George played the concertina. Don't call it an accordion. Dad's lessons came out for something, anyway, he could pick up maybe $40 on a sunny afternoon, George squeezing out the tunes, eyes half-closed, he's back in his old room, red rugs and dark lavendar wallpaper, Edith Piaf on the record player, George is eight, his hair slicked back, suit with short pants, squeezing along with Edith, Uncle Toots slapping his knee, sour cigar smoke drifting to the brown ceiling, drink on the little table, Mom clapping along in her Sunday dress, flowered hat in her lap, Dad just nodding, yes, lessons were going well, George played along with Edith.
A fire truck passed.
George didn't know how old he was, now. His fingers black on the keys. He lifted a knee and hopped in time to the music.
George played the concertina.