Tremolo

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  My pulse quickened. “Oh my gosh. Did you know the President?” I asked in awe.

  She smiled sadly at me, looking down at her hands. “Yes, Gus. I knew him very well.”

  Suddenly, it hit me. She was dressed in black. She was in mourning. She had a large family. The men in suits were protecting her. I leaned over and looked again at the photo of the young children before me and recognized the face of John Fitzgerald Kennedy as a young teenager. My mouth dropped open in a clear breech of etiquette. I stared at her.

  “Yes. He was my boy. But now he’s gone.”

  My throat constricted with emotion. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” I choked. “We all are.”

  I thought I’d said the right thing, but wasn’t sure as it took her a few moments to compose herself. Finally, she took a deep breath and looked directly at me. “Well, thank you, young man. I appreciate your sentiments. I really do.”

  She stood and gazed out the window. Ivanhoe followed her, rubbing against her ankles.

  “Perhaps it’s time for you to rejoin your friends, Gustave. It looks like they’re waiting for you on your porch.”

  I rose and put my napkin in the blue and white bowl. “Thank you so much for the cherries, Mrs. Jones.” I made my way toward the door.

  “You’re quite welcome, Gustave. It’s been a pleasure meeting you, young man.” Her voice still trembled slightly.

  I sensed that she was near tears and felt bad for asking about the President.

  “Gus?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Jones?”

  She looked down at me. “Can we keep my identity a secret? Just between us? The men who protect me tell me it’s the best way to ensure my safety.”

  I grinned at her. “Of course. I won’t tell a soul, I promise.”

  She smiled through moist eyes, squeezed my hand, and then reached down to peck my cheek. “Come see me again. It will do me good.”

  “Okay. I will. Thank you.” I raced back to Wee Castle with the secret bursting in my chest. I had to keep my promise and not tell my friends, even if we were blood brothers. I shouted to the twins that I’d be back in a jiffy and ran inside to change into more comfortable clothes.

  Chapter 39

  Later that evening, I choked down our dinner of chipped beef on toast with mixed vegetables. Almost gagging, I ran to the bathroom and brushed my teeth to get rid of the taste. After the dishes were done, we got ready to join Oscar and his guests in the living room for the promised slide show. Although I sometimes found the ritual boring, this time I was actually looking forward to the event since it featured a family of abandoned kittens that adopted the Stones last year. I’d grown fond of the litter and was saddened when they all found homes.

  “Take your sleeping bag, son,” my father suggested.

  I nodded, trotted into the bedroom, and squatted down to reach for it under the bed. I stuffed it under my arm.

  “Better bring a jacket, too, Gus,” my mother said. “It will get cold later.”

  I scooped my blue hooded sweatshirt from the back of the chair and met my folks on the porch. The twins and their parents were walking toward the gathering. I was surprised that Mr. and Mrs. Marggrander were accompanying them, but delighted for the sake of the twins.

  No excuses would be necessary tonight for their absence, and they could stand tall with both parents in attendance.

  The peepers started their evening chorus. A bat swooped over the lake in search of mosquitoes. I chuckled, remembering our adventure and the image of my father in his red and white polka dot shorts, chasing the bat with my butterfly net.

  My mother carried cheese twists and chips, and my father toted a case of root beer. The bottles clanged against the metal separators in the wooden box. It looked very heavy.

  “Want some help, Dad?” I offered, wondering if I could lighten his load.

  He grunted, repositioned it, and answered through gritted teeth. “Nope, I’ve got it, son. Thanks.”

  My mother wore a pale pink sundress. I noticed the fabric was pulled rather tight across her middle and realized she was already showing signs of the pregnancy.

  She caught me looking, pulled her white sweater around in front with her free hand, and grimaced. “I’ve got to buy some maternity clothes this week, André. I don’t believe I can make do much longer.”

  “Okay, Gloria. I’m sure we can manage that.” My father shifted the case of soda to his other side and nodded in quiet assent just as we reached the living room.

