The Last Noel by Michael Malone

handmade ring of silver coils thathe now wore. “Where’d you get that?”
    â€œA friend in Philly gave it to me.”
    â€œA girl?”
    â€œYeah, a black girl. That's the only kind I’m ever going to date. You think a boy gave me a ring?”
    â€œWhat girl was it?”
    â€œWhat's it to you?” Actually Kaye had bought the ring for himself on South Street and he wasn’t sure why he had told Noni a girl had given it to him.
    â€œNothing. It's a nice ring.”
    Suddenly he became aware of her hand holding his. In a strange and oddly heightened way, he could feel the skin and bones of her fingers as they touched his. He looked curiously into her eyes and when he did she blushed.
    Noni was still holding his hand when, glancing away from her, he saw her mother threading her way toward them with her unhappy smile.
    â€œMontgomery, may I help you?” asked Mrs. Tilden, her voice pleasant as a breeze, her eyes desperate. “Is there some problem at Clayhome?”
    Noni's face tightened, flushed. “Mom, I invited him.”
    Mrs. Tilden stared at her daughter, then she smiled her unhappy smile a little more rigidly. “Oh, you did, sweetheart? Well, that's very nice. Are you ready to play for our guests?”
    â€œPlease, please, do I have to?”
    â€œNoni, are you ready to play for our guests? Excuse us, Montgomery.”
    From his place by the over-laden tree, Kaye watched Mrs. Tilden thread her way back with Noni to Bud Tilden, who shrugged sadly as he embraced his daughter. Her mother then clapped for attention and announced that Noni would play for them the Chopin Etude in C Minor, after which she would take their requests for Christmas carols.
    Noni's father pulled back the embroidered bench for her at the long shining black piano. Its top was up; to Kaye it looked like a big black curving wing shadowing Noni, blocking the winter light from the window. The guests started shushing each other until the room was quiet. Seated at the bench, Noni ran her fingertips back and forth over the gold letters of the piano's name, like a blind person trying to read. She held her hands above the keys, took them away, put them back, and looked up for her father who kept smiling at her his sweet helpless smile. Then, finally, Noni struck the first chords of the etude and then she kept going, the cascade of notes beautiful to Kaye. He watched the red flush spreading from her face to her neck, her hands dead white and shaking.
    He hadn’t known she could play so well. He found the music sad; it gave him strangely the same tight feeling in his chest to which thoughts of his mother gave rise. It was a feeling like a big wave that could knock you down, and that power made it seem very dangerous. Kaye wanted to feel only what he could stand up to, only what he could turn his back on and walk safely away from.
    When Noni finished the Chopin, everyone clapped and Bud Tilden shouted, “Brava brava brava!” Then the woman in the red taffeta bell-bottoms yelled out, “Joy to the World!” Hurrying over, Noni's mother placed the book of carols on the piano in front of her daughter.
    As the singing started, Kaye pushed a pathway through the guests and left the party. No one tried to stop him. They were talking all around the room.
    Â 
    â€”Oh Becky, stop it!—
    â€”Well, it's true! How can a stick like Jack Hurd produce a gorgeous boy like Roland? Sugar, you think there's a law in this state against seducing a fourteen-year-old?—
    â€”Peace on Earth, ladies!—

    Later that night when Kaye answered the knock on Clay-home's door, there stood Noni holding a large wicker picnic basket in both hands. “Why’d you go?” she chastised him. “You just left and didn’t say good-bye. You’re always doing that to me.”
    He shrugged and stared off at the moon behind her.
    â€œI wanted to give you your present.” She handed him the