Crescendo

by Allen Cheney

  “Emile got me a big audition. Next week.”

  “So you’re staying,” Winnie replied sadly. “I’d hoped you might be ready to come home. It’s been nine months.”

  Fred was quiet now. He had struggled with this for so long, and he had yet to come to terms with an answer. He held Winnie’s hand gently atop the soft linen tablecloth. “I know how lucky I am to have you in my life, Winnie. I do. I know.”

  “But?” Her patience waned.

  He sighed. “I’ve always said you are the we of me.”

  Winnie nodded, fighting tears.

  “But there’s a me of we too, Winnie. And I’ve lost that.”

  The next morning they took a stroll through Central Park, passing the very spot where Fred had experienced his breakdown. Winnie still had no idea any of that had happened, and he planned to keep it that way, those secrets buried deep. As they walked, Winnie couldn’t help but stare at the families enjoying the beautiful spring day together. It was painful to see how happy they seemed, knowing such simple moments had failed to hold Fred’s heart close to her. With tender mercy, she leaned against her husband, letting his strong frame steady her. “I love you, Fred Allen.”

  “I love you too, Winnie.”

  “I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you. In the quad. And I’m always going to love you.” She released a heavy sigh, looking up at a bright yellow kite before turning her attention back to her husband. “This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do, Fred. But what you need and what Allison and I need have become two very different things.”

  She pulled her wedding rings from her finger and placed the set in Fred’s palm, closing his hand softly around them.

  “You’re going to make it big,” she whispered. “I’ve never had any doubt you could do it.” A single tear rolled down her cheek, and Fred moved a finger to catch it. He didn’t make any more promises he couldn’t keep.

  The following day Fred took Winnie to the airport. After she crossed the terminal and disappeared from his sight, Fred looked down at her wedding rings in his hand.

  Oh, God, he thought. What have I done?

  Twenty-seven

  With Winnie and Allison away in Columbus, Fred continued living life as a playboy, hanging out backstage with the stars and hitting all the after-parties. He flirted and hobnobbed, determined to make the most of his newfound freedom. His dedication to his craft had begun to pay off, and with Emile’s help he had made significant strides with some directors and producers.

  One afternoon in 1970, Emile burst into his Sutton Place studio, where Fred was preparing for another lesson. His mentor was unusually elated, with an excitement he couldn’t seem to contain. “Here’s our chance!” He passed a piece of paper to Fred. “I’ve done all I can do here. Now it’s on you, son. Go get this part!”

  Along with an address Emile had scribbled one word on the handwritten note: Company.

  Fred was a firm believer in discipline and had trained rigorously in order to be prepared when the big opportunity finally presented itself. Now that day had arrived. In fact, Company was as big as it gets. The play was Stephen Sondheim’s new musical comedy based on the popular book by George Furth. Fred had been socializing in Stephen’s group for the last year and knew the lead role of Bobby was currently played by Dean Jones, a Hollywood star who had gained fame by acting in a wide range of roles, from grittier Broadway plays to blockbuster Disney comedies. Dean was truly top tier and excelling in the role as Bobby, but now, Emile explained, personal issues had left Dean no choice but to step away from the show.

  A replacement was needed as soon as possible; the competition would be stiff, especially with murmurs of Tony nominations. “All the top entertainers are vying for the audition,” Emile said. “But thanks to me, you have something they don’t have. A slot of rare airtime in front of the producers.”

  “No!” Fred yelled with excitement, truly shocked.

  “Yes!” Emile countered, his eyes lit with excitement.

  Fred’s first thought was to call Winnie and share the big news, but he resisted the urge. In fact, he no longer answered most of her calls. Instead, he’d learned to pretend his hurt away, still the sadness, shift the blame.

