by Allen Cheney
“Bill was right. I’m broken,” Fred sobbed. “And I’ve been running away from the only people in the world who truly mean anything at all to me.”
Winnie had no idea how to process the news Fred had delivered. Nothing in her life had prepared her for this. There was no script to follow, no safe response. She did the only thing she knew to do. She reached for the man she loved and pulled him to her. “It’s not your fault they hurt you, Fred. It’s not your fault.” Then she kissed him and said, “I’m with you, honey. I’m on your side. Always.”
The unconditional love Winnie offered in that moment broke Fred in two. He had hurt her deeply, and yet she was still willing to stand beside him. What had he ever done to deserve a love like this?
“I want to fix it,” Fred said, pleading forgiveness. “I’m no good without my family, no good without you. His mind was racing, trying to work out a plan. Then, after hours of wrestling with the options before him, he finally exhaled and said, “Winnie . . .” His voice was soft, almost too quiet to hear. “I need to go into the city.” He pulled her close again, covering her hands with his. “It’s time I have a talk with Emile.”
Twenty-eight
When Fred arrived at Emile’s apartment in Sutton Place, it was beginning to rain. He didn’t stop to chat with the familiar doorman or visit with acquaintances in the lobby. Instead, he made a beeline for the elevator and nearly ran to Emile’s door. It was the only way to beat his nerves. Don’t stop. Don’t think. Just do this.
Emile greeted Fred with unusual excitement, pulling him into a fierce hug and leading him directly to the bar where he added a generous pour of Macallan to a pair of crystal-cut highballs. He handed one of the scotch whiskeys to Fred and raised his own for a toast. “To us!”
Fred tapped his glass against Emile’s but did not take a swig.
“What’s the matter?” Emile sat back, eyeing his pupil with pride. “You better get to looking happier. I have big news. Big as it gets.”
Fred placed his glass on the side table and claimed one of the two familiar wingback chairs. He and Emile had spent many a night in these seats, sharing their hopes and dreams as the fire roared between them. Now, as the city skyline gleamed from beyond the rainy upper-floor window, Fred realized this apartment represented everything he’d been chasing: creativity, talent, wealth, success. A father.
“All our hard work, finally paying off.” Emile beamed. “You are one meeting away from the Company role! Can you believe it? You’ve done it, son!”
“I have news too,” Fred said, his hands shaking.
Emile’s smile flattened. Fred’s tone was too somber. Too deep.
Outside, the storm was getting stronger, an ominous sign that seemed to add to Fred’s confusion. “It’s Winnie.”
“Oh, to hell with Winnie,” Emile said forcefully. “Do you have any idea what I’ve done to get this for you?”
Fred’s throat tightened.
“I miss my wife, Emile. I miss my daughter. I miss my life with them, and they need me.”
“Then they can come back here to New York. Where you need them. What kind of woman makes you walk away from this? You call that love?”
Suddenly a deep sense of peace moved through Fred. The vision of the steeple rose again from his dreams. It was not a steeple he recognized from any church he had visited in real life, but for some reason, the image was clear in his mind, a beacon of light in the distance, shining, the cross a symbol of the crossroads he was facing.
Then he remembered the tired, sunken look in Winnie’s eyes when he saw her on the front steps. And the tender forgiveness she’d offered him in the parsonage despite all he’d done to hurt her. He remembered the fragile shell of a broken little boy back in LaGrange, barely surviving all the pain that had been inflicted on him. Fred had been seeking his entire life for someone to love him, someone to care. And God had given him Winnie and Allison.
“Pull yourself together and go get this role, Fred. There’s no debate here.” Then his voice sharpened, and he glared with eyes of steel, the way Fred had seen him look when his ego had been ruffled or he hadn’t been given what he wanted. “You owe me this.”
Fred eyed the drink, fighting the lure to numb himself again. Resisting the pressure to follow Emile’s direction all the way through to the stage and the spotlight . . . to become a star.
“Isn’t this what you always wanted? What have you been working for, if not this?”
