Crescendo

by Allen Cheney

  If Velma was opposed to the new situation, she was apparently too beaten down by that point to object. Far outnumbered and outplayed, she submitted, quietly, and Fred was left to fend for himself. It was during those dark, lonely nights that Fred first began to journal, scrapping together whatever notebooks he could salvage and turning to writing as a tool to survive the ongoing neglect, even as a young boy.

  Through those elementary school years, it wasn’t just the soldiers who frequented Fred’s home for pleasure, it was also the local baseball players. This motley crew of mill worker–athletes were hailed as heroes of the day, and while some lived up to that stellar role, the behavior of a few players proved worse than the soldiers’. One was a man who had married into the family, Fred’s uncle Dirk. With the team based in LaGrange, he and his more corrupt cohorts would make their rounds through the village, frequenting the Allen home.

  During that time, Fred began to waste away. While food had always been a luxury throughout his neglectful childhood, it had now become something Fred could barely swallow. He was sinking into a dark depression by only eight years of age, isolating himself as the adults around him lost control.

  No one seemed to notice as this innocent young boy slowly came undone. If they noticed, they certainly didn’t seem to care—not until a woman named Eleanor was released from prison.

  Rumor had it Eleanor had served time for attempting to murder a man—or maybe she had murdered a man, depending on who you asked. Her rough reputation preceded her arrival in the village, women claiming she had been a prostitute and quite possibly still earned money by turning the occasional trick. The one thing on which everyone could agree was that Eleanor was not one to mock. So when she showed up to live at the Allen home after marrying Fred’s uncle Ed, the young boy struggled to make sense of the situation.

  Eleanor was not a big woman. Fairly slight in build, she stood barely five foot six. Homemade henna dye stained her hair the color of tea, and her face “wasn’t much to look at,” according to her mean-spirited husband, a man whom Fred had never seen sober or kind a day in his life. Unlike the other women who tended to do whatever the men told them to do, Eleanor had spunk, and through the eyes of a young boy, her crass comebacks could be frightening. But she also seemed to take a liking to Fred, keeping careful watch over him even when he tried to shy away.

  One night, while a few members of the baseball team were at the house, eight-year-old Fred slipped through the kitchen, careful to dodge the half-dressed couples who filled the home. Bottles lay scattered across the path to his room, and no one bothered to quiet down so Fred could rest. His stomach empty and his head throbbing, the boy had just nodded off when he was awakened by his bedroom door opening and closing quietly. Fred kept his eyes shut tight, pretending to sleep as the sound of drunken footsteps drew closer.

  Just as the covers began to pull from Fred’s small frame, the door opened again, slamming against the wall. Fred squeezed his eyes even tighter, fearing the worst. But this time Fred heard the bold voice of Aunt Eleanor. “Get the hell away from that boy right now if you know what’s good for you.”

  A man laughed, tauntingly, as if he had no fear of the woman in the room. Fred opened his eyes to see Uncle Dirk glaring at Eleanor.

  “You must not know about me.” Her words came out with force and anger but also with a clarity that made Fred’s uncle pay attention.

  “Well, you must not know about me,” Dirk mocked, standing far taller and stronger in stature than Eleanor and smirking to prove he was not afraid.

  Instead of cowering, as others always seemed to do in the shadow of the star athlete, Fred’s aunt stepped closer. “Let me make myself clear, boy. I just got out of the pen for trying to kill a man. This time, I’ll make damn sure it counts.”

  Fred sat up in bed, half thinking this was all a dream. Sure enough, Aunt Eleanor was standing right there in his bedroom. She was holding a baseball bat, confronting his uncle as if she could hardly wait to take a swing.

  “I ever see you as much as look at that boy again, I’ll show you what this bat was really made for.” She swung the weapon against the wooden floor, hard, missing Dirk’s bare feet by less than an inch and causing Fred to flinch. “Now get the hell out of here. And take those monsters with you.”

