by Allen Cheney
The next day, as the students gathered backstage, Fred was still fighting a crippling case of self-doubt. He was pulling on his tuxedo jacket when a couple of parent volunteers found him in the wings. The woman spoke first. “Excuse us, Mr. Allen?”
Fred smiled politely but did nothing to encourage conversation. He needed to block out all distractions and stay focused.
“We don’t want to keep you,” the man hurried to explain. They were a timid couple, speaking with soft voices as they stood holding hands. “We just wanted to let you know how excited we are about the show tonight.” His wife nodded.
“Well, thank you,” Fred said, adjusting his bow tie with no need for a mirror. “We’re all happy to have the chance to do this.”
“You may not know it,” the man continued, “but this last year with you has changed our daughter’s life.”
Fred stopped fidgeting with his tie, surprised.
“I know she’s not a soloist or anything. But just being up there and learning from you . . . well, it’s saved her. You’ve given her something. Something she needed.”
Still reeling from last night’s comments about his family out in Troup County, Fred’s heart warmed to hear these words. “She’s a bright young lady,” Fred said. “We’re honored to have her in Troupe.”
The mother nodded. “This experience has brought out a whole new light in her. In a lot of people.” She glanced around the room as the students were working through the warm-up exercises. It was clear her daughter wasn’t the only one enjoying Troupe.
“You’re like a minister without a pulpit,” the father added. “And we can’t tell you how glad we are to have you and your family here in Thomasville.”
With that, the mother put her hand on her heart and said, “God bless you, Mr. Allen. I hope you know how wonderful you are.”
On May 24, 1974, the community gathered at Thomasville’s Municipal Auditorium. Two years had passed since Fred and Winnie arrived in town; one year since their first group of singers performed at the church’s Family Night Supper. And now standing-room only with an 1,800-strong audience for Troupe’s first official Spring Show, a two-hour performance called “Concert: A Night to Remember.” It was to be presented with the attention to detail that Fred and Winnie had practiced during their time in New York, a truly professional production with no corners cut.
Backstage, Fred stood before the students and offered final instructions. “Remember, you’ve learned what it means to be ‘on.’ When you’re onstage, you don’t move a muscle off-script. That means you don’t scratch. Don’t yawn. Don’t touch your hair or adjust your clothes. If someone faints, don’t react.”
The students released nervous laughs.
“I’m serious. We’ve got volunteers back there to take care of it, and no one should even glance their way. No matter what happens, you just keep right on singing as if everything is perfectly normal.”
“What if we have to sneeze?” asked a jokester of the group.
“Then just do me a favor and don’t go for the Oscar,” Fred said, smiling. “Be discreet.”
Fred softened his tone and gave his final advice. “You’re about to do something this town has never seen before. When that curtain rises, I want you to remember two things. One, it’s not about you. It’s about what comes through you. And two, it’s about the light you shine for others, not the light that shines on you.”
Moments later, with the curtain still closed, the singers stepped into place, fighting nerves as they quietly filled four tiers of semicircular risers. Then the charming voice of Tom Faircloth came through the loudspeakers, like a seasoned ringmaster, eloquent and clear: “Ladies and gentlemen. The Thomasville Music and Drama Troupe. In concert!”
A chipper volunteer named Shirley climbed onto a stool and pulled the lever to lift the heavy red-velvet curtain. Winnie worked the stage lights to reveal the well-dressed teens all standing in perfect position. The boys wore white trousers with red vests and black bowties, while the girls donned long white gowns. Again, every hem had been carefully measured.
In his crisp black tuxedo Fred sat at the concert grand piano, center stage, facing his performers. He had structured the show to include several acts, with costume changes, lighting effects, and an intermission. From the soundboard in back of the auditorium, Winnie called the show, controlling both lighting and sound. Backstage, a team of volunteers worked feverishly to keep the production moving through each transition.