Fred cleared his throat. “I don’t want to live my life without my family.”
“So that’s it?” Emile stood, his neck tensing, his veins bulging. “That’s your choice?”
Fred nodded. “I choose them.”
“You can’t be serious!” Emile was shouting now, red-faced and enraged. “You really want to run back home with your tail between your legs? Scramble around trying to keep your small-minded wife happy?”
Fred tensed, ready to defend the woman he loved.
“And how long do you think you’ll be happy there? You give this up, you’re probably giving up a Tony award. Is that not too high a price to pay?”
Fred stood and moved closer. He wanted to express his gratitude, to let Emile know that he loved him like a father and he was sorry to let him down. But as Fred opened his arms to embrace his mentor, Emile drew back his hand, slamming his glass of scotch into Fred’s face and slashing a deep and painful gash across his cheek. Fred pulled his hand to the stinging wound, shocked as Emile’s fury continued to boil. Before Fred could react, Emile, a former competitive boxer, swung a second time, this round landing a bone-crushing strike against Fred’s nose.
Fred fell, stunned and heartbroken. Outside, lightning flashed as Emile grabbed Fred by the collar and jerked him up from the marble tiles.
“I gave you everything!” Emile’s voice boomed as he dragged Fred toward the door, a bright streak of blood trailing behind them.
“Emile,” Fred said. “I love her.”
“And I loved you. Like a son.” Emile spat the words, shoving Fred toward the elevator. “I never want to see you here again.”
Twenty-nine
As Fred arrived back at the parsonage, Allison stepped out to meet her father, holding her own conflicted emotions about his inconsistent presence in her life. She’d spent the last two years only seeing him for holidays or while visiting friends in Bernardsville, and now at twelve years old, she was no longer buying into Winnie’s story that he’d only been away for work. But as Fred stepped out of the car, Allison gasped at the sight of the wounds. “What happened, Daddy?”
Just then Winnie came out from the house, her face full of questions. Fred eyed the nearby church and said, “Can we talk?”
Allison reluctantly returned alone to the parsonage as Winnie led Fred to the old stone sanctuary for their private conversation. Inside, the organ’s brass pipes shone from the center of the room. Fred took a moment to admire the magnificent instrument he’d created. Through the seven years since his family had left Columbus, this organ had been the one consistent part of Fred’s life. He’d been through many homes and jobs, Winnie and Allison had come and gone a few times, but through it all, the organ had been there, a safe and reliable outlet for his pain. He had tended it with care, working countless hours with Dr. Coci to leave a legacy for Bernardsville. In return, this organ had taken all his hurts, fears, and sorrows and transformed them into sacred songs, delivering prayers through the pipes and sustaining Fred’s all-too-fragile faith when life had become too much to bear.
As sunlight streamed through the stained-glass windows, illuminating that same red cross that had welcomed him there all those years before, Fred lowered himself on bended knee beside Winnie. With tears in his eyes, he pulled the set of wedding rings from his pocket and placed them back where they belonged, on Winnie’s finger.
It was time to begin again.
Winnie remained guarded, hoping for the best but fearing yet another heartbreak once Fred’s creative genius took ho
ld again. She glanced down at the rings, snugged comfortably where they should be. She’d never adjusted to the feel of her bare finger and had spent many sleepless nights fidgeting with the empty place where the bands belonged.
Now, as Fred moved to the organ bench, Winnie claimed the front pew, watching carefully as her husband’s hands began to stir with trepidation across the rows of keys. With passion he struck the notes of Organ Symphony No. 1 in D Minor by Louis Vierne. It was his signature piece, the one he had performed for the Riverside Church recital and a song that had lured several audiences to their feet in applause. But now Fred seemed to be in a world of his own, playing solely for the heavens.
The sound filled the room with pristine reverberation. Fred was a master, pulling magic from the keys in a way few could. Note by note, he layered the sounds into a grand combination of stops and flows, overlapping the rich, deep tones to form a soulful symphony.
