by Allen Cheney
As Fred played, the students began to sing so loudly they seemed to be shouting the lyrics. They had missed the point. Adjusting his posture at the bench, Fred stopped the music and held up his hand. “Whoa.”
The students grew silent.
“When I tell you sound is power, I’m not suggesting you need to yell to be heard. Whether you’re singing or speaking, it’s about getting your audience to listen. We live in a loud world, but sometimes there is power in restraint. You have to know what you want to say. And then say it with meaning. Now let’s try this again. Let’s sing with meaning.”
For the rest of the spring semester, those forty-four Troupe members showed up for rehearsals twice each week. Their relationships blossomed, their musical abilities grew, and by Wednesday, May 25, 1973, it was time to put their skills to the test at the church’s Family Night Supper. But first, Fred delivered a pep talk to ease the students’ nerves before they sang for their very first audience.
“One afternoon in New York,” he began, “this world-renowned Wagnerian soprano gave me a ride across town. She drove her own car everywhere—very unusual for a New Yorker! But that’s how independent she was. Eileen Farrell. A good person. Humble. Kind. I always admired Eileen, and I would take any advice she would offer. Well, that day she taught me an important lesson. And now I’m going to teach it to you.”
The kids listened nervously, trying to focus on Fred.
“She told me that when she was about your age, her voice teacher had introduced her to the Singer’s Silent Prayer. It’s very simple, and it will help you remember the reason we’re all here tonight.”
Fred took a sip of water as one of the girls hurried in from a last-minute zipper repair.
“Tonight, you will stand up there and offer your gifts to the audience. Then, when you’ve given all you have to give, I want you to think to yourself these words: Thank you. Now I’ll go ahead and admit, Eileen would have said, ‘Thank you, Lord.’ And so do I. Of course, I’m not here to tell you what to believe, but I do hope you believe in something bigger than yourselves. Whatever word you choose to use for that is up to you as long as you recognize this gift that was given to you and you take time to appreciate it.”
Many students smiled, which suggested Fred’s inspiring words had eased their nerves a bit.
“So that’s it. You sing that final note, and you offer thanks. That’s the Singer’s Silent Prayer.”
That night the troupe performed a debut dress rehearsal for the members of the Methodist church. Winnie had ordered formal costumes, and she’d carefully measured each girl’s hem to fall precisely one inch above the floor, the way it was done in New York. The well-rehearsed teenagers sang with precision and pride, producing rich vocal tones with the depth, range, and quality of professionals. After each song, the audience responded with overwhelming praise, a welcome boost as the students were scheduled to make their first official public appearance the following day.
This time the students sang for the Kiwanis Club, again performing numbers from Broadway in addition to popular radio hits, including Paul’s selection, “American Pie,” sung this time as a solo with the group joining in as harmonies on the chorus. As the kids circled for another preshow pep talk, Fred reminded them of how far they had come since their first rehearsal.
“Nervous?” Fred asked.
The teens nodded or said, “Yes, sir.”
“Good! Use that. Every drop of it!” He smiled, funneling their nervous energy in a positive direction. “You’ve put in countless hours for this. But when you get out there and sing, the audience should think it comes easy for you. Remember what Frank Sinatra says: ‘A true pro performs like a duck on the water. On the surface, the duck is gliding effortlessly across the lake. No one can see that underneath, he’s paddling like crazy to get the job done.’”
As the students lined up for their marks, Fred looked each of them in the eye, providing an extra dose of encouragement to the few who still held pinched expressions as they waited for the show to begin.
Again, the community response was overwhelming, as the group garnered long-lasting applause and countless compliments. Now that they had seen firsthand the magic of the stage, Fred’s students were hooked.
With an unstoppable passion surging among the teens, Fred began pushing them to higher and higher levels. Through the following months, Troupe performed at area civic functions, fund-raisers, church services, and community banquets. They were making great strides and honing their craft, with Fred and Winnie guiding them the way they and other professional entertainers had been directed. Fred was giving them true musical theater training and, most important, a genuine mentorship, taking time to personally relate to each and every one of his students, whether in the high school classroom, church choir, or Troupe.
As his belief in them grew, their self-confidence flourished. The students began racking up awards in regional and state competitions, literary meets, pageants, musical revues, and talent shows. Word spread and parents from across the region began contacting Winnie, hoping their children could join Troupe.
Soon the Thomasville Music and Drama Troupe had grown to ninety members. They rehearsed tirelessly, and Fred began dreaming of a much more extensive show for the following spring. “I believe they have what it takes to put on a full-length professional performance next year,” he said to Winnie. “Something on a grand scale with an actual set design, costumes, and an intermission. Let’s make it happen.”
With Fred’s first school year ending on a high note, Winnie accepted an invitation for the family to celebrate Rosemary’s birthday in New York. It would be their first time back to the city in nearly two years, and they were excited to reunite with old friends.
In addition to attending Rosemary’s party, Fred, Winnie, and Allison spent time visiting choir families in Bernardsville, caught up with colleagues from RCA, and took in a few shows in the city. After a long weekend filled with friendship and fun, Allison enjoyed one final sleepover with church friends while Winnie packed for their return flights.