  Uncle Dirk backed away in silence, his hands in the air. Just as he moved out of the room, Eleanor took another swing, harder this time, bashing the bat against the doorframe and splintering the trim. She followed Dirk through the house, smashing whatever was in her way and threatening the players as they scrambled to find their belongings and head for the hills. From the porch she yelled behind them, “Y’all ever step foot on this property again, I’ll dig your graves myself!”

  With that one act of defiance, Aunt Eleanor likely saved Fred’s life. He had become so broken, so lost in the long-term isolation and neglect, that he had retreated deep within himself, no longer seeing the world as a safe space. Too much fear had damaged his spirit, and he no longer felt anchored by his own bones. Instead, he floated numbly amid the fray and tried only to survive.

  A few nights after the incident, Eleanor found her young nephew sitting on the roof of the family’s backyard shed, his eyes focused on the star-filled sky as if he wanted to be anywhere but here. Eleanor made her way toward the shed, glass of water in hand. “Thirsty?”

  Fred shook his head, which was more than he would have done if the question had come from anyone else. Still, his reluctance did not deter her. She handed him the glass and said, “From the looks of it, you could use a home-cooked supper. Something to stick to your bones. How about you come give me a hand in the kitchen?”

  Eleanor leaned against the shed and followed Fred’s gaze to the new moon, its faint glow illuminating the small white homes that dotted the mill village. In the distance, the roofline of a much larger home anchored the vast stretch of stars, its pitched roof reaching far into the sky from its superior hilltop position, as if only the lucky few had access to the heavens.

  “You’re safe with me,” she insisted. “I’m with you, Fred. Promise.”

  The young boy lifted his brows, suspicious. The only person who had ever really taken time to bond with him was his Papa. And even though Noah was no longer in jail, he hadn’t returned—a blow that still carried a deep sting. But Aunt Eleanor had already proven she was on Fred’s side. She may have been a little odd, maybe even scary, but she had shown she had heart.

  Allowing Aunt Eleanor to lead him, Fred followed her into the family’s kitchen. There they worked together late into the night, boiling a pot of potatoes and another of green beans. To Fred’s surprise, Eleanor not only taught him how to mash the potatoes, adding just enough milk, butter, and salt to suit his taste, she also sat with him at the table and talked to him while they ate together.

  Day after day Aunt Eleanor fed Fred and treated him like he was worthy of her kindness. She listened when he spoke, and he slowly began to come back to life. She also made sure, at every turn, that her young nephew knew he wasn’t going to have to stand on his own in the world.

  Their partnership lasted long enough for Fred to catch his breath and regain solid footing. Then the day came for his aunt to move on, leaving her abusive husband behind. She pulled Fred aside and left him with some final advice: “You gotta find a way to get out of this place, Fred. And don’t you never let nobody break you. You were born for so much more than this.”

  While other kids still believed in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny, Fred had to become what some would consider street-smart, honing his instincts as he navigated the many dangers of the world. If he wasn’t an “old soul” at birth, as Mayhayley had proclaimed him to be, then he certainly had become one during his early elementary years, a time that should have been safe and carefree.

  Operating in survival mode not only at home but also at school, the frail little boy had begun to dress in layers, covering his body in long sleeves and pants even on the hottest of days. He w
ould barely touch his food, even though his weight was slight, and he carried dark circles under his sunken eyes. Eleanor was no longer there to guide him at home, but at school, the wise principal, Mrs. Duncan, realized something was wrong.

  Fred had always been a student with high marks, excelling with academic ease on account of his advanced intellectual ability. But recently his grades had dropped, and he no longer completed his assignments. He had withdrawn from his peers and appeared sullen even during his favorite subjects. Having observed these changes taking place, Mrs. Duncan pulled the boy aside. “Fred,” she whispered, “is there anything you want to tell me?”

  He shrugged and shook his head, a conflicting response that drew even more alarm from the dedicated educator.

  “I’m concerned, Fred. You don’t seem yourself lately. What’s happened?”

  Again, no answer came. Instead, Fred kept his head down, his eyes lowered.

