Sol spoke into the microphone, which some staff member had handed to him while I was staring into space. “Hello. This one is a special song for me. My young protégé here, Alex, will be playing a lot of the melodies. He’s worked really hard on the whole thing. He’s a good kid. I’d like to dedicate the piece, for both of us, to the lovely girls in the front row.”
He counted us in, and we played. At this point, I honestly can’t remember anything about how most of the medley went. I must have played it, because we got to the last part somehow. But that part was so mind-blowing that it has wiped out everything else from my memory.
Now, in the fifteen or so times that Sol and I had run through this number, and in the hundreds of runthroughs I had done at home, I always played just the chords for “Sunrise, Sunset” while Sol played the melody. This time, I got through the little intro part, and when it was time for Sol to come in, my eyes were closed in concentration. But his guitar didn’t come in. His VOICE did:
Is this the little girl I carried? Is this the little boy at play? I don’t remember growing older, When did they?
When did she get to be a beauty? When did he grow to be so tall? Wasn’t it yesterday when they were small.
Sun-rise, sun-set, sun-rise, sun-set, Swiftly flow the days; Seedlings turn overnight to sun-flow’rs, Blossoming even as we gaze.
Sun-rise, sun-set, sun-rise, sun-set, Swiftly fly the years;
One season following anoth-er, Laden with hap-pi-ness…and tears…
Claudelle was standing next to Sol, holding the microphone in front of his mouth. I went with the flow, played my parts, and tried to be as quiet and unobtrusive as possible so everyone would hear Sol’s voice, which sounded tremendously fragile. At some point, I noticed that the microphone was actually shaking: Claudelle was crying. Anyway, we got through the song, and when the last note faded, Sol immediately grasped for his air mask. There was no applause at all, just total awed silence.
And the judge was walking toward us, with her face behind her hands. She was crying, too. When she was about a foot away from Sol, she leaned over him and said one word, which got picked up loud and clear by Claudelle’s microphone:
“Dad.”
Sol had the strangest expression behind his mask. “Judy.”
CODA
Boop. Boop. Boop.
I’m sitting next to the old man’s hospital bed, watching the bright green line spike and jiggle across the screen of his heart monitor. Just a couple of days ago, those little mountains on the monitor were floating from left to right in perfect order, but now they’re jangling and jerking like maddened hand puppets.
I know that sometime soon, the boops will become one long beep, the mountains will crumble into a flat line, and I will be finished with my work here.
I will be free.
You’re probably wondering what happened in the second half of the concert, whether Sol and the judge reconciled, and how we got here. But the truth is, those aren’t the most important parts of the story. Of course Sol and his daughter made up, and she visited him daily for two weeks straight, and they talked for hours on end, and laughed a lot, and cried a bunch, too. She also talked a lot with me, and told me how my mom had pulled a “Gotcha” on her by getting me assigned to Sol, of all people. And then one day, we were sitting in Sol’s room—me, Laurie, Sol, the judge, and Mrs. Goldfarb, who was stopping in regularly now that Sol was a “star.” Just sitting there, just talking. Sol sneezed, then sneezed again, and coughed one short little bark. Then he looked around at all of us and said, “Pneumonia. Get the nurse.”
We did, and it was. They took him over to the hospital right away, but you could just tell it was already too late—that this was it, the end, circle-the-wagons time. Within a few hours, he had a high fever, his breathing sounded like he was underwater, and he couldn’t really do anything but cough. They put the mask on him full-time, and gave him IV antibiotics and painkillers galore. But he was too tired, simply too tired. I remembered Claudelle saying, “Nobody fights forever. Nobody.” I sat there, and tasted my tears on my tongue, and watched Sol sleep until they kicked me out for the night.