It all started when Seva Day, a star soloist, stepped to the front of the stage with a single spotlight shining as she invited the audience to “Join us, leave your fields to flower.”1 Just as she was rounding out her powerful portion of the troupe’s favorite song, the lights lit up the entire group as they all began to sing the lyrics. To add a little magic to the number, set designers had crafted a special effect by attaching a large cotton bedsheet above the middle of the risers, filling it with shiny confetti. A team of volunteers gently pulled the cords, sprinkling the sparkling metallic shower over the group as the students sang passionately. Winnie smiled from the board, grateful the testy cords had worked as designed, but just as she exhaled, the sheet slipped, and the entire load of glittery confetti dumped on top of one unfortunate alto, leaving the other singers in a shimmery cloud.
Despite the failed prop, not a single student reacted. They had learned from Fred that “when you’re on, you’re on,” and they simply kept belting out the lyrics, giving the audience their all as they delivered a power-packed show and reminding everyone in attendance, “We’ve got magic to do, just for you.”2
Winnie exhaled and thought to herself, Well, that’s one way to sparkle!
After the big opening number, the first act brought the audience through a colorful revue of Broadway showstoppers. Not a sheet of music was to be seen, as the students and Fred had memorized the entire show. Because they had rehearsed so thoroughly, they nailed the first act, covering five full decades of award-winning numbers, from Man of La Mancha all the way through Jesus Christ Superstar, in a unique arrangement composed by Fred. With nothing more than a few handwritten note cards to track his set list, Fred kept eye contact with the singers throughout the show, conducting effectively with facial expressions and a few discreet hand gestures all while he played the piano. From the keyboard Fred supported his singers effortlessly, skipping along with them and transposing on the spot to cover any mistakes, just as he had done when Winnie first sang “Summertime” all those years ago.
The crowd cheered voraciously after every number, even louder as the second act delivered more solo performances and a barbershop quartet, spotlighting the standout talents with songs from Funny Girl, Sweet Charity, and more. Then, just before intermission, Allison discreetly stepped off the risers, disappearing into the wings before gracefully striding to center stage. As Fred had taught the students, she moved with purpose to a front microphone, careful not to disrupt the flow of the show.
When the spotlight found her, Fred adjusted his note cards, surprised to find Allison’s handwriting across the top of this one: “I’m still holding your finger, Daddy.”
Fred’s heart surged as he fought the urge to smile. Of course he would never have treated her any differently than the other singers, so he stayed focused and hit those old, familiar notes, the same ones Mrs. Duncan had struck back in the Dunson Mill Village when she seemed so determined to draw her fragile young student back to life. As Allison delivered an emotional solo of “Over the Rainbow,” she had no way of knowing what this music meant to her father. Nor could she possibly have known how much it meant for him to see her there onstage, shining, singing.
She, too, had given up a career to move to Thomasville. But now, as Allison’s voice rang clear and true, a flow of memories flashed through his mind: the moment Winnie had first told Fred he was to become a father; the first time he saw his beautiful baby girl; the moment he held baby Allison with Winnie, insisting they were the “we of me.”
&
nbsp; Now, as his daughter commanded the stage, all Fred could think was how much he loved his little girl. He had made many mistakes along the way, but if he had done one good thing in his life, it was choosing his family, returning to be the father she deserved.
After intermission the performers returned with more solos and small group ensembles, working through West Side Story, Oklahoma!, and Mame, as well as pop songs, such as “Hound Dog” and “The Way We Were.” One such song was “American Pie,” and although Paul didn’t sing the solo, he beamed brightly as his friend delivered the emotional lyrics. Fred knew Paul’s wounds were far from healed, but he also knew the young man now had a fighting chance. Music had given Paul a dose of hope when he had become broken by life, and now, after Paul’s year and a half in Troupe, Fred had every reason to believe this strong young man would find his way.