  Mrs. Duncan had the reputation for being stern and, like many in those days, had been known to use physical discipline. While Fred had never been the kind to cause trouble, he now worried she was about to hit him as so many other adults had done. But rather than pull out her paddle or the rubber bike tube she’d been rumored to use when punishing children, the principal kept her voice soft and said, “I want to help you, Fred. Tell me, how can I help you?”

  Fred slowly lifted his chin and dared to look Mrs. Duncan in the eye. It was the best he could do, and he hoped she would understand the unspoken message: Yes. Help me, please.

  “Follow me,” she said, leading him to the school piano. She pulled the wooden bench from its proper place and patted its worn center spot, nudging Fred to take a seat. She sensed the boy was too worn down to care anymore, even about music. He stared at the keys as if they held every ache, every fear. Every awful, horrible, terrible thing this world had shown him in such a short time.

  Mrs. Duncan sat beside the fragile boy. She began playing a slow, comfortable rendition of “Over the Rainbow,” a song that seemed to reach him. Fred did not sing or play even as Mrs. Duncan lifted her voice, but something in the young student seemed to shift as the music filled the empty space around them. It felt as if maybe he was exhaling for the first time in years, slowly releasing all he had been holding inside, all that had been pulling him downward.

  “You know,” Mrs. Duncan said, as she continued to play, “I’ve noticed you haven’t learned your multiplication tables yet.”

  Fred stared blankly and offered no response.

  “And I’ve also noticed that you can do anything you put your mind to,” Mrs. Duncan continued. “Isn’t that right, Fred?”

  He turned toward the window. Outside, his peers played ball and jumped ropes. They laughed and ran and cheered, seemingly without a care in the world, as if they had no idea of the dangers he knew firsthand, the real-life monsters who prowled.

  Mrs. Duncan continued playing, softly, now without singing the words. Above the sound of the notes, she said, “Fred, you are giving me no choice but to fail you. And if I fail you, you’ll have to repeat third grade. I know you don’t want to watch all your friends advance without you. That wouldn’t be fair to you, now, would it?”

  Fred shook his head. He certainly did not want to be a failure. He just didn’t know how to care anymore, not about something as trivial as math facts. But if there was one thing he did care about, it was that he did not want to disappoint Mrs. Duncan, one of the few adults who had always made a point of believing in him, even when he didn’t believe in himself.

  “Tell you what I’m going to do,” the principal said. “I’m going to give you another chance. You go home tonight, and you learn all those multiplication facts.”

  “All of them?” Fred asked, his voice weak with worry. He had long been considered an exceptional student, but learning all of his tables in one night seemed impossible.

  “That’s right. All of them. And then you come back tomorrow and you pass this exam. If you can do that, I’ll replace your failing grade. But you have to earn it. You understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He pulled away, feeling defeated.

  The music stopped. “Fred?”

  Mrs. Duncan moved closer, leaning an elbow on the piano’s keys to face her fragile student. Placing her other hand on his shoulder, she offered the same gift of kindness he had received back in kindergarten when his parents had failed to attend his graduation ceremony. “I believe in you,” she declared, not a hint of doubt in her tone. Her eyes held steady, waiting for the young boy to meet her gaze. “You have something wonderful inside you. Something I’ve never seen in anyone else. You can do this, Fred. And you will.”

  That night, Fred crawled into bed with his math facts and a full dose of self-confidence courtesy of Mrs. Duncan. He studied long and hard, memorizing all the multiplication patterns from zero through twelve.

  When he returned to class the following day, Mrs. Duncan was eager to see the results of her challenge. Sure enough, her young student had mastered every row of his multiplication tables in only one night and earned a passing grade, much to his own relief.

  “I never doubted you for a second,” Mrs. Duncan said. She smiled and drew a big star on the math chart under Fred’s name. Then she gave him a hug and said, “Don’t ever sell yourself short again, Fred. You deserve a good life. Now go make that happen.”

