Sticks and Stones - Lynn Hall (smarten punctuation)

by Lynn Hall

  “Sure, there are some weirdos, but there are also people like Thoreau, General Patton, Taylor Caldwell, Robert Frost—did you ever read his ‘Trial By Existence’? Do, sometime. And then there’s—”

  “You know what I like about you?” Tom said suddenly.

  “What?”

  “You can argue about something without letting it get personal. You don’t get your feelings hurt, or start throwing in insults along with your arguments. You’re fun to fight with.”

  “Yeah,” Ward said from across the dark room. “You, too. Now shut up and let me finish what I was saying. Did you ever stop to think …”

  Smiling, Tom slid deeper into the sleeping bag.

  12

  The state music regional competition was held in Decorah, about an hour’s drive from Buck Creek. Tom and Ward left at six to give Tom some time to warm up before the eight o’clock performance. They went in Charlotte’s car, and Charlotte and Dr. Werle followed a little later in his car. Charlotte had said Tom and Ward should ride with her and Dr. Werle, that it was silly to take two cars, but she hadn’t insisted, and Tom had the feeling that she was relieved to have the boys going separately.

  Tom was pleasantly surprised at Ward’s appearance when he stopped at Sweet Ridge to pick him up. “You really look sharp,” he said. “I guess I’ve never seen you in anything but shorts and Jesus shoes. That’s a good-looking suit.”

  “You’re no slouch yourself, my friend.”

  Tom’s suit was dark and well cut; Ward wore a soft green suit with a pale green shirt and a green-and-gold paisley tie.

  “How do you feel?” Ward said as they maneuvered the woods road.

  “Good. Nervous, of course, but I know that I know my music, and I think I’ve got onto the knack of controlling myself during that last-minute jitters time. The competition will be a lot rougher this time, of course, but I feel I can handle it okay.”

  The drive was pleasant. It was cool enough for suit coats to feel good, and the car heater gave a comfortable warmth to their ankles. Most of Tom’s mind was on his music, going over and over the one passage that sometimes gave him trouble, but with the rest of his mind he was aware of Ward’s silent support. He was glad now that Karen hadn’t gone with him.

  When they got to their destination—another high school gym—Tom left Ward out front and went onto the stage where the piano waited behind the curtain. For the moment no one else was using it, so he sat down and opened his music. The piano was old and scarred, but the tone was rich, and as yet his nervousness was not affecting his brain or his fingers, just his intestines. He ran through the music twice, then relinquished the piano to a girl who stood waiting for it.

  The backstage area was filling up now. Mr. Knapp stood in one corner with the other Great River contestants, giving advice they were too nervous to hear. He was a small man with a huge acne-pitted nose and hair that lay in threads across his scalp. He had never been known to raise his voice to a student; many of them made fun of him.

  As Tom joined the group, Mr. Knapp said, “You all right, Tom?”

  “Yes, sir. I tried out the piano. It sounds good.”

  “Your nerves okay? There’s a water fountain over there, rest rooms around the corner. You look nice. You all look fine,” he said to the group, “and I know you’re going to sound fine, too. Just bear in mind when you get out there, we want you to win, but if you goof, it won’t be the end of the world. So don’t get yourselves all worked up about this. No one ever died of a wrong note. We’ve got plenty of time yet, if you want to go out front for a little bit.”

  Tom tried to catch Karen’s glance, but she was busy talking to one of her fellow horn players, so he left the group and wandered out to where the audience was beginning to fill the rows of folding metal chairs. It was not a large crowd, mostly parents and friends of the contestants. He had no trouble finding his mother and Dr. Werle. Ward was sitting with them.

  Charlotte was smartly dressed, and her cheeks were pink with excitement. With an uncomfortable feeling Tom realized how she must look to Dr. Werle. Beautiful. He nodded to the dentist and smiled as politely as he was able.

  He didn’t like the man, but could find no better reason for disliking him than that the backs of his hands were covered with tufts of coarse black hair.

  He was a big man with a golfer’s suntan and a rim of black hair around an otherwise bald head. Dr. Werle had never been anything less than cordial to Tom, but still the feeling was there.

