or maybe it was a foyer, as the front door to the house opened directly to it – was

always astonishingly bright in the morning sun due to the large windows that gave a view to the

almost always busy road she lived on. When they had first built the house, neighbors were sparse

and there was apple orchard in the expansive backyard. Now, neighbors were plentiful and there

was not a single tree littering the backyard besides the magnolias that stood stoic in the mulch

bed, guarding the petunias and forget-me-nots that lie below them.

The house was a ranch, I remember that, and there was also a basement. The basement

was very much unfinished, with a grey floor, the color of tarnished silver. There were many

miscellaneous objects and features to this basement. To be honest, the whole house was

miscellaneous, as knick knacks and treasures lining every inch of its walls, but the basement was

special to me. While the main room of the basement was not finished, there was a side room just

left of the creaky, cream-colored steps just as you reached the bottom. It held decorations of all

seasons, and I especially remember a figure that one would expect to be a toddler or small child

with the head of a pumpkin pail, one of those blow mold cast jack-o-lantern heads that many

used for trick-or-treating. It always stuck with me, for some reason.

On another wall in the main, dimly lit and fluorescent room was a large pantry or set of

shelves that held all types of canned goods. I always found it odd, but I guess it was to supplant

the lack of a pantry upstairs. Who builds a house without a pantry? On the opposite side of the

room was workbench with various tools, colored red, grey, and brown, that I was never allowed

to touch. These were “granddaddy’s tools”, my dad would say. I never met him, but he was

Mama Wray’s husband back before he was crushed by a F150 frame in the early 90s. All I know

is he kind of looked like Ronald Reagan, that’s the image I had compiled from the few pictures I

saw of him in scrapbooks and albums I had seen.

My corner of the basement was full of toys, but they were not mine. Many of them were

from when my father was a kid and were branded with the faded blue and red of the Fischer

Price logo. One was a parking garage, which came with little tubular people with smiling heads

to put into a bus. As you would move the bus, they would bob up and down with painted

exuberance. Another was a bear, dressed in a baby blue robe, had a round yellow ball with a

bright red star on it for legs. A plastic yellow leash was attached to him, and I would drag him

quickly across the slab floor, banging him against every wall and piece of furniture until I got

bored.

Also in this corner, was a white sheet. Not just a white sheet, but that was all it was at the

time. It covered something, but I never knew what until one day in February when I was in 3 rd

grade. My mom picked me up from school that day, and said we were going to visit Mama

Wray’s house. It was rather sunny and warm for a spring day in southeast Ohio, as I remember,

and I was staring out the car window towards clumps of snow melting on the sides of the great

hill my school’s playground rested upon.

I walked down the steps to the dark and musty basement of Mama Wray’s house to find

something to do. Her backyard was way too bare and open for me to be interested in it, and

mama wouldn’t let me play in the front due to the busy road she lived on. I went to find

something to play with from the box of assorted old toys that lay in her basement. A black rubber

snake, an ancient Fischer-Price Ferris wheel, a fake lawnmower that had a music box within it –

none of these were exciting my 9-year-old mind, who had already played with these to death.

It’s at this point I should probably include that I was quite a curious and questioning

child. During morning prayer at Mother Teresa’s Catholic Elementary, I was always staring at the

ceiling and the walls of the school’s gymcafetorium, to the point where I was once chided for

“not focusing on God” during these services. Why would I bother, I wasn’t even baptized? The

patterns on the rafters of the ceiling were easily more interesting than any of the decades of the

rosary to me. I could see myself swinging, as well as hanging, from those tall heights. I liked to

imagine in the world were to flip upside down, and I were to walk around on the ceiling what

route would I take to navigate out. Though, if the world flipped upside down, I guess I’d fall out

once I made it to the door.

Being an only child, I was also one to explore and rarely shied away from getting into

what I probably was not to touch. One time I was in the kitchen of my childhood home looking

at an art piece my mom had put up on the fridge. It was printout of lamb with little cotton balls

glued haphazardly within its clip art outlines: an activity I had done the previous weekend in

Sunday school. Our fridge was directly across from our oven. It was from the 90s and had

electric coil stove burners in swirls on its white metal top. The next moment I ripped a piece of

white fluff off the lamb and stuffed it down the recesses of the stove. One after another, until it

was full, I ripped a piece and stuffed it down the same stove top. I don’t know why, except for

the fact that I just could. My mom yelled at me later that day, screaming that I could have killed

them, but I did not understand what I did wrong—only that I had did something wrong.

I stand in front of the white sheet, staring into it. It had caught my eye after pulling all the

toys out of the box, and wonder had seized my childish soul. For years, it had held a looming

presence not only in time spent in the basement, but in my mind. It was just another childhood

mystery, just like the broken old tv in the woods behind my high school or the wiggling finger-

like organism we saw under the mulch-pile one time a recess. I had once asked my mom about

what was under the sheet. She replied “I don’t know. How about you color this page next?”. She

then deflected, handing me another page from a Christmas themed coloring book. It was a

Christmas tree with great big baubles hanging from every bough. At that moment, she had

distracted me, but she was no longer there to deflect.

