You think your relationship is one thing for so long, think you're in control despite affairs or disagreements, and one day you wake up and with the gift of an expensive car or another sexy flower you realize it is something else entirely, and you haven't been in control of anything for a very long time.
Estella
Paul says we've wasted too much time. He stands beside me, his touch reassuring, and we look at the calendarânot to check on the dates for Big Dune, they are too close for me to forget. Instead, he wants me to settle on a date next year. The calendar is clear after my appointment. I've refused to schedule anything and until now Paul has indulged me. I am grateful to him for that.
Perhaps I should be grateful again.
My finger shakes slightly as I run it down the Saturday column, through all those months, all that time. It stops on the second Saturday of April, and I calculate the dates in my mind, finding zero, and then back up to an even hundred, divided down to my age, a prime. Fighting to stop it is as useless as fighting a facial tic. It happens unconsciously, within seconds, without Paul being aware of it.
Psychosomatic,
he would say, as the doctors have said, keep saying.
He nods, looking at the date. “Yes, I think that would be fine,” he says. “And it gives us almost a year to plan.”
Almost a year.
I am trying to get through these three days, and then I must try to get through the three weeks on Big Dune, and then the three more days to Dr. Fellows. Three days, three weeks, three days.
Three facts about three:
Three is the first prime Delannoy number.
Three is the smallest Fermat prime.
Three to the third equals three squared three times.
It happens in a split second. Dr. Fellows will say I am imagining things. Playing Go with Lisa I see the black and white disks form the old shapes before my eyes, I see the grid rise off the board and rotate in front of me, showing me where to place my piece.
And now I am calculating dates, zipping through simple number facts. It is child's play, a bright fourth grader could do the same. I don't believe in psychosomatic. I believe in what my past has taught me.
Paul wants another year, and I cannot help but feel that he is asking for too much. But I circle the second Saturday in April anyway, and he is pleased.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Streams of chattering fourth graders flowed around me as I walked down the hall toward the music room, their faces bright with anticipation of summer vacation. Mr. Hailey was waiting for me, smiling like an excited boy, and I imagined he was as pleased about school ending as the students were. He led me down the hall, away from the music room, and opened the door to the auditorium.
When I saw the stage, I marveled at what a wonderful teacher Mr. Hailey was. Luke had wanted to send the boys to private school, but I'd somehow won that one, and Mr. Hailey was just the sort of teacher who reminded me that I'd made the right choice. He was also one of the first teachers who accepted Carson for who he was and not a clone of his popular older brother.
Carson sat on the stage, with a string-bass player on his right and a pianist on his left. I glanced around for the other parents, but Mr. Hailey and I were the only members of the audience. Carson waved at me and nervously shuffled his music as we took our seats.
“Mrs. Wilder, I'm very excited about this,” Mr. Hailey said, turning toward me in the tiny upholstered seat.
“I've never seen him play with bass and piano,” I said. “I didn't even know he was working on anything like this. Is this how his Benny Goodman fixation came about?”
“I've played some Goodman records, but I think this piece is more reminiscent of the Blue Wing Trio.”
“I'm not familiar with them,” I said. “Jazz?”
He nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, yes, but what I'm most excited about is that you, well, you know music, so you'll understand. I've seen your trio.”
“Really?” I said, truly surprised.
“You're all very good,” he added and I nodded my thanks. “But, please, listen, not just to Carson, but listen to the composition. That's what I really wanted you here for.”
Warning bells sounded in my head. “The composition? You know I really don't play professionallyâ”
He looked startled. “Well, certainly you do, Mrs. Wilder. But maybe we should just sit back and listen. Ready?”
I nodded, but a feeling of dread was coming over me. Obviously Mr. Hailey had composed the piece we were about to hear, and he hoped that by placing Carson in the jazz trio I might give him an entry into the local music scene in return. Had it not been my son up there I would have made my excuses and rapidly left.
Not only did I have no influence on the local music scene, I wouldn't even know where to begin with a jazz composer, or a composer of any stripe. Mr. Hailey would be sorely disappointed to discover that the only real contact I had was a down-on-his-luck cellist.
Mr. Hailey nodded at the players and raised his hand. The clarinet, Carson, led. It was a bit wavery, a bit weak, but strengthened quickly, and then the bass and the piano joined in and a bouncy, New Orleans-flavored jazz number filled the auditorium.
I forgot all about Mr. Hailey and his dreams of launching a composing career off the backs of schoolchildren, and watched my son in amazement. He wasn't great; in fact, the bass player and the pianist, both older than him, could likely play rings around him. But he was obviously having a ball, and it lent his playing a new, more powerful and confident sound.
The piano backed off and the bass surged, leaving Carson to find his way, the music wallowing a bit, and when the piano took off again with the bass in tow and left Carson once more out of the loop, I began to pick apart the composition. It was a fun piece, and Hailey was obviously talented, but it lacked polish, as if he had the raw stuff but perhaps hadn't studied as much as he should have.
The piano dropped out, and then the bass, and the final notes, like the first, were Carson's to play with. As the cry of the clarinet faded away I stood and began to applaud, as did Mr. Hailey.
“Yes, oh, fantastic, just fantastic,” Mr. Hailey cried, his enthusiasm carrying him away. “Thank you, Tabitha, Kyle, you're dismissed,” he called across the auditorium. “I'll see you in class. Great job today. Carson, why don't you pack up and we'll meet you in the music room. I'd like to speak to your mother for a few minutes.”
Carson nodded and raised a hand to me before gathering his music and trotting off the stage. Mr. Hailey turned to me again, his eyes bright with hope.
“And what did you think about
that
?”
“It was very nice,” I said, trying to be kind but noncommittal. “Carson's playing has really come a long way, and the bass player and pianist are terrific.”
