"This
is it, Joe, I gotta get outta this an' do somethin' else," said the younger
of the two moving men as they sat, one on a rock, the other on a fallen
tree, within earshot of a stream. The only other sounds were the soft
underscore of early summer bugs, the blue-sky salute of the birds in the
green-leafed trees, and the occasional scamper of a forest rodent.
"Wha's
amattah with 'is job? I been doin' it fa fifteen yeahs." Joe scratched
his rough cheek and spit through his cracked lips at an ant on the ground.
The
younger man didn't want to insult Joe, for whom he held no small amount
of admiration. "There's nothin' wrong with it. I just think I've
done it, tried it I mean, and it ain't me. Maybe I'll go back t'school.
Get myself a degree."
"In
what, Pete?"
"Don't
know." Pete dragged a gorge in the moist ground with the heel of his work
boot.
Joe
spoke what little he could bring to mind by way of advice in this area
of conversation, "Well, edjacation's a good thing. Just's long's ya goin'
towahd somethin', not away from somethin' else." And he had spoken.
After
the forest had had a moment to swell its sound into the pause of the men's
conversation, a third man's head appeared between the walls of high weed-grass
that followed a narrow path over the small hill toward which the moving
men had been heading.
"Okay,
boys," the man called down, poking his glasses up his nose. The glasses
slid back down on a trail of sweat. "It's just another hundred yards or
so. Let's get a move on; I want to get it tuned by dark."
Pete
watched resigned deference pass over Joe's face as the older man began
the groaning ritual of standing and getting back to work. When the moving
men had lifted their burden, a wooden crate about four-and-a-half feet
wide, eight feet long, and two-and-a-half feet high, from the ground,
Pete complained through his gritted teeth, "As if we don't know where
it is. This is only the eighth box we carried out here. This sort 'a stuff
doesn't bother ya, Joe?"
"What
sort 'a stuff?"
"Like
this wacko havin' us lug all these piano pieces a mile out into the damn
woods?"
"I'll
still git home 'n time fa dinnah. An' 'sides, this's the last box."
"Yeah,
an' it's my last job. I swear to ya, Joe."
Joe
pursed his lips at the weight of the box as they began to climb the hill.
He nodded at Pete in a gesture indicative of the ambiguous knowledge found
mostly among folks of his age and station in life.
At
the bespectacled man's request, the movers helped him put together the
larger pieces of the black grand piano that he couldn't possibly lift
and hold in place. When the work progressed to the point at which the
movers would hardly have had less idea of what to do than if they were
assembling a human skeleton, Pete asked the man, "Think ya can take it
from here, Mr. Flegman?"
Mr.
Flegman seemed not to be aware of the presence of the two sweat-stained
men as he stroked the curve in the piano's side. Then he muttered, "Yes.
It's all just fine. This is exactly as I pictured it."
"Um,
alright then. We'll be headin' back now."
As
the movers began the trek back to the house and their truck, Mr. Flegman
tore open one of the boxes that they had carried. Pete turned at the top
of the hill and looked back at the scene, breathing a sigh of pity for
the builders who must have been called in to construct the strange gazebo-like
structure. It sat on a fifteen-foot square bed of concrete from which
four wooden posts protruded at the corners toward the roof, which curved
inward on each side's climb to the tip at which they all finally met.
The
real ingenuity of the structure, however, was that, rather than being
entirely open to the elements year-round, it had four walls that, weather
permitting, could be swung out and up by means of a gas powered motor
and braced open by the eight legs that folded out from them as they rose.
The walls were all up as Pete shook his head at Mr. Flegman's apparent
eccentricity, and at the center of each a large shiny padlock dangled
on its open hook. Pete saw that the wall that faced the path had a window
and a door and the other walls had one window each.
"Wackos
will waste their money," Pete whispered to himself as he resumed his walk,
letting the final image that he would ever have of Frederic Flegman be
the manic look that the setting sun accentuated on the man's face as he
drew a thick piano wire from a box with such an exaggerated stroke that
he seemed to fancy that he was releasing a rainbow or some fairy dust.
It
was well into the night when Frederic finished stringing the piano, and
its untuned twang frightened the tree frogs into pausing in their chatter.
He was beginning to realize that he hadn't known the extent of what he
had undertaken by not having more of the piano pieced together by professionals,
choosing instead to construct what he could by use of a few small handheld
tools. In short, he hadn't expected the turning of a few screws and the
stretching of a few strings to take so long. Nonetheless, he had exactly
the feeling that he had wanted to have at this moment and, with a smile
bespeaking complete internal peace, considered the extra time well spent.
Impatient
to have the instrument playable, however, he shaped out a chord with his
fingers and struck the keys. Even his ears, which had lost most of the
sense of tonality that they had once had, could discern that the harsh
sound that his motion had produced was far removed from the harmony that
it would on a tuned piano. He scrutinized himself and realized, with some
disappointment, that he was too tired to derive as much pleasure from
manipulating the jangling wires into tautly vibrating strings as he intended.
Nonetheless,
as this was a moment toward which he had known himself to be working for
more than half of his life, he could not yet will himself to rise from
the bench and "close up shop," as he jokingly intended to phrase it each
night when he lowered the walls and locked up his little studio. He plucked
out a few more notes and was delighted to recognize that they had been
meant to be plucked in that order in the form of a piece by J.S. Bach
that he had been studying just before his decision to take a hiatus from
music. He could not remember the accompanying chords to the melody, nor
the notes that made up the rest of the line that he had begun, and both
his skill and the tones of his instrument were too far from what they
had once been for him to even attempt to match what he played to the tune
that he could so distinctly hear in his head. But time and practice would
remedy this problem; he even had his old copy of the sheet music, slightly
yellowed and crumpled with his now deceased teacher's markings scattered
throughout.