  “I’m glad you could come,” Tom said to him.

  “Wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Any son of Char’s is a—well, I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. I’m proud of you, Tom.”

  While Tom was wondering what right this character had to be proud of him, his eyes met Ward’s. Ward’s face was perfectly straight, but far back in his eyes was a gleam that said “You and me, together. Never mind about them.”

  “Well, I’d better be getting back there,” Tom said, rising.

  Charlotte’s hand touched his sleeve and stopped him. “Meet us by the door afterwards. We’ll all go out somewhere and celebrate your victory. Now get in there and show them how.”

  This is the worst time, he thought as he went behind the curtain. Waiting. Fifteen more minutes. Can I hold back this stupid stage fright another fifteen minutes plus however long it takes them to get around to me?

  Yes, I can, he assured himself. I know my music, and I know I’m a good pianist. I play clearly and precisely, and my phrasing and volume control are perfect. If anyone has a chance of getting a one-rating tonight, it’s me.

  Two hours later, when the performances were finished and the ratings announced, four of the six Great River students in competition had qualified for state finals—Tom, Karen, and two junior boys.

  Backstage, the four stood in a semicircle around Mr. Knapp, basking in his pride. From beyond the curtain came the muted sounds of scraping chairs, shuffling feet, voices of parents, shouts of unruly children forced to sit too long on hard seats.

  Tom’s mind was a soft floating blank. All the good sensations wafted into him and buoyed him. He thought perhaps there was a silly smile on his face, but he didn’t care. Mr. Knapp had met him as he came off the stage when he was through playing, and had said, “Mr. Naylor, you are a professional.” His voice had been low and direct, and there had been a brightness in his eyes.

  Tom felt a touch on his shoulder. Ward was there, beaming.

  “I couldn’t wait,” Ward said simply. “Tom, you were—I was proud—I just sat there …” His arm was a vise of muscle around Tom’s shoulders, and with a quick self-conscious gesture he gripped the back of Tom’s neck. His eyes slipped away from Tom’s then, and his face went red.

  “Want me to wait at the car, or are you through back here?”

  Tom glanced toward Mr. Knapp, who was holding Karen’s horn and showing her something about the fingering.

  “I guess I’m ready to go,” Tom said. He turned toward the door with Ward still close beside him. Mr. McNamar, the high school principal, was standing near the door, looking at Tom with an odd, intent expression.

  Charlotte and Dr. Werle were waiting in the parking lot, Charlotte with a quick hug and Dr. Werle with hearty congratulations. The four of them walked the two blocks to the Decorah Hotel

  Coffee Shop for a victory celebration of chili and coffee. Tom and Ward stayed the minimum length of time demanded by politeness, then left Charlotte and Dr. Werle sitting over a second cup of coffee.

  As they walked to the car, Ward said, “You want me to drive home?”

  “Yes. How did you know I didn’t feel like driving right now?”

  “I didn’t. I just figured you might like to relax in all your glory, going home. Besides, you’re the big hero of the evening. You deserve to be chauffed.”

  “You mean chauffeured?”

  “No, chauffed. A chauffeur is one who chauffes, and I shall now chauffe you home.” Ward grinned.


  Tom sprawled in the front seat, happy and completely exhausted by the strain of having controlled his nerves so long and so tightly. He closed his eyes and sighed.

  “At the risk of sounding maudlin,” Ward said when they were on the highway, “I could sit and listen to you play all night. You have a touch, you know it? When you play, I get the feeling you’re not just playing single notes. It’s—I don’t know how to say it—all in one piece, like the music is coming out of your head instead of ten individual fingers.”

  “Twelve. That’s the secret of my success. I have these two extra fingers.”

  “No, be serious. I knew you could play the piano—I heard you that first night I came to your place, remember? You were playing ‘None But the Lonely Heart,’ and it was really beautiful, but till tonight I didn’t realize how professional you are.”

  Tom wanted to say something modest, but he was so filled with the evening’s accomplishment that he couldn’t think of anything convincingly humble to say. He had his one-rating, his chance at the state finals, and in addition he was sure the applause that followed his final chords was longer and more enthusiastic than any of the other musicians’. He was exhausted now, but through the center of his system ran a current of electricity. He had never felt so alive.

