Two-Part Inventions

by Lynne Sharon Schwartz

  “I think we could manage that. Two treats, then. Greg?” he called again.

  BY THE TIME he was a sophomore in high school, Philip had made himself known to teachers, students, and staff, a rangy, sandy-haired figure loping down the halls on his various errands, waving to friends as he passed, always busy, always ready to take on more. He was in charge of the instruments for the junior orchestra, seeing that they were kept in good condition and got put away properly. He was the secretary of the student government and kept meticulous minutes of the bimonthly meetings, spiced by a playful but never nasty wit directed at the self-importance of his fellow officers. He sorted press releases and discount ticket offers for Miss Hirsch, the assistant principal, and kept her bulletin board of concerts and museum exhibits up to date, sometimes adding reviews he cut out of newspapers and magazines.

  Philip himself had been surprised that the coveted High School of Music and Art had accepted him, so he could hardly blame Aunt Marsha and Uncle Mel for their astonished faces. He’d kept up his piano lessons, not only because he loved the power of making music, but because they were a reminder of his old life, one of the few tangible reminders. He remembered how his mother had encouraged him, and when he was in good form he imagined he was playing for her. Wouldn’t she be thrilled to hear how much better he played now! Still, he didn’t overestimate his modest gifts. When he came home and announced the news in the kitchen—“I got in!”—they were startled into silence. And then of course Marsha and Mel said the expected things: You see, you did better than you thought at the auditions, what a great opportunity, now make the most of it. They’d gotten accustomed to his changing moods by then, as he had grown used to their oblique modes of expressing affection. He knew they wanted the best for him, not that his knowing endeared them to Phil. The three lived by a shaky entente, compounded, like all agreements between incompatible parties, of pragmatism, apprehension, and self-interest.

  Rearing a child hadn’t changed Mel and Marsha very much, at least visibly, but Phil, growing up in their gloom, had cultivated a persona of affability and competence. At school he presented himself as the kind of clever, unpretentious boy who inspired trust in teachers and classmates alike: good-looking but not distractingly so, with an undistinguished but well-proportioned face enlivened by keen gray-green eyes and a disarming smile. He dressed neatly in crisp chinos (he had learned to iron them himself) and clean shirts, avoiding the shabby look some of the boys had begun to affect. (“Why are your friends trying to look like hoboes?” Uncle Mel once asked. “Their clothes look like they slept in them.”) He was talkative but never overbearing—from living with his aunt and uncle he’d learned when it was politic to hold his tongue. With friends he was even-tempered, funny, though never a clown. With teachers he was dependable and efficient: polite without being obsequious, shrewd without being disrespectful. He got good grades but wasn’t arrogant or overconfident, as many of the bright kids were. Not enormously talented musically, it was generally agreed, but he certainly worked hard. Not many of the music students were serious about professional careers. Those who were preferred to go to the High School of Performing Arts. The teachers at Music and Art were content to create an audience of talented amateurs and intelligent listeners—anything beyond that was extra. They all could see that a boy like Phil would do well in whatever career he chose. When he said he would do something, it got done.

  Now in his junior year, he spent two periods a week after classes assisting Mr. Sadler, the chairman of the math department, marking test papers, entering grades, filing, copying exams on the new copier in the main office. Besides his promptness and efficiency, he was an amiable boy and Mr. Sadler was immensely pleased with him. Philip Markon, Mr. Sadler would say if anyone asked about him, “Philip Markon could run General Motors. And I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what he ends up doing.”

  The work in Mr. Sadler’s office was not demanding. It left Phil plenty of time to look around, check into files, and gather information. Information was always useful, even if you didn’t yet know what for. Just knowing the lay of the land is good, Uncle Mel had taught him. Mel was full of practical tips learned from business experience and succinctly expressed. Wherever you end up, Mel told him, before Phil knew what high school he’d be attending, get to know people and find out all you can. On the night before classes at Music and Art began, Mel took him aside and said, “You’re a good student. You’ll do fine. You don’t have to be the best piano player there—just keep your eyes open. And I don’t mean only in class. Get in the habit of noticing everything around you. You never know what might come in handy.”