In the next three days, which were also the past three days, Sol only woke up twice. A doctor told me and the judge that terminal emphysema patients almost always sank into a coma at the end, that this was nature’s way of making the end easy. It didn’t always look easy, though. Sometimes Sol would just lie there, slumped all the way down, panting. Other times he’d stop breathing for a moment, and then take a series of huge gasps. Once he quickly sat straight up, looked at the judge, and said, “Hey, Judy, you think I could get maybe a cup of coffee in this dive?” in a totally normal Sol voice. Then he slumped over again.
And about an hour ago, Sol turned on his side, right in the middle of a gasping fit, opened his eyes, and peered at the judge. “Be happy, Judy. I loved your mother, and we both loved you. I’m very proud of my girl.” Then he locked eyes with me and Laurie. “You’re good kids. Alex, boychik, one day you will kiss her. And she will kiss you back. Am I right?” When he laid himself back again, we thought he was finished, that all we could do was sit there and cry. But then he opened his eyes again and gave me some parting advice, his last words on this earth: “Boychik, when you finish playing a gig, wipe your strings down with a soft cloth. They’ll last longer.”
That was it. That was all.
And now the monitor is going nuts, and soon I’ll be free. But I guess somewhere in the course of this weird year—my junior year of high school, my senior year of childhood, Sol’s last lap around the sun—I figured out that we’re all free, in the only way that matters anyway. We’re all free to choose some people to love, and then do it.
THE SAINTS GO MARCHIN’ IN AGAIN
I have one last thing to do for Solomon Lewis before I can let him go. We’re at his memorial service, back at the home, in our little concert hall. The judge—who now insists I call her Judy—has asked me to end the festivities with a guitar rendition of “Taps.” I get there early, pull the stage curtain across in front of the piano, do some other setting up, pick a seat in the front row, and wait for all the people to come in. Claudelle is there, Leonora, Juanita. Mrs. Goldfarb—teeth, wig, and all. My parents. Laurie. The judge. Steven and Annette. The oxygen guy. The clarinet player from All-City Jazz Band.
They all sit down, and all the talking happens. There’s a podium in front of the stage curtain, and various people use it. I’m sure the speeches are very nice, very appropriate, very touching. I’m also sure that if Sol were here, he’d be saying, “What a load of chazzerai! Who wants to hear this stuff now that I’m DEAD? Get out of here, go eat some babka or something!” Finally Laurie is squishing my hand in her deadly Ninja claw grip, and I realize they have called my name. I walk up to the single chair set up to the right of the podium, whisper to the orderly who has been waiting by the stage for this, and get comfortable with Sol’s—my—D’Angelico. And then, as slowly as I can, with almost no swing to it whatsoever, I play the tune:
Day is done, gone the sun, From the lake, from the hills, from the sky; All is well, safely rest, God is nigh.
I don’t look up, but I can hear three sets of footsteps approaching and then passing behind me. When I get to the last note, I hold it out as long as I can with vibrato, mentally thanking Sol for teaching me the trick. And while I’m wiggling that left third finger to keep the sound alive, the orderly opens the curtains. Steven and Annette are there, with drums and piano at the ready. So is the clarinetist, and he jumps in first. I play the sad, sad chords of “Sunrise, Sunset” under his lead, and in the middle I look up. We’re wiping everybody out here. The whole first three rows are crying openly; Leonora is handing a tissue to Juanita, who is leaning on Claudelle. And the judge—forget about it. Mascara stripe city. We get to the last note of THAT.
And I say, “One-two-three-four!” We burst into “When the Saints Go Marchin’ In.” Steven is swinging like there’s no tomorrow, Annette
is playing such dirty barroom piano that you almost want to blush, and I’m playing chords on three strings, just like Sol would have wanted—I can almost feel his callused palm smacking the beat out on top of my head. The clarinet guy plays through the melody once pretty straight. We go back to the top, and he plays it really funky. Back again, and this time Steven and Annette are trading four-bar phrases back and forth with each other. I look up, and see that we’ve got the New Orleans vibe going strong. The tears are drying, smiles are coming out, and some feet are even tapping around the room. We repeat the head of the tune once more, while Steven is in full flow, I’m throwing phrases back and forth with Annette’s right hand, and the clarinet is sailing over all of us, maybe all the way to Sol’s new home.
