Romance Through the Ages

by Amy Harmon

  “What about the sheep?” I said suddenly, having forgotten about my partner in peril.

  “Gus will get him home. At this rate, they might get there before we do.” I looked behind us, peering carefully over Samuel’s shoulder as to not disturb the equilibrium of the bike. Sure enough, the sheep was waddling down the road, Gus nipping at his heels.

  I relaxed as well as I could, my head resting in the curve of Samuel’s shoulder as his arms and legs braced me from falling off the narrow seat. I couldn’t comfortably reach the handlebars with my legs out in front of me, so I loosely held onto his arms just above the elbow. The silly song about a bicycle meant for two jumped into my head. We won’t have a stylish marriage; I can’t afford a carriage . . .

  When the gravel road finally joined the black top, I felt Samuel relax a little. The ride was suddenly much smoother. Still, he couldn’t be comfortable. I imagined how we must look riding down the moonlit road, not a soul in sight, like a creature with eight legs and two heads. I giggled a little despite my throbbing ankle and my wounded pride.

  I felt a responding rumble in Samuel’s chest and swiveled my head to look up at him in amazement. I had never heard Samuel laugh.

  “Hold still!!!” Samuel’s voice raised in alarm as the bike took a dangerous lurch. I had forgotten to move slowly.

  “Sorry!” I squeaked, clinging to his arms as he expertly restored balance.

  “Hold still,” Samuel repeated again firmly.

  We rode in silence for several minutes until I decided gratitude was in order.

  “You saved me,” I said simply. “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come along. You might have even saved my life. My dad and Johnny might not have noticed I was gone for hours. They aren’t very aware of me.”

  “I’m not sure I want to be responsible for saving your life.”

  “Why? Don’t you like me at all?” My voice sounded as hurt as I felt.

  Samuel sighed. “That’s not what I meant. And yes, I like you.” He sounded a bit uncomfortable at the admission. “It’s just that in many Native cultures, when you save someone’s life you are responsible for them from that time forward. It’s like you are their keeper or something.”

  That didn’t sound bad to me. I kind of liked the idea of having Samuel as my life-long guardian.

  “I can’t think of anyone I’d rather have looking out for me,” I confessed. Somehow honesty was much easier when it was dark. Still, I tensed a little, awaiting his response.

  No response came. We rode in silence for the remainder of the ride, gliding past the homes of our neighbors until Samuel slowed to a stop in front of my house. Old Brown, Johnny’s truck, was parked carelessly in the gravel in front of the house, and my dad’s work truck was parked in the drive. Samuel helped me alight and set the bike down as he pulled me up onto his back, piggy-back style. I wished he would sweep me up into his arms like a bride. I felt heavy and awkward sprawled across his long back, and I clung to his shoulders, holding my breath as he climbed the stairs and slid me down his back to knock on the door.

  “It’s my house! Just go in,” I said, reaching past him and opening the front door. The sounds of Jazz basketball blared from the TV, and the warmth from the wood burning stove poured over us. Samuel swung me up and carried me unceremoniously to the couch, setting me down as swiftly as he could and backing away as if he thought he would be in trouble for touching me.

  My dad sat in his recliner and gaped at us for a minute before he collected his wits. I counted two empty beer cans on his TV stand and another in his hand. I sighed inwardly. Dad was a sweet drunk. He didn’t get mean and ugly, just drowsy and cheerful, as he drowned his loneliness in a nightly ritual of Budweiser and ball—football, basketball, baseball, whatever. He didn’t drink at all when mom was alive. We Mormons aren’t big drinkers. In fact, Mormons didn’t drink at all if we were living true to the tenets of our faith. Maybe that’s why Dad never went to church or cared if we went. Mom wouldn’t be too happy about that, I was sure.

  “What happened?” My dad’s words weren’t slurred; the night was still young.

  I proceeded to tell him my abbreviated story involving the sheep, Gus, and including Samuel somewhere in there, too.

  “No more piano lessons for you!” Dad grumbled. “It ain’t safe. I knew somethin’ was wrong. I was just about to come lookin’ for you.”