  This is what my life is all about, he thought. This is the way I want to live.

  “Ward, you’re probably the best friend I’ve ever had or ever will have. Would you tell me something, no bull?”

  “No bull.”

  “In your opinion, would a person be crazy to try to make a living playing the piano? I don’t mean playing in night clubs or giving lessons to little kids. I mean really playing, like tonight.”

  Ward thought a moment, then said, “If you mean you, I’d say you have the talent. It would depend on the breaks you got, and on how hard you wanted to work at it. I don’t imagine very many ever make it the way you want to make it, but on the other hand not very many unpublished writers make it either. All I can say is, I think both of us are the kind that has to try. I might end up writing copy for the local radio station; you might end up playing in a night club, but wouldn’t even that be better than not trying at all?”

  They had driven several miles before Tom said, “Yes, I guess it would.”

  In the hotel coffee shop, Charlotte and Dr. Werle sat over empty coffee cups.

  “What do you think of that Ward boy?” he asked abruptly.

  Charlotte smiled. “I think he’s charming. It took Tom so long to find a good friend when we moved here that I’m just grateful Ward came along. Why? Don’t you like him?”

  Dr. Werle frowned. “I’m not sure. Nothing I can put my finger on, but there’s something about him that just makes me uncomfortable.”

  “Ah”—Charlotte waved him away—“you don’t like him because you can’t see any cavities when he smiles.”

  They laughed, and in the midst of their laughter something serious flashed between them. He picked up her hands and held them inside his.

  The gesture was seen and noted by two women in a booth on the far side of the coffee shop— Miriam Short, Robert’s mother; and Carol Andersen, whose son Al was one of the junior boys who had also received one-ratings tonight. Both boys had had dates, so they were doing their celebrating someplace else.

  The two women smiled at each other, then looked again at Charlotte Naylor and her date.

  “They make a nice couple, don’t they?” Mrs. Short said.

  “Um. Wonder if anything is going to come of it?”

  “I hope so. Dr. Werle would be a good catch, and I like Charlotte, don’t you?”

  Mrs. Andersen said, “I don’t really know her that well, but she seems nice. I wonder if Dr. Werle knows about—well, what kind of a stepson he’d be getting. Not that it should make any difference, but still…”

  “Yes, I know what you mean. Oh,” Mrs. Short said thoughtfully, “I don’t imagine he knows unless he’s figured it out for himself. I’m sure no one would be tactless enough to just go up to him and say ‘Hi, Dr. Werle. Did you know Charlotte’s son is, ahem, effeminate?’ And besides, nobody from around Buck Creek is going to say anything against one of their own people to somebody from Elkader”

  Mrs. Andersen nodded. “That’s right. It isn’t any of Elkader’s business what goes on in Buck Creek. They’re not all perfect over there, you know.”

  Mrs. Short smiled to herself. She was a native of Philadelphia, and even after five years of living in Buck Creek, she was still amused by many aspects of life here, like the burning little jealousies between neighboring towns.

  “It’s a shame about Tom,” she said kindly. “He seems like such a nice kid on the surface. It just goes to show, I guess.”

  “I guess so,” Mrs. Anderson agreed, not quite understanding what she was agreeing with.

  Compassion shone in Mrs. Short’s eyes as she looked toward Charlotte Naylor. “I get annoyed with Robert sometimes, but I’m just so darned glad he’s, you know, normal. Just think what it would be like to have a son like that.”

  They were quiet for a long moment. When Mrs. Andersen spoke, there was foreboding in her voice.

  “I just had a thought.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It just occurred to me. Both Tom Naylor and Al got one-ratings tonight. Now, doesn’t that mean both of them will be going to Des Moines for the finals?”

  Mrs. Short frowned. “As I understand it, yes. Why?”

  Mrs. Andersen didn’t answer, but she stared down into her coffee cup, her forehead wrinkled with concern.

  13

  In November, on the Friday night that fell between Tom’s birthday and Ward’s, Charlotte had a birthday dinner for both of them. It was just a small dinner, the three of them plus Dr. Werle, but Charlotte made liver and shrimp hors d’oeuvres and a roast chicken in wine sauce. There was sherry before the meal and chartreuse after the cake.