  Fred’s absence was having a devastating effect on Winnie back in Columbus, and her family had been watching her wither in grief. Recently her brother, Bill, had given Fred a call, urging him to do the right thing and put his family first. Fred had been defensive, roaring back, “Winnie left. Not me!” But now, as Fred’s big chance had finally arrived, he could no longer silence Bill’s voice: “Winnie needs her husband, and Allison needs her father. And truth is, Fred, you need them too. It’s been long enough. Come home.”

  “What do I do?” Fred asked his reliable mentor. “Winnie’s brother called me. She needs me home, Emile. And to tell you the truth, I’m not sure she’ll wait much longer.”

  “She’s waited this long, hasn’t she?”

  Fred sighed. It had been more than a year since she’d returned to Georgia. While she’d come and gone several times since, and they had never officially separated, he knew he had pushed his wife far beyond what most women would have tolerated.

  “Look, Fred. I like Winnie a lot. You know I do. She’s one of the most talented young women I’ve seen. But you could land this lead, Fred, and then you’re golden. You can’t give up now. Not after all we’ve done to get you this far.”

  “But I’m no good without her, Emile. You see that. I can’t eat. Can’t sleep. And Allison . . . God. I don’t know if it’s worth all this.”

  “Shake some sense into yourself, son. They should be here, supporting you. You’re not just some lowbrow singer with stardust in his eyes.”

  That same evening, after journaling about his conversation with Emile, Fred joined Stephen Sondheim and his friends for a private party. Behind him, in the upscale apartment, a row of awards lined an entire wall. In a corner, framed photos captured smiles from countless red carpets and encore performances. One of Broadway’s leading ladies caught Fred’s eye as he took in the room.

  “I don’t know if I ever really believed I’d end up here. Did you?” She smiled flirtatiously, a siren in the midst of the chaos surrounding him.

  With Winnie away, Fred and the songstress had been circling a flame for weeks, and as she gazed up at him with a sultry stare, he knew he was a half step away from crossing a line.

  “Play something for us,” she said, tugging Fred’s arm to the grand piano where only a few nights before he had accompanied his friend Bernadette Peters. With this woman’s body now close to his, Fred fought against her seductions. Outside, the city lights were a blur as he took a seat at the keyboard. Here he was in a Manhattan penthouse, at a piano that had been played by some of the most talented musicians in the world. He was surrounded by fame and excess, the glamorous life he’d always wanted. And yet . . . he felt emptier than ever before.

  As his hands struck the notes, Fred tried once more for the music to erase his past, to help him escape his heartache. But as the starlet leaned over the piano, requesting he play one of her hit numbers, he paused, then pulled his hands from the ivories and shook his head. No. He had circled the sun and howled at the moon far too many times without the love of his life. Now a clarity overtook him, as if coming above the surface after swimming underwater all this time. His heart could no longer deny the truth. Winnie could never be replaced.

  “Then give us something else,” she said.

  With a distant gaze Fred started to play a song that he and Winnie had sung together many times. It was sad, slow, and beautiful, a jazz ballad that Bobby Darin had been known to deliver with a melancholy sense of loss. But Fred took those emotions even deeper as he crooned, drifting back in time until the room faded away.

  Once upon a time

  A girl with moonlight in her eyes

  Put her hand in mine,

  And said she loved me so

  But that was once upon a time />
  Very long ago

  Once upon a hill

  We sat beneath a willow tree

  Counting all the stars

  And waiting for the dawn

  But that was once upon a time,

  Now the tree is gone

  How the breeze ruffled through her hair

  How we always laughed

  As though tomorrow wasn’t there

  We were young

  And didn’t have a care

  Where did it go?

  Once upon a time

  The world was sweeter than we knew

  Everything was ours

  How happy we were then

  But somehow once upon a time

  Never comes again1

  When the song ended, the woman’s eyes glistened with tears. Without a word, she nodded slightly and gave Fred a gentle kiss on the cheek before leaving him alone at the keys. She understood.