  “Oh no, Dad!” I cried out hastily, sitting up and swinging my good leg to the floor. “I’ll be more careful. I’m getting ready for the Christmas program. I can’t miss my lessons. Besides, Sonja…I mean Mrs. Grimaldi…is going to have me practice at the church for the next few weeks so that she can start teaching me how to play the organ.”

  I didn’t believe my dad had even noticed I was gone, nor had he been on the brink of starting out on a search and rescue mission, but I could tell he felt bad that I had been in trouble and he hadn’t had a clue.

  Samuel shook Dad’s hand and made a hasty retreat, claiming he needed to go make sure Gus made it back to the corral with the wayward sheep.

  Virtuoso

  The only church in Levan was built in 1904. It was a beautiful, light-colored brick building with a tall graceful steeple and steps leading up to the double oak doors. Not everybody went to church services in Levan, but everybody went to church. That church had been the town gathering place for almost one hundred years. It had provided walls for worship, seen the townsfolk marry in its hallowed halls, and absorbed the grief of many a funeral. The beautiful chapel had high arching windows that were two stories tall. The heavy oak pews possessed the patina of time and tender care.

  Sonja taught me to play the organ in that lovely little chapel. On the day of my first lesson, I had shown up in blue jeans, only to have Sonja send me home to change into a dress.

  “This is a place of reverence and worship,” she had said sternly. “We do not wear casual clothes when we enter the chapel!” .

  Christmas was coming, and I was going to be performing “Oh Holy Night” on the piano for the annual Christmas Eve service. Everyone in town came to the Christmas Eve service, whether they came regularly to church or not. It was the spiritual highlight of the Christmas season for townsfolk. The choir would perform sacred Christmas songs, Sonja would accompany them on the organ, and the bells would be rung. The story of the Christ Child would be read at the pulpit by Lawrence Mangelson, who possessed a rich, deep, orator’s voice. It was my favorite tradition, and my musician’s heart was overflowing with thoughts of debuting at such an event. I had taken piano lessons, Monday through Friday, for three years and had yet to play for anyone but Doc, Sonja, and my family.

  Originally, the church choir director, married to the aforementioned Lawrence Mangelson, had denied Sonja’s request to let me play in the special worship service. She was kind, but she worried that my ability at thirteen would not be worthy of the occasion. Sonja had taken me to Mrs. Mangelson’s home and insisted that she listen.

  I played a powerfully moving and difficult rendition of “Oh Holy Night” on the piano in her little sitting room, and when I finished, the sweet old lady humbly asked for my forgiveness, begging me to take part in the program. Mr. Mangelson said it would be the best Christmas Eve Service ever and suggested we keep my piano solo a secret.

  Christmas Eve fell on a Sunday that year, and I attended the 9:00 a.m. church services without my family. Because the congregation would be returning that evening for the Christmas Eve service, the morning services were shortened. I had let my Aunt Louise and Tara in on my little secret, so later that afternoon, Aunt Louise came over and styled my hair, smoothing my natural curl into shining waves and applying light makeup on my eyes, cheeks, and lips. Sonja said musicians often perform in classic black but thought white might be more age appropriate. She had driven to Provo, a city about an hour north of Levan, and found a simple yet elegant, long-sleeved, white, velvet dress. When I thumped down from my attic room, coiffed and wearing my new dr
ess, my one foot in a heel and the other in a walking cast, thanks to my tumble down Tuckaway Hill, my dad’s weathered face softened, and his lower lip trembled.

  “You look like an angel, honey. I’d hug you but I don’t want to muss ya up.”

  The night was cold and still, snow running in deep drifts along the edge of the poorly plowed roads. We made our way to the church which was lit up and welcoming in the moonlight. Sonja sat at the organ and played magnificent prelude music, softening hearts and moistening eyes before the program had even begun. We sat in our regular pew, with Rachel coming to join us to sit with Jacob. They were engaged to be married in the spring, and with Jared home from college for the holidays, we were all together. Everyone was scrubbed and solemn in their holiday best, hair slicked and ties tied.

