American Anthem

by BJ Hoff

  She went into the hallway. The gas lamps cast the length of the long narrow corridor in shadows. The door to Caterina’s bedroom was ajar, and the wolfhound stuck his head out just enough to satisfy himself that it was only Susanna before turning and going back inside.

  Somewhere something banged, and Susanna jumped. But when the noise continued, she recognized it as the loose shutter at the drawing room window and hurried downstairs to close it. Dempsey had been grumbling about the annoyance a few nights past but hadn’t gotten around to fixing it yet.

  After closing the shutter, she left the room and stood for a moment in the vestibule, unable to decide what to do. She wasn’t accustomed to wandering about at so late an hour, when the rest of the household was abed. The storm battering the house and the night creaks of the large old mansion all around her made her feel peculiarly small. Vulnerable. Even alien, as if she didn’t actually belong here.

  Foolishness. It was just a house, just a storm. Still, she would be glad when tomorrow came and the MacGovern family would arrive. There was a husband and wife—and children. Perhaps Bantry Hill would no longer seem so austere, with more children about.

  And the MacGoverns were Irish. Ever since Michael had told her about them, she had found herself entertaining hopes that she and Mrs. MacGovern might become friends. The longer she was here, the more she missed the companionship of other women. Rosa Navaro visited as often as she could and made every attempt to be kind, but most of the time she was almost as busy as Michael. She traveled a great deal, and even when she was at home, she was most often involved with her private students or some civic event.

  Moira Dempsey had been decent enough to her, but the housekeeper was aging right before Susanna’s eyes and seemed either unwilling or unable to expend the effort a real friendship would require. Not to mention Susanna’s bewildering suspicion that the woman harbored some sort of resentment toward her. Occasionally she would make a sour remark about “too much education” or “those who get above their raising.” “Uppity” was the word she used to describe these unidentified pretenders to a higher plane. And more confusing still was the baleful look the woman would occasionally fix on Susanna when she and Michael were together—a look that seemed to border on distrust.

  Susanna knew the Dempseys held great affection for Michael; indeed, their behavior toward him was almost like that of doting parents with a favorite son. But why their fondness for Michael should translate to resentment of her was a puzzle.

  She finally willed herself to move, starting down the hall. In spite of the gas lights, the rooms all the way down were dark and unwelcoming, and the house was cold. Moira Dempsey didn’t hold with the “extravagance” of leaving a fire in an unoccupied space, so before leaving her room, Susanna had grabbed a shawl to throw over her gingham shirtwaist. Now she gathered it more snugly around her shoulders against the chill.

  On impulse, she headed for the music room. She would build a fire, she decided, and she would play. When nothing else could still the unrest in her, music would. Neither the smell of wood smoke nor the sound of the piano was likely to rouse the Dempseys, who slept at the opposite end of the house, and if Caterina happened to wake, she would merely turn over and go back to sleep.

  Michael had told her to use the room whenever she liked, after all.

  First she laid a fire, knowing the large, drafty room with its high ceilings and tall windows would take some time to heat.

  As she sat down at the piano, she felt oddly shy, almost like an intruder. It wasn’t as if the keyboard were foreign to her; she accompanied Caterina and Michael when they sometimes sang together in the evenings and played for Caterina’s lessons. On occasion she even helped Michael with his composing.

  But it was different coming to the magnificent instrument alone, with no purpose except to please herself, and with the luxury of knowing she could play whatever she liked with no one to listen.

  At first, she touched the cool ivory keys tentatively, as if they might crack under too much pressure. She roamed over the bass, its rich timbre calling forth a sigh of satisfaction from her. After a few arpeggios, she ran the scales, grimacing at the stiffness of her fingers from lack of practice. Finally, she slipped into a Bach invention. After that, there was nothing else in the room for her except the piano and the music.

  At the conclusion of the Bach, she moved to Chopin, as she always did when seeking an emotional—or even a physical—release. The delicate, fragile composer, whose sentimentality often belied the storm in his soul, never failed to absorb her with his elegant and brilliant artistry, flawless even in the most intense, anguishing passages.

  At first she sought the grace and peace of the nocturnes, but it took only a few moments to realize that she wanted more than the simple tranquillity of the night songs. Like the storm roaring down over the river valley, a tempest seemed to be gathering in her spirit. She needed to empty herself of the turbulence—or else tame it.

  She turned away from the nocturnes and tried the G-minor Ballade—a mistake, she knew almost at once, because she was clumsy and out of form. She could not maintain the intensity and passion of the piece, nor could she endure its tragic undertones.

  At any other time she might have stopped then and there, frustrated by her own lack of discipline, but by now she was beyond quitting. Her agitation had built a fire in her that even the music seemed powerless to contain. She dived headlong into the tempestuous C-minor etude—the Revolutionary. It was more an attack than an interpretation, but Susanna didn’t care. This was not intended for the ears of an audience, after all—indeed, not even for her own ears, but more for her heart and her spirit.

  Encouraged that she had not entirely decimated the great Pole’s creation with her rusty technique, she next went to the Military Polonaise. In her present fever, she was ready to do battle, but she was also growing tired, and the demands of the polonaise worked to still the storm.