I pull off the white sheet. I look down and see a tan wooden box-like piece of furniture

before me. It’s somewhere between vanilla and butterscotch in color, with fake wood grain akin

to a heat map or forecast radar a meteorologist would gesture towards before an incoming storm.

After staring deeply at its construction, I realize not a piece of furniture at all. White and black

piano keys stare up at me from the part where a desk or tabletop would be. I pressed down on the

keys, expecting the percussive noise of a piano to respond as it did on the piano at my Grammy’s

house in Louisville. No sound played. I thought that key was broken, so I pushed another. No

sound. I thought it all was broken till I noticed the peculiar set up of the keyboards. There were

two levels of keyboards, staggered so the lower keyboard sat more to the left of the upper

keyboard. There were also many red, yellow, green, and blue square buttons on the panel above

the upper keyboard. This was no piano. I stared at the buttons, knobs and switches, until realized

one had the signs O and I on it. It currently sat in the O position. I switched it on.

Suddenly the squares came to life, gleaming in my eyes like Christmas lights. There was

a chorus of whirrs and mechanical noises as the machine came to life. I jumped, startled by the

noises, but soon moved back towards the instrument with interest. Hesitantly, but readily, I

pushed down on a key. The organ came alive for the second time, as the whirr became the noise

of a synthesized flute or some other woodwind instrument. It shrieked, a little loud for my young

ears and for my mom to find out upstairs. I retracted my finger away from the key, my nerves

racked with fear. Just like the moment where I pulled the cover off the fire alarm in my grade

school, for no good reason except curiosity, and immediately shut it when I heard the shriek of a

siren. Studying the panel, I found the volume knob and turned it to the lowest audible volume.

Trying to play the organ, I mimed along on the keys like I had done at Grammy’s. Never

given technical lessons, I would often bang on the high-pitched keys on the far-right side of the

piano and then the low register keys of the far-left side of the piano, going back and forth

between them. As I would do so, I would imagine the dark, pounding lowest notes as hell, and a

7-foot-tall Satan would appear with goat horns, crimson skin, green eyes, and a long flowing

cloak would appear, hellfire all abound around him. Then, drifting my hands to the other end of

the keyboard, I navigated the delicate, percussive notes of the highest register, and God and Jesus

and all his angels would appear in the cloudy but blue sky that surrounded them. A very

traditional depiction in my 7-year-old mind I imagined God as an old white man with grey hair

and a grey beard. Jesus had long brown hair and a brown beard. You can imagine what the angels

looked like. But there was none of this high-low key banging right now, and I proceeded to try

and mimic the way my mom played little licks on kid’s toy piano at home. It didn’t sound very

good.

After a while, I got bored of trying and failing to play. I turned my attention turned

towards the many-colored buttons on the panel above the keys. There were many buttons labeled

such as PERCUSSION and FLUTE, instruments of all sorts included on this piece of musical

equipment. Going down the line, one stood out. A pink button, the only one of that color, was

labeled ADELINE’S WALTZ. I know now that beat functions or automatic backing

arrangements were not uncommon on organs and synthesizers of this kind, though I would not

have known this at the time. Still, I was still aware of how odd it was to have button with a name

on it. When I was especially young, I had a plastic toy keyboard that featured presets of nursery

rhymes that would play when you pushed each lime green button, keys would light up to show

where to play. Maybe it would do something like that? I lift my finger to the button and push.

A mechanical clank occurs and more whirring, though different from before, comes from

the inside of the organ. Music begins. It is oddly reminiscent of the band organ at a local theme

park I had worked at and often visited as a teenager. For hours, I would sit around and watch the

horses go around and around, as the flutes and horns droned on and on to waltzes and military

marches long forgotten. The music reminded me of one specific track that I never knew the name

of, for hours I would search through catalogs of band organ records titled The Empress and Sadie

Mae listening for this one track. I wanted to hear it forever. Its instrumental sections reminded

me of a ship, heading out for some seafaring voyage like pirates or whalers. But, alas, I never

found it. As this beautiful melody played – with percussion and bass accompaniment – I

watched as a circular piece of wood separated out into two half-moons and revealed an opening

in the lid of the organ.

I saw her face first. A beautiful porcelain white. As if it had been molded perfectly by

craftsmen in workshops for hours at a time. As if she was crafted in the hands of gods centuries

ago. She had blushed, rosy-red cheeks that the accented her pale white skin. Her eyes were a

deep brown, earthy and longing in tones. They looked to side, to something I could not see. She

had beautiful eyelashes that sprung from her ever-open eyelids and a set bright red lips whose

painted black line hinted at a smile. I stared, astonished at what I was seeing. As she continued to

slowly rise up, she twirled around to the music, spinning upon the plate that was arising out of

the dark insides of the organ. I had never seen such a lovely, more beautiful deity in my life. I

wondered why the makers of such an organ had included her inside such a machine. What was

her story? What was her purpose? Was this some type of party organ for diners and saloons?

