by Cary Fagan
“I’d appreciate all the help I can get,” Jeremiah said.
Ms. Threap straightened up and smiled. “You’re on, Larry. You can build a banjo. Personally, I prefer the sound of the accordion. I just love my Friday night polka group. But that’s another kettle of fish. Let’s get you started.”
The first step was to take some measurements. Jeremiah had managed to sneak the broken chair to school. With Ms. Threap’s help, he saw that the leg was indeed long enough, and just wide enough, too. She showed him how to use a pencil and triangle to make a line and then use a saw to cut the leg from the rest of chair.
When it was free, he unclamped it from the vice and held it in his hands. It felt more like a fence post than a banjo neck, but it was a start.
The next task was harder. A banjo neck was narrower at the top. Ms. Threap showed him how to use a chisel and a wooden mallet to carefully chip away at the wood.
Jeremiah worked for the whole class and then came back at the end of the day. When the hand holding the chisel slipped, his heart jumped. For a moment he thought that he had cracked the whole neck instead of just chipping off a bit.
Finally Mrs. Threap said she had to close up, and he brushed the wood chips from his clothes and ran to find Monroe waiting with the limousine.
He climbed into the passenger seat.
“I’ve been waiting almost an hour,” Monroe said.
“I’m sorry. I had some extra work to do.”
“It isn’t me I’m worried about. You’ve missed your ballroom dancing lesson.”
Jeremiah groaned. “Mom and Dad aren’t going to be too happy.”
“Not only that,” said Monroe. “Today you were going to learn how to rumba.”
5
Pedagogical Study Number Eight
JEREMIAH’S PARENTS were indeed displeased to hear that he had missed ballroom dancing. But Jeremiah told them that he had been working on a particularly ambitious industrial design project that would require extra hours. He asked whether he could, just temporarily, of course, skip some of his after-school activities.
“Industrial design is a much more important subject than most people realize,” Jeremiah said. “I mean, just think of the design work that went into the dental-floss dispenser.”
“That’s true,” said his father. “What do you think, Abigail?”
His mother finished arranging some rare orchids in a vase. “I don’t think missing a few classes would hurt. Except piano, of course.”
“Thanks!” Jeremiah hugged them both.
“So what is this ambitious project you’re building?” his father asked.
Jeremiah froze. Slowly he looked to the left and right and then over his parents’ heads so he didn’t have to look them in the eyes.
“I’d like to keep it a surprise. Would that be okay?”
“I know,” his mother said. “It’s for my birthday, isn’t it? Oh, don’t tell me. Do you think I’m going to be very surprised?”
Jeremiah nodded. “Pretty surprised.”
•••
PERHAPS JEREMIAH would have enjoyed the piano more if he had had a different teacher. But Jeremiah’s parents insisted that he study with Maestro Boris, a retired concert pianist famous for screaming, ripping up sheet music and tossing it like confetti, strangling himself, thrashing his cane in the air, and otherwise striking terror in the hearts of his students.
When the Maestro swept in, Jeremiah was already seated at the Hoosendorfer Deluxe Concert Grand. His frightened reflection gazed back at him from its brilliant black surface.
Maestro Boris clapped his hands.
“Begin!” he commanded. “Pedagogical Study Number Eight. You have been practicing, yes? Let me hear.”
The piece was from the Maestro’s own book of music compositions. Jeremiah tried to steady his shaking hands.
He was not even halfway through when the Maestro began rapping his cane on the floor like a series of gunshots.
“No, no, no! A thousand times no! Do you think that is how Horowitz would have played it? Or Rubinstein? You sound as if you are wearing hockey gloves. You must be light, carefree, a butterfly flitting from branch to branch. And look how you slouch! Sit up, be proud. Now try again!”
Jeremiah started at the beginning, the Maestro banged his cane, and on it went.