  Fatigue set in as she began the Fantaisie-Impromptu, a work personally disliked by Chopin himself, but for some reason a favorite of Susanna’s—perhaps for the very extravagance of emotion the music’s composer had disdained.

  Her fingers caressed the keys now, her pulse slowing as the chaos in her spirit dissipated. As inept and out of practice as she knew herself to be, the aching melody of the Fantaisie nevertheless adhered itself to her soul, sweeping her up and carrying her along, making her a part of the music.

  She completed the piece and rested for a moment. The effort demanded by the music had drained much of the day’s tension from her. And even through the fatigue, an unexpected sense of elation infused her. She felt revived and strengthened.

  Her glance came to rest on the manuscript on top of the piano—Michael’s American Anthem—and she reached for it, flipping through the first few pages. Paul’s musical notation was neat and precise, and, knowing him, Susanna felt certain he took great pains to transcribe every note and dynamic exactly as Michael communicated it.

  After a slight hesitation, she chose a portion of the manuscript she hadn’t yet played through and propped it on the music rack in front of her. She remembered the afternoon she’d first played a portion of the music at Michael’s direction, how enthralled she had been at the genius that blazed from each page. What a thrill it must be, to perform a magnificent work such as this—an unparalleled experience, surely.

  She began to play; forgetting about her inadequacies, she gave herself up to the music. From childhood, she had possessed a keen ability to “hear” sounds in her inner ear, even to re-create complicated musical structures in her mind. But when she tried to imagine the ultimate performance of this work, she could never capture more than a faint echo of its greatness. For now, she could only content herself with what she was able to reproduce at the keyboard, and even that was enough to move her to tears.

  No matter how confusing her emotions toward Michael might be, when it came to his incredible musicianship, she could only stand in awe. It was more tha
n artistry, more than skill, or even genius. Something far less tangible, something indescribable, marked Michael’s music. Rosa Navaro and Miss Fanny Crosby would call it anointing, the touch of the Divine.

  When she had first come to Bantry Hill, Susanna might well have scorned the thought, but no longer. Dwelling under Michael’s roof, observing the way he lived his life, seeing the father he was to Caterina—and being a recipient of the kindness and grace he extended so freely—had finally compelled her to turn from the suspicion and distrust that had molded her earlier opinion of him.

  Eventually, as she was drawn more and more into his life—and especially into his music, which was almost like being drawn into his soul—she’d had to concede that this man, whom her own sister had despised and even tormented, was a good man. A man of integrity and faith and a generous spirit. A man to respect.

  And a man she feared she was growing to love.

  Michael brushed the icy rain from his hair as he stood outside the closed doors to the music room. He had waited a long time to hear Susanna play like this—unobserved, free, abandoned.

  Although the Chopin was rough in places and her technique not entirely under control, he warmed to the fire with which she imbued the latter part of the C-minor etude, the Revolutionary. Chopin was not one of Michael’s favorites. He admired his unwavering perfectionism and artistry, but much of the composer’s music was too fussy for his personal taste. As for the Revolutionary, the only time the tempestuous piece failed to annoy him was when he was in excessively high spirits.

  But that was before tonight. He found himself captivated by Susanna’s interpretation of the piece. A kind of angry defiance drove her. More than that, she seemed to sense what most pianists—even Michael himself—tended to forget or ignore about the puzzling combinations of emotion that characterized Chopin’s work and made him unique. Critics often pointed to Michael’s own mix of Italian and Irish in an attempt to analyze the varied palette his heritage inevitably brought to his music. In the same way, Chopin, while most passionate about his native Poland, had inherited from both his French father and his Polish mother the traits that contributed to his genius. Strict form and passion, lyricism and bravura, whimsy and melancholy—an entire spectrum of attributes worked together to shape the composer’s music and no doubt accounted for the brilliance others might imitate but could never emulate.

  Susanna managed to unearth this diversity in her playing, and yet she considered herself, in her own words, merely “competent.” What could possibly account for her skewed self-perception, her conviction that her musicianship was somehow lacking? Had she never performed for anyone but herself? Had no one ever recognized her gift and affirmed it?

  Surely, if no one else had realized, Deirdre would have. And yet once, when he’d questioned Deirdre about her younger sister, she had carelessly discredited Susanna’s musical skills as “pedestrian, at best.”

  But of course, she would have. In Deirdre’s estimation, the abilities of all others paled in the light of her own.

  Scarcely aware of what he was doing, Michael followed her through the music, instinctively directing her now and then, nodding his head with pleasure and approval. He thought he could hear her begin to tire a little by the time she ended the Polonaise and turned to the dreamier Fantaisie. There was a long silence, then the rustling of paper and, thinking she had finished, he reached for the doorknob. But he stopped when she suddenly launched into a portion of his own Anthem—the cantare section, in which he had developed a blend of brief works from various nations, a multicultural set of hymns as well as selections incorporating the newer gospel music form.

  Michael’s pulse began to race with excitement.