Yes,
now that he had reached this middle-most point in his rigid life plan,
he could at least take comfort in the fact that there was nothing but
time between where his musical skill lay now and where he intended to
conduct it. In fact, this very word, conduct, had been the pun
that had caused a smile to spread across his tear-smeared sixteen-year-old
face those twenty-four years ago and his father had told him how his life
should be how it had to be if he were to continue being his father's
son.
"These
music studies are all well and good as far as hobbies go, boy, but don't
expect them to grow into something upon which you'll be able to build
a life," Mr. Flegman, the elder, had said, leaning back into a cloud that
lingered around him. His father's motion made the smoke look like a deliberately
writhing serpent pinned to the ornamental pipe, and little Frederic understood
that what his father had meant by this relatively moderate (and undeniably
true, to one way of looking at building a life) bit of advice had not
been advice at all, but a command that could have been more concisely
put, "Give up this nonsense, or I'll give up on you."
So
Frederic Flegman had resolved, on that day, to put his music aside and
dedicate himself entirely to those endeavors that led to what his father
indeed, most of the world defined as success. At the time,
he had thought that this only meant a sabbatical of a handful of years:
just until his work had put him in a position to escape his father's control
or until his father died, whichever came first. But Frederic had underestimated
his father's reign and health both, and it had been necessary to expand
his plan.
"Fred,
it's getting late. Come help Georgia and me sift through some old clothes,"
a woman's voice called down from the top of the hill.
"Coming,
Sandra," Frederic yelled without looking at his wife. He ran his fingers
over the keys of the piano, gently so as not to make the hammers swing
against the strings. Then the motor roared to life, and the walls clattered
down. Moments later, Sandra saw the shadowy outline of her husband standing
in the doorway with his back to her, finally "closing up shop," as she
knew he was calling it to himself.
The
following morning, each note that Frederic managed to match to a tone
emanating from a small electric tuning device brought him as tremendous
a sense of accomplishment as had meeting his quarterly goals during his
previous existence in the corporate reality. To be sure, a quarterly goal
builds over the course of months, and there are but four per year, but
the minuteness of Frederic's adjustments over the hours spent hunched
over the piano's keyboard cranking his little tools to match the string's
vibration exactly to the electronically produced sound waves made each
perfect unison a prize earned. Moreover, Frederic reflected that tuning
the piano was equal parts a rewarding end in itself as a job complete
and well done and the means toward enabling the nearly endless series
of goals that stand in line toward mastery of any specific ability. In
brief, the pleasure that he felt through tuning each string represented
an increased return on investment over his heretofore full-time "day job."
After
the final tweak had been made to each string, Mr. Flegman struck that
note in varying rhythmic patterns while bellowing in an off-key voice
as closely to the pitch as he was able. Perhaps for fear that the man's
singing might infect their own songs, the birds on the branches of nearby
trees took to their wings. Frederic himself was glad that no human audience
manifested itself among the greenery to hear his sorely unpracticed voice;
there would be time enough to prepare for his self-unveiling.
The
sun was well into its descent to the horizon when the piano was ready
for Frederic's pointer finger to plod its way up all eighty-eight keys
in sequence, piling the notes octave upon octave with the sustain petal
down. Perhaps in a neophyte ode to the sun's journey, the soft and lanky
finger paused at the highest note before beginning its descent toward
the lowest pitch. His patience for the appreciation of this stage of his
musical development exhausted, Frederic lay his hands in his lap and considered
where to begin actually relearning to play.
Several
brand new beginner's books were piled on top of his old, more advanced
ones in a trunk under the piano. With many pants and grunts, Frederic
managed to move the large chest out far enough to throw open the lid and
stood staring at the pile of work that he had voluntarily accepted for
the rest of his life. Not work, he corrected himself, play.
Fingering
a blue book of easy, clunky modernist pieces based on colors for which
he had always had a strange affection, he decided to take the time to
relearn music from the beginning by rapidly going through a book of exercises
designed to teach the dumbfounded beginner the written marks that corresponded
to each piece of ebony and ivory before him. No
sooner had he broken the binding so that the book would lay open on the
piano's music stand, however, than his wife called down, "Darling, why
don't you come wash up for dinner. I've made your favorite."
"My
favorite," he mumbled. "Last night my daughter makes me give my favorite
jacket to some poor slob I don't even know, and tonight I have to pretend
that my wife's cooking can even pass for something that I could possibly
call a favorite. I can't take all this charity. I'll be over in a little
while!"
"All
right, but don't be too long."
Frederic
mumbled a dismissive acknowledgment and ran his hand along the music book
to flatten it. His wife's form remained visible in his peripheral vision
for a minute longer and then disappeared with a shake of her head.
Mr.
Flegman didn't make it to his dinner table that night or many nights over
the remainder of the summer. After a week, Sandra learned that going to
fetch her husband would prove futile if he weren't going to come of his
own accord anyway. A few weeks later, she had learned not to worry about
his absence from their table or even really miss his presence there.
Frederic,
by contrast, hadn't even taken as much as an hour to adjust to his new
lifestyle. His enthusiasm for this strange direction of his life, which
he chose to see as the beginning of his real one rather than the end that
retirement usually connotes, was only strengthened by the speed with which
his skill returned. He wasn't so naïve as to believe that it was either
some unnatural talent for the instrument or a recrudescence of his former
facility that propelled him so swiftly through his lessons; he knew that
it was no more nor less than the many hours that he spent chasing the
flicker of a newly budding ability. Even contending with the long days
of summer, Frederic managed on many occasions to have the sun find him
at his piano at dawn and leave him there at dusk, perhaps simpering as
it turned its eyes from the pianist toward Asia.
