When the Past Came Calling

by Larry S. Kaplan

  “Hi, Mr. Friedman. Yeah, I know. Happy birthday, by the way—and be careful.” Even though I’d called Benny’s mom by her first name since I was a little kid, for some unknown reason, I always called his father Mr. Friedman.

  June soon joined us. “Make sure you boys play ‘Gloria’ first,” she said while Benny showed me the outdoor electrical outlets nearest to the patio. “It’s your best song, and I think it’s important to start with something that will wow the audience.”

  “Gloria,” as recorded by the Chicago band Shadows of Knight the previous December, had been the biggest hit record to come out of the Midwest since the Beatles had begun to dominate radio airplay two years earlier. Our adaptation of the song, originally recorded and written by Van Morrison, wasn’t as soulful as the other two versions, but it still wasn’t bad. And it was an easy song to play, utilizing only three chords—A, D, and E.

  June Freidman was always looking out for us. She was probably the Timekeepers’ biggest fan. She drove Benny to all our rehearsals and usually stayed to hear us perform until we were done. So if she wanted us to lead off with “Gloria,” well then, that’s exactly what we’d do.

  The rest of the band showed up at Benny’s house about half an hour before the party was supposed to start. We set up the rest of the equipment and performed a quick sound check. Benny tinkered with our recently acquired sound mixer, which he positioned in the middle of the backyard on a fold-out table, and then indicated we were good to go.

  “I want you guys to really blast it tonight,” he declared in a piercing falsetto voice from his station some thirty yards away from us, his arms flailing to indicate a massive explosion. “We’re going to show this rich Towers crowd what real rock and roll sounds like.”

  I wasn’t sure that Benny knew what real rock and roll sounded like—I wasn’t even sure that I knew. All I could be sure of as I observed the first guests arrive was that a new and foreign form of anxiety was starting to spread through my entire being. As I tried to rehearse in my head the songs we would soon be singing, I suddenly couldn’t recall the words I had known by heart for as far back as I could remember.

  After the first few early arrivals, the rest of the Friedmans’ guests started pouring into the spacious backyard in droves. The expressions of awe and wonder on the faces of many told of the vastly more humble surroundings they’d come from. At the same time, they were like excited children in a schoolyard at recess: smiles and laughter and delight were the obvious byproducts of their happiness. It was summer, after all, and a party among friends to celebrate a life. And it was 1966, for God’s sake. What could be better than that?

  June was supposed to give the band a sign to indicate when we should begin; but she became so preoccupied with her guests and her duties as hostess that she apparently forgot all about us. There we were, positioned at our respective mics, instruments in hand, standing motionless and smiling awkwardly as we waited. The guests nearest the patio stared at us quizzically, probably wondering if we were just window dressing or whether we actually intended to play.

  Finally Benny took matters into his own hands and left his station to find his mother, who was surrounded at that moment by a crowd of well-wishers. He broke through them to reach her and whispered something in her ear. She suddenly turned our way with an apologetic look and gave us a firm and enthusiastic thumbs-up. With that, our drummer, Craig, lashed into the opening beats of “Gloria,” and my case of nerves instantly melted away.

  We seemed to get better with each song we played, the audience’s obvious approval spurring us on. As we gained confidence, we became bolder—improvising with our solos and going for nuances in our vocals we’d never tried before. And it was all working. The first eight songs streaked by in a blur. By the time we got to the last song of the set, “The House of the Rising Sun,” I began to feel like I was almighty. I scanned the huge crowd of partygoers now slow dancing to the Animals’ classic, amazed that we had the power with only our instruments and our voices to shape the behavior of all these people.

  I had the vocal solo for “House of the Rising Sun.” I was singing the line, “Mother, tell your children,” when I saw her. Heady with my newfound self-assurance, I’d tilted my head back slightly to better take in the full scope of the crowd. She was standing alone at the edge of the woods, her skin pale in contrast to the rich black color of her hair, as if Snow White herself had emerged from the forest. She was about my age, but I had never seen her before. In fact, I’d never seen anyone like her before. A Towers girl, no doubt.

