Crescendo

by Allen Cheney

  “I don’t want to hear an excuse, Fred. He can’t pull a knife on a kid and get away with it. Not in this school.”

  They both remained standing, and it was evident Fred’s time was short. “What if you let me spend some extra hours with him? See if I can break through somehow.”

  Sirens rang out in the distance.

  Fred tried to use a measured tone. “Aren’t we here to make a difference in their lives?”

  “I give you another year in this place,” the administrator said with a grunt.

  “Well, if that’s not our goal, then honestly, I don’t know what any of us are doing.”

  The administrator exhaled. Then he looked at the framed diplomas hanging on the wall, as if he, too, was remembering the reason he had become an educator. After a long, weighted pause, he turned back to Fred. “The police are here.”

  Defeated, Fred walked back to his classroom. Within minutes Frances met him at the piano, where he’d begun taking it all out at the keys.

  “Guy like that doesn’t stand a chance if we ship him off to the cops,” Fred said. “What does it say about us if we give up on him? He’s just a scared kid, Frances. Screaming for help in the only way he knows.”

  Frances listened patiently. Her heart had been broken for the very same reason, caring for her students as if they were her own. “He gave you the knife,” she said calmly. “That’s something, isn’t it?”

  Thirty-seven

  When Paul returned to school the following semester, students made a point to avoid him more than ever. He had finally accomplished his apparent goal—to be left alone.

  But Fred knew it was only a defense mechanism, no different than an injured dog biting the hand that tries to help it. This boy was in a silent agony, but he was still here, in Fred’s classroom, showing up each day. And, as Frances had said, he had given Fred the knife. That meant he hadn’t given up yet.

  After class was over, Fred asked Paul to stay behind. When the others cleared out, Fred sat in the chair near the quiet young man. “I spoke with the principal and a few of your teachers,” Fred began. “I told them I want you to join Troupe.”

  Paul’s brows lifted with surprise. “Why?”

  Fred laughed. “That’s exactly what they asked.”

  The boy half smiled. Another sign of hope.

  “I think you might actually like it.” Fred then gave Paul the power, a gift he’d been needing more than anything else. “Give it a chance?”

  He shrugged.

  “Unless you have something better to do?”

  Paul shook his head and mumbled, “Why not?”

  “Perfect. You can ride with me. Do we need to call your parents and let them know?”

  Paul’s defeated look made for a clear answer.

  That afternoon Fred grabbed his belongings and led the troubled teen to his car. As they passed the carpool line, the familiar woman was waiting to give Paul a lift. Fred’s thoughts went back to Pete and the abuse he had suffered at the hands of his predatory landlady.

  He turned to his young student and asked, “You want to tell her, or should I?”

  Paul nervously shrugged, and Fred took control, channeling his aunt Eleanor and hoping this would be the last either of them ever saw of the woman in the car.

  That evening Paul joined Fred’s family for dinner at home. Allison made every attempt to be welcoming, despite feeling deeply concerned by her father’s choice to welcome the troubled teen into their lives. She knew all about Paul’s reputation from school, and though she had a sweet and open spirit, Allison worried about inviting someone like him to join Troupe, especially since she was still acclimating to the new group herself. Despite her trepidations, she trusted her father and felt certain that he had a reason for this unexpected move. Still, that did little to diminish her embarrassment of walking into rehearsal that night with Paul close behind.

  By 8:00 p.m., Winnie had already added Paul’s name to a chair and given him a set of sheet music. A few of the students from Thomasville High raised eyebrows and whispered at the sight of their new member. Fred tinkered at the piano and organized his notebook, giving the group a minute to mingle and hoping a few kind words would be given to Paul. Then he struck his now infamous C chord, and everyone snapped to attention in their seats, spines straight, voices silenced, eyes on Mr. Allen. Troupe was becoming a well-oiled machine.