Oh, when the Saints (Oh, when the Saints!)
Go marching in (Go marching in!)
Oh, when the Saints go marching in,
I’d like to be in that number,
When the Saints go marching in!
We stop. The applause is deafening. I mean, people say that all the time, but in this case, it’s literally true. Laurie is out of her seat, and my parents and the judge are headed my way, too. I look up at the ceiling, picture what’s beyond it, shake my fist once upward in triumph, and say it under my breath: “Gotcha!”
June 27
Dear Judge, or Judy, even though that still feels weird to me,
I know you took some time off from work, and I wanted you to have a letter when you came back from wherever you went. So I’ll update you on some things, notably my future.
I got my SAT scores back right after the memorial service, and did quite well on the tests. So I shouldn’t have any trouble getting into a great college. I may sell your father’s guitar at some point to pay for some of the education I need, or may-be—just maybe—I can keep it and gig my way through school. I have been practicing a ton, because when I play I feel like my friend Sol is there. So my chops are up, and anything is possible. Steven and Annette even keep giving me brochures for music schools!
My parents are looking more and more like they will marry each other again, which would be great. But whatever happens, happens. Each of them has been amazingly there for me this month, and I will be there for them if and when they ever need me.
Laurie’s mother had her baby the last week of school, and Laurie went down to help out for a few weeks. We talk pretty much every day, and Laurie sounds like she’s doing well there. She even found out her stepdad used to do karate, so she’s been getting him to spar with her a little, the poor man. I miss her, but I have a feeling we will be in each other’s lives for a good long time.
As for my summer plans, I have decided to work full time at the Home. It’s not the same without Sol there, but I’ve grown close to some other residents and staff, which has been very rewarding. Plus, the pay is good, so I will be able to sock money away into my “car & college fund.”
Besides, somebody has to make sure Mrs. Goldfarb keeps her teeth in her head.
Love,
Alex
Thank-You Notes from the Midnight Writer
You know that old saying about how “When the student is ready, the teacher appears?” I must have really been primed for instruction during the writing of this book, because amazing teachers popped up right and left.
Interestingly, my most crucial teachers were, and are, my students at Phillipsburg Middle School. I got the idea for this novel from the antics of my morning English class of 2003–04. Then Mrs. Marlene Sharpe’s afternoon class served as my inspiring and insightful first audience; I read the manuscript to them aloud as I went along. Last year my students gave me some great revision hints, and several classes this year were extremely helpful in rejecting the eight million lousy titles I went through on the road to finalizing this one. Seriously, if you spent any time in a classroom with me over the past three years,THANK YOU for your great contribution to both this book and my life.
This book also benefited from the advice of three experts. My best friend from middle school and sleep-away camp, Jeremy Stein, Esquire, talked me through the process of a typical juvenile arrest. A local pulmonologist, Dr. John Kintzer, gave me an excellent clinical overview of the progression of emphysema. My friend Karen Sickels spoke with me at length, very graciously, of the experience of watching a loved one die of emphysema. I added my own misinterpretations and outright mistakes, and the results are in your hands.
My editor at Scholastic, Jennifer Rees, was endlessly helpful, instructive, enthused, and available. Come to think of it, so was EVERYONE at Scholastic. I am truly blessed to have wound up at such a wonderful publishing house.Which reminds me of how lucky I am to have my agent extraordinaire, Mr. A. Richard Barber. Thanks for building me a career, Rich.
My final thanks must be reserved for my family. My mom, Dr. Carol Sonnenblick, loved this book, and provided its first “buzz” by passing a manuscript to everyone she knew. My sister and brother-in-law, Lissa and Neil Winchel, both read the manuscript in one night, while I interrupted them every few minutes to say, “Did you like that part? Pretty good, right?” And they didn’t even yell at me for being so irritating. My wife, Melissa, and our children, Ross and Emma, lived with me through the writing and revision processes. For all the times I was growly and unavailable, thanks for not chasing me about the house with a flyswatter. I love you.
