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We had played that game for years, talked music, discussed symphony/ballet/opera, listened to it on radios, played it on her old Edison crank-up phono, but never, never once in three thousand days, had Fannie ever sung when I was in the room with her

But today was different

As I reached the second floor her singing stopped But she lanced out and seen the way I walked along the street Maybe she readfar across town on the phone (iht and the rain with it Anyway, a hty intuition heaved itself aware in Fannie Florianna’s summer bulk She was ready with surprises

I stood at her door, listening

Creaks as of an ireat conscience stirred there

A soft hissing: the phonograph!

I tapped on the door

“Fannie;” I called “The Crazy is here”

“Voilà!”

She opened the door to a thunderclap of music Great lady, she had put the shaved wooden needle on the hissing record, then surged to the door, held the knob, waiting At the whisk of the baton down, she had flung the door wide Puccini flooded out, gathered round, pulled me in Fannie Florianna helped

It was the first side of Tosca Fannie planted ood wine in it “I don’t drink, Fannie”

“Nonsense Look at your face Drink!” She surged around like those wondrous hippos turned light as e bed upon her helpless chair

By the end of the record I was crying

“There, there,” whispered Fannie, refilling lass “There, there”

“I always cry at Puccini, Fannie”