  She stood at her lonely outpost, half-hidden beneath an enormous willow tree. Its thin, graceful branches hung down almost to the ground, surrounding her like an intricate garment of green mesh and lace. She seemed almost without form or substance: a face floating amid the willow’s boughs as they rustled in the gentle nighttime breeze.

  We finished “The House of the Rising Sun” as the Animals did in their version, with a series of arpeggios on the guitar. As the reverb from the last few notes still lingered in the air, I saw Benny racing toward the patio with an ecstatic look of triumph on his face. He was shouting something to me, but I couldn’t make out what he said. I was too absorbed in my musings on the mysterious girl.

  Then our bass player, Howard Glatt, nudged me in the right shoulder with the neck of his sturdy instrument. “Come on, David. Benny wants us to come inside for pizza. We were great, weren’t we?”

  I agreed that we were pretty great. But pizza was the last thing on my mind at that moment. I declined the invitation, placed my guitar in its stand, and as if drawn by a magnet, strode purposefully toward the willow tree.

  Chapter 3

  April 10, 1989

  A knock on my office door, followed by the cheery voice of my uncle Bert, interrupted my reminiscence.

  “David, are you busy?”

  Uncle Bert was my mother’s older brother. He was considered one of the best trial lawyers in Chicago, enjoying a stellar reputation for his talent in the courtroom, the meticulous scholarship of his briefs, and his honesty in dealing with all members of the bar. In spite of his impressive accomplishments in the legal community and his senior status, he always treated me with great deference, almost as if I were the boss and he was my apprentice. It was undoubtedly this quality of humility that also contributed to his great success.

  “No, Uncle Bert,” I responded, “you can come in. I was just going over Sophie Klosterberg’s medical records.”

  The door opened to reveal a short, compact man with a pleasant open face and a yarmulke clipped to his thinning hair. My uncle was an Orthodox Jew, the only one in my family.

  “I appreciate your reviewing those for me,” my uncle said. “That’s why I came by. Mrs. Klosterberg’s nephew just called me, asking if she has a case. You know I prefer not to mix business with friendship, but for him I decided to make an exception.”

  “Because he was in the war with you?” I asked. The war I referred to was World War II. My uncle had seen action in the Pacific and remained close to some of the men he served with.

  “Well, that,” my uncle replied, “and the fact that he’s fallen on hard financial times. Frankly, I don’t think another lawyer would consider this case, so anything we can do for his aunt will be much appreciated.”

  This caring and accomplished man whom I was so proud to call my uncle—and who had room in his heart for so many—had graduated from the University of Chicago Law School, Order of the Coif. Yet none of the big Chicago trial firms would hire him. I think it was because he wore his yarmulke to all of his interviews. The blue-chip firms probably believed a trial attorney who wore a yarmulke couldn’t be successful with juries. But my uncle Bert had majored in theology as an undergrad. He understood more than most what made people tick, especially spiritually. The special insight he possessed more than compensated for whatever obstacles might materialize from wearing a yarmulke in the courtroom.

  There were some naysayers who refused to ackno
wledge my uncle’s successes. They liked to point out that the yarmulke gave him an unfair advantage with Jewish jurors. However, the problem with this analysis was that most Jews were pretty good at figuring a way out of jury duty.

  “You know,” I reminded my uncle, “the area in Marshall Field’s where she slipped had a sign warning that the floor was wet and to stay away.”

  “Yes, David, I remember,” my uncle said, nodding his head to concede the point. “But Mrs. Klosterberg’s first and only language is Yiddish. Not that we can blame the store for its failure to translate.”

  “But her injuries are pretty serious,” I added. Ironically, serious injuries were a plus when it came to assessing the value of a case and could counteract a weak liability theory. “She fractured her hip pretty badly and will probably need a cane or a walker for the rest of her life.”

