Crescendo

by Allen Cheney

  Frances’s car was parked next to Fred’s in the faculty lot just outside their classrooms. She eyed the bizarre exchange and then said, “That’s not his mother, you know.”

  After all Fred had experienced, he had learned to sense predators a mile away, and now Frances had confirmed his suspicions. As the car left the lot, he was certain. Paul was more than just a troubled kid with a bad attitude. He needed help.

  “What do you know about him?” Fred asked.

  “All I know is his parents don’t seem to take much interest in him. It’s obvious he needs somebody in his life who really cares.” Francis gave Fred a knowing look, as if to say, somebody like you.

  Thirty-four

  One fall weekend, as the temperatures were dropping, Fred called Winnie and Allison to the living room piano. Outside the winds had picked up, sprinkling leaves across the lawn like confetti. Inside, Allison had been doing homework while Winnie was scheduling a few events for the women’s ensemble she had launched under Fred’s direction. While his wife and daughter were focused on their own projects, Fred had closed his journal and began to jot down song ideas for Troupe. His musical genius had long enabled him to play without sheet music, and his photographic memory allowed him to memorize the scores for thousands of songs. For that reason he had been dubbed the “walking jukebox” and was able to fulfill nearly any musical request on the spot. Now it was time to put his skills to the test.

  Having finished her calls, Winnie joined Fred sitting at the black Steinway concert grand piano they had moved with them from New York. “Why so serious?”

  “I’m trying to choose music for the troupe,” Fred explained.

  “It might be nice to pull some classic show tunes,” Winnie suggested. “Give the adults in the audience a nice stroll down memory lane before introducing them to the modern shows. Maybe you could compose some kind of unique arrangement of all our favorites?”

  “I like that,” Fred said, scribbling across one of his many note cards as Allison looked up from her studies.

  “How about some new songs too?” Allison suggested. “Stuff from the radio. With your own spin.”

  “Of course,” Fred said with a wink. Ever the creator, he loved to rearrange scores, which he’d spent a lot of his time doing while working at RCA.

  As the evening stretched beyond sunset, the rippling leaves tucked under the blanket of night, moonlight began to shine across the polished piano. It created a mesmerizing glow, reminding Fred of the big city lights that still shone back in Manhattan, where Mac had given Fred this rare Steinway model, an instrument that was more than a hundred years old. Recognized by professional musicians as “the perfect piano,” it had been a meaningful gift to recognize their special friendship and show appreciation for all Fred had done at RCA and Bernardsville Methodist. From the bench Fred recalled the shabby upright he’d first played from his mother’s lap, out of tune and missing a few keys.

  Now Fred looked around the room, tracing back through the years and realizing how many meaningful relationships music had brought him. Since leaving New York, he’d tried to reach Emile several times. Sadly, those calls had been unanswered. The letters returned unopened. Like Emile, many of Fred’s high-life friends were gone with the wind. But the true friendships remained—Pete, Mac, Rosemary, and others from Union and Bernardsville who had never tried to lead him down the wrong road or profit from his talent.

  Atop the piano sat a stiff cocktail, the trace of his old vices still used at times to calm his anxious mind. Now, as Winnie’s image reflected in the windowpanes, Fred’s heart warmed. Winnie had been that one true voice when he had gotten lost in the fog—just as Mac had said he’d need. Like so many other stars, Fred had come close to losing it all, but now, in this room, it seemed he had beaten the odds.

  He had the moonlight, the stars, the home on the hill. He had his piano, his music, his daughter, his wife. And here they were on the verge of creating something new together, something only they could offer the world. After all these years, Fred was finally overcoming the shame and insecurities that had caged him most of his life, the wounds that had driven him toward more, more, more! Now, with Winnie and Allison at his side, he sensed a newfound peace forming within him. A feeling of wholeness, or at least as close as he had ever come to it. The nightmares about the steeple had stopped, and the agony of constantly feeling unsettled had begun to dissipate. He might not be completely healed, but he was on the right track. And for that he was grateful.