Next came songs from Troupe’s favorite musical, Pippin, a work that had connected deeply with the teens, igniting their hopes and dreams for a bright future. One piece, “Corner of the Sky,” was performed by Cliff, the gifted young man from the county school whose parents had struggled with his interest in the arts, all but forbidding him to take part in Troupe despite his tremendous talents. Like Paul, Cliff had come to rely on Fred as a mentor, if not a father figure of sorts, and Winnie had also grown close to Cliff in the last year, helping to expose him to a world much bigger than the little corner of the sky he had always known. As Cliff performed the original arrangement flawlessly, Winnie fought tears, knowing his life would have been so much more difficult if he hadn’t found this outlet for his gifts, knowing the difference Troupe was making for him and so many others.
Finally the singers wrapped it all together with an emotionally charged grand finale of “No Time at All.” Fred had rearranged the lyrics to the solo number to fit the large group and to capitalize on the powerful message, leaving listeners with the reminder: “It’s time to start livin’!”3
The crowd had given almost continuous bursts of applause from the first selection all the way through to their enthusiastic standing ovation at the show’s end. With nearly two thousand attendees on their feet, and Winnie’s tear-filled eyes watching her husband from behind the soundboard, Fred remained seated at the piano, shunning the spotlight and refusing a bow as he allowed the attention to focus solely on his hardworking students. As the teenagers smiled proudly in front of him, he finally understood the true purpose of his gifts.
Perhaps Mayhayley had been right all along. Yes, he was sure now. Those dreams of the steeple really had led him to Thomasville. And Winnie had been correct when she insisted divine intervention had landed them in this town. Every brutal abuse, every heartbreaking trauma, every bad choice and mistake and wrong turn had been equipping Fred for something bigger. For something more meaningful. For this.
As the students bowed in sync to the inner rhythm of the words Mis-sis-sip-pi-Riv-er-boat, Fred remembered the Singer’s Silent Prayer and the lessons he had learned from Eileen Farrell. He also thought back to every stage and every spotlight he had found along the way. As he scanned the students, he pictured them each as shining stars, wondering where their journeys would take them, how far their lights might shine across this great big world. Paul, Cliff, Laura, and many others had come to rely on him in the last two years, and now he recognized something each one had gained from the many lessons Fred had taught them, lessons he’d learned from his own personal experiences in LaGrange, Chautauqua, Atlanta’s Theater of the Stars, Union, Juilliard, Columbia, Riverside, Bernardsville, RCA, Actors Studio, Lincoln Center, Macmillan, and Broadway.
He heard the voice of every mentor who had crossed his path: Aunt Eleanor, Mary Duncan, Mrs. Dudley, Lucy Nixon, Mrs. Lewis, Madame, Ralph Erolle, Claire Coci, Hans Heinz, Emile, Pete, Mac. And most of all, Winnie, Fred’s greatest mentor of all, his dear partner who had helped him discover love, personal strength, confidence, and self-worth.
He could see it all clearly now. All those peaks and plummets, valleys and hills . . . it had all been worth it. Every one of those people had been a sound wave, a pulse point, a source of positive energy in his life, propelling his spirit upward, outward, with greater and greater purpose. And now it was rippling out toward his students, like the gradual build in a song’s crescendo.
As the singers lifted from their coordinated bow, Fred took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and thought to himself, Thank you, Lord.
Then, realizing Shirley had forgotten to close the curtain as planned, Fred gave her a subtle nod to remind his loyal volunteer of her appointed duty. Unfortunately, she didn’t notice his cue as she was too busy clapping atop her stool, completely lost in the enthusiasm that consumed the auditorium. Fred resumed playing, signaling the students to deliver an encore all while trying his best to get Shirley to glance his way. Still, she cheered so passionately, Fred was unable to catch her eye even when he attempted subtle hand gestures.
As the students finished the reprise from “No Time at All” and took a second bow, Fred resorted to bigger and bigger gestures toward the wing, but Shirley just kept right on dancing with her big cheery smile, enthralled by the powerful finale and leaving Fred no choice but to move into another round. Once again the students lit back into song like pros, never breaking character. As they took their third bow, Shirley finally glanced Fred’s direction and realized he had been desperately signaling her to pull the lever and end the show. With a frantic gasp, she quickly stretched to close the curtain as the audience was still on their feet in loud applause.
