Mr. Alden is old

Mr. Alden lives in the copper-red bungalow across the street. He has lived there since I was born.

Mr. Alden is tall and skinny with a grey head of hair. My mother told me once it used to be black. Slicked with pomade and smart.

Mr. Alden lives alone. He has for as long as I can remember. No wife and no children who make surprise visits with littles in tow. I learned that he was once married, but lost his wife to sickness. The topic had come up after my mother's death. At her wake. The woman who lived in the house to the left of us said so. Her attempt at comforting father I suppose.

Mr. Alden is mean, rude, and bitter. He spoke to no one and cared for no one. The same neighbor who likened my father to him said so. Said it was good he didn't let himself become rancid with grief like Mr. Alden had.

Mr. Alden owns a beautiful grey grand piano. In the center of his living room. I have never seen it, but the old lady on my street said that he used to play for her and her friends when they were little. She said he stopped playing for the neighborhood children sometime after she turned 30. She said nothing of his late wife.

Today I met the elusive old man who lives in the copper red house. He stood hunched over his mailbox as he struggled with the latch. His long fingers fiddled and tinkered with the object to no avail. So, I decided to help. I ran over to him and greeted, "Good afternoon Mr. Alden. Can I help you with that?" I got no response. The lanky man continued his fight with the latch. 'He couldn't possibly be this rude,' I thought to myself. I tried again.

"Mr. Alden! Let me help you!" This time I rested a gentle hand against his back to gain attention. He jumped and screamed. Clutched unto my sleeve for dear life. "Oh no, I'm sorry to startle you." I rushed to say but he glared at me in response. "Don't sneak up on an old man. Are you trying to kill me?" He screamed and then quickly returned to his big old house, ignoring my words of apology.

Mr. Alden really is rude, I decided then. Then I decided again that maybe he wasn't. Maybe the man was lonely and needed kindness. My ingrained over-optimism, which I got from my mother, convinced me of that. So I baked a cake. A medium-sized one. Round and smothered in white frosting.

I marched to the brown doors of Mr. Alden's house with the cake in hand. A practiced grin plastered on my face. I rang the doorbell. Once, twice and then thrice. Finally, the door swung open. Mr Alden stared at me with confusion at first and then he frowned. The frown belonged on his face. The deep set lines on his forehead and between his brows made sense then. I was not deterred by his frown. After all, I had baked a cake; It would take far greater than a frown to turn me back.

"Good afternoon Mr. Alden. I believe we got off on the wrong foot yesterday and I wanted to apologize for startling you. I baked a cake!" I pushed the baked mound of flour, fat, eggs, and sugar toward him, and his earlier confusion returned. Like he hadn't noticed I was holding a cake.

For a few minutes, he looked from me to the cake and then back again at me. I was convinced then that he would reject my attempts at reconciliation, but he did not. He stepped out from the doorway and stretched a welcoming hand towards the inside of the house.

Mr. Alden is deaf. Completely deaf. I learned that quickly after entering. The old man told me so then he gave me a whiteboard and marker to speak with. He said he'd learned to read lips but with his now failing eyesight, it took too much effort so he preferred to read words.

Mr. Alden was a pianist. Along with his grand piano, he had awards arranged neatly on a showcase to prove it. Apparently, he had been amazing. Several teachers and tutors praised him for his exceptional ear for music. They called him a genius. He was a genius. He described his process to me as him weaving symphonies and melodies to tell a story. Each note was a sentence or paragraph or punctuation. He said that hearing himself play then was like a chef tasting their food as they go. Adding dramatizations and pauses where necessary to play the piece perfectly.

Mr. Alden is a pianist. I told him so after I heard him play. He played perfectly. Expertly tickling and caressing the keys to produce a concussion of musical bliss. Even in old age, He was brilliant. I asked how he played so well without his ears. He said that playing had become like mathematics for him. He followed time signatures religiously and played as methodically as he could. His years of experience helped. After the glasses of well-aged whiskey Mr. Alden had brought out to wash down the sweet taste of cake from our tongues, he was nothing like before. It had not taken much convincing to get him to play and not much either to get him to tell me his story.

Mr Alden became deaf as a result of a severe sinus infection many years ago and after three arduous years of trying to continue his career after his hearing loss, he gave up on music. Because though he could still play, he could no longer compose. That was his true passion.