  I held the door for them, and then ran over to join the twins who had already spread their sleeping bags on the floor five feet back from the projector screen.

  The room was filling up quickly. My grandfather had set up several rows of folding chairs in advance for the audience. Millie Stone and William were seated on the couch. William fiddled with the record player he brought down from my grandparent’s cabin. Several thirty-three rpm records lay on the side table. I guessed he was in charge of the background music.

  Oscar powered up the slide projector. Five boxes of slides towered on the table.

  I realized it was going to be a long night, and was grateful that I’d brought the sleeping bag.

  “C’mon, Gus. Put your bag right over here.”

  Elsbeth scooted to the left and made a space between Siegfried’s bag and her own, patting the ground between them.

  “Thanks.” I unrolled the bag and flattened it out. Kneeling down, I unzipped it halfway and pulled over the flap to reveal the pale green flannel decorated with flying ducks.

  By the time the room filled with all of the guests and camp staff, the roar of lively conversation was almost deafening. Betsy, Annabel, and June sat cross-legged behind us, and William had abandoned the records to sit beside Betsy.

  I frowned, shook my head in disgust, and turned back to the twins. “Anybody want some chips?”

  Both nodded eagerly. I jumped up and trotted to the food table, which was simply a tablecloth thrown over the pool table. My mother and grandmother were busily arranging the snacks and utensils. Everyone brought something, from packaged cookies and chips to a plate of homemade brownies. I realized my grandfather probably made them, and looked around to find him.

  He came in and took a seat beside Mr. and Mrs. Marggrander. They were chatting amiably in the back corner as he puffed on his pipe.

  I turned back to the food table and noticed a large bowl of chipped ice covered with Bing cherries. I turned and scanned the crowded room. Ensconced in one of the leather club chairs in the far back corner was “Mrs. Jones.” She wore the usual black dress and a dark hat and veil.

  I waved to her.

  She raised one hand and wiggled her fingers. One of her protectors sat in the second club chair, still as a stone. His face was impassive, but his eyes inspected the room and windows on a regular basis. I looked out on the porch and located two more men dressed in dark suits. They stood erect and at attention, their heads swiveling slowly back and forth across both the lake shore and the woods.

  I separated a paper plate from the high stack, then loaded it up with chips, cheese twists, and cherries.

  “Save some for the other guests, honey,” my mother warned.

  I looked at her sheepishly. “I will, Mum.”

  I slipped a Twinkie onto the plate and wove my way through the approaching guests who descended on the food table. Realizing I was the catalyst, I hoped my mother and grandmother were ready for the onslaught.

  Laying the plate on my sleeping bag, I invited the twins to help themselves. I picked up a cherry popped it in my mouth. As I chewed, I glanced back at Oscar Stone.

  His pale blond silky hair was brushed straight back from his forehead and his brilliant blue eyes sparkled. A sheaf of papers lay beside the projector. I figured it was a packet of narratives to accompany each slide. He’d published a book last year entitled “Autumn in Upstate New York.” Each large, glossy photograph was captioned with poetic imagery.

  Our copy was proudly displ
ayed on the coffee table at home. I flipped through the gorgeous pictures many times, enjoying the close-ups of the animals the most.

  After several more noisy moments of food gathering and fussing about, the lights flicked off and the show began. William left Betsy’s side and returned to his job as music director. He set the needle down on a scratchy recording of Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony. The music was turned to a low setting, so Oscar’s voice could be heard.

  “I’ve entitled this presentation, ‘Through the Year with the Magnolia Tree’,” Oscar began. His normally faded British accent sharpened for the occasion. I looked at him curiously and wondered if it was consciously affected or if it just happened when he spoke in public. He flipped on the projector light.

  An image of the Stones’ white farmhouse filled the screen. Nestled between fields and woods at the base of the Genesee Valley in our hometown of East Goodland, New York, the little house beckoned visitors.