  Phil nodded soberly. He’d reached the same conclusions on his own years ago, when he accepted that his life with his aunt and uncle was not a bad dream from which he would soon awaken, but reality in one of its unlovely shapes. He understood instinctively that while he couldn’t yet change his circumstances, he could study them thoroughly. His method as a young boy was not to snoop through papers or drawers, as he later learned to do, but to watch and listen. From his aunt and uncle he had learned much about the strategies two disappointed people could use to undermine each other and, once in a while, surprisingly, to offer comfort. He wondered what their lives would be like without him, the intruder who disrupted their grim calm. After a while he came to feel that their fretting over him, especially his aunt’s, gave them an activity and a focus. Without him there might be nothing, or whatever dull ambience there’d been before he arrived. His aunt had said he’d be their boy, and she had honored that intention. He wasn’t a boy they had wanted or even a boy they could love, but they took him as theirs, he had to grant them that. Before he reached high school he vowed he would never endure a life of disappointment, never end up dreary and bitter at what the world had not given him. The world gave nothing secure—he knew that. You had to take what you could and hold on tight.

  Whenever Mr. Sadler was out of the office, Phil explored. He found the principal’s evaluations of all the teachers in the math department, as well as all of their CVs. Most had gone to local colleges, one to Harvard; a few had worked in business, and one, to his surprise, had had a brief acting career. The majority had taught all their lives, progressing upward from lesser schools to this highly desirable one. Mr. Sadler himself had once taught at City College, only a few blocks away. What might have caused his retreat to the high school level? Philip wondered, and intended to find out. He came upon records of the grades given to classes over the last several years, and copies of past algebra, geometry, and trigonometry exams. Of course, no teacher would be foolish enough to use the same exams every term, but certain key problems were sure to recur in one form or another. After all, the subject matter in algebra and trigonometry wouldn’t change over the years as it might in history or social studies.

  Philip himself did not require any extra help with tests. He had a natural facility for math and he kept up with the homework. Besides his genial manner, it was his excellent grades in trigonometry, a subject that could defeat even the brightest students, that had made Mr. Sadler notice him. But a handful of friends and acquaintances occasionally faltered and were grateful for some assistance. Phil was willing to offer that if anyone approached him. Not often, of course. The last thing he wanted was for word to get around. He wasn’t running some sort of scam, just helping out a few friends. He didn’t ask anything in return. His reward was simply the feeling that he could help others in need, and frankly, the tests were awfully hard: After all, the students at Music and Art had been chosen for their talent and couldn’t be expected to be math wizards as well. Why drag down their averages and make it harder for them to get into college, when they would never need the math anyway? There was no harm done. Most important, he didn’t give out answers, just likely questions. His friends still had to supply the answers on their own, though Phil might point them in the right direction, as any friend would do. Didn’t people study together all the time, helping each other out?


  One November afternoon Mr. Sadler walked into the office, silent on his gum-soled shoes, and startled Phil by clapping him on the shoulder. “How’s it going, Phil? Everything under control here?”

  He’d been entering the grades on the advanced algebra midterm, a course for seniors. Two guys he’d met on the basketball court in the gym had asked, a bit sheepishly, if he couldn’t raise them by a few points; they knew they’d done miserably, and with college applications in the offing . . . Phil didn’t feel a great deal of sympathy. Advanced algebra was an elective, not a requirement. He hadn’t taken it yet himself, but Mr. Sadler provided him with the proofs and correct answers so he could grade the papers. If the seniors didn’t think they could handle it, they shouldn’t have taken it. There were plenty of gut courses to make the final year an easy one. He wasn’t even sure if the senior grades would be issued in time for the transcripts sent to colleges—he made a mental note to find out. But none of that was really his concern. The thrill—and he was frankly aware that there was a thrill—came from doing what he did, regardless of the circumstances or merits of each case.