As his notes became louder, more intense, more emotional, Fred’s tears began to flow. He was a man of great depth, tremendous passion. In that moment, as the music reached a powerful crescendo, Fred surrendered. It was a soul-deep submission. A genuine cry to God, a more wholehearted version of that familiar prayer from his younger years: Thy will be done.
Winnie moved carefully toward the organ and placed her hands atop Fred’s shoulders. He was shivering, sobbing, sacrificing.
And then, after a long and mournful release . . . rebirth.
Fred held the final chord until the sounds dissipated and all the echoes fell to silence. Then he closed the organ and said simply, “Let’s go home.”
Thirty
In 1971, Fred, Winnie, and Allison returned to Columbus as a united family. From the Langleys’ living room, they watched the 25th Anniversary Tony Awards. Stephen Sondheim’s Company received a record-setting fourteen nominations and took home six wins that night, including Best Musical. Larry Kert, the actor who’d accepted the lead role, was nominated for Best Actor in a Musical.
As Fred watched the show with Winnie, he knew how close he had come to being in Kert’s place. But he swallowed all regrets, reminding himself he had not settled for this life. He had chosen it. So there was only one thing left to do. Just as his friend Carol Channing was singing on-screen from her flashback role in Hello, Dolly!, he would find a new goal, a new drive. He would feel his heart come alive again, with Winnie and Allison at his side.
As the couple searched for jobs from Columbus, Winnie tried to bolster Fred’s confidence. While he’d struggled on a private level, he’d always been professional and disciplined when it came to his career, and he’d maintained several close relationships through it all. As word spread that Fred was looking for a job near home, offers began to come in from across the South.
In West Palm Beach, Florida, a large congregation was looking for someone to launch a forward-thinking musical theater program that would extend well beyond the typical church choir. It seemed like a good fit, and while the couple knew no one in that area, the city was below the Mason-Dixon Line, at least—even if it was an eight-hour drive from Columbus.
As Fred loaded the family’s convertible for a week in the Sunshine State, the local postal carrier eyed the car. “Cutlass convertible. Nice. What is that, a ’68?”
“Sure is,” Winnie said with a friendly smile. “Fred got it as a surprise for me a few years back. I love the color. Reminds me of my grandmother’s pearls.” She reached to touch the heirloom beads around her neck before taking the daily delivery from the carrier.
As Winnie brought the letters to her mother, a bold ad from the United Methodist bulletin caught her eye:
Music Director Needed
Thomasville First United Methodist Church
Curious, she plucked the newsletter and put it in the Cutlass’s console for a later look.
By now Nell was leaning over the driver’s door and talking to Fred. “Are you sure you don’t want to wait and leave in the morning? You’re already so far behind schedule.”
Fred smiled and cranked the engine, his final say in the matter.
“Don’t worry, Mother.” Winnie gave her the mail and an extra hug. “We’ll find somewhere to stop for the night, and I’ll call as soon as we get there.” Then after plenty of farewell kisses for Allison, the couple was on their way.
From the passenger seat Winnie peppered Fred’s ear with a string of random thoughts about sharks and palm trees, alligators and bikinis. Then she pulled the bulletin from the console. “Did you see this?”
He gave it a quick glance as Winnie explained, “A church. In Thomasville. It’s practically on our route. Maybe we should swing by and take a look.”
Fred grimaced. “We’ve all but accepted the job in West Palm Beach.” He set his eyes on the road, focused on getting to Florida as planned.
“I know, honey, but Thomasville is so much closer to home, and I really would love it if we could stay in Georgia.”
No answer.
“We sang there once. Back in college, remember?” Winnie adjusted her silk scarf, securing her now bleach-blonde locks as she tried to remember anything she could about the community. “I’ve heard Jackie Kennedy went there to hide away after the assassination. She could have gone anywhere in the world, but she chose Thomasville. That says something, don’t you think?”
