Crescendo

by Allen Cheney

Sixteen

  In September 1963, Fred, Winnie, and five-year-old Allison arrived in New York City just in time for the semester to begin. At that time The Juilliard School was located across the street from Union Theological Seminary, where Fred had been admitted to the prestigious School of Sacred Music, and Columbia University stood just down the street. With so many high-caliber institutions anchored in such close proximity, this district served as a thriving nucleus where intellectuals, theologians, and artists came together to study, worship, and create. In many ways, it was similar in spirit to Greenwich Village, but it carried a more affluent air to it, an elite professional blend of scholarship and faith that the rough-and-tumble Villagers seemed to be protesting against.

  Not only had Fred been admitted to the School of Sacred Music, he had been given the rare opportunity to study at Union, Juilliard, and Columbia concurrently. The collaborative graduate program was offered to only the most elite students, and having been accepted, Fred was eager to face the challenge. As he headed off for his first day of class, he joked with Winnie, “What could be better than studying at Union, Juilliard, or Columbia? Studying at all three!” If he was nervous, he didn’t let it show.

  He was especially excited to study under one of the world’s most preeminent organists, Dr. Claire Coci. It was the main reason he had wanted to attend Union, to learn from the best organ instructor he could find. Fred was a gifted pianist, accompanist, vocalist, and performer, but nothing had ever satisfied his creative needs quite like playing the organ. There was something about the multitasking required to maneuver the pedals and keys and stops all at once, mastering not only the melody but the pressures and pistons. Playing had felt as if he was controlling the breath of the instrument itself, and Fred had long dreamed of governing the dramatic inhales and exhales of an elaborate pipe organ.

  When he entered Dr. Coci’s studio, she was already dressed for an evening performance, greeting Fred in a navy gown that accentuated her petite figure. While older than her new student by a decade or two, she was an alluring woman who certainly knew how to hold a room. She wanted to know all about Fred’s background, and when he confessed that he had never played an actual pipe organ, she seemed intrigued.

  “But you were the organist for your church?”

  He nodded. “Several churches in fact. Since sixth grade. Seems they could always find a pianist, but there weren’t many people in town who knew the organ.”

  “Sounds a bit like my own story.” Dr. Coci smiled.

  As the conversation continued, the warmhearted instructor seemed smitten by Fred’s down-home humility, saying, “I can tell you’re the kind of man who enjoys an intellectual trial.” By the end of their thirty-minute appointment, he had won her over.

  As Dr. Coci escorted her new student to the door, she gathered her sheet music. “I’ve got a good feeling about this, Fred. I’m going to make a real organist out of you. Watch and see.”

  His first meeting with Hans Heinz at Juilliard went equally well. Many considered Hans to be the premier tenor instructor at the famed music school, and as Fred began studying under Dr. Coci and Hans, as well as with top scholars at Columbia, some would have said it was all part of God’s plan. Fred, however, could not have been as sure, as he was still searching for spiritual clarity.

  As far as he was concerned, he had applied to the seminary not for theology but for music.

  He had arrived in New York not by chance, but because he’d worked hard for it and dared to chase his dream.

  He had been accepted to these three prestigious programs not because he had special connections or family money, but because he’d trained diligently for years, seeking out the best instructors and making the most of his time.

  But the one piece he still could not explain was the fact that he’d been born with such unparalleled talents—both intellectual and musical—a truth he’d slowly learned to call his own. While he didn’t believe in the superstitious fears that had plagued his own family, he couldn’t help but wonder about the psychic midwife who pulled away his veil on the day of his birth. Throughout his childhood she had said he’d been sent to this world to do something important, that he had been given extraordinary gifts, and that God had a special plan for him. Now as he walked back through the courtyard at Union, he looked up at the familiar bell tower, and for the first time in his life, he wondered if one-eyed Mayhayley may have been right.