  With a tenderness, he began to play one of Winnie’s favorite songs. He offered her a sweet, sensitive delivery, crooning romantically through the loving lyrics of “That’s All.”

  I can only give you love that lasts forever

  And a promise to be near each time you call,

  And the only heart I own

  For you and you alone,

  That’s all, that’s all.

  With the final verse, Winnie leaned close, wrapping her arms around Fred’s neck as she took the lead.

  All I have are these arms to enfold you

  And a love time can never destroy.

  If you’re wondering what I’m asking in return, dear,

  You’ll be glad to know that my demands are small.

  Say it’s me that you’ll adore

  For now and ever more,

  That’s all, that’s all1

  Back at school Fred was adapting to his role and learning to enjoy teaching again. While he never encouraged students to turn to him as an unofficial counselor, many came to his classroom in the off-hours, hoping to discuss personal concerns. Fred’s sensitive nature seemed to appeal to the teens, who one by one began to rely on him as they shared their life struggles. In time, they began to confide in him about family dysfunction, eating disorders, bullying, substance abuse, petty crimes, relationship issues, and even a few pregnancies. It seemed his training in adolescent psychology at Columbia had prepared him in more ways than one for his position in the schools, and while he always maintained healthy boundaries and rarely offered direct advice, he aimed to give as much time and attention as needed to help them feel heard and to encourage them to stay true to themselves.

  One afternoon he was leaving campus when he passed a group of boys sharing a raunchy analysis of the girls on campus. Noticing Fred’s disapproving look, that same burly blond who had tormented a fellow student at the beginning of the semester now sang out, “Fa la la la la,” waving his arms as if conducting the others, who laughed and sang along.

  Fred had been trying to reach these guys since the start of school, pulling them out of tense exchanges in the halls on more than one occasion. He’d even tried to have a heart-to-heart with two of them about maturity and what it really means to be a man. Regardless of Fred’s attempts to steer them in the right direction, they seemed intent on choosing cruelty. As Fred reached his car, he suddenly had another idea.

  Slipping his keys back into his pocket, Fred walked to the gym to have a word with the head coach. Behind the desk sat a middle-aged man whom Fred had known as a friend before moving to New York.

  Coach Jim Hughes glanced up and grinned. “Well, look what the cat dragged in! The Einstein of Columbus.” He welcomed Fred with an affectionate pat on the back, commenting on a few night classes they had shared back in the day. It was one of the many graduate programs Fred had attended through the years, always eager to learn as much as time would allow.

  “It’s good to see you again, Jim. I always thought you’d end up on stage somewhere,” Fred said, remembering Jim’s avid support of the arts.

  “Yeah?” Coach Hughes’s eyes glazed over with a sense of nostalgia. Then he snapped out of it and grabbed a football from his desk. “I guess the field is just another kind of stage, come to think of it. You know, I was in charge of the literary competitions here before you came on board. Football takes all my time, of course, but I do kind of miss directing those plays. We weren’t too shabby, if I say so myself.”

  �
�That’s what I’m here to talk to you about, Jim. I’m thinking these athletes need that outlet too. Not just sports but something creative.”

  Coach Hughes rolled the ball between his hands. He may have been leading his team to a championship, but it was clear he still had a heart for theater.

  “I have an idea,” Fred professed. “And I’m going to need your help.”

  The coach listened attentively as Fred explained his new creation, the Thomasville Music and Drama Troupe.

  “You want the jocks to join your singing group?” Coach slapped his hand on the football to counter the sound of surprise in his voice.

  “I do,” Fred said with a smile. “You’ve got some great boys, Jim. But I’ve noticed a few who are . . . struggling. They bounce around the world like they’re trying to shove their way toward a goal line. What happens when they start to feel vulnerable?”