Because
of the zeal with which Mr. Flegman attacked his goal, the same zeal that
had made it possible for him to retire comfortably at such an early age,
by the time the leaves began to fall from the trees, he was able to mimic
them with descending arpeggios and flitting trills. He still had far to
go before he caught up with the younger pianist within him, but his practice
had long since ceased to be the painstaking finger-by-finger plodding
with which he had begun.
In
fact, he would, from time to time (and much to his chagrin), attract an
audience of young admirers, though the interest that they found in his
performance was in the oddity of the grown up playing piano in the middle
of nowhere and the jokes and jingles that it enabled them to create. Varying
swarms of noisy children would flutter through Frederic's little valley
and snicker and whisper among themselves. When he had had enough
and was at an acceptable stopping point in his practicing Frederic
would leap from his piano bench and chase away the young pranksters, sometimes
even splashing across the stream or leaping over large rocks. But in response
to his threatening rebukes the children would fling back the pithy insults
that only childish honesty and callousness can conceive and return later,
undaunted.
After
several such scenes, Mr. Flegman had a fence built around his property.
However, the bulwark was finished too late to prevent him from earning
a reputation as the wild crazy piano man in the woods among the
local school children and any adults with whom they came in contact (most
of the small town, truth be told), which is to say that he turned from
a mere human into a shadowy local legend: the substance of playground
jokes and insults, the threat in a flashlight-accented frightening sleepover
story, and a dare for the older or bolder children.
The
fence did help, as does any obstacle that increases the number of times
a person, especially a child, must resolve to do something, but some children
found, or created, ways to penetrate onto Mr. Flegman's property. These
youths, however, arriving in pairs at most, were more easily shooed and
bored quickly of the sport.
One
neighborhood boy became a continual nuisance because he would crouch,
or even sit, in some nearby bushes appearing show interest but entirely
disrupting the concentration that is necessary for effective practice
with his incessant glare, which impeded Frederic as effectively as if
the boy had sat at his side smacking his hands. The first time Frederic
noticed the boy, he continued his practice, waiting for him to do something
that would justify stopping the session. Within minutes, however, with
no excuse other than trespassing presenting itself, the realization came
over Frederic that a listener gives an increased import to each avoided
error, and his hands began to shake and miss notes that he had never had
any trouble hitting before. This revelation, being the fault of the viewer,
was excuse enough for Frederic to fling the tennis ball that he kept by
his side for just such a purpose.
Nonetheless,
over the next few days, the boy proved himself either fawning or brazen
and made such a pest of himself with his silent audacity that Mr. Flegman
lay in waiting for him one morning. When
he had grasped the boy and turned him around, Mr. Flegman hissed in the
frightened face with a shake of the boy's shoulders, "What are you doing
here?"
The
boy could only stutter back, "N-nothing, sir, just listening."
"Listening
to what? My mistakes?"
"No,
sir, I don't know what you mean."
"I'm
sure you don't," was the grownup's disbelieving response. Then, releasing
the boy, Mr. Flegman told him never to come back or he'd lock him in a
closet and call the police. This final threat was extraneous because the
child had already fled out of sight into the underbrush.
Frederic
tried to return to his practice but was unable to build any passable momentum.
He blamed the youth for distracting him so thoroughly. The whole scene
had set something in his mind to rattling, so he decided to go up to the
house for a while and see if he could relax enough to resume his practice
later.
Debating
whether or not to lower the walls of his studio, Frederic had one of those
moments that are inevitable to human life during which he marveled at
the speed with which time was passing. The sun shone amicably through
the sporadically leafed trees, but it didn't have the strength that it
had even in the summer's shade. In fact, considering that his occupation
required the use of bare hands, he was finding the climate less and less
conducive to outdoor play. Especially since he would not likely be back
until after nightfall, Frederic resolved to drop the walls even though
it was possible that the move would signify the last time the studio would
be open to the elements for many months.
As
he returned to his home really his wife and daughter's home now
he listened with an increasingly musical ear to the crackling of
the leaves beneath his feet. He felt a nervousness, almost an uneven trill,
in the woods that he had not noticed during the plush months. Something
about the forest during the autumn evening hinted at an antiquity and
magic that made him uncomfortable. He thought of the stories that he had
read, been told, and, indeed, had read and told to his daughter himself
that had served to make the fall a dark season.
It
was very silly to be frightened based, he imagined, on the increased marketing
of Halloween merchandise and entertainment in the autumn as well as the
imagery that events such as the Salem witch trials promulgated in the
region. Frederic realized that there was potentially some reason that
the creators of Halloween had chosen fall for such a spooky holiday, though
he doubted that the weather had had much to do with the slaying of Massachusetts's
midwives. Even so, the sound that the wind made through high dry grass
and the flickers of floating leaves at the corners of his vision made
him feel watched and blew away all of his pragmatism.
To
remedy the feeling, he began to shuffle his feet through the unraked leaves
on the path in rhythm with the breath that he blew through his balled-up
hands with the joint purposes of keeping his body warm and his mind distracted.
The feeling of eyes on him persisted, and he sprinted the rest of the
way home.
The
light came on in the refrigerator. Against the back wall, on a small plate
with flowery print, sat a piece of cake that had been waiting to be eaten
by Mr. Flegman since some celebration that, judging by the stiffness of
the cake, had been quite some time passed. Beside the cake, similarly
aged, were a paper box half full of Chinese food and a Tupperware container
of meatloaf. Between the meatloaf and the open door lay several more plates
and containers that had been aging on the shelf for varying lengths of
time.