  “I want you all to know something,” Fred started. “I think of you as more than just a bunch of kids. I think of this group as something much bigger. We’re like a family. And healthy families know how to stick together, stand up for one another. We lift one another. We celebrate each other’s talents and victories. We don’t break one another down, and we never stand alone.”

  Like the others, Paul intently watched the revered Mr. Allen, a man who had not yet realized the impact he would have on these young lives.

  “Take a good look at the people around you,” Fred continued.

  The students did as told, and the weight of the moment was evident.

  “I want you to think of each other as brothers and sisters.” Then he added playfully, “Or if you don’t like your siblings, try cousins.”

  A chuckle broke out among the group.

  “Point is, we need to be a cohesive team. That starts by accepting and supporting each other to the best of your ability, and that’s what I want in here. It’s what I expect. I promise you’re all more alike than you are different. Even if you don’t want to admit it.”

  Then he began to lead them through his arrangement of “Corner of the Sky,” their newest song from Pippin. The students worked through the music note by note. When he reached the lyric “Why do I feel I don’t fit in anywhere I go?,” he stopped midsong and said, “How many of us have ever felt like we don’t fit in?”

  The kids looked around, shifting uneasily, not eager to admit their own insecurities. But it was clear they could all relate, especially Paul and another young guy from the county, Cliff—a gifted vocalist whose rural family had all but forbidden their son’s interest in the arts despite his tremendous talent and fierce determination to be a part of Troupe.

  “That’s what this guy is singing about,” Fred continued. “He’s looking for a place where he belongs. So when you sing these words, I want you to sing it like you mean it. Tell me how it feels to be left out of the crowd, to think you’re different from everyone else, like no one understands you. Sing like you want your voice to be heard, like you want to find your corner of the sky.”

  Together they sang the next lyrics:

  Thunderclouds have their lightning,

  Nightingales have their song,

  And don’t you see I want my life to be

  Something more than long.1

  “Sing like it matters!” Fred shouted over the piano strings and collective voices. “Like you matter! Like you want your life to matter!” His intensity grew with each phrase.

  Line by line, note by note, lyric by lyric, Fred ignited sparks in those young hearts. And the students loved him for it. He didn’t talk down to them or punish them or shame them. He simply saw them. And valued them. And elevated them. He believed in them, and because of that, he hoped in time they would learn to believe more deeply in themselves.

  As the last student left rehearsal that night, Paul looked at Fred and asked, “What now?”

  It hadn’t been all that long ago since Fred had been a scared teenager, unsure of where he would rest his head each night. Remembering the people who saved him as a boy, he grabbed his keys and asked simply, “You like cobbler?”

  Thirty-eight

  It would not be an instant healing, and the transition would prove to be bumpy at times, but through music Fred had found a small opening, a way to reach Paul’s true spirit, the one that had long been hidden behind walls too thick and high for anyone else to break through or climb.

  Fred had told Paul to call if he ever needed anything, and one Saturday morning he did just that. Sensi
ng the young man needed a safe place to land, Fred and Winnie welcomed him again to their home, introducing him to the family’s expansive record collection. Thumbing through a box of albums, Paul pulled a black cover from the stash.

  “What’ve you got there?” Fred asked with a slight smile, waiting for the young man to attempt a pronunciation of the long Italian title.

  “Chee . . .chee-ge, gee-lie-da,” Paul struggled to produce the first two words.

  “It’s ‘Che gelida manina,’” Fred said. “An Italian aria.”

  “A what?” Paul’s brow bunched.

  “An aria,” Fred explained. “That just means it’s an operatic song in Italian. This one is from an opera called La Bohème. Very famous.” Fred casually organized a folder and took a seat at the piano. “It’s a story about young people struggling to find themselves and make it through the hard times of life.” He glanced at his student to see if the description had elicited any emotion.

  Paul simply stared at the black-and-white image of a singer on the cover.

  “Go ahead. Put it on,” Fred said, nodding toward the stereo.

  “I don’t know Italian,” he said sarcastically.