  The program began, and my stomach was in knots as it neared the moment of my solo. I was seated at the end of our bench to provide easy access to the aisle, which was a straight shot up to the stand where the piano was waiting, lid opened, choir members seated on the dais around it. Lawrence Mangelson’s voice soared with the spirit as he spoke of the angels that heralded the birth of the King. Suddenly, it was my turn to play, and I rose on shaking legs and walked to the piano. There was a murmur through the congregation. The service always stayed close to tradition with little variance in narration or music. This was a surprise, and again, no one really knew I played.

  I sat down and closed my eyes in silent prayer, asking for the nerves to stay in my legs and not my hands. My knees could knock harmlessly without hurting my performance. Softly, I began to play, tuning into the beauty of the sound, the soaring reverence of the melody, the magnificence of the musical phrasing. The audience faded around me as I joyously submitted to the song, and when it was done I slowly descended back to earth. I rose from the piano on steady legs, having forgotten my nerves, and looked out over the silent congregation.

  My dad’s face was streaked with tears, and my brothers’ faces shone with pride. Aunt Louise and Tara smiled broadly, and Tara even waved excitedly before her mother noticed and pulled her hand down. Sonja was dabbing her eyes with a lacy hanky, her glasses in one hand.

  Then, from the back of the room, someone began to clap. Mormons don’t clap in worship services. The chapel is a reverent place, and speakers end sermons with an amen, followed by an amen from the congregation. When someone sings or plays, even amens are not given. The choir or performer knows how well they have been received only by the level of silence and attention that is afforded them.

  The clapping drew a little gasp from the churchgoers, and my eyes flew to see who was committing the faux pas. Toward the back of the church, standing next to the pew where his grandparents always sat, dressed in a white dress shirt and black pants, his hair pulled back off his face and secured in a low ponytail, was Samuel. He was clapping, his face serious and unashamed, and he kept clapping and clapping. His grandparents were seated beside him, their faces torn as to whether they should silence him or clap with him. Slowly, people began to join him, standing up around him as broad smiles broke out and the clapping became a roar.

  I stood unmoving, not knowing quite what to do, until Sonja stole to my side and asked me to play Schubert’s “Ave Maria” . I knew “Ave Maria” by heart only because I loved it. I had never intended to perform it, but the continued applause encouraged me, and I sat back down on the bench and began the unplanned encore, inviting my audience to be seated and listen. When I finished the intensely beautiful and sacred number, there was no clapping. The silence was total and complete, the room hushed, as the congregation wept openly.

  Sonja told me later there wasn’t a dry eye in the place. I found my eyes returning to where Samuel had stood. His eyes met mine, and he nodded once, solemnly. I slightly bowed and walked back to my pew where my father waited for me with open arms.

  * * *

  “You never told me you could play the piano like that.”

  Samuel and I were back on the bus again, the heat pouring out of the heaters under the seats, the smell of wet feet and rubber boots wafting up all around us. Christmas vacation was over, two weeks of freedom ended, and the kids were glum. I had not seen Samuel since the Christmas Eve service.

  “When was I supposed to tell you?” I asked, stumped. “We’ve never discussed music. Do you play an instrument?”

  “No. We have traditional songs—but I don’t really know anyone that plays an instrument.” Samuel looked at me in wonder. “But you... you play like...like no one I’ve ever heard.”

  “Thank you.” Samuel’s words washed me in pleasure. “And thank you for clapping,” I said softly. “It was the most beautiful moment of my life.” I realized I sounded a little overdramatic, and I felt my cheeks turn pink. But it was true. I had never experienced anything like it. The music, the applause, the beauty of the church, and the people I loved looking at me and listening to me. I had never in my life been the center of attention, and I knew now why people performed. I had learned to play simply for the love of music and for the joy it gave me. But performing definitely had its perks. Just thinking of Samuel, of the expression on his face as he stood and clapped for me! I would never forget it for as long as I lived.

  “It was for me, too.” Samuel’s voice was gruff, and I could see he was embarrassed by his admission. “I have never heard music like that.”