Above
a plate of pasta, which was fresh and cooling and still had beads of moisture
clinging to the clear plastic wrap that covered it, Frederic's spectacles
hovered. His eyes scanned the shelves. He wanted something that fairly
oozed summer to dispel the autumn feel. Here he took a cue from his internal
dialogue, for "oozed" had been exactly the way he had put it to himself,
closed the refrigerator door, and opened that of the freezer beside it.
He
was reaching for a quart of ice cream when Sandra's voice wafted over
the counter that split the dining area from the dimly lit kitchen, "I'm
very proud of you, you know."
As
if he had been a young boy caught sneaking goodies, Frederic positioned
his body between his wife and his booty. "For what?" he asked.
"For
keeping your eye on your dream and following through with your plan."
Realizing
that he had nothing to fear, Frederic removed the ice cream from the freezer
and turned toward his wife in order to walk across the kitchen and get
a spoon. In the autumn evening light, especially with the way in which
it drew the shadows from her face, Sandra looked her age. She was still
attractive, with long, striking, straight black hair dangling down in
strands along her cheeks past sultry brown eyes. She was very attractive,
Frederic reflected, but still, she was beginning to show her age. "Well,
there's never been anything else that I wanted to do."
"I
know, but that doesn't mean it didn't take a lot of courage to keep from
getting sidetracked into a comfort zone. It really makes you a good example
for Georgia."
"Oh?
Why's that?"
"I
just told you."
Sensing
that there was something behind his wife's latest nonsense, Frederic responded,
"What you just told me doesn't explain why I would be a good example for
our daughter."
"Well,
I just want her to learn to follow her dreams, and…"
"Be
specific. I know you well enough to know that there's something specific
behind your comments."
Sandra
began to look nervous. She felt, no doubt, as if she were in the right,
but her husband's advance made her feel guilty. "You know how she's been
getting involved with that local charity and helping them collect winter
clothes for the poor."
Frederic
hadn't known, except inasmuch as among those winter clothes had been his
favorite jacket, but he nodded dismissively anyway, "Get on with it."
"The
whole process is culminating next weekend in a trip into the city to actually
distribute the clothes, and they're trying to make it into a big event
with news stations and everything, and of the several dozen volunteers,
Georgia was picked to be one of the spokespeople. It'll be a great learning
experience for her, but she has an exam the following Monday."
"And
what did you tell her?"
"Um,
well, I used you as an example and told her that she shouldn't pass up
the opportunity to work toward a dream simply for one silly exam."
Frederic
felt his cheeks warm. "One silly exam? There's no such thing, Sandra.
And besides, passing up my dream was never even an option for me, I just
held it at arms length while I took care of all of my obligations. My
silly exams, you might call them. Where's Georgia?"
"She's
upstairs. Why?"
"Because
I'm going to go tell her that she better damn well stay home that weekend
and study for that exam instead of going off to the city to play a bit
part in a charity spectacle."
Sandra
grabbed his arm as he walked past her toward the stairs, her face determined.
"I think you're wrong Freddie, and I'm not going to let you waltz in here
after several months of fiddling with your piano out there by yourself
and tell our daughter that she has to miss a chance to do something wonderful
for the sake of one test."
Frederic
hissed, "Get your hand off me. And don't call me Freddie." For
no apparent reason he told her, "Nobody ever called Chopin Freddie."
Staggering
in her resolve because she could read in Frederic that he didn't give
a damn how resolved or prepared she might have thought herself to be,
Sandra stammered the first thing that came to mind, "His wife might have."
"Chopin
never married," and with this final bit of trivia, Frederic stormed out
of the room. Sandra could hear his footsteps mounting the stairs.
Georgia
had been busily tapping on the keyboard of her computer as if rushing
headlong through her essay were the only way to trick the words from her
brain when the whirlwind of her father's authority swept into her room,
and her thoughts became so scattered by the abrupt way in which she was
thrust into an argument with no context that her father's words seemed
little more than gibberish to her. She brushed a single disheveled strand
of light brown hair away from her soft eyes and told her father, "I'm
going to study," not sure for what test she was making the pledge but
knowing that the statement was much more likely true than false.
"Not
enough if you're going to be gallivanting around the city all weekend!"
Frederic hissed sharply.
Her
brown eyes, scrunched in an expression of incomprehension, found her mother
arriving in the doorway, bringing the context that she had been lacking,
as if that brief glance had been enough for her mother to transfer it
to her through some secret bond. "I'll have time to study all Sunday afternoon,"
she explained honestly and with no hint of uselessly plangent objection.
With
scarcely a stammer to consider whether this new bit of information was
pertinent to his decision, Frederic wagged his finger at his daughter
and told her that she didn't need the extra distraction and probably did
need the extra study.
"But
father," Georgia began, her disappointment beginning to tangle itself
into the rasp of a teenage girl's whine around the edges of her voice,
"it'll be an easy exam, and it's not a big deal anyway."
Stomping
his foot for emphasis, Frederic asserted, "They're all big deals!"
"But
I've been working on the clothes drive for a long time, and it's really
important to me."
"You
don't know what's important to you. You can never prepare enough for things
that might affect your future."
With
this parental maxim loosed into the air, sufficient slack was given to
the conversation to swing it toward the unspoken complaints that had been
on all of their minds since the move.
"You're
one to talk."
Frederic
reddened, this being a topic close to his heart, and barked, "Yes, I am
one to talk. I'm done; I've put in my time; I've finished my work. You
can't just jump onto the tails of my success and expect to start at the
finish."
"Success?"
Georgia had inherited a little of her father's temper. "You're a joke
all over town. Dad, the kids have a jingle about you!"
"Oh
yeah?" he said, unable to hide the gleam of pride that this news apparently
gave him. "Sing it to me," he demanded in a manner entirely taunting on
the surface but only half so inside.
A little
ashamed, Georgia told him, "I don't know it."