My late father and head cheerleader, Dr. Harvey I. Sonnenblick, deserves his own paragraph. Dad, you believed in this book. Whenever something great happened for my first novel, you always said,“You think this is something? Just wait until the NEXT one comes out!” I love you, I miss you, and I wish you had waited too.
Bethlehem, Pennsylvania
2006
About The Author
Jordan Sonnenblick attended amazing schools in New York City. Then he went to an incredible Ivy League university and studied very, very hard. However, due to his careful and well-planned course selection strategies, he emerged in 1991 with a fancy-looking diploma and a breathtaking lack of real-world skills or employability.
Thank goodness for Teach for America, a program that takes new college graduates, puts them through “teacher boot camp,” and places them at schools with teacher shortages around the country. Through TFA, Mr. Sonnenblick found his place in the grown-up world, teaching adolescents about the wonders and joys — the truth and beauty — of literature.
Mr. Sonnenblick’s first novel, Drums, Girls & Dangerous Pie, was published by Scholastic Press in 2005 to great acclaim and was named to several Best of 2005 lists, including the American Library Association’s Teens’ Top Ten.
In October 2006, Scholastic released Mr. Sonnen-blick’s second young adult novel,Notes from the Midnight Driver. It has received starred reviews from Publishers Weekly, Booklist, KLIATT, and The Horn Book. Mr. Sonnenblick’s third novel, Zen and the Art of Faking It, will be published by Scholastic Press in October 2007.
Mr. Sonnenblick lives in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, with the most supportive wife and lovable children he could ever imagine. Plus a lot of drums and guitars in the basement.
An Interview with Jordan Sonnenblick
Q:How did you come up with the idea for Notes From the Midnight Driver?
A:Believe it or not, I was taking a walk one Sunday, and the whole thing popped into my head, pretty much complete. I teach eighth-grade English, and had been really angry with some students in my honors class that week. They had run rampant when I was absent, so I made them write apology letters to my sub and their parents for their behavior.They wrote the most weaselly and self-serving excuse notes instead, and the idea came to me: What if a really good kid did something bad, and then refused to take responsibility? The rest just flowed from there.
I ought to go walking more often.
Q:In the beginning of the novel, Alex gets drunk, steals his mother’s car, decapitates a lawn gnome, and gets into a lot of trouble. It’s funny, but also very serious. How did you strike a balance between a sens
e of responsibility and humor?
A:Well, realistically, you know that a lot of the stupid stuff people do when they are under the influence seems like a great idea to them at the time. So Alex’s little automotive voyage had to be amusing from his point of view while it was happening. On the other hand, the morning after can be a horror. So that aspect had to be honest, as well. And, like Judge Trent in the book, I truly hate the very thought of drunk driving.
Q:Is Alex based on anyone you know?
A:His personality just kind of came to me, but his situation of watching his parents separate when he’s 16 and his devotion to music are both drawn from my life.
Q:Is Sol?
A:Oh, yeah! Sol is totally based on my maternal grandfather, Solomon Feldman. Grampa Sol was my hero when I was a kid for his warmth and his fearlessness, but everybody else kind of tiptoed around him because he had quite a temper. He didn’t play guitar, though. He was a biologist and teacher, and what he gave to me was a love of science and a passion for teaching kids. Plus maybe a touch of that temper . . .
Q:Laurie is just about the coolest girl on the face of the planet. How did you end up making her so unique, and just how in the world does she put up with Alex?
A:You know what? Laurie just came to me fully-formed, like Athena springing from Zeus’s forehead.
When I was a teenager, I always had a female best friend. Laurie is a composite of all of them, I think. How does she put up with Alex? I have no idea — I have no clue how my female friends put up with me, either!
Notes From the Midnight Driver Page 14