  Six

  With a stronger spirit and a discerning eye, Fred began to rise again, focusing on finding better company than what was available in his family home. Over the next few years, he built healthy relationships with other children while testing his own frighteningly powerful intellectual capacities. Something began to shine through, a sense of self-belief, a confidence Fred had never felt before. But another force kept Fred engaged at school through those tumultuous years. Music! In such a positive and supportive environment, Fred was encouraged to explore his gifts freely, something that had never been possible inside his own home.

  Through the rest of elementary school, Fred immersed himself in both academics and music under the direction of Mrs. Duncan. By the time he entered middle school, his parents had purchased some property about ten miles outside of LaGrange. Longing to try his hand at livestock, Grady moved the entire family away from the Dunson Mill Village, out to the rural Troup County community known as Hillcrest, where he began raising cows, chickens, and pigs.

  A modest wooden structure, the home held a slanted porch and a tin roof that leaked when the rains came, but with this new address came a new school, one that served the whole town of LaGrange rather than exclusively teaching the mill families. The Allens continued working at the mill, and with only one old car between them, Fred struggled to find rides into town for after-school functions and community events. He was able to ride the school bus back and forth each day to LaGrange, but in order to take part in extracurricular activities, he frequently had to stay overnight with friends living in town.

  It was about this time that his family began attending Shoal Creek Baptist Church. Until then his mother had sung hymns at home and the family Bible lay on the shelf, but Fred hadn’t been exposed to any structured spiritual formation. The rural congregation welcomed the Allen family and gave Fred his first deep exposure to the Christian faith. Still, Fred had little interest in God. He had learned the hard way that if any higher power existed, then it wasn’t interested in a family like his. No, the boy resolved to himself, he wasn’t at church for the sermon. He was there for the music. And like others in the community, the tight-knit congregation quickly recognized Fred’s extraordinary talents, asking him to play piano during their Sunday services.

  Eager to spend as much time creating music as possible, Fred agreed. And with the preacher convincing Grady and Velma that this special ability was no curse but, rather, God’s calling, they had little choice but to yield to their son’s ever-growing determination. The church not only delivered an opportunity for the middle schooler to enhance his talents and share his gifts,
Sunday services also proved to be one of the few activities his family experienced together.

  Until this point, Fred’s world had revolved around the mill. He had lived among the working-class families, attended the village school, and had no exposure beyond that little corner of the world. He had even spent his summers working the looms. But now he was attending a new school, one that boasted an award-winning choral group. At the recommendation of the school’s music teacher, Mrs. Dudley, Fred auditioned and was selected to join this elite group of singers. This gave him a wonderful new opportunity to travel and perform across the region, opening his eyes to a much bigger world than he had ever known. More determined than ever to explore his talents, and with the blessing of church and school, there was no longer anything his parents could do to stop him.

  The choral group consisted of four female and four male singers, each from families far wealthier than Fred’s. Some children from Fred’s place in life might have been too intimidated to join such an exclusive group, especially when his parents did nothing to encourage it, but Fred was smart enough to realize that we are the company we keep. He also proved a quick study, elevating himself by learning to fit in with the people who brought out the best in him, bonding with classmates he most admired.

  One afternoon at choral rehearsal, the group was preparing for their first competition, and Fred’s nerves spiked as he checked his hair in the mirror. The other boys had swept theirs to the side in one clean part, their sideburns tight around the ears. Fred had long relied on his father for haircuts, which sometimes meant a sober swipe of the blade in an even line, but most of those weekend clips had come with whiskey breath and the sting of a crooked hand. Fred’s red-faced reflection revealed his shame. From the side of his eye, he watched as the popular Rick Lewis smoothed his own dark locks with a bit of pomade. Fred wet his hand beneath the faucet and mimicked Rick’s moves, substituting water for gel. Rick straightened his collar in the mirror and gave his smile a quick check for approval. When he turned to leave the restroom, Fred shadowed, straightening his own collar and checking his smile too. Then he left the restroom, walking with a confident stride, exactly as Rick had done.