Crescendo

by Allen Cheney

  Never before had he experienced such a rush of panic, but now, as adrenaline surged in his veins, there was only one thing left to do. Run!

  Fred bolted from the classroom, fighting the urge to scream. Like a madman, he raced full-speed from the building, but even the fresh air couldn’t tame his rage. Still running, he gasped, clawing at his collar, pulling at the buttons as he tried to shake his overwhelming fears.

  He ran from the seminar at Columbia all the way to Morningside. Then he turned away from the river and ran the rest of the mile to Central Park. The entire route a blur, Fred had no awareness that he was crossing lanes of traffic and shoving pedestrians. He didn’t even realize he was running until the pavement hit the lawn and the streets disappeared from view.

  In his panic Fred had ripped his shirt completely from his sweat-soaked body and now stared at the crumpled fabric in his hands. He fell against a grassy knoll, shivering and moaning in utter shock. Then he sobbed. Right there in the middle of Central Park, where anyone could see, he had an absolute breakdown.

  He couldn’t erase the memories, and no matter how hard he tried to claw his way free of them, he was that eight-year-old . . . seven-year-old . . . six-year-old boy, shaking in fear as Uncle Dirk moved closer to his bed, a drunken stupor hardening his steps. He stood over young Fred as a lion over its prey, enjoying the surge of power and conquest as he had done time and time again for more than three years. Three years!

  Every memory resurfaced with a fiery explosion of disturbing images. His conscious mind couldn’t process the truth of it all. It was as if someone had removed a blindfold, and years of abuse by Uncle Dirk played out on-screen. It was all there. Every gruesome detail. Every twisted assault. Every threat. Every secret. Every shame. And with that truth came a burden too big for any man to bear.

  How could he have forgotten such abuse? Did it really happen?

  Yes. He was certain it had happened. He knew it as well as he knew he was Fred Allen, husband to Winnie Langley and father to Allison. He knew these truths as well as he knew his eyes were blue and that his sister was named Novis and that he was the only son of Grady and Velma Allen. The truth was that Uncle Dirk had abused him in horrific ways when he was just a boy. And sometimes other ballplayers had their part in it too.

  Around him the park was filled with ambitious joggers and emotional street poets. Children climbed boulders while college kids spread blankets across the grass. Beneath the shade tree, they strummed guitars and braided flowers and pointed out pictures in the clouds. It seemed the world was divided into two halves: the broken and the whole.

  As he watched the world float around him, hours seemed to pass and yet time stood still. His new Rolex watch, a gift from a famous friend, had become meaningless, a melting haze of movement that no longer applied to him. In fact, nothing seemed to carry any worth anymore. When the sun began to set, Fred had to make a move. But where to go?

  Still fumbling to grasp the full reality of his memories, Fred managed to find a pay phone, and then he made one call. He did not call Winnie. Nor did he call Emile. There was only one person who would understand this kind of trauma. Fred called his best friend, Pete.

  Pete came straight to the park without question or hesitation. He rushed to find Fred still a wreck. Immediately he wrapped his arms around his friend and held him steady, saying again and again and again as the truths surfaced, “You’re going to get through this, Fred. You’ve already survived the worst of it.”

  Fred’s instinct to call Pete had been the right choice. As the night went on, Pete divulged that he had suffered his own form of abuse. When he was just a teenager, frightened and destitute in this new country, ravaged by the psychological abuses of war and suffering the devastating plight of a refugee, he’d arrived in New York only to endure more abuse by his predatory landlady, a much older woman who forced Pete to pay her more than rent to keep a roof over his head.

  Together, Pete and Fred sat on a well-lit park bench and shared their deepest wounds. Unlike Fred, Pete had learned to cope with his own past by facing it head-on. He had found no benefit in burying it. “Listen,” Pete said. “You know the answers now. You know. All those nightmares? Those terrible times waking up, soaked with sweat and too scared to breathe? Your constant drive to prove yourself? To never be quiet? Never be still? Now you know why you’ve been struggling. This has been trying to surface for some time.”

