People Tell Their Stories:
Death and Dying

Laura Nyro's Father  Jaymie Meyer
 
Laura Nyro's father tuned my piano yesterday. A small, neatly dressed man in his early 70's, he reminded me of an old time New York fella, like a character from the movie Broadway Danny Rose. He appeared at my door dressed in brown polyester pants and a rose-colored shirt with a jumbo collar. In spite of the summer heat, he wore a navy and brown plaid jacket, which he removed before beginning work.

I wasn't sure if it was okay to mention Laura; she had died a few weeks previous, so I snuck into the bathroom with my portable phone and called the musician who'd recommended him. My friend assured me that Louis (pronounced lew-ee) loved to talk about his daughter.

I interrupted his tuning. "My friend told me that you're Laura Nyro's father." "No," he said, "I was her father."

"Yes, I'm sorry. I was very sad when she died."

Louis shook his head in disbelief. "The amazing thing," he said, resting the tuning fork on his knee, "is that she died at age 49 and a half of ovarian cancer and her mother died of the same thing at the exact same age." He shook his head again and looked down, then picked up his tuning fork.

I left him to continue his work. He charged less than many of the other tuners I'd used - $15 less, a bargain. I felt guilty not paying him more, but he said he had many celebrity clients, including Neil Sedaka. I figured he charged what he thought was fair.

When I made the appointment, he asked me about my piano. I told him that it was a Breman, manufactured in the US.

"That's an inexpensive piano and difficult to tune because of shoddy craftsmanship," he said.

I felt embarrassed - the way you'd imagine you'd feel if you fell in public and everyone saw your underwear and it was dirty or had a hole. But this was a piano and it had been a gift, so I had very little to say about the quality.

"I'm sorry it's such a dud, but I use it infrequently. I'm a singer, not a pianist, and I'm just working with what I've got."

I guess he felt guilty telling me what a piece of junk it was, because later, when he actually saw the piano, he apologized and assured me that even if it was cheap, mine didn't seem so bad.

It took him an hour to complete the job. When he finished, I pulled out my Laura Nyro songbook, the one with Eli's Coming, Wedding Bell Blues and Stoney End. A thick slab of white medical tape holds the binding together. Growing up, I played from the book constantly, until it was in pieces. He seemed pleased to hear of my great admiration for his daughter.

"Do you want to see a video of her at age 19 singing Wedding Bell Blues?"

"Sure," I said, hardly believing that he would carry around the video in his bag.

"Do you have a - a - what do you call it?"

"A VCR. Yes, I do," I said and led him into the room at the other end of my apartment. I felt slightly awkward inviting this stranger into my bedroom, but he stood politely at the foot of my bed, while I popped the tape into the machine and pressed play.

"This was taped in San Francisco. I've never seen it, can you imagine? Someone told me about it and then I contacted the Columbia Records people and they found a copy. They just sent it to me."

Laura Nyro appeared on the screen, dressed completely in black, with a wide-brimmed floppy hat, like the one in the Cat in the Hat book. Her pale skin contrasted with her dark hair and eyelashes. Soon I heard the familiar Wedding Bell Blues.

"It's dubbed," he said. "To the record track." I felt amazed to see this early MTV-ish version of Laura Nyro singing the song that later became one of the Fifth Dimension's biggest hits. The quality was grainy and the cuts were awkward but it didn't matter. The glorious voice and dense, sophisticated vocals, which I knew were all Laura, sounded as fresh today as when I'd heard them as a kid. Halfway through the short video, I sneaked a glimpse of Lou. He looked at the screen, his face scrunched and quizzical, and said, "Who is that wonderful talent and how could she be my Laura?"

When it was finished I ejected the tape and handed it back to him. I told him what an unexpected treat it had been to see the video.

"Thanks so much for listening - I guess I get kind of lonely now. Laura used to call me in the morning, really early. She'd always say, 'Dad, did I wake you?' I am an early riser so I always told her, 'Laura, I'm up early like you; you never wake me.' It just kills me now; nobody calls me in the early morning."

As we walked towards the front door, I had the impulse to give him a hug, but I sensed that it might be awkward. So instead I touched his hand lightly and told him how grateful I was that we had met.

Before Louis left, he turned and said, "As short as their lives were - my wife and Laura - they were good lives. That I can be thankful for. Yes, they were good lives, just way too short."

During the next month, I thought several times of calling Louis. I even dialed his number once, just to say hello, making sure not to call too early in the morning. The mind can play funny tricks when you're grieving. I didn't want to unwittingly confuse Louis into thinking maybe - just maybe - Laura was on the other end of the line.

Six months passed before I saw him again. I hadn't used the piano for many weeks and when I began to rehearse for an upcoming engagement, the pitch was dreadful. I looked forward to seeing Louis and hoped that we might again share some memories of Laura.

"How have you been?" I asked, after he settled down at the piano and began methodically tuning each note to his pitchfork.

"Not so well. I lost my daughter not too long ago."

I don't know why I expected Louis to remember me - it had been almost half a year. I reminded him of the video we'd watched and he vaguely remembered.

"Life's very hard now. I don't have a lot to live for."

"Do you get out much?" I asked.

"I used to dance all the time. I know I don't look like much - small man that I am - but I used to cut quite a figure on the dance floor. I would go stag to Roseland and those women…god, how they flocked to me. A good dancer is hard to find," he told me with a slight grin. "But my dancing days are over. I can't do that anymore, not since Laura died."

I stayed close while he worked. I found myself acting maternal. "Can I get you something? Water? Soda? A little seltzer?" He politely refused and when he finished about an hour later he packed up his tool bag and put on his overcoat.

I handed him a check and he thanked me. After walking slowly to the door I turned back to Louis and impulsively gave him a hug. I could tell he was surprised. He smiled a little smile and looked up at me shyly. At 5'9", I towered over him by at least 4 inches. I felt a little self-conscious. I didn't want him to think I felt sorry for him. I wondered if anyone touched him anymore.

"Be well", he said as he stepped through my doorway and walked down the hall.

"You too, Louis. Take care." I shut the door and went to my piano and played a scale. Up and down the keyboard, the restored piano sounded glorious to my ears. I wondered how many times in a lifetime a heart can be restored. I have pondered the answers to these questions often, after I lost my parents and after more than one heartbreak. But I harbor hope for him. Perhaps the next time I see Louis he will tell me the women at Roseland are still chasing him because he has begun dancing again.

Jaymie Meyer, Bistro Award winner, is an actress, singer, writer and spokesperson. Her first solo CD, "What You'd Call A Dream" merited reviews in Billboard and Playbill and is being aired on radio throughout the USA and Europe. Jaymie has performed at Carnegie Hall's Weill Recital Hall, The Algonquin Hotel's Oak Room, the Russian Tea Room and at the Kennedy Center. As a writer, Jaymie has had a number of personal essays and articles published. Contact Jaymie at jaymiem@worldnet.att.net or visit her website www.jaymie.com.
 

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