When the half hour was over, the Maestro took his silk handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his brow. Jeremiah’s mother came into the room with an envelope of crisp bills, which was how the Maestro preferred to be paid.
“I am wasting my time,” the Maestro said, peeking into the envelope and then tucking it inside his jacket. “Your son is without a shred of talent. He has no ear. I think maybe he even has no soul.”
“Please, Maestro Boris, don’t give up. The student talent night is almost here. We think it’s just so very important for Jeremiah’s self-esteem that he perform. He will try harder. Won’t you, Jeremiah?”
Jeremiah thought no. Jeremiah said, “Yes.”
“As you wish,” the Maestro said with a sigh. “Perhaps next time you might have a glass of red wine waiting for me. Something French and very dry.”
“Yes, of course,” said Jeremiah’s mother. “We’re just so grateful for your efforts.”
“Of course you are,” said the Maestro, sweeping out of the house.
After the Maestro was gone, Jeremiah went down to the basement. His father had put a workshop next to the ultramodern furnace and air-conditioning system, so that Wilson could fix things. A long wooden workbench stood along the wall, with vices attached to it. On a pegboard hung hammers, chisels, saws, rasps.
Jeremiah had brought the length of wood home from school. Ms. Threap said the next stage was to round the back of the banjo neck so that his hand could wrap comfortably around it and slide up and down to play the fingerboard. Ms. Threap had told him how to put the wood in a vice and use a rasp, holding it in two hands and pushing it across to shave the wood.
Shaping the neck was tiring. The wood shavings tickled Jeremiah’s nose and made him sneeze. But very slowly the back of the neck began to look rounded. When his arms ached too much to go on, he swept up the shavings and went upstairs. Then he took a long soak in the marble hot tub that was so big he could have shared it with a couple of hippos.
Afterwards, Jeremiah lay on his bed with his headphones on. He listened to Glen Smith playing “Sourwood Mountain” and Tommy Jarrell playing and singing “John Brown’s Dream.” Glen Smith had a quick, rough, plucky sound while Tommy Jarrell was precise and chiming.
They weren’t trying to sound like anybody else, thought Jeremiah. They just sounded like themselves.
•••
JEREMIAH COULDN’T work on his banjo for the next three days because his parents made him take his after-school lessons. And after dinner he had to practice piano for the talent night.
He did work on the banjo in shop class, though. Ms. Threap showed him how to smooth the rounded back of the neck with sandpaper.
“Getting there,” Ms. Threap said. “But not smooth enough. You want it smooth as silk. You need to use at least two more grades of extra-fine sandpaper.”
That evening, just as Jeremiah and his parents were finishing dinner, the doorbell rang. The maid let in Luella.
“How nice to see you, dear,” said Jeremiah’s mother. “You’re just in time for dessert.”
“I’ve already eaten, actually. Is that a sour cream caramel soufflé? Well, in that case...” She sat across from Jeremiah. “Really I just came by to see how Jeremiah is doing on his…um…project.” She forked up some soufflé. “Yum,” she murmured.
“Jeremiah’s been very dedicated to his industrial design project,” his father said. “It’s really very gratifying to see that he’s inherited some of his mother’s and my determination.”
/> “Yes, very gratifying,” said Luella, only it sounded like wery grawifieen due to a large mouthful of soufflé.
“And of course we can’t wait to see it,” said Jeremiah’s mother.
Luella swallowed. “Oh, you’ll be thrilled at what your little J.B. has got up to.”
“Let’s go downstairs,” Jeremiah said firmly. “Now.”
“Just let me finish this. It’s fantastic. What is that wonderful flavor I detect, Mrs. B.? Ginger? No. Vanilla?”
Jeremiah’s mother smiled. “Something French. It’s called Cointreau.”
“Well, it’s sure yummy. Maybe I’ll just have a little smidgen more…”
Luella took her time finishing. She slowly wiped her mouth on a napkin. Then she thanked his parents again.