  “Fine, I’m almost done. Just another two minutes.” He’d been pondering whether it was safe to give Bobby Foreman, a bass player, an 85 rather than the 75 he had earned. If Mr. Sadler gave the papers back without looking at them, which often happened, it was quite safe. Phil could simply enter the higher grade in the book. But if Mr. Sadler went over the papers, then Phil would have to alter Bobby’s work, a greater risk than he cared to take.

  The teacher pulled up a chair and sat down near him. He often liked to have a chat. Maybe he was lonely, Phil thought. He’d come to regard these chats as part of his job, and reminded himself that he was earning extracurricular credit for them. He set the test papers aside.

  “So, where are you thinking of applying to college, Phil?” Mr. Sadler’s hairy fingers played restlessly with a pencil. Phil knew he smoked—he was probably dying for a cigarette.

  “Well, the applications are still a couple of years away, so I’m not sure. Juilliard, maybe, but it’s a long shot. Or there’s always City. My aunt and uncle can’t afford to send me out of town. Wherever I go I’ll need financial aid.”

  “City’s a good idea. What about other colleges in New York? NYU, Columbia? Columbia has an excellent business school, by the way.”

  “But they’re not known for music, are they?”

  “On the contrary, Columbia has a fine music department, very innovative. Though I suppose it’s more musicology than practical experience or performance. Anyway, it’s a good idea to have a wide choice. You know, just in case.” He was beginning to sound like Uncle Mel, Phil thought, with his strategies. “Juilliard is extremely competitive, as I’m sure you know. People apply from all over the country, the world, even. And you’re very good in math. Science, too, I understand from Mr. Peterson. Do you have any idea what you want to do, I mean career-wise?”

  Mr. Sadler was speaking quite slowly, as if he were planning his words in advance. Again Phil was reminded of Uncle Mel, struggling to explain his parents’ death. That same deliberate tone, like treading gingerly, walking a tightrope, though Mr. Sadler’s manner was much smoother than Uncle Mel’s, and his voice was sharp and crisp, not grainy.

  “I really don’t know yet. Definitely something connected to music.” He was about to mention the band he hoped to get into shape in the next few months. He had a trumpeter and drummer lined up, and they needed to find a good guitarist, maybe a banjo or uke, then see if they could get a practice room or use the cafeteria after school. But he changed his mind; he didn’t want to hear his plans addressed in that same cautious tone.

  “Music, of course. I understand that. There are lots of ways to work in the music business, you know. People don’t realize it’s not just performers. There’s artists’ management, public relations, even entertainment law. That’s something to think about. Writing reviews, criticism. Sound engineering—so many new technologies are in the works, they’re going to transform the music business as we know it. What I mean is, consider all your options. I have a friend in the admissions office at Columbia. I could have a word with him when the time comes. Of course, it’s no guarantee of anything, you understand. Who knows, you might win a state scholarship if you do well on the test. That would cover a good part of the tuition.”

  “Well, sure, any help I can get . . . I’d really appreciate that. Thanks.”

  “Okay, I’m off now. When you finish entering the grades, leave the papers in the right-hand drawer and I’ll return them first thing tomorrow. Be sure to lock up.”

  Alone again, Philip entered a grade of 85 for Bobby Foreman. He raised Freddy Bocelli, the other senior, a few points as well. Mr. Sadler wouldn’t bother looking at the test papers again. Who the hell did the old fruitcake think he was, anyway? What could a math teacher know about who would get into Juilliard?

  He locked up and went to the practice room he had reserved for four thirty. He was working on a Bach fugue from The Well-Tempered Clavier. The fugues eluded him: Four voices in counterpoint made for a struggle, and he tried the piece over and over, more and more slowly. He’d get it eventually, he always did, but it took so great an effort. There were students who could sight-read those fugues and make them sound halfway decent the first time. Each time he paused he could hear the faint sounds of others practicing in the nearby rooms.

  Who was he kidding, anyway? He didn’t stand a chance of getting into Juilliard. The best he could ever be was a gifted amateur. A knowledgeable one—he excelled in the music history courses and had a good ear besides. He knew how the music ought to sound. Occasionally he wrote reviews of concerts for the school paper, and the faculty advisor had praised them. But a performer, never. He didn’t have it. He could end up in an office, arranging tours and concerts for Bobby Foreman and the others, the ones practicing in the rooms around him.

