“The music’s dumb.” And she’d rip off a parody Mozart sonatina, brilliant in its improvised burlesque. She mocked it, sneering through the keys, the music we were brought up on. The music that killed her mother. “What’s so dumb about it?” “It’s ofay.” “What’s ofay?” I asked Jonah that night, when Ruth couldn’t hear. My brother was never at a loss for more than an eighth note. “It’s French. It means up to date. Means you know how things are done.” I asked Da. His face turned stern. “Where did you hear this?” “Around.” Evading my own father. Everything honest in our home had died the day our
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