  The photo was taken in the early morning mist, with sunrays casting light across the yard. Vivid emerald green of new spring grass was captured in the shimmering veins of sunlight, while heavy dew cast a bluish hue over the rest of the land. The bare branches of the Stones’ magnolia tree could be seen in the distance.

  “In the early springtime, our Upstate lawns doff their dull brown winter garb and change to one of delicate green.”

  Oscar began to speak in a singsong, lilting voice. He clicked the projector controls and a new slide filled the screen.

  “Each year we are spellbound by the lovely blossoms of the magnolia tree.”

  Clusters of dewy-soft cream and raspberry petals filled the screen. The details of the shot highlighted drops of moisture on the petals, freezing them for eternity in a striking composition.

  “All too soon, with the whipping May breezes…” Oscar clicked to the next photo. A full shot of the tree in its glory filled the screen. The photograph instantly froze the action, revealing a crisp shot of the heavily laden branches being blown sideways in a strong gale. “…the colorful petals fall, creating a thick blanket on the grass.”

  I turned to Elsbeth and Siegfried. They seemed captivated.

  Elsbeth leaned over and whispered against my ear. “Is it over already?”

  I wondered if the cycle of blooming and falling leaves could possibly mean the end of a ridiculously short show, but quickly realized that Oscar often went on for hours in these situations. I shook my head and motioned back up to the screen, where a new shot filled the screen.

  “Until the tree seems to become just another shade tree,” Oscar continued.

  The slide carousel inched forward and a new slide dropped into the slot. The screen was filled with a winter scene, featuring the same tree.

  “The frosts arrive and winter casts a soft cloak of snow on its branches. Although the tree is usually ignored until its next flowering period, we may, if we look closely, observe the detailed preparation that nature provides for the coming season’s welcome event.”

  Oscar was using the technique he called a “flashback.” He started at the end, showed the fully flowered tree, and was now going back to the previous winter to chronicle the tree’s complete cycle. I slid my legs into the sleeping bag, settled on my stomach, and wiggled around until I was comfortable. Reaching for another cherry, I settled in to enjoy the show.

  “During the white cloaked rest period for all flowering trees and bushes, we find other events of passing interest in the vicinity.”

  The screen filled with the face of a gray and white kitten. Snow sprinkled his whiskers and his eyes looked directly into the camera lens. I smiled, happy that the interesting shots were so close to the beginning of the show.

  “Mittens waits for her playmate, Fluffy, to join her in an early morning romp.”

  The next shot showed a fairly longhaired tiger kitten creeping around the corner of the dilapidated garage beside Oscar’s house.

  I elbowed Siegfried. “Remember that one? She was the friendliest.”

  Siegfried nodded and smiled. He reached for some chips, his eyes glued to the screen. The aroma of salty chips filled the air between us.

  He leaned close and whispered, “Look.”

  The next shot featured Mittens and Fluffy tumbling around in the snow, playing in the early morning light. Oscar’s favorite time of the morning was during the rosy gray hours before Millie awoke. They were his only moments of solitude and freedom, and many of his famous photos were known for their characteristically soft, pre-dawn shots.

  He flipped through several photographs of the kittens in various modes of play, then flipped to another slide.

  “Our fingers are so cold that we go indoors for a moment. On the storm windowpane, a delicate tracing is forming. It seems to resemble a landscape with oddly shaped trees on a hillside.”

  The close-up of the fragile frost formations on the window was breathtaking. It did look like a hillside. Fascinated, I gazed at the trees he described in the randomly etched pattern on the window.

  “The warm air, as we raise the inner sash, begins to dissolve the picture.”

  I plucked the Twinkie off the paper plate, offering it up in turn to both Elsbeth and Siegfried. Each child knew my passion, and graciously shook their head in refusal. I smiled, ripped off the cellophane, and stuffed half of it into my mouth. I looked back toward the audience in the front row. Mrs. Marggrander rested her head on her husband’s shoulder. She was smiling.

  “Outdoors, the sun is rising and a neighbor’s dog has left his tracks in the snow.”