  While Fred focused on his studies, Winnie once again created a loving home for the young family. Their assigned apartment was on the corner of Broadway and 121st Street, just across from the stately seminary. Behind that was the inspirational Riverside Church, where the couple had once sat in majestic wonder during a Sunday service. Its rhythmic bells chimed on the hour, giving song to the pretty park along the Hudson River. Because the church and seminary were a center of study for the world’s leading ministers, lectors, and musicians, many families resided in facility housing, where a community of children offered friendship to Allison. With so many kids in residence, Riverside had opened a private kindergarten on the top floor and built a full playground for recreation.

  Allison quickly adapted to her new school environment and was especially excited to discover that, from her classroom, she could see the big ships sailing in on the Hudson. Winnie walked her to school each morning, always taking time to count the boats with her young daughter. As the vessels plied their way up or down the river, Winnie never wondered where they had come from or where they were going. She simply enjoyed the view, feeling relieved to have found a way to keep her family knit tightly together in the midst of such a big city. And now her plans were falling into place. Winnie would be working right across the street, where Union’s director of drama, Dr. Robert Seaver, had offered her a full-time position as his personal secretary—a role she was well prepared for, since she had taken shorthand, typing, and bookkeeping in high school.

  The seminary had long been recognized as the nation’s center for religious drama, and Dr. Seaver was well known for crafting many of the productions being performed in churches across the country. Winnie found him to be a talented man, fairly young but stern in his mannerisms. At the same time, he was flexible when Winnie needed time away from work to care for her young daughter, an essential perk given the fact that Allison had been struggling with sinus infections since the family’s relocation.

  Dr. Seaver also loved to work a stage. He’d earned a great deal of respect as a director, and Winnie took full advantage of this aspect of her job. She’d majored in drama at LaGrange College with a minor in voice, so working with the well-dressed eccentric afforded her the opportunity to learn the logistics of producing plays. It proved a wonderful outlet for her, both creatively and socially, as she collaborated with a steady stream of dynamic, creative people from all walks of life.

  While Winnie stayed busy working and caring for Allison, the cross-academic program between Juilliard, Columbia, and Union demanded intense commitment from Fred. Another element adding an extra time crunch to the family schedule was the requirement that students serve as music director for a nearby church.

  One afternoon Fred read the list of available positions to Winnie. While the idea of leading a choir excited him, the pressures of the schedule were mounting. “They’re all in the suburbs,” he said with a sigh. “The commute will take time. Time I don’t have.”

  With her positive spirit, Winnie aimed to lift Fred’s spirits. “You’ve always loved the process of building a choir, and you’re good at it, honey. Just imagine working with a group that’s already established and driven.”

  As it had done so many times before, her kindness brought relief. Indeed, by then Fred had taught musicians of all ages in many churches and classrooms. Most sang with passion and fervor, but many couldn’t carry a tune or read a note when he first met them. It would be a nice change to work with a choir that, if Winnie was right, would consist of experienced vocalists with high expectations set by the interns from U
nion.

  That week, Fred began to slog his way down the list. With each church visit, he became more disappointed by the poor-quality organs. He’d seen better in LaGrange, for heaven’s sake. But just as he was about to surrender, he visited Bernardsville, New Jersey, a high-income community of equestrian retreats and weekend estates. After traveling an hour from the city by train, he took his time exploring the affluent boulevards where European-inspired architecture reminded him of Highpoint, the Lewis family residence he’d called home during high school.

  Bernardsville’s peaceful residential area felt far removed from the city’s frenetic energy, a quality he believed Winnie would find appealing. With his expectations high, Fred made his way to the small stone chapel, a historic sanctuary that sat high on a hill and served as a well-loved landmark for the quaint downtown district. The church was a humble structure, one that reportedly had offered sacred space to settlers for at least a century.

  Fred moved toward the arched entryway, pushed the latch, and gave his eyes time to adjust to the sudden change in light. Inside, he found a simple but beautiful sanctuary, a wooden space that originally had been built for a small congregation of about one hundred. But what caught his eye was the organ. It was small too, scaled to fit the modest space, but unlike many churches where the organ was kept tucked off to the side, this instrument had been placed lovingly at the back of the room, facing the choir. There was no official choir loft, just a series of folding chairs, but the organ’s brass pipes flanked both sides of the apse, framing three tall stained-glass windows. Perhaps it was the way the sun filtered through the colored panes, illuminating all the iconic images, but as the window’s cross glowed red above the pipes, all Fred could think was, This is my church.