  From the bench Fred sat apart from the others and looked around the room through a clear lens. A famous film director was passed out drunk across the sofa. A highly esteemed actor worked his way through a line of cocaine. Couples of every orientation were tangled together, only half clothed and half aware. It was not so unlike the party scenes of his childhood, when soldiers and athletes made their way to the Allen home to pick their poison. The setting had changed, but the pain remained the same.

  As he stared, clearheaded, he remembered his sister’s appeal: “Whatever you do, promise me you won’t end up like the rest of us.”

  Back in Columbus, Winnie was struggling too. She was thin and pale and had even resorted to biting her nails, a habit she had long despised. Jim and Nell tried to encourage their daughter by never speaking negatively of their son-in-law’s choices, even as they prayed for him to find his way soon. Her brother, Bill, on the other hand, had seen more than he could stand of Winnie’s heartache. He and his sister had always maintained a close relationship, but in recent years they had grown especially connected, and his protective nature was taking hold as he tried to talk sense into her about Fred’s behavior.

  While visiting his parents’ home, he found Winnie writing another letter to Fred. “How long are you going to keep doing this to yourself? Hasn’t he hurt you enough?”

  “It’s not like it seems, Bill. We love each other. I’m just giving him time to follow his dreams.”

  “Time? Maybe it’s time to move on.” Bill sounded tired, and he struggled to break through to her.

  When she didn’t answer, he tried again. “Why are you selling yourself short? You could have any man you want.”

  “I want him,” Winnie said, without looking up from writing. She had no idea her brother had called Fred to intervene.

  Bill moved closer, insisting she give him her full attention. “Can’t you see? He’s broken, Winnie. Broken.”

  Winnie put her pen down and held her brother’s worried gaze. But instead of yielding, she shrugged and said, “Isn’t everybody?”

  Bill was done. He shook his head with resignation and left.

  In her loneliness Winnie had begun keeping a journal of her own, filling it with hopeful words Fred had shared during their ongoing visits, letters, and calls. Now, with Allison at a birthday party, she turned to her journal, hoping to gain clarity as to where it had all gone wrong.

  Later that night the house was quiet. Bill had returned to his own home, and everyone else had gone to bed. But Winnie couldn’t sleep. Her brother’s words haunted her, and her journal had provided no answers. Was Fred too broken to ever really love her?

  Determined not to let this thought consume her, she retreated to the den. Lights flickered across the living room as she flipped the television dial, struggling to find anything but static at this hour. Finally she wrangled the antennae enough to pick up an old rerun, turning the volume down low.

  Moonlight danced through the window as Winnie stepped into the hallway to close Allison’s door. Curled innocently beneath her grandmother’s quilts, with long, brown curls billowing atop the feather pillows, her daughter dreamed peacefully, no idea her father might never return. How unfair, Winnie thought. She doesn’t deserve this. And then, What more can I do to save this family?

  Back in the living room Winnie pulled a family photo album from the bookshelf. Page after page, she ran a finger across the images, proof of happier days. There was Fred carrying Allison piggyback through the sprinklers. Allison opening presents in front of the Christmas tree. Fred laughing with strands of shiny tinsel in his hair. Fred and Winnie newly engaged, standing in the Langleys’ front yard, Winnie showing off her ring. Was it all behind her now?

  Then an old clip of Judy Garland came on-screen. Winnie had always loved her voice, the emotional way she delivered a song, the longing gaze she would offer her listeners. The music explained everything Winnie had been unable to express. She fell onto the sofa, drifting away with Judy’s melancholy tone.

  As long as he needs me

  Oh, yes, he does need me

  In spite of what you see

  I’m sure that he needs me.2

  Winnie pulled a blanket over her thin nightgown and tucked her knees in close. She let her head fall against the arm of the sofa. As Judy sang her to sleep, the moon shone silver through her tears.

  The next week Fred was strolling back to his apartment in the Village after another late night on the town. His group of rowdy friends surrounded him, laughing and jostling down the sidewalk, reeking of cigars and scotch. When they stumbled around the corner with their ties hanging loose, Fred was shocked to see Winnie, barely recognizable, sitting on the front steps of his building.

