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Kenny Swam the Hudson

EXCERPT FROM KENNY SWAM THE HUDSON

“Would you boys like a bite to eat?” Mr. Grossman said, motioning toward the kitchen. We could see in the distance the center island of the spacious, modern room, piled high with platters of meats, cheeses, and desserts.

Eddie looked at me, clearly confused. “They’re sitting shiva,” I whispered. “People are coming all week long, bringing food for the family.”

He scrunched up his face. “Ah man,” he said. “We shoulda brought something!”

Mr. Grossman overheard. “Please, it’s so wonderful that you could join us, your company is what’s most important,” he said. “You know, Kenny loved you fellas. He always spoke so fondly of you.”

Mrs. Grossman motioned for us to sit. I chose a cushy, comfy upholstered chair with a little footstool. I kept my sneakered feet on the carpet, however, afraid to soil the stool.

“He did?” Gary said. “I mean, we were great friends at school, but we, I, always had the sense that his Riverdale friends were his real buddies.”

“If only you knew,” Mr. Grossman said, wiping his eyes. “We begged him to stay home last summer, stay with you boys … get ready for the work ahead …”

“I wouldn’t give you two cents for those ‘friends’ of his from around here,” Mrs. Grossman blurted. “Ach! No scruples. No integrity. Just spoiled … dreck!”

At that, Eric got up and walked over to the glistening ebony Steinway, absently running his fingers across the keyboard.

“Do you play?” Mr. Grossman asked.

“A little,” Eric said, shyly.

“Then, please.”

Eric sat down and got comfortable. He looked up at the ceiling and closed the sheet music in front of him. Tears rolled down his face as he took a breath and launched into the opening chords of “Hey Jude,” which had been released a few weeks earlier.

Eric sang, full-throated, without inhibition, in the hushed apartment. Mr. and Mrs. Grossman, along with Doris, began to cry as we stood, surrounded Eric at the big black piano, and joined in.

At the conclusion of the song, Kenny’s family broke into spontaneous applause. “Oh, that was so beautiful, son, thank you,” Mr. Grossman said.

“If only …” Mrs. Grossman said, clutching Kenny’s father who, with Doris, put their arms around each other and sobbed.

Eric got up from the bench and I looked at the guys and motioned to the door. “Yeah, we should, uh, go, I think,” Joel said.

“Yeah,” Eddie said.

“Oh no, please stay,” Mr. Grossman said, wiping away tears.

“We’ll be back,” I said, looking at the painting of young Kenny above the piano, the image of his face communicating both the confusion of youth and just a hint of our pal’s playful smirk.