Keith Hood

But, Beautiful

When does Rayna discover that some people view her father as an ugly man? Is it when she is four years old and they walk hand in hand in downtown Detroit, where eyes dart from her father’s face to hers, and back? Is it when she sees surprise on their faces? Is it when one of those passersby, a man of course, says, “What a beautiful little girl,” while reaching to touch her cornrows and braids? Her father grips the man’s wrist, saying “Hands to yourself, sir.” But those are people they don’t know, people they have never met, and it is, widened eyes, raised eyebrows: not words.

Does discovery come at eight years old hearing comments in third grade, when her father, playing his tenor saxophone is her show-and-tell, standing in front of the class with puffed cheeks and fingers dancing on brass keys as two classmates speak in undertones.

“Isn’t he ugly?”

“Nah. Ugly is a word. Ain’t no words for a face like that.”

But that’s only children. Children always spit names. Her father’s take on an old saying is, “Sticks and stones don’t mean a thing if they ain’t got that sting.”

The show-and-tell song her father plays on the saxophone that day is titled, “But Beautiful.” At home, her mother sings along when her father plays the song on an electronic keyboard in their bedroom. Rayna has been tickling the piano keys under her father’s tutelage since she was five. He says that her large hands are perfect for piano. You’ll be able to span more than an octave when you get older.

When she’s a teenager, her father’s words come true. His large hands hover over hers, both hands spanning more than an octave, as he explains that the melody of “But Beautiful” often lands on dissonant notes like 9ths or 13ths, rather than blander roots and fifths but the result is enchanting.

“Like the title,” she says.

In teenage years, the name calling and flitting eyes crystallize in the person of Clarice, a best friend, who has accompanied her family on picnics, visits to amusement parks, sporting events, and shopping trips. Clarice never uses the word but it is there, unspoken. Her friend speaks as if they are sitting side by side in a darkened theater watching the same film on screen. “Your mother is so pretty,” she says. “No wonder that men are always hitting on her.” This is not something the daughter has noticed until now. Her ears tingle as her friend continues. “The handsome ones hit on her because they figure they must stand a chance. You know what I’m saying?” The daughter follows her friend’s glance to just such an example. “The ugly ones hit on her because they think, ‘Holy shit.’ we must stand a chance, too. You know what I’m saying?”

Her friend probably means no harm and her father is still her father. Still the one who walked with her, hand in hand in downtown Detroit, still the one who played his saxophone for third grade show-and-tell, still the one who held his hands over hers as they played the piano and played duets with her mother standing next to the piano and singing along. It is then that she’ll remember being in her bedroom at night when just a young child. She often had a hard time falling asleep. Her father told her to read a book. Their room was always silent as she read, until she heard the soft tones of “But Beautiful” played on the electronic keyboard accompanied by her mother’s light singing. It was as if her parents knew it worked as a lullaby because she never remembered hearing the song come to a finish. She never heard her mother singing the final words: “I’d never let you go, and that would be but beautiful, I know.”

When Rayna is twenty years old, she will see a man, a musician, carrying a battered guitar case, and a college friend will say, “Isn’t he the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen?”

But Rayna will see her father’s hand playing love songs on her mother’s face, kissing her mother on the mouth, and then kissing his daughter on the cheek.

She’ll smile at her friend, saying nothing, simply hearing a strain of music, seeing her father’s big hands spread an octave, then more.

Keith Hood is a former janitor and window cleaner living in Ann Arbor, Michigan. He retired from a job as a field technician for a Michigan electric utility after 32 years avoiding electrocution. Keith is the 2024 One Story magazine Adina Talve-Goodman Fellow. His work appears in Callaloo, Blue Mesa Review, Vestal Review, The Forge, and many more. His Vestal Review story, “One Fell Off” was selected for inclusion in Best Microfiction 2024.