  “That’s the thing about opera,” Fred explained. “It’s packed full of emotion. The lyrics are sung with such power, depth, and vulnerability, you don’t have to understand the words to understand the significance.”

  “No wonder I don’t like opera,” the teen responded with a smirk.

  “Have you ever heard one?”

  Paul shrugged. “I just know I don’t like it.”

  Fred gave an understanding smile. “What you mean is, you haven’t given it a chance.” He stood and moved to the stereo, taking the album from Paul’s hands. “I used to do that with people. I’d hide parts of myself or push people away completely. To be honest, the only one hurt by that was me.”

  Likely uncomfortable by the forwardness of his teacher’s confession, the teen continued to scan the box of albums one-handed.

  “I tend to believe our lives have a soundtrack, Paul. We can find a song to match any given moment in time. Every thought, every fear, every feeling—just when we think we’re the only ones who could possibly understand how it feels to be us, we discover someone else has already put it to music.”

  Paul stayed stoic. “If this is some kind of psychological game, I don’t need it.”

  “Ehh,” Fred said, trying to defuse the tension. “Maybe you’re right about opera. It’s all the same anyway. There’s always a guy who gets stabbed in the back, and instead of dying, he sings.”

  The joke failed to break Paul’s scowl.

  “May I?” Fred asked, reaching for the album. When Paul passed it over, Fred gently slid the vinyl from its worn cardboard and placed it on the turntable. “If you aren’t afraid to hear something new, we could give it a listen.”

  “I’m not afraid,” Paul said, a defiant snap to his tone as he looked away.

  As Fred dropped the needle and rotated the volume knob to increase the sound, he continued. “It’s just a simple love song, but if you’re willing to give into it, the music can really carry you away.”

  Within seconds the gentle melody of the orchestra began billowing from the speakers. Fred leaned against the crook of the piano while the music vibrated from every surface, its tone gentle and slow. Lifting his voice over the notes, he explained. “This is a guy allowing himself to be vulnerable, daring to open his heart and hoping she’ll love him in return.”

  As the Italian tenor Giuseppe di Stefano began to sing the emotional lyrics, Paul watched his teacher’s face become animated. Having mastered the piece while studying at Juilliard, Fred mouthed every Italian word but stopped short of singing audibly over Giuseppe’s beautiful vocals.

  For five minutes the piece played on, and the sounds overtook the room, circling with intensity as Giuseppe delivered his powerful yet restrained vocals. Slowly Paul began to relax, sinking into his chair and giving in to the deep, glorious sounds of the aria. The young man seemed moved by the depth of emotion and the stirring accompaniment. Fred watched as Paul’s forehead tensed in the soft, tender moments and again as his brows lifted with the soaring high notes. The sounds seemed to wash over the teen as he leaned his head a little farther back against his chair. By the time the song ended, a subtle shift had taken place. Paul no longer seemed enraged and defensive. Instead, he was quiet and calm.

  “You know what I hear in that song?” Fred asked, lifting the needle and setting the arm back on the rest. “I hear it all. The sound of pain and desire. Fear, hope. And love.”

  Paul remained silent, but Fred suspected the student had never heard anything like it. With any luck he hoped the music might begin to work its magic on the young man’s heart as it had his own, reminding Paul it’s okay to show emotion and be vulnerable.

  “Tell you what,” Fred said. “I’m still short a few songs for Troupe. Think you’re up to the job?”

  “You want me to choose the songs?” Paul sustained eye contact for the first time since school had started. Finally, a connection.

  “Sure.” Fred nodded. “I can tell you have an ear for it.”

  “I’m not creative like that,” Paul said dismissively.

  “I’m sure you have no clue how much talent you have. Have you ever tried?” Fred held his gaze confidently. “Give it a shot, Paul. Pull me five songs before next rehearsal.”

  “Five?”