"Yeah,
I'm sure you don't. But who cares what a bunch of kids say? They'll all
end up bums, anyway. And who cares what a bunch of bleeding hearts think,
too! That's exactly the problem with this charity: nobody important cares.
Look at my career; maybe some insignificant people didn't like me, mostly
out of jealousy, but the people who paid my bills our bills
knew I never once handed in a proposal late or made a sloppy, unprepared
presentation."
"Like
uncle Joseph did?"
"First
of all, he wasn't really your uncle…"
"I
always thought of him that way."
"…
and second of all, he made the decision to choose his son's silly play
over making proper preparations for a presentation for very important
clients." A thin mist shot from his lips with each of his consonants.
"It was a good thing I was able to make the presentation in his stead."
Under
her breath, Georgia repeated what she had heard her mother intimate in
a thousand indirect, and probably subconscious, ways, "You could have
let him use your work."
"What?"
Mr. Flegman asked, though he had heard. The blood visibly permeated the
skin of his face until his forehead looked about to burst from the pressure
of stress and anger. "What did you say?"
Cowed
a bit by her father's obvious rage, Georgia held strong, resolved to finally
release this observation, hopefully to her advantage. "He was your friend."
There
was no advantage to be gained. "That's not the point! Not the point at
all. He shouldn't have let himself slip up like that. He tried to succeed
at more than one thing at a time and wound up failing at them all. And
what if I got promoted over him for it, huh?" He sneered at a look that
he imagined on his daughter's face. "Oh yeah, I know that's what this
is all about. Well what of it? He made his choices, and I made mine. Do
you think you'd be living like this if I hadn't done what I had to do?"
With
her father nearly panting from emotion, Georgia would not, could not,
do otherwise than hold her silence and look toward the floor.
"Do
you think I'd be anywhere near as happy now?" Frederic's eyes flared.
"Huh? Do you not want me to be happy? I want you to be happy; that's
why I'm not going to let you make a mistake that you don't even see before
you. Concentrate and succeed and forget all this silly philanthropy until
you've done so!" Without allowing the muscles on his face to change shape
even the slightest bit, he congratulated himself for finding relevance
in the tangent they had taken.
"Alright,
father," Georgia said, realizing that even if there were something to
be done it would best be done later, and subtly.
Mr.
Flegman stood there for a moment longer, nearly shaking and feeling as
if there must be something to better cement his point. He blew a snort
of phlegmy air through his nose, nodded, and left the room, leaving the
opening for Sandra to make whatever conciliation was necessary and possible
while she and her daughter listened to him rustle around in the linen
closet for a blanket and pillow and utter a mildly triumphant "aha" when
he found a pillowcase.
The
back door swung open and squealed shut. He was headed for the studio.
When
the air turned sufficiently cold to make his fingers sluggish in their
striking of the keys and then to cause them to dry and chaff painfully,
Frederic had an electric heater carried out to his studio and hooked up
to his little generator. The introduction of this new piece of equipment
to his daily routine at first annoyed him because the constant noise of
the generator was a distraction, but with languorous quickness the hum
became such a constant part of his environment that it seemed to be only
an audible inflection of the heat. Therefore, the hum was not just easily
ignored, but also a beneficent harbinger of an atmosphere that allowed
him to extend his practice long into the frigid night.
Having
become acclimated to late hours of cozy practice and facing a shivering
hike across adamant, ankle-bending frozen soil should he desire the comfort
of his bed, Frederic took to locking his shed from the inside and curling
up beneath his piano to sleep. On the last of the first half-dozen times
that Mr. Flegman spent his entire night asleep in this fashion, he convulsed
out of slumber with the violent shakes of his usually coddled body being
exposed to the harsh reality of moonlit December. After discovering that
his generator had burned all of the fuel that he had on hand, Frederic
staggered to his house, his heavy blanket coiled about him and flapping
in the breeze, in such apparent anguish that the deer that he aroused
with his loud vibrato moans of discomfort might have bethought themselves
of a gothic miser struggling to keep his cape about him as he struck out
through a harbor town in a cold-winded hurricane.
By
the next afternoon, after a restless repose, a very hot shower, and some
necessary errands, the pianist was back at his instrument feeling a new
sympathy with the protagonist of Schubert's Die Winterreise, whose
part he did not sing, however, while providing the accompaniment to the
baritone in his head. Over his shoulder, alongside the generator, was
a three-tiered shelf that, though brand new, sagged on each level with
the weight of gasoline canisters. Thus equipped, Frederic watched (rather,
he sometimes noticed indistinctly) the onset of full-blown winter with
mild disinterest.
Considering
the cold to be the only real obstacle of the season, Frederic gave the
weather no more thought. When he woke up one morning with the light through
his studio's windows unnaturally bright, however, Frederic peered through
the glazed glass and saw snow lying along the path and drifting off into
the woods. The white cover hung against the same side of every tree, jutting
boulder, and the manmade studio, the other sides of which still revealed
the dullness of fallen brown foliage. A few
rows of angled lines crisscrossed the white sheet where birds had sauntered
over it.
In
the morning stillness, with the freshness of the frozen moisture still
clinging to the air, an incongruous rattle and grunt preceded Frederic,
wrapped cocoon-like in his heavy blanket, plunging into the winter as
he finally managed to overpower the pile of snow that had braced itself
against his studio's door. Something in the scene struck him as slightly
unusual for the time of year, though it was he had a vague sense
appropriate for some reason or other. He stood for a moment in
the open doorway before spasming with an exaggerated "brrrr" and spinning
toward his exhausted generator with a flick of his wrist to close the
door.