  I noticed that my uncle looked visibly pained at the idea of eighty-two-year-old Sophie Klosterberg needing assistance to walk for the rest of her life. Ours was a harsh business in many respects. The more serious our clients’ injuries, the more money we were likely to make from settling or bringing their cases to trial.

  “Well, David, see what you can do with it. A store like Marshall Field’s should have more than just a sign to warn of a wet floor. Maybe they should also have had a barricade of some kind.”

  As my uncle turned to leave, a thought struck me. “Hey, Uncle Bert. When you studied theology, did you ever learn about a religion called Truce of God?”

  Uncle Bert turned around to face me with a look of surprise. “That was a pretty obscure religion, David. One that died out hundreds of years ago. How did you come to hear of it?”

  “I’d heard that some people still followed it. Do you think that’s possible?”

  “Well, anything is possible. The focus of my studies was the origin of religions, so I’m not an expert on anything that’s happened in recent times, theologically speaking. When I see these Hare Krishna people at the airport and people ask me, ‘Bert, what do they believe in?’ I don’t have an answer. It’s all too new to me.”

  “Do you know what Truce of God believed in?”

  “Yes. I recall that peace was their core belief.”

  “Peace?”

  “Yes. They were an offshoot of the Catholic Church. During feudal times in Europe, when a war was declared between lords, Truce of God adherents tried to put an end to it. They couldn’t stop the warfare completely, but for a time they were successful at convincing the lords to respect a ban on fighting during the Sabbath, and later they were able to extend it to include several days out of each week.”

  “It sounds like they were ahead of their time.”

  “They were. But when the monarchies of European nation-states annexed the armies of the feudal lords, Truce of God had no power over the rulers. By the thirteenth century, it was just a footnote in history…But what brought on this sudden interest?”

  “Oh, nothing, really. Something I read. Anyway, I will do what I can for Mrs. Klosterberg. Her case has to be worth something.”

  “Thanks, David. I know it’s in good hands.”

  After my uncle left, I picked up the Klosterberg file to give it another look. I felt it was the least I could do for my uncle. But soon enough, I put it down and allowed my mind to wander again. There was somewhere else I needed to go. It involved a trip through time and a willow tree, and the mystical encounter that awaited me there.

  Chapter 4

  July 23, 1966

  It was a few minutes before eight when the last notes of “The House of the Rising Sun” resonated through the Friedman backyard. By that time on a late July evening in the heartland of America, there was at least an inch of open sky separating the sun’s bottom rim from the horizon—as measured by the distance between one’s thumb and index finger. The heavens that night were backlit in shades of peach and gold, with dashes of faded white formed by several small clouds.

  Several party guests tried to engage me in conversation as I headed toward the willow tree in the far corner of Benny’s backyard. “Hey, you’re in the band,” one older woman shouted. “You guys are pretty good,” someone else said. There were more remarks like those, but all I could do was mumble pat replies like yes and thank you. I was on a mission to reach that tree, controlled by a force that was beyond any conscious design; and nothing else mattered, not even taking the time to be more polite.

  When I neared the edge of the yard, I was able to see her face in finer detail than I could from the distance of the patio. I had hoped, frankly, that she might be plainer upon closer inspection than what my imagination had conjured. Then I could say a brief hello and walk away, scot-free. But that was not to be because, seen up close, the raven-haired girl was uncommonly beautiful.

  Her dark eyes were wide-set and luminous above cheekbones that were broad and prominent. Her top lip tilted upward just enough to endow her countenance with a perpetual smile. Cupid, I thought, don’t bother trying to shoot me with one of your arrows—I’m already love struck.

  When we were nearly face-to-face, I realized she had to be watching me from the moment I’d set out in her direction. She hadn’t moved, so her focus couldn’t have changed; and when we were close enough to speak, her gaze remained steadily on me.

  “Hi,” I managed weakly.

  “Hi,” she replied, her smiling face bright with innocence and wonder. “You’re in the band. I love your voice.”

  I felt transported by her words but felt compelled to give her an honest, self-deprecating response. “Actually, I think Howard, our bass player, has the best voice. But thanks. That’s nice of you to say.”

