Under the Lake by Stuart Woods

panting, his eyes closed. “I’ve come about the piano,” the man said, looking out across the lake. He didn’t seem to want to look at Howell.
    “The piano?”
    “Don’t you need a piano tuned?” the man asked, still not looking at Howell.
    Howell noticed a leather case at the man’s feet. “You’re a piano tuner?”
    “That’s right.” The man stood, waiting.
    Howell stood gaping at the man. He had been thinking about asking around for a piano tuner in the town, but he hadn’t done anything about it. Or had he? Had he been that drunk in the afternoons? “Oh,” he said, recovering, “come on in.”
    The man picked up his case and stepped into the room, stubbing his toe lightly on the sill. The dog got up, walked straight past him a few feet, bumped head-on into the sofa, retreated, turned right, knocked over a small pedestal table, reached the hearth, sniffing, flopped down in front of the fire, fell over onto his side, then turned on his back, all four feet in the air, and emitted a long sigh. He seemed to be instantly asleep. Howell stared at him. The dog was blind.
    “Didn’t do any damage, did he?” the man asked.
    “No,” Howell replied, righting the table.
    “Riley will remember where things are. Where’s the piano?”
    “Right over there,” Howell replied, pointing. The man didn’t move. Suddenly, Howell realized that he, too, was blind. “Oh, sorry. Straight ahead.” He took the man’s elbow, guided him across the room, and placed his hand on the piano.
    The albino shucked off his raincoat, put his hat on the piano, sat down, and ran loudly up a C scale with both hands. “Whew! I didn’t come a moment too soon, did I?”
    Howell laughed. “No, I guess you didn’t. The playermechanism isn’t working either. Can you do anything about that?”
    The man slid back the doors that covered the player roll and felt around with his hands. “Look behind the piano,” he said.
    Howell looked between the piano and the wall and saw an electrical cord. He squeezed his hand behind the instrument and plugged it in. Instantly, the ghost of George Gershwin began to play a wildly-out-of-tune “Strike Up the Band.” The albino switched the piano off. “Fixed that in a hurry, didn’t we? That’ll be two hundred dollars.” He laughed.
    “Well, I’ll leave you to it,” Howell said.
    “Right.”
    Howell walked out onto the deck, the first time the weather had permitted. The woods around him were heavy with moisture from the days of rain. The lake flashed moments of blue at him as the new sun struck its surface in places. The light was warm on his face. The sounds of sour piano notes turning sweet drifted out from the living room as the albino tightened strings. Occasionally, a whole chord sang out. Howell felt his spirits lifting with the changing weather. It was as if he were being tuned, like the piano. He took a folding canvas deck chair from under the deep eaves and flopped down in it. He felt good for the first time in weeks, maybe months.
    As he tuned the piano, the albino began to play little fragments, a few chords, of a tune Howell couldn’t quite pin down and was too drowsy to care much about. It was mixed in with runs and other chords and octaves. Three quarters of an hour later, Howell was stirred from a doze by the sound of tools striking other tools and the clasps of thetoolcase being closed. Then, unexpectedly, the albino played a few chords and began to sing, in a high, clear tenor:
    I’ll take you home again, Kathleen,
    Across the ocean wild and wide.
    To where your heart has ever been,
    Since first you were my bonnie bride.
    The roses all have left your cheek,
    I’ve watched them fade away and die.
    Your voice is sad whene’er you speak,
    And tears bedim your loving eyes.
    Oh, I will take you back again,
    To where your heart will feel no pain.
    And when the fields are fresh and green,
    I’ll take you to your home again.
    By the time the albino finished, Howell was