  Somehow, she heard what he had heard as it poured from his spirit. In her playing were the same subtleties of emotion, the same reaching and receiving, a soaring past the limits, then a subsiding. The separateness and the coming together, the divisions and the harmony…

  She understood. She had found a link to his heart, his spirit, and was now pouring out her perceptions into the music and, in so doing, giving him a glimpse into his own soul.

  And hers.

  A thrill of elation seized him as the music with which he had so long struggled and experimented echoed behind the closed doors. Hearing her grasp and deliver what he had created only made him burn even more to move forward, to continue the work, to go on discovering and creating and refining.

  Moreover, the realization of Susanna’s understanding, her partnership in this, his most important venture, brought her closer to him. Hearing her play helped him to know her…and made him wish to know her even better, to know everything that made her…Susanna.

  And with that realization came an urgency to make her grasp and accept her own ability—her exceptional ability. Her gift. Always, when he tried to convince her, she would dismiss him with either an awkward protest or a pretense of amusement, as if he were merely being foolish. And always he retreated, fearful of exerting unwanted pressure.

  Perhaps Susanna suffered from her own sort of blindness: an inability to see herself as she really was. He wanted to find a way to make her believe him, to help her comprehend what he had sensed the first time he had ever heard her at the keyboard.

  Perhaps there was a way. A way that might benefit them both, even bring them closer together.

  At last, silence fell behind the doors, and, taking a deep breath, Michael slipped the dark glasses from his pocket, put them on, and walked quickly into the room.

  “Brava, Susanna! Well done.”

  Susanna turned to see Michael standing in the doorway. He was still dressed as he had been earlier in the day, in soft gray tweeds and a black sweater.

  Humiliation flooded through her. How much had he heard? “Michael—I thought you were staying in the city.”

  “I decided I should come back.” He walked the rest of the way into the room, not stopping until he reached the piano. “The MacGoverns are moving in tomorrow. I didn’t want to be away when they arrived.”

  “Oh—yes. Yes, I…should have reminded you…I’m glad you remembered.” She closed the keyboard and twisted her hands in her lap. “I…perhaps I shouldn’t have come down so late. I couldn’t sleep…I didn’t think there was any danger of waking anyone.”

  He dismissed her concerns with a wave of his hand. “Don’t apologize. As I told you, Susanna, the piano is for your use anytime you wish. I enjoyed your music.” He paused. “I must tell you, Susanna—the more I hear you play, the more I believe you are just the person I am looking for.”

  When she didn’t answer, he went on. “For some time now,” he said, “I have been in need of a dependable pianist and organist for the orchestra. Someone who would be willing to work with us full-time. I believe you would be perfect.”

  Susanna sat dumbstruck, staring at him in disbelief. “Well,” she finally managed, “I’m relieved to see that you couldn’t have been listening very long.”

  “I expected you to say something like that,” he said, smiling. “Actually, I have been listening for quite some time, and I am entirely serious. I continue to use guests on a temporary basis because I have yet to find the right person for a permanent position. I would like it very much if you would consider my offer.”

  “You can’t be serious! You know I’m not capable.”

  “I know nothing of the kind,” he said evenly. “I believe you are exactly what I am looking for. In fact, I know you are. But we have discussed your abilities before, no? My challenge is to convince you of what I already know.”

  He was serious. Or else somewhat mad.

  “You really don’t understand,” she said, trying to steady her voice. He had triggered a disturbing mix of panic—and something akin to hunger—in her.

  “Even if I were capable—which I know very well I’m not, no matter what you say—I could never carry it off. I literally freeze when I have to perform. I’ve always been that way—I hate being in front of an audience! I’
d humiliate myself. I couldn’t possibly do what you’re suggesting.”

  Susanna hadn’t meant to be quite so truthful and was mortified by her outburst. But perhaps it was for the best. His suggestion was unthinkable.

  “I would never pressure you to do something you truly do not want to do, Susanna. And I understand about the stage fright. I was once acquainted with that particular demon myself.”

  When Susanna attempted to voice a protest, he ignored her. “It’s true,” he said. “You’d be surprised. But I learned that stage fright can be managed, even turned to your benefit. You can master the fear by confronting it—and relying on God to complete the work He’s begun in you. I know you trust God’s faithfulness, and if you trust my musical instincts at all, then believe me when I tell you that you have the ability to do this.”

  “Michael—I’ve told you before—”

  “Siete dotati! Do you not hear me? You are gifted. Truly gifted! Why can you not accept what I tell you? Susanna, listen to me, please. We are friends now, are we not?”

  “Friends? Yes. Yes, of course.”

  “And so then, do you trust me—as your friend?”

  Confused, Susanna watched him closely, even as she searched her heart for the answer. “Yes, Michael,” she said softly. “I trust you.”

  “And you trust my ability as a musician, no?”

  “Oh, Michael, you know I do! You’re an incredible musician—”

  He waved off anything else she might have said. “Then I ask you to trust my judgment. As a musician. As your friend. And as someone who…cares for you and wants only your best. Can you do that, just for this moment?”

  He was leaning over her, his damp hair falling over his forehead, the dark glasses securely in place. Then, without waiting for her to reply, he extended his hands toward her.

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