  The only problem with taking the part-time position at Bernardsville United Methodist was the commute. That first Sunday, Fred left his apartment at 3:00 a.m. in order to catch the subway out to the Hoboken terminal on the Hudson River Line. From there, he boarded the Erie Lackawanna Railway, scrolling a finger across the sign that read “Friendly Service Route” before claiming one of the vintage seats.

  Suddenly it hit him: he was on a train headed to a church in one of the most affluent townships of New Jersey, an elite community where he’d been assigned to lead the choir as a student of both Union Theological Seminary and Juilliard—not to mention Columbia! He had been so busy managing his hectic schedule, trying to handle all the responsibilities of school and family while adjusting to this new academic life, he had not once taken time to let it all sink in. Now, as the train pulled him toward Bernardsville, he could see how far he had come from the impoverished Dunson Mill Village, from the lonely little boy who had been locked away from his cherished piano, from the sullen spirit who had been afraid his friends might learn the truth about his family’s dark dysfunction. He had finally made it out of Georgia, out of the shadows of his own generational brokenness in LaGrange, and out from under the comfortable canopy of Winnie’s family legacy in Columbus. He was finally making his own way.

  Fred relaxed in his seat, feeling a strong sense of pride. Like the other early morning passengers, few in number as they were, he stayed quiet for the duration of the ride, taking in the view as the cars rattled away from the city and through more family-oriented communities. Slowly, skyscrapers were replaced with bigger and bigger lawns, not so unlike the neighborhoods he had known back home in Georgia.

  The train would tirelessly deliver riders all the way to Bernardsville six days a week without fail, but on Sundays even the train celebrated a Sabbath, going only as far as Summit, which was still a thirty-minute drive from the church. Thankfully, a kind congregation member had arranged to meet Fred at the station.

  As Fred stepped from the train, a tall and confident gentleman approached, offering a friendly handshake. “Glad to meet you, Fred.” Then he broke into a cheerful smile. “Welcome to Jersey.”

  Fred couldn’t help but notice the man’s expensive Rolex and polished shoes. During the drive, Fred’s host seemed kind and sincere, sharing the history of the church, the dwindling participation in the choir, and the need for revitalization. “I’m not the only one counting on you to whip us back into shape, Fred,” he said. “We’ve got the talent, no doubt about that. Just need the right person to take the lead.”

  As Fred led the choir that first Sunday, he worked with a small group of vocalists, only a dozen members at most. But the congregation was welcoming and well trained, encouraging Fred with their shared vision to rejuvenate the music program.

  As he’d hoped, Fred found the church members educated and diverse, cultured and engaged. They had high expectations and an even stronger work ethic. There was no doubt about it—this was the place for him. Now he only needed Winnie and Allison to find a place here too.

  Seventeen

  It seemed Fred was off to a smooth start, leading the Bernardsville choir on Wednesdays and Sundays and making the most of his commute time by tackling academic assignments on the trains. While he had hardly a second to spare between school, church, and family obligations, he hadn’t forgotten Emile Renan’s invitation to look him up when he got to New York. Fred had no way of knowing if the opera star had been sincere in his offers to help him professionally, but there was only one way to find out. So one day he gave Emile a call. As the phone rang, he counted the coils on the cord, trying to calm his nerves.

  “What a nice surprise, Fred. Wonderful to hear from you!” Emile’s voice was kind and forthcoming, and he quickly extended an invitation for Fred to visit his exclusive Sutton Place apartment. Fred had heard of the upscale area where some of the city’s most affluent residents held property. He’d even read about the enclave in J. D. Salinger’s famous novel, Catcher in the Rye, and he’d sung about it in Rodgers and Hart’s musical On Your Toes. But his cultural awareness did nothing to prepare him for the elegance he experienced when he was welcomed into Emile’s luxurious world.