Like a coin operated horse or a claw machine? Her outfit was that of silk and lace, a beautiful

dress that poofed out around her waist, her waist so tightly bound by a corset that it looked as if

she could scarcely breath if she were to try. It seemed as if she was stuck twirling with her hands

in the air as if she was a ballerina or some type of dancer. Her legs were pale with white

stockings rising to her thighs. On her feet, were silver painted ballet slippers that glimmered in

the sunlight from the one tiny rectangular. I noticed how metal hinges on her knees, shoulders,

and elbows began to move her metal frame with ease and precision. The band went on, with the

additions of a snare and bells parading onwards as she began to twirl more sporadically. So much

pzazz! So much grace! The onlookers cheered as she began to jump and prance around a shining

wooden stage. All spotlights were on her! I couldn’t help but join in with them, shouting and

clapping as she made every move. Men in felt top hats and women in silken derby hats looked on

with Galilean binoculars from the gold crested balconies. I looked down at my Toy Story t-shirt

and jeans. I guess I’m underdressed. The band grew louder, snares rolling, bass drums boom,

clavinets fluttering by, and the organ singing proudly through it all. The lady, who I assume to be

Adeline, continues dancing, and I begin to fully transfix on her. Her arms go up and down in

perfect synchronization. Alluring were her features, a perfectly shaped face, every point was

rounded but symmetrical in the most fascinating way. My eyes glazed over and glued to every

move, every action she made with her little limbs.

The waltz ended. I watched as she continued to move as she did once before, to a song

that no longer existed, like a turntable spinning after the grooves of the record have ended. Every

mechanical noise she made was now audible: her hinges creaking, her gears spinning, and her

hydraulics buzzing. It was almost as beautiful as her song. Adeline continued on for a little

while, each movement slowing down and becoming looser and less precise until she stopped. A

mechanical whirring stopped from within the machine, and the platform began to lower just as it

had raised many moments ago. A panic filled my body. How could I let such a stunning love slip

away? Her dainty limbs. Her graceful moves. Her perfect features. They all could disappear

forever.

You could just push the button again.

I felt a quick rush of relief come over me. For every moment I wished to see her, wished

to live within her performance, I could push the button titled ADELINE’S WALTZ and she

would appear. But would that be enough? To gaze upon her for only minutes at a time. What if

the button ceased to work? If the organ broke, how would she come back to me? I must find a

way to keep her, to have her forever and hold what I desire to have with me forever.

Adeline has lowered quite far into the bellows of the organ now. Her head is still visible,

though disappearing with every second, her glimmering eyelashes staring back at me. Looking at

the hole, I realize what I must do. I must climb in. It is the only way for us to be together, to be

never parted. I look upon the organ’s lid and realize there are metal hinges on the back end of the

organ. I lift up on the front of it, trying get a grip and pry it open. It won’t budge. Theres a

keyhole on the front of the machine, keeping it locked away from me. I look at the hole in which

Adeline has fundamentally lowered her entire body through and has now disappeared. I will have

to climb in through which she reentered. I get on top of the organ and stick my head in the hole.

There was ample room for my body to fit within the organ. Laying on the organ now, I begin to

crawl and lower myself towards Adeline. The inside of the organ is filled with gears, circuits,

wires, pipes, hydraulic tubes, and a myriad of other electronic parts. Successfully pushing myself

down into the machine, all that dangled outside of the organ was my feet, my tennis shoes

poking out of the hole. I curled up into where I could barely fit inside, with chips pressing

against my skin and sharp bits of metal poking and prodding at me. But it did not matter, as I

curled up around my pretty ballerina and enjoyed the solace of her presence as the two half-

moons in the top of the organ became one and darkness shrouded me and her.

No one ever mentions how an organ seemingly breathes. I can feel it sucking in and

blowing out. I can hear parts move and creak around me. But none of those matter to me now. I

begin to feel my eyes get heavy, as I clutch Adeline in my hands. Her porcelain limbs and metal

heart are cold, but I do not mind it. She is mine and I am hers, and that’s all that matters. That’s

all that matters. That’s all.

………………………………………………………………………………..

My mom found me not so long after. She plodded down the basement stairs, saw the

empty room, and then called panickily around the house and backyard when she could not find

me. Arriving back in the basement, she realized the organ was on and the white cover had been

torn off it. She could hear something from within the organ: a light snoring. Similarly to as I had

done when Adeline was lowering hours before, she frantically tried to pry off the lid of the

organ. There was no use. She searched the drawers for a key but could not find one to fit the

hole. Shaking, she called the fire department, and I awoke to the sounds of axes breaking down

the top of the organ. ‘They’re here to take me away from her!’ I had thought at the time. When I

they tried to pick me up out of its clutches, I bit down on the brown coat of the fireman’s jacket

and clawed at his face. To this day, I know not of what has happened to the organ. Mama Wray

died not so long after and the house had to be emptied and sold. Last I know, the organ was put

out on the side of road for junk pick up, probably sandwiched next to some old grill and a bucket

of scrap metal on the back of a pick-up truck.