  Fred nodded. “Any songs you want. Just make sure you give me a solid reason for wanting them in the show. Then, if it’s a good fit, I’ll choose one of them. We’ll add it to rehearsal next week.”

  Paul hesitated, then looked back at the extensive collection. “Where do I start?”

  “Don’t worry. The right songs have a way of finding us if we let them.” Fred moved toward the door, turning back briefly to offer final advice. “Spend as much time in here as you want, till you find what speaks to you.”

  Paul spent the rest of the day listening to dozens of albums. Each time Fred checked on him, he’d find his student completely engrossed in the music. It seemed this lost and broken teen had finally found a map to begin to guide him through his trauma. If he dared stay the course, the lyrics might help give him the words to process his pain, knowledge that others had survived similar wounds, and confidence that he would too.

  The next week at Troupe, Fred started rehearsal with a simple but powerful question. “Why is it important for us to learn music?”

  Then he leaned over the piano, speaking directly to each singer in an almost individual capacity, not trying to embarrass or call them out but to be personable, to connect. “As humans, we all have a primal need to communicate, right?”

  The teens nodded.

  “Well, think about it. Music is the language we all share. It’s a language of feelings. A tool we can use to relay our deepest emotions.”

  He sat back down at the piano and began to play a slow song, one with a sad melody. Then he shifted to a faster piece, one with energetic pep. Next, a loud and aggressive tune, one to incite anger. He followed this with a haunting string of slow, low beats—the sound of horror. With each shift the group’s emotional energy changed, and around the room, facial expressions morphed in response to the various tones.

  “When you sing, I want you to consider the message you want to communicate,” Fred said, pausing the music. “Pay close attention to every lyric you sing because when you are on this stage, you’re telling us a story, painting a picture, and if you make the most of that opportunity, you will captivate your audience! You have the power to hold them in the palm of your hand. And once you get them there, hold on as tight as you can.”

  He played a few examples, showing the young singers that by making small changes in speed or volume, they could control the energy in the room. That by adjusting gestures or facial expressions, the entire message morphed.

  “When you create music, you touch your audience. But it goes deeper than tha
t.”

  He left the piano, moving closer to the group and lowering his voice for emphasis. “Learning to communicate better as a vocalist will help you learn to communicate better in any situation. For as long as you live, you will pay more attention to how your voice is used.” Then stepping toward the keyboard, he said, “Let me go back to my original question. Why do we learn music? Why do we work so hard to go out there and share it with others?”

  When no one answered, he explained, “Because we want to be better communicators. We want to connect with other people on a deeper level. We want to leave them feeling differently than they felt when they came into the room.”

  Moving his fingers across the keys, Fred began to play Don McLean’s “American Pie,” one of the five songs Paul had selected. When he glanced up from the piano, Fred saw a discreet smile spread across Paul’s face as the group sang. The pride in his student’s eyes gave Fred a sense of encouragement, and he realized how many young people must need this kind of support in their life. In that instant one thing became clear. Fred would start using every opportunity possible to make his students feel included and valued. To give them a purpose, a sense of worth.

  Through the months ahead Fred worked to craft the rest of the lineup for Troupe’s first public performance, building a sampling that would transport singers and listeners through the entire range of human emotion. As the rehearsals continued, Paul’s life wasn’t the only one Fred was changing. He was helping to teach these teenagers how to be the best they could be. And he did it all through the power of song.

  He introduced them to Broadway show tunes, pop ballads, jazz standards, folk tracks, rhythm and blues, and operatic arias. He let them sing silly songs, using their voices in playful ways to expand their range. He countered that with sad sonnets that forced them to hold a note. And he taught them to pay attention to lyrics that were expressing thoughts and emotions they had always been taught to silence. And along the way he reminded them, “Give it all you’ve got and then some. Go as big as possible with your deep, resonant vocal tones. As a matter of fact, I want you to picture what you think is too much, and then go far beyond that. It’s easier to pull yourself back than to push yourself forward, so don’t be afraid to go for it!”