Despite calling it an early night, Fred felt too nervous to rest. A subtle tension had been brewing throughout the trip, as neither he nor Winnie had discussed the pain and turmoil that consumed their last memories of the city. They had chosen long ago to let the past be the past and to move forward with their new lives in Thomasville. But now, as Fred paced the hotel room, Winnie could no longer avoid the issue.
“This has been fun, honey, so much fun,” Winnie said, stepping free of her high heels for the night before removing her jewelry. “But I admit, I have mixed feelings about being back here.”
“I do too,” Fred said, his voice weighted with regrets.
“We need to be able to love New York again. Bring the troupe here, keep ties to our friends, all of that. But there’s just something . . . still in the air.”
Fred moved closer, pulling Winnie close. “You’ve been so good to me, Winnie. I don’t thank you enough for all you’ve done for me.”
Winnie smiled, but there was something in his tone. Had she made a mistake in planning this trip? Was there more she didn’t know? Her mind raced as Fred seemed worlds away again. “What is it, Fred?” Through his silence her heart began to beat faster as she took a deep breath. “Tell me, please.”
Understanding her fears, he nodded and said simply, “There’s just one thing I really need to do.”
Winnie had been expecting something like this long before they had ever reached the city. Fred had sacrificed so much for his family, for his new community, for his work with Thomasville’s students. But she knew he still wrestled with his past and was in desperate need of closure. She resisted her urge to ask questions. Instead, with trust and a gentle kiss, she whispered, “Go. I’ll be here.”
Grateful for Winnie’s steadfast support, Fred climbed into the back of a cab and told the driver, “Take me to Sutton Place.”
As the taxi reached the east side of Second Avenue, where tr
ee-lined streets crossed through quiet residential blocks, Fred straightened and said, “You can drop me here.” Then he paid the fare and began to walk this familiar part of the city, taking his time to notice every new shop and refurbished restaurant, most of them closed for the night. The memories came flooding back. So much had changed, and yet he still could have navigated this district with his eyes closed. The area had always reminded the couple of London, as if they’d traveled through time to old New York for every visit.
How many times had Fred used these crosswalks, rushing back and forth to Emile’s studio for a private lesson or an accompaniment job or a fireside talk with the man he’d loved as a father? Now, as he approached Emile’s block, his jaw clenched, and his throat tightened.
On the corner of East Fifty-Third Street, Fred stared up at the century-old building, the one that had given the brilliant musician his first taste of opulence and a welcome into New York’s in-crowd. With the curtains still open and the lamp shining brightly through the window, Fred had a clear view of the grand piano he’d played through those years. No matter how much he’d tried to deny it, the truth was that he still missed that life and the possibilities it held: the intellectual challenges, the creative circles, the constant flow of artistic energy, and most of all, his chance to truly shine.
He closed his eyes, imagining what might have been.
With the buzz of the city humming around him, the minutes passed slowly, quite like the warm summer breeze that had begun to wash over him. There, with the full moon barely visible above the hazy sea of lights, Fred debated whether he should make his way to Emile’s door and try to make amends, restoring the father-son bond the men had once shared. It was this hope that had pulled him here this night, but now as Fred stood on the street corner, he once again became consumed with the possibilities that lay beyond that window. His mind lit up with those old dreams. Maybe he, Winnie, and Allison could try it again, he thought. Maybe they would get it right this time—healthier, happier . . . maybe . . . All I have to do is go for it!
But Fred stood frozen, unable to take one step closer to Emile’s building. With a lump in his throat, his mind began to fill with thoughts of his students, of Allison and Winnie. Yes, he had loved Emile and the idea of a life in the spotlight, but his work in Thomasville had become more than just a job. It satisfied his soul, filling Fred with a purpose and joy unlike any he had found in this city.
Why is this still so painful? he wondered. Why so hard?
In the distance, the lamp dimmed in Emile’s studio, a final signal that he had missed his chance. But instead of feeling defeated, Fred exhaled with relief. As he’d told his students countless times, life is all about choices. Now, looking up at the darkened window, a peace settled in his muscles and a clarity overtook his mind. The last year in Thomasville had completed him in a way that all the other possibilities here in New York could not. Yes, he thought, everything really does come down to choices. And as Fred turned to hail a cab back to Winnie, he finally knew for sure. He had made the right choice.
The next day the family was scheduled to board a plane for Thomasville, but first Fred met Mac for early morning coffee.
“We’d love to have you producing for us again,” Mac said.
Fred’s brows lifted. He wasn’t expecting this kind of offer, and his mind began to swirl again with the possibilities.
“I know you weren’t happy with so many restrictions,” Mac continued, “but what would you say if I told you we’d give you the creative freedom you lacked back then? See what you can do if we loosen the reigns a bit.”
“Tempting,” Fred admitted, giving it serious thought. Returning to RCA would mean reintegration into the elite circles he and Winnie had once enjoyed. The executive role would place him back in a high-paying position as a top-level music maker.