  “But why now?” Fred gritted his teeth. His fists were clenched. So much anger welled inside him. Too much.

  “Because now you’re ready,” Pete said.

  Fred wrung his hands, suddenly realizing what they were capable of doing to a man like Dirk. “He’s lucky I’m a thousand miles from LaGrange.”

  Pete nodded but said nothing. Clearly, he understood the rage.

  Fred shook his head. His heart throbbed against his ribs. His whole being felt caged in. He needed to hit someone. To throw this pain right back to his uncle. To kick and punch and watch him suffer as he had.

  Fred’s pulse spiked as he imagined choking Uncle Dirk. Bashing that baseball bat against his skull the way Eleanor had threatened to do all those years earlier, when she had been the only person to protect that scared and fragile little boy.

  “You know what’s the hardest part?” Fred asked. “That uncle . . . he built a home next door to us. His son . . . my cousin . . . grew up with me. Served as a groomsman in our wedding. My parents must have known.”

  Pete listened respectfully.

  “Even if they hadn’t been smart enough to notice, Aunt Eleanor had never been one to mind her tongue. She would have told them, don’t you think?” Then, after a pause, he added, “Maybe she did tell them. Maybe that’s why she left!”

  These thoughts spun wildly, sending Fred into the darkest depths of maddening fear and confusion. Hour by hour, memory by memory, Pete sat beside Fred, allowing his friend’s boiling anger to simmer to a slow, cool burn. It took half the night, a long walk, and a move to a quiet bar, but when Fred had released his final tear in a back corner booth of their favorite haunt, he put his head in his hands and said, “I don’t know what to do. What am I supposed to do?”

  “Whatever it takes,” Pete said. “As long as you don’t let this take you down.”

  “How can it not?” Fred asked, defeated.

  “Look at me, Fred.” Pete held his friend’s gaze. “You’re not alone in this fight. I’ll be with you all the way through it,” he said sincerely. “And I’ll still be there when you get to the other side. It won’t be easy, but believe me, you will get through to the other side.”

  Twenty-five

  For the first time in Fred’s life, the music stopped. He breathed no melody, heard no tune. The deep taproot of creativity that had long sustained him was now an infinite and empty abyss.

  Since the sudden surfacing of his traumatic past, he had been feeling nothing but a heavy sense of loss, as if he were dead inside, numb. Even Winnie and Allison were unable to bring him back to life. While he had been able to confide in Pete, he had not yet found the words to tell Winnie the truth. How could he? She would never understand the horrors that had shaped him. And worse than that, Fred feared she would judge him. Maybe even leave him. She may even begin to see him as his family must have seen him—as nothing worth loving at all.

  He conquered his fear of losing Winnie the only way he knew how, by pushing her away. She represented everything he wasn’t, and maybe everything he would never be again. She and Allison were still the innocent, trusting, openhearted souls of his world. Now, as the beautiful mother and daughter laughed together, swimming laps in their Bernardsville pool, it pained Fred to watch them, as if their light was so bright it hurt his eyes.

  Fred was shutting down, just as he had done in his youth. Only now he could not cover himself in baggy clothes and sink into silence to keep others at bay. Instead, he limped through life, hour by hour, trying his best to keep up the act, determined not to cave. Because the memories
had destroyed his self-worth, he sought to prove himself at every turn, keeping later and later hours at the studio, determined to produce perfect albums and find a way to attain the happiness that had been stolen from him.

  In the meantime Winnie was watching her husband unravel and had no idea how to save him. Knowing nothing of the internal battle he was fighting, she blamed their struggles on his full schedule, the late nights, the falsely fulfilling celebrity life. In some way Fred was making Winnie his enemy. She loved him more than anyone, and, unknowingly, because love was what had wounded him to begin with, Winnie had become his greatest threat.

  He began countering her every move. If she reached for him, he’d pull away. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t break through. As a result, Winnie’s frustrations grew. A devoted wife, she was no pushover. Fred had fallen for this spunk and strength in the first place, loving that she was nothing like his mother and that she was the kind of woman to hold him accountable when he got out of line. But the fire he’d found so appealing in the beginning was proving more than his weakened psyche could handle.