  “No, you’re wrong,” she insisted. “I like your voice best.”

  “Well, I need to be able to sing,” I admitted, “to make up for the fact that I’m not that good on the guitar. At least, not yet.”

  “You’re being way too hard on yourself,” she countered gently. “I think you play the guitar wonderfully.”

  I could not have scripted her words better to play havoc with my heartstrings if I’d been given full power of the pen over her every utterance. So much so I doubted all this was really happening—or was it an illusion? Was I imagining everything, even the words she spoke? I knew I was on dangerous ground, but I didn’t mind. There was nothing wrong with a dose of anxiety when it came partnered with the appearance of an angel.

  Before I could fully comprehend the chaos of feelings surging through me, Benny’s voice broke the spell. “David, where are you?”

  I looked in the general direction of his voice and noticed him standing by the sound mixer, looking around for me frantically. And when I shifted my gaze to the patio, I could see that the Timekeepers—minus me—were set up and ready to go for our second set. Just from their stances, I could tell they were pissed off by my absence.

  “I’d better go,” I told the girl. “Will you be able to stick around for a while?”

  “I wish I could, but I can’t,” she said. “My aunt will want me home. I live just across the street. My aunt…well, she’s rather elderly, and she lives with us.”

  So, this indescribable creature was an inhabitant of that mammoth citadel that shared the cul-de-sac with Benny’s house. But that meant nothing to me now. She could have lived in a cardboard box and it would have made no difference.

  “We only have one set to go.” I tried not to beg her to wait as I added, “We’ll be done in an hour.”

  “I can’t stay,” she repeated. “My aunt is very protective.”

  “David Miller!” Benny cried out again.

  I ignored him and moved closer to the girl. “Then how can I see you again?” I blurted, regretting my boldness as soon as the words left my mouth.

  She took both my hands in hers. “Meet me on the path in the woods,” she whispered. “Look, over there,” she added as she released my hands and pointed to a black dirt trail, clearly visible just behind the willow. “It leads all the way to my backyard. That
’s how I got here. When the party’s over, I’ll sneak out. My aunt usually goes to bed early. I’ll be on the part of the path closest to my house.”

  The touch of her hands on mine had been the proof I needed. She was real. I was not imagining this encounter after all.

  “How will you know when the party’s over?” I wondered aloud, my heart still beating out of control from the moment she first touched my hands.

  “I’ll be listening,” she assured me. “I’ll be able to hear you from my bedroom window. I’ll know the party’s over when you’ve stopped playing.”

  “David!” This time my name was being shouted by Howard, our bass player. Over the microphone.

  “You’d better go,” the girl said to me softly. “I’ll see you on the path when the party’s over.”

  I left her standing there and raced toward the patio, passing an exasperated Benny as I went.

  “David, where were you?” he lambasted me with the question as I ran by him.

  “Sorry, Benny, my fault.”

  I reached the patio, grabbed my guitar from its stand, and quickly slung the strap over my left shoulder while my bandmates looked on with withering glances.

  “‘Venus’?” Howard asked me with a scowl, seeking to establish what song we would start with.

  “Perfect,” I responded. “Absolutely perfect.” But when I looked out toward the willow tree before the first chord was struck, my Venus was already gone.

  Chapter 5

  July 23, 1966

  Midway through our second set, a storm blew into Lincolnwood without warning. The downpour was so intense that the Friedmans’ guests had to make a mad scramble for the house to keep from getting soaked. Seeing the crowd attempt to squeeze through the sliding glass door from the patio to the kitchen at the same time wasn’t a pretty sight, some roughly nudging others aside to reach the dry refuge of indoors.

  Fortunately, my bandmates and I were already on the patio and closest to the sliding door. To protect our equipment and avoid being electrocuted, we shut everything down and moved our stuff inside immediately, before the onslaught of stampeding guests could interfere. Soon everyone was inside, and many could be heard bemoaning the cruel hand of fate that had ruined a perfect summer evening.