  The simple photo of deep footprints in the snow was glorious. Rosy-saffron shafts of light colored the frozen ground as the sun rose behind the crest of the ridge. My family’s home was on that ridge on the west side of the valley. In an uncharacteristically deep moment, I wondered if I’d seen the sun rise before Oscar that morning. I often saw its rays creep over the east ridge of the Conesus Lake valley from my vantage point that separated the Genesee Valley and the western most Finger Lake.

  I gobbled the remaining half of the Twinkie and turned back to scan the crowd once more. Grandpa had already started to nod off. My grandmother elbowed him in the ribs.

  Stifling a laugh, I returned my attention to the screen.

  “We hear a soft but insistent call from across the street. Could it be this little one from the neighbor’s pasture?”

  The face of a white lamb filled the screen. I recognized the Johnsons’ barn in the background.

  Oscar turned to look over his shoulder when the music stopped, and nodded to William who had resumed his duties as operator of the phonograph. William slid the Beethoven album into its cover, and then reached for the next selection. He gently dropped the needle into the first groove.

  Oscar cleared his throat and announced the title. “The next musical selection is from one of my favorite operas, ‘Die Fledermaus.’ We’ve had some recent interest in bats around here. I thought it an appropriate choice.”

  As the overture began, Oscar first smiled at me, then turned to my father, looking most mischievous. With his mouth twisted into a prim smile, he winked at both of us.

  My father guffawed loudly from the couch amidst curious stares from the uninitiated guests. My mother giggled and tried to shush him. Remembering the bat incident, I grinned broadly at both parents and then turned back to the screen.

  Oscar continued to move through a myriad of slides, each chronicling the infinitesimal signs of spring. He had captured the crocus, forsythia, daffodils, and of course the magnolia tree in excruciating detail. Each stage of development was beautifully shot, and poetically narrated.

  My head began to nod. I decided to rest it on my forearms, nestling down deeper into the sleeping bag.

  “With the arrival of April showers come the buds, soon to be followed by the blossoms of dewy freshness and nearly transparent beauty. In the stencil-like shade of the magnolia tree…”

  My eyelids grew heavy. I shook my head a few times, trying to fight it
. Elsbeth had already dropped her head onto her sleeping bag and lay motionless beside me. Her breath fluttered against a dark curly lock of hair as she slept. Her lips parted. In her hand was a partially-eaten cheese twist. A single orange crumb clung to her soft cheek. She looked angelic laying beside me.

  A twinge of affection washed over me. I gently brushed the morsel from her face and removed the cheese twist from her fingers, putting it on the plate.

  Oscar’s voice continued in the background as the slide projector clicked onward. “The white pine also sparkles with moisture as the starlings prepare rather noisily to nest in its upper branches. Close by, the maple tree responds to the urgency of spring with its buds and intricately detailed blossoms.”

  The images of dew-covered tree branches and sleek black birds began to swim before my eyes. I lowered my head to the sleeping bag and decided to close them just for a minute.

  Oscar’s voice continued, and the overwhelming, molasses-like pre-sleep urges finally dragged me into their soothing depths.

  ∞∞∞

  I woke with a start. The room was dark. Oscar was still speaking about the magnolias.

  How long was I asleep? Raising my head, I looked around the room.

  Siegfried smiled at me, as tipping a bottle of root beer against his lips.

  I smiled back, embarrassed that I’d fallen asleep.

  “It’s almost over,” he whispered.

  I nodded and pulled myself up, sitting cross-legged on the sleeping bag. My mouth was dry and my eyes felt gritty. I looked at my watch in the soft light of the projector and was surprised to find I’d been sleeping for almost an hour.

  The slide featured a close up of two blue jays feasting on seeds from the moist ground beneath the magnolia tree. I vaguely heard Oscar describing the seedpods cracking open to reveal tidbits that would be greedily devoured. The next shot featured the pair of birds on a branch overhead. Finally, Oscar showed a photo of a much younger William sitting beneath the tree and staring up into the overhead branches with a startled expression.