  Jim shook his head, as if he’d already seen it all play out. “They panic.”

  Fred nodded. “It comes out as anger, aggression. That may work on the field, but it won’t serve them well in life.”

  After a long pause, Coach sighed. “Most of the fathers won’t stand for ’em joining a choir. I can tell you that already.” He tossed the ball to Fred with no warning.

  Fred caught it. “Well, I can tell you it’s not a choir. And also most of these young men care more about impressing you than they do their fathers.” He threw the ball back to Coach as he moved to open the door.

  Outside, a young assistant coach was yelling to the players, “Get moving!”

  “Stay with me a second,” Jim said, leading Fred toward the practice field. Then he pulled the whistle to his lips and gave it a harsh blow. “Huddle up!”

  Immediately the Bulldogs swarmed, each holding a red-and-black helmet, some more battered than others.

  Coach Hughes put his hand on Fred’s shoulder. “I want y’all to meet my good friend, Mr. Allen,” he said. “We took a few classes together back in the day, and I always enjoyed hearing him perform around Columbus.”

  The assistant coach sneered as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. A couple of athletes laughed until Jim interrupted. “What’s so funny? Who here doesn’t listen to music?”

  The assistant looked around, red-faced, finally understanding he was being seen as the fool.

  “Now listen. I can’t imagine my world without sports. But I can’t imagine the world without music either. It all matters. That’s why I want you boys to consider joining the—” He looked to Fred to fill in the blank.

  “Music and Drama Troupe,” Fred said. “It doesn’t matter if you think you can’t sing. That’s what I’m here to teach you.”

  “And boy, will he teach you! If we were talking football, Mr. Allen would be the equivalent of an NFL pro. A true Super Bowler right here in Thomasville. You’d be doing yourselves a favor to learn anything you can from this man. That’s the truth.”

  With that, the players scattered, half-jogging away while they strapped on their helmets for afternoon drills. Fred patted Coach’s back and said, “I really appreciate this, Jim.”

  “Ahhh, well . . . we’re lucky to have you here, Fred. And I’ll be around to help with those literary competitions if you ever need a hand.” Then he headed out for another afternoon of hard-hitting football.

  From the parking lot Fred could see the assistant coach glaring his way. He cranked the engine of his car and thought to himself, Victory.

  Thirty-five

  Within the first few weeks Troupe had quickly grown to include forty-four teens from the county, city, and private schools. Poor students sang with rich ones, extroverts shared songs with those who were shy. And thanks to Coach Hughes, a few football players signed up too, giving Fred hope that he could break through any barrier. He had certainly crossed gender lines, and Frances had promised to help recruit some African American students in time.

  By December 1972, Fred and Winnie had established a highly structured routine to ensure rehearsals were run as efficiently as possible, each chair labeled to organize the kids in alphabetical order and sheet music stored neatly under each seat. The chairs were lined perfectly, with nothing out of place, and the students were expected to be seated precisely by 8:00 p.m., not one minute later. Fred didn’t have to impose any significant consequences for misbehavior because he carried such a sense of respect for the students that they naturally wanted to please him in return. He set the bar high from the start, and they rose to meet it.

  If anyone ever dared complain, he would remind them, “You can’t have art without discipline.” Then he would explain the way it worked for professionals. Fred knew all too well that some top-tier creative types were known to party hard, but he also knew that they worked even harder, understanding the long hours and the grueling demands required to refine their craft. Even if they did land one of the coveted roles on Broadway or with the Metropolitan Opera, producers were always watching, eager to replace a weak link with fresh-faced talent. Like any athlete on a professional team, performers were always one injury, one mistake, one bad stroke of luck away from losing it all, and that looming threat kept everyone on their toes.

  “If anyone else can do it, then you can too, body and soul permitting,” Fred would say. “That holds true for anything in life. Not just music. You simply have to be willing to get off your backside and make it happen!”