At last they were excused and went down the hall to the back stairway to the basement.
“For a minute there,” Jeremiah said, “I thought you were going to climb onto the table and lick the bowl.”
They went into the workroom and Jeremiah turned on the light.
“I wish I’d thought of that.”
The neck lay on the table.
“Wow,” Luella said, running her hand over the wood. “It really looks like the neck of an instrument. It’s nice and smooth, too. Is it done?”
“I’ve just got to use the last fine sandpaper.”
“Man, I’d never have the patience.”
“I want it to be a real instrument, as good as I can make it. And you know what? It’s fun. At least some of the time.”
Jeremiah picked up a fresh piece of sandpaper and went to work. The sandpaper made a soft ssshhh as it went over the wood.
While he put his energy into his arms, Luella talked. She was practicing a violin piece for the recital. She actually liked playing the violin. And she liked her violin teacher, Ms. Purcell, who always gave her a chocolate and told her she was doing very well although perhaps just a little more practicing would be helpful.
“Hey, I was thinking,” she said. “How are you going to learn to play the banjo, anyway? I don’t suppose your parents are going to let you take banjo lessons considering the fact they don’t even know you’re building one.”
Jeremiah grinned. “I thought of that.” He reached under the workbench and pulled out a DVD case. There was a picture on it of a man with a neatly trimmed red beard, a banjo in his hands.
“‘Elements of Clawhammer Banjo,’” Luella read aloud. “Well, I hope Red Beard is a good teacher.”
“I’ve already watched it about a million times,” Jeremiah said. “But practicing with a tennis racket isn’t exactly satisfying.”
“And watching you use sandpaper is about as interesting as, well, watching you use sandpaper. I’m going home to watch reruns of Friends. See you, Hayseed.”
“Hayseed?”
“I think it suits you.”
“Well, it doesn’t. Never call me that at school.”
“Don’t worry, I’m not that mean. You don’t have to see me out. I know the way, Hayseed.”
•••
WITH MS. THREAP watching over his shoulder, Jeremiah cut the headstock from a cross-piece of the folding chair. He drilled a hole for each of the tuners that would go in. Then he used a plane to shave down the top of the neck to a slanted angle and glue the headstock to it. To make sure the strings wouldn’t pull the headstock right off, he put in a couple of screws.
“Not as elegant as a woodworker’s joint, Larry,” Ms. Threap said. “But it works.”
Jeremiah would have worked on the banjo even more if he hadn’t had to practice for talent night.
He was the seventeenth performer of the evening. Before him came six violin players (including Luella), two cellists, five pianists (three of whom also performed “Pedagogical Study Number Eight”), a trombone player, a jazz dancer, and a boy who recited the “To be or not to be” speech from Hamlet.
Jeremiah found himself daydreaming during the speech —
To be a banjo player or not to be, that is the question.
Whether ’tis nobler to suffer the slings and arrows of disapproving parents
Or —
And then suddenly his name was being called, and he found himself moving like a robot up the aisle and onto the stage.
He sat on the bench and looked at the keys that seemed to stretch away from him forever. He felt hot, unable to breathe. But he began to play.
As if they didn’t belong to him, his hands moved too quickly, messed up and then stopped. He started again, this time too slowly so that he had to speed up. And then all of a sudden he started playing from the beginning again.
Jeremiah lurched from note to note, too soft in some parts and then almost slamming down his hands.
Kids in the audience giggled. Maestro Boris, who had come to hear his students perform, muttered darkly from the back.
His ears burning, Jeremiah hurried down the aisle, tripping on his shoelace.
“Hey, Birnbaum,” hissed a voice from the aisle. It was an older boy named Damien Mills. Damien was a big, doughy boy who considered himself the funniest kid in school, even if nobody else did. “You got mixed up, Birnbaum. You must have thought it was lack-of-talent night.”
Jeremiah practically dived back into his seat.