Not
noticing that a fallen clump of snow had stopped the door about six inches
from closed, Frederic unscrewed, with shivering difficulty, the plastic
cap from a jug of gasoline and poured the liquid into the gaping mouth
of the generator, which protruded like thirsty lips toward the spout of
the jug. When the beast was full, Frederic placed the empty canister in
the neat row with its predecessors and started the machinery.
Rasping
against the cold air, one of the generator's rubber belts gave out a series
of short whines before catching, and Frederic, his red ear now better
trained, recognized the pitch and the rhythm. Shuffling like a geisha
to his piano, he poked an arm from his wrapping and played the rhythm
on the correct note. This example of his progress gave him a rousing
sense of accomplishment, so, as the generator powered the heater which,
in turn, warmed the air around him, Frederic sat on his bench and plucked
out music that warmed him from within.
In
no time at all, the atmosphere was such that he could lower his blanket
and devote both hands to his play, leading Frederic to not notice a dark
shape slip through the door and sit on its haunches watching him. Even
when he did catch the sight, it was merely a shadow in the corner of his
eye, not quite sufficiently distinct for his brain to disrupt the pleasing,
meditative music. Yet, on some level, Frederic realized that he was playing
to an audience of some kind, so he turned his head, with a childishly
proud smile, to allow his eyes to fully see the raccoon at last.
Frederic
gasped and leapt onto the closed piano's roof. The raccoon regarded him
quizzically with its head tilted, as if questioning why he had stopped
making that congenial noise, and then waddled, giving no impression of
hurry, back toward its duty of putting patterns in the raw whiteness of
the ground.
Frederic
recovered from his fright enough to persuade his feet to lower to the
ground, standing in place for a moment as a nearly bucolic thought swelled
from his breast to his lips. "Imagine that," he whispered to himself and
to the natural surroundings of which he now felt more a part than he ever
had. "I'm
quite the Mother Nature's Son," he mused, slipping into his place at the
piano to plod through a muddy performance of Beethoven's Pastoral Sonata.
Just as the last note faded into the heater's hum, Frederic noticed the
raccoon timidly poking its head into the room. "Come on in," Frederic
all but whispered to the animal, turning back toward his piano to play
the same piece over again for the creature's benefit.
While
absorbed in a particularly difficult but moving passage of the sonata's
final movement, Frederic did not take note of the raccoon's departure
and gently closed the keyboard cover only when he had come to the end
of the piece.
Rather
than begin another piece of music in his now empty and, for the first
time, slightly lonely studio, Frederic resolved to trudge to his house
for a hot shower, breakfast, and a change of clothes. In his frame of
mind, the coldness of the air was hardly able to seep its fingers into
his consciousness, and the wind bit futilely at his ears as he revolved
his head looking for his friend, the raccoon. In this fashion, with the
snow crunching beneath his feet and the vague sense that he ought to shovel
a path for himself at some point, Mr. Flegman returned home.
Upon
crossing his threshold, Frederic immediately had a sense of displacement.
It was not that the house seemed barren of life, Sandy and Georgia had
to go out simultaneously on occasion, but spread about the entire interior
he noticed festive decorations. He recognized some articles that Sandy
had bought while in his company, and indistinctly understood their import,
but not in any cognizant way. They all looked strange to him, not just
because they were in his house and he hadn't put them up, but because
they were joyful decorations that looked deserted.
These
thoughts, however, only touched his mind glancingly, without raising any
degree of worry or melancholy, and he prepared a bowl of vegetable soup
and sat at his kitchen table as if his mind were entirely elsewhere, perhaps
playing Brahms's piano sonata in f-minor to a Carnegie Hall filled with
dulcified wild animals. When his fantasy whisked itself away by eliciting
a soundless chuckle and smile from its author, Frederic noticed a small
sheet of folded paper standing like a placecard by his plate, his name,
Freddie, written on the front in Sandy's neat script.
With
his tongue ineffectually poking at a bit of string bean that had slipped
between two of his wisdom teeth, Frederic picked up the note and flipped
it open with his thumb. There he found the succinct sentences, "I'm sure
you won't be overly surprised or concerned to learn that Georgia and I
have moved across town at your expense. The requisite papers will be delivered
by my lawyer's office after the holiday. Sandy."
Letting
the letter drop to the table like a thing forgotten, Frederic directed
his eyes through the sliding-glass door between the kitchen to the patio
though he discerned neither the unhomey interior of the structure that
he called home nor the forbiddingly bleached yard nor the naked forest
beyond, but directed his attention inside of himself. "On Christmas Eve,"
he said out loud, and anyone listening might have interpreted a note of
despondence in his voice.
His
pensive look gave way, however, to a broad, self-satisfied smile, and
with elated wonder Frederic shook his head and spoke to the forgotten
holiday decorations, which his soon-to-be-ex wife had hung on the walls
and placed on the furniture, "A raccoon on Christmas Eve."
The
winter, as it drifted and dispersed into the new year, was uneventful.
Although Frederic had waited expectantly as a forgotten lover might wait
going about the daily humdrum of life, but always with a portion
of his senses reserved to detect signs of the hoped-for arrival
he did not attract any more wildlife, let alone his raccoon. In fact,
he had made it a habit, even while the air outside was still frigid, to
leave the door of his studio open a few inches and had turned his piano
around so that he might see the little noses of his audience poking in
and sniffing the harmonious air. The only game that his "trap," as he
whimsically thought of it, caught, however, was Sandy's lawyer, who had
come to serve him the official divorce papers and who left, a surprised
smile on his face, with all of them signed, Mr. Flegman's only stipulation
being, "Just leave me the house and enough money to get by."
Excepting
the lawyer, Frederic had been left on his own through to the warmer weather
of spring, and his practice sessions had been extended to the point at
which he might as well have given his house to his ex-wife. As soon as
the temperature beyond the walls of his studio had risen to a point at
which his tender hands could handle it, Frederic raised the walls, which
groaned and squealed at being displaced.