  All the while he worked doggedly on the fugue, but by the time the hour was up he had made up his mind to apply to the schools Mr. Sadler had suggested. If the old guy could wangle him a scholarship, he wouldn’t refuse. It wasn’t giving up. The other was a dream he’d never really believed in. This was just being practical.

  TO ESCAPE the packs of students clattering down the hall between classes, Suzanne turned around to face the bulletin board outside the secretary’s office. Maybe if she moved very close she might magically dissolve into the bulletin board, become two-dimensional, a paper cutout. Or even more miraculously, someone who’d seen her in a class would notice her and speak to her. There were times when her old childhood anguish about being real overcame her, times she wished she had never come here and gone instead to the local high school with Eva and Alison and the other girls from the neighborhood. But Richard and her piano teacher, Mr. Cartelli, even her parents, had said how wonderful it was that she’d passed the auditions and been accepted at the High School of Music and Art. She must take the opportunity, even though, her mother added, it meant that long subway ride from Brooklyn alone every day. Gerda had offered to come with her the first day, but Suzanne refused in horror.

  Everything about the school was better than what she’d known before, more colorful, more intense, high on a hill overlooking miles of city streets—the very air felt charged. She’d learned more French in one week than she had in a year in junior high. Except that no one knew who she was. To be known: It was what she craved. It was her second week of high school, and still she was anonymous, invisible amid strangers. She was not used to anonymity; at home, on her street, she had come to take her reputation for granted. She was the lively, sweet-natured girl with the special gift that would someday bring her a special life that the others, the ordinary ones, couldn’t hope for. The reputation could be a burden, an embarrassment, yet now she missed it. Here, if she didn’t turn up her absence would barely be noticed.

  And she had looked forward so much to the new school. The prospect of escape—in Brooklyn, Manhattan seemed like anoth
er country—and of finding new friends had helped through the long hot summer, a summer the kids on the block had inaugurated with a trip to Coney Island. Knowing she would very soon be in a new world had gotten Suzanne through that dreadful evening when she was crowded into a car in the Cyclone roller coaster with the fattest boy on the block, Arnie Perchusky.

  It had been a humid June night, school would be over in two days, and the dreaded Regents Exams were finished. She had the whole summer to practice. Mr. Cartelli had set her to work on a Brahms early sonata, and Richard said she must start learning some twentieth-century music as well—Bartók, Stravinsky, Satie. . . . She dreamed daily of the future, of the miracle of being accepted at Juilliard when the time came, of someday playing on a grand stage—but she was superstitiously afraid to extend her fantasies that far. Meanwhile, she practiced fervently to make them come true.

  She was lonely, but leaning against the parked cars on the street with the girls and boys from the neighborhood didn’t relieve her loneliness, merely screened it; still, the warm nights drew her outside with a hope shadowed by hopelessness. So when the group decided to borrow enough cars to drive to Coney Island—several of the local boys were old enough to have driver’s licenses—she went along. The Cyclone was nightmarish, the fat boy beside her an opaque stranger. Everything about the excursion made her swear to forget this part of her life, nearly over. When the awful ride was finished she and the boy slunk apart, he too perhaps dreaming of a future in which he would be thin, an athlete maybe. Suzanne was certain she would leave, one day for good.

  And now here she was, again feeling alien. The worst moment of the day was lunch in the cafeteria, carrying her tray and heavy book bag, gazing straight ahead, trying to appear casual as she moved through the aisles, looking for an empty table. She could usually find one near the edge of the room, and once she was seated and peering around, her fingers unconsciously marking a Bach Invention on the tabletop, she noticed a few others like herself, alone and reading, or pretending to read, while they ate. Why couldn’t the solitary ones approach one another? You’re alone and I’m alone, so why not sit together? But that wasn’t the way things were done, not in high school, at any rate, perhaps not anywhere. No one wanted their humiliation exposed.