  Day after day Winnie kept trying. But she didn’t know how to pull her husband back. All she knew was that she loved Fred Allen with her whole heart. He had been her best friend, her soul mate, and she was not going to give up on him. In good times and in bad—to Winnie, those vows meant something. In fact, they meant everything.

  As she pleaded for Fred to let some of his responsibilities go, to step away from the chaos and focus on their family, Fred’s walls grew higher. He turned away from the healthy parts of his life. His inner child took the wheel and functioned in survival mode again, so Fred did whatever it took to escape the pain. That was all he could manage to do.

  After months of Winnie’s pleading, Fred finally agreed to spend the entire weekend in Bernardsville, two solid days at home. Friday afternoon Winnie and Allison prepared Fred’s favorite dinner and set the table. By evening they were eagerly watching the clock for him to walk through the door. Hour after hour Winnie came up with every excuse for his delay, determined to preserve his character before Allison as she’d always done. Eventually, the phone rang. “Stuck at work,” Fred said. “Trying to wrap up this session. Looks like I’ll have to spend another night in the city.”

  Once again Winnie covered for him, assuring Allison that he would be home by morning. But the following day, still no Fred. And this time, no phone call.

  By the time he finally showed up to lead the choir Sunday morning, Winnie was at her wits’ end. Others may not have noticed the glaze in his eyes, the extra shot of mouthwash on his breath, but Winnie no longer recognized her husband. His tie was crooked. His face unshaven. This was not the man she knew.

  After church Fred entered the kitchen with his head down and didn’t speak. Instead, he kissed her softly as if that were enough to say “I’m sorry.”

  “We need to talk, Fred.” Winnie took a seat at the kitchen table, hoping he would join her.

  He did.

  After she brewed some coffee, Winne poured a cup for Fred and passed it to him. As it cooled, the two sat in silence, watching Allison jump rope with friends outside. When he finally lifted his mug for a sip, Winnie took the first turn. “I can’t do this anymore. You have to tell me what’s going on with you.”

  Finally he stuttered through a vague response. “I don’t know why, but . . . I’ve got to find myself, Winnie. I’m not happy.”

  “Fred, please talk to me.” Desperation clenched her throat. “I don’t understand what’s happening. I feel like we’re losing you.”

  After a sigh Fred said simply, “I can’t be who you need me to be.”

  “What on earth does that even mean, honey? You’re not making any sense.”

  He said nothing. Winnie’s palms turned to the ceiling, giving emphasis to each word. “I want you to be yourself, Fred. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. You. Not this other man you’ve become. This isn’t you.”

  Fred leaned his head against his hand. Then much more softly he said, “Maybe I’m not who you think I am.”

  Winnie stood from her chair. She wanted to scream. But she mustered all her resolve, pacing back and forth beside the table.

  “I’ve got to have some time,” Fred continued. “Or something. I don’t know. I’m lost, Winnie.”

  “Time?” Her pitch rose despite her best efforts to stay steady.

  “I can’t be the right husband, the right father. I don’t know what else to do, Winnie. It’s just . . . something . . . something’s broken in me.”

  “You aren’t broken, Fred. You are the most wonderful person I’ve ever known. Can’t you see that?”

  Again he said nothing.

  “Look at all you have overcome. Achieved. You have more talent than half the artists in this city combined. And the way you are with Allison. Show me another man who loves his daughter more than that. I dare you.”

  Fred stared vacantly out the window as if nothing she said mattered. As if she could never out-love this pain.

  “I resigned from RCA,” Fred said flatly. “It’s not the job for me.”

  “All right,” Winnie said, exhaling. “We’ll figure it out, Fred. That’s a problem we can solve.”

  He recoiled. “Nobody asked you to solve my problems, Winnie.”

  “We’re a team, Fred.” She moved her hand to his arm, hoping to calm him. “That’s my job, to help you.”