  The dinner was a complete success. Charlotte wore a dress Tom hadn’t seen her wear for a long time; she was flushed and gay and managed to be everywhere at the right moment, unobtrusively seeing that everyone had what he needed. During the meal she and Ward kept the conversation lively.

  When the cake plates had been cleared away and the liqueur served, Charlotte stood up.

  “Gentlemen, and especially Tom, I have an announcement I’d like to make.”

  As Tom looked toward her, he caught the expression on Dr. Werle’s face, and suddenly he knew what the announcement was going to be. He glanced at Ward.

  Ward was studying him. A long steady look passed between them that said to Tom “Steady. I’m with you.”

  Charlotte cleared her throat. “Tom, the day after tomorrow you will be seventeen years old. Harv and I thought this might be an appropriate time to tell you, well, the shirt and slacks were only part of your birthday present. The other part, if you approve, is—a new father.” Her hand gripped Dr. Werle’s shoulder, and immediately he covered it with his own. Both of them searched Tom’s face for a reaction.

  The actual words that made the probability a fact had less impact on Tom than he had expected them to. He looked from his mother to the man she was going to marry, and all he could feel was a detached kind of moodiness. He thought, This hairy-handed dentist isn’t one of my favorite people; he isn’t what I would have chosen for her, and I probably will never really like him, but then it doesn’t matter whether I like him or not, or even whether I approve. In less than a year I’ll be gone. So if she loves him and wants him, I guess I should be glad she has him.

  Ward made a move to rise. “This is a family thing,” he said. “Why don’t I go for a walk?”

  “Nonsense,” Charlotte said, still looking at Tom. “You’re Tom’s friend, and that makes you part of the family. Well, Tom, what do you think?” Her voice was suddenly unsure.

  To his surprise Tom felt tears stinging behind his eyes. He got up and went around the table to give his mother a quick hug and Harv an awkward ha
ndshake.

  “I can’t say I’m very surprised,” he said. “You’ve been going around here in a fog for weeks. I think it’s great, I really do.”

  The threat of tears was lost in the gaiety that followed. All four of them crowded into the kitchen to help with the dishes and talk about the marriage plans. Nothing definite yet, Charlotte said, but probably the wedding would be next June after Tom’s graduation. While she washed the dishes and handed them to her three well-dressed driers, they talked about whether to sell The Cottage or lease it so that if Tom ever wanted to come back and run it, he could.

  “I’ll be too busy making the concert tours,” he teased. His eyes met Ward’s and found approval there.

  “Listen,” Charlotte said suddenly, “I don’t need this many dish-driers. Tom, hang up your towel and give us some music.”

  Ward followed Tom into the living room, still carrying a plate and a towel. “Play what you’re going to play at state finals,” he said. “Or have you decided yet?”

  “Yep. A Chopin medley—The Military Polonaise, Fantaisie-Impromptu in C-sharp minor, and Nocturne in E-flat major. I don’t have it all worked together, but I can kind of show you how it goes.”

  He played, loving the music doubly because he was aware of Ward sitting on the floor behind him and loving it, too. When he came to the end, Ward said, “Play it again,” and he did. This time when he finished, he heard his mother and Dr. Werle murmuring together in the kitchen. He was irritated with them for not loving the music as he did, for rattling pans and splashing water during the delicate dreaminess of Fantaisie-Impromptu and the stirring, crashing chords of Polonaise.

  Ward moved up to the piano bench beside him, so they could talk without being heard in the kitchen.

  “I take it you weren’t very surprised by the big announcement tonight,” Ward said.

  Tom shrugged. “Not very.”

  “You don’t particularly like him, do you?”

  “Let’s just say I probably won’t be sitting on his knee and calling him Daddy. I don’t know; I just can’t seem to get very worked up about it one way or the other. My dad is remarried—I guess I told you that—so I don’t have any feeling of Harv’s cutting him out, or anything like that. And I really think Harv is okay. I mean, he’ll be good to her. Probably better than my dad was.”