His face fell a little bit. “Well, yes, he's a good student; he practices, that's half the battle right there. But what did you think of the music itself? The composition?”
I swallowed. I had never been good at letting people down. “I thought it was very nice, but, ah, I'm afraid I really don't have the sort of connections you might need. Perhaps you should get in touch with a jazz group in the area? I'm sure they'd love to discuss your work.”
Mr. Hailey stared at me, obviously puzzled, but then he opened his eyes wide. “Mrs. Wilder, do you think
I
wrote that piece?”
“I, wellâ” I stopped, uncertain of where he was going.
“Carson wrote that,” he said, with a soft smile.
“Carson? Carsonâ
wrote
that?”
“Yes, yes, he did. I'm sorry, I thought you understood.”
I began to laugh, first out of relief, and then out of sheer astonishment. “But how? I didn't know anything about this.”
“It happened several months ago, after I brought a Blue Wing Trio album in for music theory class. We'd been listening to jazz, some Miles Davis, Charlie Parker, Bill Evans.” He smiled ruefully at me. “I hate to say it, but it's stuff that puts most of the kids right to sleep. But it was obvious that Carson was fascinated, and the Blue Wing album just seemed to click with him. He started asking me questions about why we didn't play that sort of music in class, why didn't everyone play that way, how did they know how to play the music like that, just full of questions. It was the most I'd ever heard him say at one time. After a few days I started to realize that the core of his questions, what he was really intrigued by, was composition, the building of the music itself, the form, especially with these three instruments.
“He seemed to understand strings well enoughâhe said he's been watching you since he was a babyâand then showing him the scales on the piano was the next logical step, and then I started working with him on his study hour with composition basics. You know, some people believe that musical composition can't be taught, but he took everything I showed him and ran, just ran with it. It's really quite amazing.”
“So, what are you saying?” I asked, my initial astonishment slowly being replaced by a chill of fear.
Mr. Hailey leaned toward me with an earnest look. “I'm not saying he's a prodigy exactly. He's not Beethoven, he doesn't automatically know what to do as if born with the knowledge already. Gifted? No question. Genius? Perhaps. I think time and instruction will tell.”
And there it was.
Genius
. My neck and face felt as if they were on fire. Mr. Hailey looked at me in concern, and I realized that I was twisting my rings again, as though trying to unscrew my finger. I tried to remember that to most people it was a good word, a word that most parents prayed they might hear one day.
Mr. Hailey was still staring at me. “I'm sorry,” I said, falling back on good manners, my only cover. “You've just caught me by surprise.”
“But are youâaren't you pleased?” he asked, inclining his head toward the stage, indicating that of course I must be, I had to be. But I wasn't. I was terrifiedâI wasn't ready for the roller coaster to begin with Carson, especially not this particular ride.
“I am, I'm very impressed,” I finally said. “Thank you for allowing me to watch, and I hope you have a nice summer.”
I hope you join the Peace Corps and go to some distant Third World black hole,
I thought fiercely. And if he didn't, then I would look into private schools.
Mr. Hailey laughed, as though I still didn't comprehend the wonderful news. “Mrs. Wilder, I don't think you understandâ”
“I understand everything,” I said. “I understand that you think you have some right to make decisions for my child. But you don't.”
He cut his laugh off and slowly stopped smiling. “I haven't made any decisions for your son. Carson made his own talents clear. He really has something here. Don't you want him to follow this gift?”
“Mr. Hailey, what exactly is in this for you?”
“I'm not sure what you're implying.”
“What's in it for you? Why are you so interested?”
“I'm a teacher, that's my job.”
I nodded. “In a small-town elementary school. But you're a musician too, aren't you? It might be a good way for someone to notice you, maybe get you a better job.”
He flushed, and when he spoke his voice was hard and tight. “Yes, I'm a piano player. Not a genius, not even particularly gifted or talented. And now I'm a music teacher, and that is exactly what I was put here on this earth to do. And I don't want to be anything else.”
“Really? Then why this performance? Why didn't you notify me before this? Why the secrecy?”
“Mrs. Wilder, it was Carson who wanted it to be a surprise, and quite frankly, I resent the implication that I have something to gain from this. Do I hope that one day a Schumann or a Nyiregyhazi will walk through my door? Sure, but neither of them turned out to be very happy people, did they? That's what I'm concerned with: finding out what makes my students happy.”
“As his mother, I am better qualified to decide what will make my child happy.”
“I don't think any mother can decide what makes her child happy,” Mr. Hailey said quietly. “Carson doesn't have a lot of friends, which I have to assume you've noticed. This is the first time I've ever seen him truly excited, truly passionate about anything. I can see his mind working, taking the music apart, figuring out how it was done. It's startling and wonderful. Does it excite me to think I might be a part of that? Of course, but I have no designs on your son.”
“I've seen people like you before, and I won't allow you to ruin Carson's life.”
“Ruin his life?” Mr. Hailey repeated in bewilderment. “And what will you do when Carson grows up and wants to know why
you
didn't allow him to pursue what he so obviously loves?”
“That's not something you need to worry about, Mr. Hailey, as you won't be around to find out. My family history gives me an edge when it comes to children and genius. I have more experience than you in this matter.”
He raised his eyebrows. “You have more musical geniuses in the family?”
“No, my sister is a math genius. She went to college at twelve. Do you know what that does to a child?”
“Ah,” he said, “well, that makes perfect sense.”
“How is that?”
“Music is math, math is music. And for what it's worth, suggesting Carson be accelerated because of this never crossed my mind. Composing isn't exactly a common course, except at a basic level, and not at all existent in the primary public school system. This is something that should be taken care of by private tutoring, mentoring. He's too advanced already for standard classes. He'd just be bored. There are work-shops, camps he can attend.”