  “No!” he said too loudly, pulling away. “My problems. My decisions. My life!”

  Stunned, Winnie’s spine stiffened. Never had he spoken to her so harshly. They had always shared everything, a cohesive unit since college. She helped him, and he helped her. It worked, and they were both better together. What had changed? Was he feeling smothered? Wanting out? What exactly did he mean by needing to have some time?

  Winnie tried for days, weeks, months to reach him. He couldn’t make her understand that he loved her—but he was tired. He could no longer keep up all the roles he was playing, and it was easier to avoid her completely. Also he was locked in a cage of shame and could hardly bear to face his own truth, much less share it with the woman he loved.

  So he turned to the safest place he knew to turn—music.

  With so many hours free from RCA, Fred now devoted all his time and energy to Emile’s intense training regimen, determined to see his dreams through to fruition and to land a lead on Broadway. He longed to create, to perform, to give a crowd the emotional energy they craved and in return to find the path that would finally satisfy him. He needed approval, applause, stardom. He wanted it all.

  By summer’s end Winnie had gained little ground. School would be starting soon, and she’d made up her mind. It took her two days to track Fred down, and when she finally got a message through to him, it was simply “Come home. Now.”

  Fred knew he had pushed her too far, but he never expected to find her with her bags packed. When he questioned her, Winnie interrupted. She had rehearsed her speech, and now it was finally her time to talk. “I don’t know what else to do. You say you need time. I’ll give you time.”

  She had planned a response to counter any argument Fred might present. But he said nothing. He didn’t beg her to stay or ask her not to give up on him. He didn’t take her hand or pull her close or tell her he was sorry. He didn’t as much as look at Winnie. Instead, Fred remained numb. Silent. And disconnected. His apathy told Winnie everything she needed to know.

  Twenty-six

  Allison entered the fifth grade in the fall of 1968, back in Columbus. Fred, having left RCA, had given up the expensive Upper East Side apartment and moved out of the family’s nice home in Bernardsville. He had accepted a teaching job at the Lincoln Center School and was staying with Pete for the short term while he looked for an affordable rental. Winnie, determined to fight for her family, continued to travel back and forth for frequent visits, never giving up on her husband despite the increasing distance between them.

  She could neith
er understand nor explain Fred’s erratic behavior, and she had no idea what to do about it. She only knew she missed him more than she could bear. Allison did too, which only added to Winnie’s heartache.

  Fred was living faster than ever in New York. But without Winnie’s unwavering support, he floundered. He also had to deal with a steep cut in pay. Having grown accustomed to the large expense account at RCA, and given that Winnie had always been the one to manage their finances, right-brained Fred was facing some harsh realities.

  Once again Winnie tried to help. The Langleys were still friends with the generous benefactor, Mr. Banks, the same man who had sponsored Fred and Winnie’s summer experience in Chautauqua all those years earlier. It turned out that he had a friend in New York who worked with Macmillan Publishers, and, after a few dinner meetings, Fred was offered a job.

  When the semester ended at Lincoln Center, Fred transitioned to his new position and rented a small apartment in Greenwich Village. He proved to be a gifted wordsmith with an intellect to carry him through the editorial job with ease, but while he remained professional in the office, he couldn’t pull himself together after hours. He continued to socialize nightly with his many prominent connections, and he relied heavily on his friendships to pass the time. This reckless lifestyle was consuming him. Even Pete had grown worried, warning Fred about the negative influence of a few acquaintances and trying to steer Fred back to center, back to his family. Back home.

  Yet slowly but surely Fred’s show business career had begun to take off. With Emile’s help, and with no demanding RCA or academic commitments on his calendar, he had landed a few supporting roles on Broadway. Now the city’s top producers were expressing real interest in the up-and-coming tenor.

  By late spring Winnie flew up for another of her frequent visits. Fred took her out to her favorite Italian restaurant where he asked for the corner table, bathed in candlelight. When the band struck up “Taking a Chance on Love,” the timing seemed right, so Fred took his chance.