  When students would offer excuses, he’d shift responsibility back to them. “If you didn’t get what you wanted, it’s because you didn’t want it badly enough. I’m not telling you failure is not an option,” he’d explain. “Truth is, we all fail sometimes. But quitting? No. Sure, other people will quit on you. Even people you think will never quit on you will quit on you. But no matter how hard life gets, no matter how scary it feels, no matter how tired you are of trying . . . you can never, never, never quit on yourselves. Quitting is not an option.”

  While he was always encouraging students to dream big, he also refused to coddle them. Even when parents complained that he was pushing the group of teenagers too hard, Fred never lowered his expectations. And when mothers called Winnie to complain that their child had not been chosen for a solo, Winnie also stood firm. Instead of making life easy on Troupe members, Fred instilled a strong sense of self-discipline. Week by week, he elevated them to the highest standard—not because they were being pressured to perform at their best, but because they felt better about themselves when they did. He also taught them to be accountable not only to themselves but to one another.

  Fred made this clear one night after hearing about some of his singers getting drunk at a weekend party. He used the opportunity to deliver another life lesson. Stepping in front of his students at the beginning of rehearsal, he waited for the room to quiet. Then he cleared his throat and said sternly, “If you are a member of Troupe, then you represent this group at all times. Your actions. Your words. Your choices. They matter. Every single one of them. So if you choose to behave in a way that is beneath you, you need to realize you’re bringing the entire troupe down with you.”

  He gave the kids a moment to think before continuing. They soaked in every word as if considering their own personal lists of regrets.

  Fred sensed their nervousness and their remorse. “Now don’t get me wrong,” he said. “We all make mistakes. But you? You are never a mistake. Don’t forget that.”

  The tension had not yet left the room, so the caring teacher continued. “Mistakes are going to happen, even to the best of us, especially when we’re young and figuring things out. Trust me, I’ve made more than my fair share.”

  A few students giggled in nervous relief.

  “But if you choose to intentionally do something foolish, or you don’t rise up to correct a mistake, then you aren’t letting me down . . . after all, who cares about me?” He smiled affectionately. “But when you make poor choices,” Fred continued, “you are letting yourselves down. And everybody else in this room included. Personally, I
think you owe each other more than that. So if that’s a risk you’re willing to take, then . . . well, this may not be the group for you.”

  As he lectured the teens, Fred realized he needed to follow his own advice. He had come so far from the broken days in New York City, but he still carried one last piece of his family’s dysfunctional legacy. More often than not, the last few years had led him to stiff drinks, despite his susceptibility to the effects of alcohol. If he really wanted to lead these young singers, he’d have to do more than talk the talk. In that moment he promised himself he would never expect anything from them that he couldn’t manage in his own life. It was time to break the habit, if not for himself, then for his students.

  With his steady guidance Fred modeled a mature, respectful character for these teens, a path toward life-altering self-discipline. In time, he was increasing not only their musical abilities but also their self-esteem, confidence, poise, manners, and social skills.

  As weeks turned to months, the leading members of Troupe were slowly beginning to make a strong impression in the community, and soon the others would follow. They took everything they were learning in Troupe and applied it to their daily lives. Because expectations were high at the weekly rehearsals and in Fred’s classrooms, his students demonstrated maturity among an age group that was usually written off as being self-absorbed, immature, or careless. Parents began to notice the difference, as did teachers, ministers, coaches, and the like.

  Still, not everyone offered their full support. While Allison had been thriving in Thomasville, developing close friendships and taking part in several extracurricular activities, she had become the target of a couple of teachers who seemed to resent the family’s popularity.

  Fred came in one evening to find Winnie preparing dinner in the kitchen. “Where’s Allison?” he said, after giving Winnie a kiss.

  “She’s been in her room with the door shut all afternoon,” Winnie said with a sigh. “She keeps saying she’s fine, but clearly something is wrong. See if you can get through to her.”