  The building was only about nine stories tall, but everywhere Fred looked he found signs of excess and privilege. Two women gossiped beneath the awning. One wore a plush fur stole despite the early fall temperatures, and the valet soon announced the arrival of their driver, holding the door as the two women folded themselves into the back seat of a Rolls Royce.

  Fred tried not to stare, but the opulence was mesmerizing, and as the doorman welcomed him into the decadent lobby, he envied the residents who called this place home. The polished marble floors ran beneath expansive crystal chandeliers countering their soft glow with an elaborate black-and-white design underfoot. Fresh floral centerpieces rose from antique urns, greeting visitors with the fragrant scents of autumn coneflowers and delicate tea olive blooms, a trigger that transported Fred right back to his grandfather’s garden, where they would snip these same petals to make herbal teas.

  Trying to shake his past and pretend he felt perfectly at ease, Fred found his way to the elevator, where he told the attendant he was there to see Emile. Fred squeezed into the cab and eavesdropped as a Realtor was trying to interest a couple in what she described as “one of the highly sought-after” units. “The original brownstones were constructed in the 1800s,” she explained. “Kind of a rough area before the Vanderbilts and Morgans swept in and made it the place everyone wanted to be. Prices have been going up ever since. A surefire investment if ever there was one.” The brass doors opened, and the trio exited the crowded cab. Fred sneaked a curious peek into the hall to see that the building was designed to hold only two large units on each floor. When the doors opened again, Fred stepped forth on the eighth floor.

  He blinked nervously as Emile’s wife, Doris, welcomed him with a kind smile. The gracious host led her young guest through the impressive foyer, directly into a section of the apartment where Emile housed his rehearsal studio. It had been rumored that some of the world’s most admired singers frequently met here for practice, and as Fred entered, he wasn’t disappointed. In rehearsal that day was the ever-popular Eil
een Farrell, the crossover superstar Fred and Winnie had heard perform in Chautauqua. She’d built a successful career as a gifted soprano and had recently become one of the most esteemed—albeit controversial—performers at the Metropolitan Opera.

  “Eileen and I were just wrapping up here,” Emile said, pointing Fred toward a plush green chair in the back of the studio while Doris left them to their work. “Take a seat there in the corner. You can watch and learn.”

  Fred wanted to pinch himself to make sure this was really happening. Emile turned to Eileen and said, “Mark my word. This kid is the next big thing. He’s got it. I’m telling you. He’s got it.”

  “You know what they say?” Eileen smiled at Fred. “When you’ve got it, you’d be wrong not to share it.”

  Fred could hardly believe his luck. Eileen had reached the pinnacle of opera performance by landing coveted roles with the Met, but here she was acting nothing like a diva. Instead, she was humorous and down to earth, tossing jokes as if she and Fred had been close friends for years. Never had he met a woman quite like her, and she defied all his preconceived stereotypes of stardom.

  After a few more casual exchanges, Eileen adjusted her stance and began belting out the most impressively powerful soprano Fred had ever heard, mastering the voice of Leonora in Verdi’s La Forza del Destino with an intensity that left his ears thrumming. As she sang the mournful Italian aria, her facial expressions revealed deep emotion as if she’d fully morphed into the grief-stricken Leonora, standing in the isolated cave, begging God to end her suffering.

  Pace, pace, mio Dio!

  Cruda sventura

  M’astringe, ahimè, a languir1

  Fred had studied this opera with Madame back at LaGrange, and the memory of its English translation returned with ease: “Peace, peace, my God! Raw misfortune It pains me, alas, to languish.” He closed his eyes and tilted his head back, letting Eileen’s voice work its magic. The waves of sound rolled through him. Nothing in life ever moved him in the way he felt absorbed by music, and this was the best he’d ever heard. Fred still had chills when he opened his eyes, trying to imagine the impact such a passionate singer would have in a proper theater.