Even
thus, his music free to wander out between the trees as far as its own
strength might take it and any listening ears free to float toward the
source of the melodies, Frederic played to no audience, at least none
of which he knew, though the bugs and birds might have given his art a
cursory listen. Even the children who had so tormented him the previous
year could no longer find jest enough in returning.
The
lack of an audience, though it had lent Frederic's practice sessions a
melancholy homogeneity for the first few weeks of the year, did not continue
to bother him. He felt simpatico with his piano and needed no witness
to the comprehensions that passed between the two of them. In fact, without
being encumbered by the expectations of another soul, Frederic felt free
to take risks in his playing, to push himself beyond what he might have
done even if he were only practicing but in preparation for an eventual
performance. As a result of his risk-taking, Frederic felt himself improve
by leaps and bounds in his facility, and he was brought to euphoria with
each new feat with which he surprised himself.
While
lost in the space between his fingers and the piano's keys, letting his
mind play audience to the seemingly instinctual performance of his body,
Frederic felt, mostly in the form of a ripple in the gradually warming
serenity of the late spring day's atmosphere, a new presence. He heard
a faintly threatening sound that seemed to have been made in direct response
to the rhythm of the music at his fingertips, a sound that seemed to cause
the very branches on the nearby trees to lift and curl in upon themselves
ever so slightly. Turning on his bench, Frederic's eyes confirmed what
his ears, and, perhaps, his skin, had already told him: it was a rattlesnake.
He
leapt spasmodically away from the snake and onto his piano, pounding some
keys jarringly with the palms of his hands. His mind began shuffling scenarios
and actions in quick search for the safest, but, as if offended by the
noise that the man had made in his retreat, the rattlesnake slithered
quietly away.
Panting
a bit, Frederic spoke to himself, "There aren't any rattlesnakes in this
part of the country." But hearing no confirmation from his surroundings,
he qualified, "I don't think."
That
evening, Frederic rummaged through the drawers and closet of the room
that he had given the somewhat inappropriate title of "my office." Sandy
had apparently adapted the room to easily accessible storage space. On
the desk were piled a spare set of dinner plates and silverware. The desk
itself was full of pictures, catalogues, and even a couple evidently unpaid
bills. In order to get to what had been left to him of the closet, meaning
the far back, Frederic had to move stacks of boxes, some of which made
him question Sandy's ability to lift them up by herself or even with Georgia's
assistance alone.
He
had finally reached a box labeled in black marker, "Reference," when he
heard somebody enter the room and his daughter's voice behind him, "What
are you doing, Father?"
Without
rising from his knees or even turning his head, Frederic asked, with a
hint of impatience, "Georgia, do you know what I did with that wildlife
almanac that your mother bought me for no reason?"
Perhaps
astonished that this would be her father's greeting to her after such
a long time of separation, Georgia stuttered, "N-no, Dad, why?"
"Well
do you know if there are supposed to be rattlesnakes around here?" he
asked, as if she ought to at least make up for her ignorance of the book's
location.
"I
don't think so, Father, but I couldn't say for sure," Georgia responded,
and she thought she heard Frederic, under his breath, ask the dust in
the closet, "Well then what good is she?"
After
a moment of silence, during which Mr. Flegman occupied himself with looking
through the "Reference" box, Georgia spoke, "Father, I came here to see
how you're doing; we haven't heard from you in so long…"
"I've
been very busy, Georgia, as I imagine you and your mother have been as
well, what with hiring lawyers and saving the poor."
The
young lady cleared her throat nervously but trudged on in the face of
her father's comment, "… and I want to invite you to a special dinner
that the charity is holding in my honor."
Still
without turning, "What are they honoring you for?"
"Um…
I guess they think I've helped a lot of people or something. It's mostly
to present me with a scholarship… you know, for college."
At
this, Frederic paused in his search, but only briefly, "I bet you're pretty
proud of yourself. Let's hope that you haven't let your real work slide
too much to get into a good school."
"I'm
already registered at Harvard," she told him, her tone seeming to imply
that he might have been informed of this already.
Pulling
his hands from the box and turning, not rising from his knees, however,
Frederic looked up into his daughters eyes and opened and closed his mouth
a few times before uttering, "That's… well, that's great, Georgia. I'm…"
Frederic trailed off. Georgia listened for the word "proud," but her father's
features darkened, and it was as if his face sank ever so slightly on
the bones of his face, "… very busy, though. I've got to keep moving on
my practice if I want to ever be ready to" he returned to his box, and
his thought petered out in the word "perform."
This
last word having opened the door to a subject that she had wanted to bring
up even more than her reward, Georgia smiled and told him, "Oh, I didn't
tell you: I asked Betty, she's the one organizing the dinner, and she'd
love for you to perform after the awards are given out."
Though
she could only see his back, Georgia could hear in his voice that Frederic's
face had tangled into an expression of confusion, "Perform?" Without any
crescendo, he jumped to his feet and shouted at her, "How dare you go
out and promise that I'll perform when you know I'm not ready yet!"
Georgia,
surprised, tried to explain, "I-it's not for a few months."
"A
few months or a few years, it'll completely upset my schedule," he informed
her, his anger unabated. "Do you know what it takes to prepare for a performance?
Do you? No, you don't. It's takes hours upon hours of work, and it'll
completely take over my practice sessions. No. I can't do it, and you
should have known not to ask. Did your mother put you up to this?"
"No!
I…"
"You
what? Felt bad for your crazy old father and thought you'd play the agent?
Well I don't need your help, and you can tell your mother that I told
you so."
"Dad…"
"Go
on home and tell her! Go on! Get out!"