Mile after mile, Winnie searched for memories about the south Georgia town, sprinkling any facts that surfaced into the conversation. According to the map, it was only about 150 miles south of Columbus, a much easier commute than West Palm Beach, and the idea of being that much closer to home appealed to her.
“Do you remember Madame’s story about the trains?”
Fred shook his head.
“Supposedly, wealthy northerners wanted to come south during winter, so they took the train to the end of the line—in Thomasville. Then they bought up a bunch of land and built those beautiful hunting plantations. She told us they still come there today to play polo, shoot quail . . . those kinds of things.”
Fred responded with statements to contradict each of hers. “I’m not a hunter. I can’t play polo. I don’t eat quail.”
“Oh, honey, I know that,” Winnie said, frustrated with his negativity. “But I’m just thinking this place may have more to offer than we think.” With a smile she reminisced. “Remember those big, beautiful oak trees? It really is such a sweet little town, Fred. I bet nice people too.”
When Winnie pointed to the exit and said, “Last chance,” Fred sighed and turned the car toward Thomasville. As Winnie had suspected, it was a surprisingly vibrant community perched just north of the Florida-Georgia line. With nearly twenty-five thousand residents, it seemed to be the kind of place where you not only knew the names of many neighbors, you likely knew the names of their parents, grandparents, and even their dogs. In spite of the extreme wealth and lush plantations that surrounded the quintessential Old South town, it was a family-centered community where nothing seemed to rise higher than the steeples. A place where people held the door open for others, business deals were made with a handshake, and the aroma of pastries filled the air as even the flagship Flowers Bakery fostered an atmosphere of sweetness.
It was 1971 when the dapper thirty-six-year-old musician drove the family’s pearl-white convertible into town, admiring the beautiful antebellum homes and the impeccable landscaping. “Picture perfect,” Winnie said as Fred navigated the red-brick streets. He wore a crisp sports jacket and stylish striped tie. Winnie donned classic shades and wore a well-fitted dress that complemented her Jackie O scarf. The fashionable duo turned heads as they explored.
Church bells rang across the venerable moss-draped oaks, drifting like whispers among the bright pink azaleas. They had arrived during what some would call “the magic hour,” that brief window of time when the afternoon rays come through at an angle and the day shifts to a warm, amber glow. A perfect scene until, without warning, Fred pulled the car to a sudden stop right in the middle of Broad Street, and
his face turned pale.
“Fred, honey? What is it?” Winnie reached for his arm, concerned.
Aghast, he pointed to Thomasville First United Methodist Church. “That’s it, Winnie. That’s the steeple.”
Winnie followed Fred’s gaze to the top of the church’s tall, shingled spire, where an unassuming cross overlooked the blossoming dogwoods below. “What do you mean, that’s the steeple? The one from your dreams?”
“The exact one. I’m sure of it.” Fred was unable to turn his eyes from the slatted white belfry. “And they weren’t dreams, Winnie. They were nightmares.”
She held up the ad from the Methodist bulletin, confirming the job announcement was for that very church. “Maybe it’s a sign,” she said, ever the optimist.
Spring had just burst through, and leafy shadows danced across the grass as Fred pulled into a parking spot. The couple then wended their way up the steps to the beautiful nineteenth-century sanctuary. It was a unique building with ornate brickwork and layered angles, an impressive Victorian design unlike any church Fred had ever seen—except in his dreams.
Fred’s throat tightened as they entered the vast expanse, where a man called from across the vaulted nave, “Come on in.” He walked toward the vestibule carrying a stack of bulletins. When Winnie realized he was the minister, she put on her best smile, introducing her husband and making a point to mention they’d just moved back from New York, where he’d earned a master’s degree at the School of Sacred Music.
Quickly explaining they were just driving through from Columbus, Fred added, “On our way to interview with a church in West Palm Beach.”
“You know, we’ve been trying to fill a position here too,” the pastor said, a hint in his voice as he introduced himself. “George Zorn. If you’d like to stay, you could lead choir rehearsal tonight. See if it’s a fit. Starts in less than an hour.”