Fred exhaled and, whispering this time, repeated, Thank you, Lord. Then he struck his final note.
Forty
After the curtain closed, families lingered as if even they didn’t want the magic to end. The performers were gifted bouquets of fragrant flowers while parents snapped photographs and grandparents wiped tears of pride. The energy in the room certainly had been transformed, morphing into something so positive, so powerful, it seemed no one wanted to leave.
The audience was especially eager to congratulate Fred and Winnie, taking time to discuss their own sentimental responses to the music and asking to sign up their children for the following year. After more than an hour Frances was finally able to get a word with Fred onstage. She gave him an affectionate hug and said, “I’ve been singing my entire life, Fred. What I would have given to have had a teacher like you. Just think how long all this talent has been waiting to be discovered in this little town. Completely untapped.”
“It feels good to be on this side of it,” Fred admitted, realizing it was never the spotlight he was craving. Instead, he had only needed acceptance, belonging. Connection. And song.
Frances took note of Paul helping to break down the set with a group of Troupe friends. She leaned close and whispered to Fred, “He’s come a long way from the kid holding a knife to his own throat.”
Fred turned his attention Paul’s way, agreeing the young man was on the right track again, doing his best to stay above the fray.
“I told you he needed you,” Frances said. “A lot of us need you.”
Fred shook his head. “I don’t know about that, Frances. I think I’m the one who needed all of you.”
“You’re just getting started, my friend.” Frances gave him a warm smile. “And someday, you’ll realize what a difference you’ve made. You’ll be proof of what one little life can do.”
It was near midnight by the time the auditorium finally emptied. In the quiet of the stage, Fred made his way back to the piano. How many years had he spent at keys like these, trying to offer the world something new—a unique melody, an original combination of notes, a never-before-seen routine? All that time he had used music as his way to say, “Don’t be afraid. Dare to feel something. Feel it all.” And yet he had wasted so much time running away from his own true emotions, transferring pain onto all the wrong people.
But by no small miracle he had been given this second chance.
Now shiny, colorful confetti was
scattered on the floor around him, reflecting the few dim lights that continued to shine. In the solitude, Fred thought through what these kids had accomplished here tonight, the level of talent he had been able to pull from them.
Meanwhile, having seen the final guests out of the building and given Allison permission to go celebrate with fellow Troupe mates, Winnie walked back into the darkened auditorium and up to the stage. There, she gently wrapped her arms around Fred’s neck. As his fingers continued to dance across the keys, Winnie kissed his cheek. “You did it, honey.”
Leaning his head back against her, he replied, “We did it.”
With only his soft, gentle medley surrounding them, Winnie exhaled, exhausted. “Well, now what?”
The two chuckled and sighed, both too tired to think of next steps.
“Any requests?” Fred asked in a half-joking manner.
After a second of thought, Winnie grinned. “Play ‘Nature Boy.’”
Nat King Cole’s jazz standard had been performed by a soloist earlier in the evening and had long been one of Winnie’s favorites. As Fred delivered the tune, she stepped toward the piano and began to sing.
There was a boy
A very strange, enchanted boy.
They say he wandered very far
Very far
Over land and sea.
Winnie leaned near enough to see the faint line of freckles across Fred’s brow. He was still a handsome man, his looks striking in a Hollywood sort of way as if he belonged on the silver screen. She didn’t bother hiding her affections. She couldn’t fool him even if she tried. That’s the thing she’d always loved most about Fred, his innate ability to size someone up in a matter of minutes and reach them on a level no one else had ever managed to do. He only knew how to offer something deep and almost spiritual, leaving everyone he met with a sense that they hadn’t only been seen but understood. And, more importantly, loved.
A little shy
And sad of eye