With
a burst of tears, Georgia ran out of Frederic's filthy office and sent
the dust twirling off the handrails as she leapt down the stairs. Frederic
followed her as far as the top of the stairway, teetering on the edge
in irresolution as to whether to chase after his daughter farther.
Before
he returned to the closet and his box, Frederic lowered his head, letting
the words sift out in subdued whispers, not even knowing himself what
they were supposed to signify, "If you'd come listen some time you'd know
what I mean."
The
heat of his studio so oppressed him that Frederic, almost literally, sweat
out the conclusion that it was time to overcome his fear and raise the
walls again. From the outside, it looked as if the heat caused the walls
to shimmer. Then they rose as if pulled by invisible ropes toward the
clouds, and the early summer sun first overspread Frederic's worn and
filthy shoes, then, climbing his equally worn and filthy jeans and shirt,
it ascended to his haggard face.
He
had taken to wearing a beard, or, rather, had been driven to letting it
grow by his jealousy of his time. The graying strands eked out from his
cheeks and his chin in a mangled mess of kinks. Where the hair crossed
the deep depressions of his undernourished cheeks, overshadowed by his
high, bony cheekbones, his face looked like a crooked image of a New England
valley, the trees all dark or gray and barren, the peaks of the mountains
sallow and dull.
He
sat back at his piano and picked out some notes with his skinny fingers.
He was procrastinating. For some reason he hadn't felt like practicing
all morning. He was tempted to blame it on the improvement of the weather,
which, though it had been especially gradual that year, had still seemed
like sudden good fortune as does the final congealing of decades
of hard work toward some goal. He was tempted to blame it on Nature, it
is true, but he felt as if he were insulting himself to suggest that he
might be affected thus.
Despite
his lackadaisical mood, Frederic was so resolved to get in his minimum's
worth of practice that he lowered his head and stared at the keys beneath
those varicosed hands, the tendons of which protruded like bird claws
through the skin. Out of frustration with himself, his playing was temperamental.
During fast passages he raced, as if daring his hands to falter, to the
point at which the keys could hardly recover from each blow before he
was striking them again; during slow passages, he would play loudly enough
to turn tender melancholy into the wails of an infantile brat.
A shuffling
from behind startled him out of his musical tantrum. Scanning the edge
of the concrete on which his studio had been built, Frederic Flegman saw
masses of animals, some of which, he was quite sure, weren't indigenous
to this continent. As if their seating had been assigned, the larger animals
bears, deer, and even, though he refused to believe it, a full
grown male lion, its mane undulating in the breeze stood at the
back. Next closest were wolves and other dog-like creatures of various
breeds and large cats. Spilling onto the concrete were all variety of
smaller animals, from snakes to rodents, including his raccoon.
Scratches on the ceiling suggested that it, too, overflowed wildlife.
Frederic
froze in a terrible blend of fear, awe, and indecision. Feeling this in
himself, he sought to remedy the only restraint that seemed malleable
enough to give him some leverage to his body: he breathed in deeply to
bolster his willpower and forced himself to make the decision to move
as slowly as he could in a any direction.
No
sooner had his bottom lifted from the piano bench than some barely perceptible
shift in the disposition of his audience led him to sit back down. Out
of nervousness, he stuck his hands into his armpits and may have sat there
in that position forever, as if trying to out wait Nature herself, but
there arose in the crowd a low growl, and the scratches on the roof sounded
with more agitation. He pulled his hands from their dank sanctuaries and
had moved them just far enough that they were in view before him when
by some mixture of sound and body language the animals conveyed, as a
master somehow conveyes his first attempts at training a pet across species,
to him that he must do something with his hands. He spread his fingers
before his eyes and stared at them, wide-eyed, and rasped when he had
figured it out, "You want me to play?"
Again
something intangible conveyed to him that he was moving in the right direction.
His hands shook as he held them over the keys. He took a deep breath and
pressed down a chord. The animals relaxed perceptibly. Slowly, irresolutely,
he began to play a Schumann suite much under tempo. With only the first
dozen measures played, the entire mob of animals sank into repose, and
Frederic noted, across the piano, a black bear shift onto its haunches,
then its belly, then its side.
Then
the pianist entered that state of hopeless persistence in which a person
under duress finds that every other moment brings the resolution to cease,
come what may, but every moment between carries an argument for continuing.
Frederic sat at his piano in this frame of mind for several hours, noticing
through the sweat that filled his eyes as if in substitution of tears,
that, though they came and went, the number of animals never diminished.
He
played on because he could think of nothing else to do and because the
decision was not left for him to make if he valued his life. At
the end of those first few hours, it occurred to Frederic that he was
running out of material feared that this soothing charm might lose its
magic if recycled. A daring attempt to throw a book of music on the stand
and sight-read a new piece elicited a general raise in the pitch of anxiety.
The
afternoon sky deepened into purple and then blood red as the sun went
off toward Asia. Frederic played on, and darkness seeped from the ground
up the trees to their tips and then pitch-blackness sank back down toward
the crowd around Frederic so at least he was relieved of having to see
them all and trying to avoid their eyes. Slowly, as his mind began to
falter from exhaustion, a terror slithered into every thought, and he
recognized that he was becoming very hungry and vaguely tired. For the
first time in months it occurred to him that he would not be able to continue
his playing indefinitely. His eyelids drooped, and he shook himself to
attention. He could feel years of bad posture emanating out from his spine
to his lower back. He glanced around him at the animals, then at the generator
and cans of gasoline across the piano from him, finally bringing his eyes
back to his hands. A clicking that was made by his left middle finger
each time he used it to press a key reminded him that he had forgotten
to clip his nails and became the only sound, sickening in its repetition.
"If
only I'd had more time to practice," he thought.
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