“You’d be in the studio, but this time with full access to the instruments. Compose. Conduct. The doors are wide open for you, Fred. It’s what you always wanted, and surely it beats this small-town work you’ve been doing. Plus, I know Fran would love to have you all back here.”
Fred could hardly believe his luck. The two shared big ideas for at least fifteen minutes, dreaming of projects and collaborations they longed to explore. But then a youthful waiter refilled their coffee cups, and the young man’s smile reminded Fred of his students back home in Georgia.
Mac’s offer was incredible, too good to be true, in fact. But Fred knew in his heart he could never go back. Now, more than ever, he felt unwilling to risk the new, stronger foundation on which his family had been rebuilt. After a long pause he gave his old friend a pat on the shoulder and said, “I may sound like I’ve lost my mind completely, but Mac, I’m finally on the right path in my life, and I think it’s time for me to move forward.”
After the two men exchanged brotherly hugs and kind farewells, Fred walked to meet Winnie and Allison in the hotel lobby. He may never again be collaborating with the nation’s top recording artists or winning Grammy awards for his work, but now more than ever, he felt certain he was making the music he was born to create.
Thirty-nine
As soon as Winnie and Fred arrived back in Thomasville, it was time to focus on building and preparing for the big show. Fred began poring through his extensive catalog of music, spending countless nights with Winnie, listening to songs for inspiration. Using his skills as a composer, he created custom arrangements, rewriting melodies and transposing keys specifically to fit his group.
With Winnie’s encouragement Fred aimed high. Twice each week the teens came together for group rehearsal, plus extra hours spent on choreography or ensembles. Additionally, they worked individually with Fred to perfect solos, duets, and quartets. And Winnie was there at every step, using her vocal talents and professional training to critique and coach the singers while overseeing the production as a whole. They were a dynamic duo, and together they were determined to dot every i, cross every t.
But, all in all, Troupe was a success because of the tremendous devotion of the Thomasville community as a whole. Numerous volunteers worked long hours to alter costumes, wire the sound system, feed the students, and donate money for the many expenses that went into producing such a top-level show. Others helped with set design, choreography, and accompaniment—adding drums and even a trumpet to Fred’s piano.
Before they knew it, another school year had passed, and the night of the dress rehearsal had arrived. Nerves were high as the teens shot questions like darts.
“Do you think we’ll be in the paper?”
“We’ve let them know about it,” Winnie said, insisting they shouldn’t worry.
“I keep having dreams that no one comes.”
Again, Winnie countered, “You’ve sold nearly every ticket!”
And finally, “What if they hate it?”
She gave them an exaggerated but genuine smile. “Remember, your facial expressions are a way to offer joy and love. Give ’em all you can give. Go out there and sparkle!”
The students ran through the entire dress rehearsal with only a few minor mistakes. Fellow choir member and friend Tom Faircloth helped Winnie make adjustments on showmanship as Fred honed in on vocal performance. By night’s end they were feeling well prepared for the big show.
It was late by the time Fred made his way to his car, only to find one of his best singers waiting nearby. “Mr. Allen, I wanted you to meet my grandfather.” She introduced an older gentleman whose trim, gray beard framed a friendly smile.
Fred offered a steady handshake. “Your granddaughter’s got a lot of talent. I’m sure you’ll enjoy hearing her solo tomorrow.”
“That’s why I’ve driven in all the way from LaGrange. More than three hours, not counting all my old-man stops.” He chuckled kindly. Then he beamed at his granddaughter and said, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world, darlin’.”
Fred smiled. “We appreciate your support.”
“Now that I think about it,” the man sa
id, “there’s a good number of Allens back in LaGrange. You know any of ’em?”
Fred pocketed his hands before the man could see them tremble. One mention of his family, and he felt like a wounded child again. Could he possibly know of my family? Fred thought. His heart raced; his mouth became dry. After all these years, how could this be happening?
“Actually,” the man continued, “you do look a bit like ’em. Not your people, are they?”
Fred fought his shame, forcing another smile as he politely said, “I don’t think so.”
“Figures. The Allens I know sure aren’t the kind of people you’d have teaching your kids,” he said with a smirk. It was clear the man hadn’t made the connection, but the comment had done its damage.
With that, the man thanked Fred for his work with Troupe, and he took his leave.
All night Fred struggled to sleep. It wasn’t just preshow jitters that had him tossing and turning. It was the riddling insecurities the man’s comments had revived in him. Maybe the man was right. Maybe Fred had been kidding himself all along. In truth, maybe he was nothing more than a fraud, just another deadbeat Allen who had no business doing any of this work, especially taking responsibility for young lives. In the end, it didn’t seem to matter how much Fred had accomplished, how far he had come. He would always be that little boy from the mill village trying to prove his worth.
In the early hours Winnie noticed Fred’s sleeplessness and tried to settle his nerves. He told her about the exchange, still haunted by the unexpected encounter. With gentle understanding Winnie kissed him softly and said, “You still seem to see the worth in everyone but yourself. You are absolutely wonderful, Fred Allen. Your only problem is you still don’t know it.”