  Unlike her husband, she hadn’t spent the night on the town, and yet her hair was unkempt too, her clothes wrinkled. It was a look Fred had never seen on the normally polished beauty queen who had always placed great importance on maintaining a respectful appearance. Her hollow, bloodshot eyes proved she had been without sleep for far too long, and she had lost the proper posture she had held as a token of her upbringing.

  Fred recognized something familiar in the haggard look on Winnie’s face. She had been broken, just as he had been when Aunt Eleanor rescued him. But now he was the one inflicting the pain on someone he was supposed to protect from harm. Had he become the monster?

  “I’m not here to bother you,” Winnie said as Fred slowly moved toward her. “I’m staying at the parsonage, and I . . . I just wanted to see if you were okay. You haven’t answered my calls. I’ve been worried.”

  Fred pulled Winnie into a hug, and she let her head fall against him. Just like that, a calm settled over him for the first time in years. “The we of me,” Fred whispered, exhaling.

  His friends respectfully walked away, leaving the couple alone.

  “Rosemary took the kids to that Japanese restaurant . . . the one where they sit on the floor,” Winnie said. “She’ll have Allison for the night.”

  With the minister away for the summer, Fred hailed a cab and escorted Winnie back to the parsonage in Bernardsville. He didn’t think twice about the expensive fare. He wanted to be alone with his wife, far away from any interruptions, no matter the cost.

  By the time they made it to Bernardsville, they had been reminded—if ever two people were inextricably bound to one another, it was them. After months of restless nights Winnie finally fell into a peaceful sleep. Fred stayed awake, watching her dream. And through those quiet hours, he finally realized he could run no more.

  In spite of all he had done to break free of his family’s dysfunction, to rise above the abuse, to form real attachments and heal the wounds of abandonment, Fred was still operating from a place of pain. He’d been moving around the world frantically trying to fill all those deep, dark holes formed in his childhood, and despite wanting so desperately to be a better man than the men in his family, he’d ended up behaving much like them.

  While he’d been striving so hard to please Emile, the only real father figure in his life, he had failed to fully r
ealize that his daughter needed a father too.

  He could continue seeking the attention and approval that he’d craved since his childhood, chasing stardom at the cost of his own wife and child. Or he could dare to become the father and husband the men in his own family had failed to be.

  The choice became suddenly clear. Yes, he had talent. Yes, he longed to see where his gifts would lead him. And, yes, he had an insatiable desire to create, to express himself, to make an audience feel something. But when it all came down to it, Fred loved Winnie and Allison more than he loved his career. He loved them more than he loved Emile. He loved them more than he loved himself.

  As the sun began to rise, soft light filtered through the frosted panes and Winnie woke. Fred struggled to find the right words. There was so much he needed to say. “I can’t live without you, Winnie. You can’t possibly understand what I’ve been . . .” He wiped his hand over his face and finally broke down.

  Syllable by syllable, Fred tried to express all that had happened. He told her about the horrific memories that had resurfaced during the seminar at Columbia. He confessed about his emotional breakdown, how he collapsed in Central Park, how Pete came to his rescue, and how he’d been struggling with the pain, trying to drown his shame and anger at any cost.

  “It isn’t just the abuse,” he explained. “It’s that my family—and God knows who else around me—knew it was happening. They all knew, and they didn’t protect me. They let that man live right beside us. They protected him instead of me! Every single thing I knew about my family, my life . . . it was all a lie. I’ve spent years trying to forgive them for not being better providers. And turns out, that wasn’t the half of it.”

  He grew quiet again, and Winnie sensed his pain was far greater than anything she could ever understand. She knew in that moment that his entire ability to trust or even process had been broken. After all, if you can’t trust your own parents to love and protect you, who can you trust?

  The truths surfaced slowly, and in time he discussed his relentless pursuit of fame, finally understanding that it had all been a hopeless effort to fill a dark, empty place in his soul.