  “Did you know you weren’t supposed to clap?” I asked shyly, smiling at him.

  “Yes. But I couldn’t help myself.”

  “Someday, I’m going to travel the world, playing beautiful music, making people happy, hearing people clap,” I said dreamily, and for a moment we sat together in companionable silence, contemplating my future.

  “Would you like to hear something?” I asked him suddenly, reaching for my cassette player and my headphones. Sonja and Doc had given them to me for Christmas, and I had spent the remainder of the holidays making tapes from my favorite music in Sonja’s collection.

  I pulled out my Sony Walkman and popped it open, looking at the music inside. ‘Beethoven’ it read, in careful print. I pushed play and Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony filled my ears. I rewound it to the beginning and placed the earphones on Samuel’s ears. I listened to music loudly; you can’t really appreciate classical music, the rises, the individual notes and trills, if you don’t turn it up and give it your complete attention. I pushed play and held my breath.

  I don’t know why I cared so much. But I did. I felt like I was revealing something very private about myself, and Samuel’s approval and appreciation of this music was paramount to me. I had come to care deeply about his opinion, and I wasn’t quite sure how I would react if he rejected my music. It might feel like a rejection of me. If he said, “It’s okay” or “Hmmm, interesting” it might also affect the way I felt about him. Realizing this, I regretted my spontaneous gesture and tried to remove the headphones from his head. I suddenly didn’t want to know what he thought.

  His hands flew up and covered mine, and his eyes met mine fiercely as he pulled his head away. My hands fell to my lap, and I looked out the window dejectedly, waiting until he was finished. Every once in a while I sneaked looks at him. His eyes were cast downward, and his hands were locked over the earphones where he had placed them after my attempt to take them. There was rigidity to his posture that I couldn’t decipher. The music was loud enough that I could faintly hear when ‘Ode to Joy’ ended. I clicked the stop button, and Samuel slowly pulled the earphones from his head.

  “What is it called?” he asked, and there was reverence in his voice.

  “It’s Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. It’s also known as ‘Ode to Joy.’” Samuel looked at me as if he wanted to hear more.

  “Beethoven first heard the poem called “To Joy” more than 30 years before he set it to music with his Ninth Symphony. The ninth symphony was his last. By the time it was completed, Beethoven was deaf and sick. It had taken him ten years to complete it. He changed the ‘Joy’ theme over
two hundred different times until he was satisfied with it.” I stopped, not certain whether he wanted to hear more.

  “He was deaf?” Samuel’s voice lifted in astonishment.

  “Yes. Sonja told me that he couldn’t hear the audience applauding behind him when he conducted it for the first time in Vienna. A singer turned him around so that he could see the people cheering and clapping throughout the concert hall. He would lie on the floor during rehearsals so that he could feel the vibrations of the music.”

  “How did he know what it sounded like? I mean, in order to write music, don’t you need to be able to hear it?” Samuel replied in wonder.

  “It was inside him, I guess.” I pursed my lips in contemplation. “It was in his head and in his heart. I guess he felt the music, so he didn’t have to hear it with his physical ears.” I paused. “Sonja told me once that many of the great composers, including Beethoven, have said that the music they compose is in the air. That’s it’s already there, and you just have to be able to hear it. Most of us can’t. We can only appreciate that people like Beethoven seem to be able to, and then write down what they hear.”

  “Do you hear it?” Samuel asked, his eyes penetrating.

  “I don’t hear it…but I know it’s there.” I struggled to express something that I had never put into words. “Sometimes I think if I could just see without my eyes, the way I feel without my hands that I would be able to hear the music. I don’t use my hands to feel love or joy or heartache, but I still feel them all the same. My eyes let me see incredibly beautiful things, but sometimes I think that what I see gets in the way of what’s…what’s just beyond the beauty. Almost like the beauty I can see is just a very lovely curtain, distracting me from what’s on the other side…and if I just knew how to push that curtain aside, there the music would be.” I threw up my hands in frustration. “I can’t really explain it.”