“Don’t worry,” his mother whispered, patting his hand. “We’ll help you get over those nerves. I know just what to do. We’ll hire a sports psychologist.”
“A what?” said Jeremiah miserably.
“He works with famous athletes. To help them overcome their performance anxiety before a big game. And when the next talent night comes around at the end of the year — just wait and see!”
6
Putting It Together
“SO TELL ME,” said Dr. Barncastle. “Why do you think you performed so dismally at the talent night?”
Jeremiah sat on a sofa in the doctor’s office. Across from the sofa was a large fish tank with gravel and waving plants and a shell that opened and closed, letting out bubbles. He watched the guppies and angel fish and kissing gouramis swimming round and round.
He had a lot of sympathy for those fish.
“Because I’m a lousy piano player?”
“Perhaps you can think of another reason.”
“Because I don’t want to play the piano?”
“Try again, Jeremiah.”
Jeremiah tried not to sigh out loud. He looked at Dr. Barncastle, who was leaning back in his chair, a finger pressed to his high forehead. Dr. Barncastle looked as if he had the patience to wait forever if Jeremiah didn’t come up with anything more interesting.
“Okay,” Jeremiah said. “How about the piano reminds me of my mortality? You know, it’s black and shiny — like a coffin! Every time I play I think of death. It freaks me out.”
Dr. Barncastle smiled and nodded. “At last we’re getting somewhere.”
•••
THE NECK OF the banjo needed to be extended with a “dowel stick” that would pierce through one side of the cookie tin and go out the other.
In shop, it was easy enough to cut another length of wood from the chair and glue it against the end of the neck. The tricky part was cutting the holes into the sides of the cookie tin for the dowel stick to slide through.
Jeremiah used a sharp X-acto knife. He had to be careful. The thin metal of the cookie tin wanted to bend or even collapse as he pressed on it. Also, he was a little afraid of the pointed knife. He was afraid he might slip and cut off his own finger. But Ms. Threap showed him how to hold the knife properly, and how to cut away from himself, and slowly he gained confidence.
But his progress was interrupted again by after-school lessons and three more sessions with Dr. Barncastle. Jeremiah felt crazy with impatience. At night he dreamed that Maestro Boris was riding a giant ba
njo across the black sky, cackling like a witch and waving a bottle of wine.
Finally Jeremiah finished cutting the metal. Holding his breath, he slipped the dowel stick through so that the two pieces of the instrument were together.
It looked like…a banjo.
Jeremiah felt his heart leap. But there was still more work to do. He had to attach the two parts together with screws. He had to make the nut, the bridge and the tailpiece.
The nut was a little bitty thing that went at the top of the neck. It had slots in it for the strings to go through so they would be spaced properly on the fingerboard. The strings would travel down the neck and over the bridge, which would sit on top of the tin.
The bridge, which he also made out of wood, was important. It sent the vibrations of the strings into the pot, where they would be amplified. The strings would be anchored at the very end of the instrument by the tailpiece, a little wooden triangle with five screws to hold the ends of the strings.
Even as Jeremiah worked on these pieces he wondered about the tuners. He needed four in the headstock and one for the banjo’s fifth string on the side of the neck. They had to work properly in order to get the strings in tune.
And then, sitting in math class and thinking about his problem instead of concentrating on the equation on the board, he heard their teacher complaining.
“Does nobody know the answer? Sometimes I think you’ve all got wind-up toys inside your head instead of brains.”
Toy? The word triggered an old memory for Jeremiah. Somewhere inside his immense toy cupboard at home was a guitar. A toy guitar from when he was little, made of plastic. The neck was cracked and all the nylon strings snapped. He couldn’t remember what the tuners looked like or whether they were real, but it was a chance.
Now he had to get through the entire day before he could find out.
When the limousine finally pulled up, Jeremiah threw open the door and got in.
“Home, Monroe!”
“Who do you think I am, the chauffeur?” Monroe said.