Middle C (59 page)

Now cast your eyes upon the palette that modern circumstances have placed before the composer, all pertaining to the nature of any singled-out sound or insect’s whir. There is the instrument that is its source, as the cricket’s is of its, and any messages that may be traced to it,
for instance, the call of a bullfrog or the whistle given girls; there is the placement of the instrument in the pit, on the platform of the concert hall, or for solo or ensemble performance in a historic chamber; there is the choice of size and shape the musician must give his note (fat or thin, loud or soft, crisp or slurred) and the qualities of sound that can be expected from each of a hundred sorts of instrument; moreover, to be accounted for, there are the relations this note has with other notes (those that precede, those that follow, those that suffer or enjoy simultaneous existence); consequently the sounds collected in polychords, clusters, skeins, runs, motifs, themes, as well as all the other groups of notes that are treated as an entity—clouds of notes, cascades, fistfuls, snivels of notes—and all those with whom it shares rhythmic relations; repeated notes, notes that have been given a dominant position, those who satisfy subordinate roles, compositions in keys and styles and size, that have historical associations, reflect common customs, or reveal well-known intentions. Cast eyes and cry: too many and too much; take away this hive of opportunity, this surfeit of choice, and let us retire to simpler times when such a plethora was not recognized, our eardrums were not African, and our serious intentions were pious.

The next time you enjoy—say—a kiss, think of it for a moment as a moist slur of notes, and the experience showing up in your consciousness, as well as that of your companion, when your lips touch, is a chord of a chorus in a world of cacophony. All that laughter? That bad? I had to say “kiss” to wake you. How about a spoon in hot soup? Opposed palms coming together in a clap. Anyway, when Béla Bartók composed his celebrated concerto he was taking a musical world, like the warring one outside his studio, in all its prolixity, conflict, and chaos, and trying to resolve those factions in a triumphant chorus for a triumphant close.

Listen to that. We have arrived at our station. The noon bell rings across the quad. You may scuffle out. Our time is up.

43

I haven’t seen Mother. I haven’t seen her anywhere—Joey said not quite aloud because he no longer wanted to hear his voice—her face must be hidden in her flowers; but I shall have to see her soon enough, and suffer her shock, and the scorn in her speech: anger before despair. He felt he had a cork in his throat. A sweat, this early in the day, that wet his underarms, served to oil his apprehension.

There were several scenarios that would fit this faculty meeting, and he had endured them all. Why bother with this one, played out in the provinces? It ought to close before opening, since all its conclusions were foregone. Joey had no curiosity about which version would most match the performance the ticket holder had purchased.

Joseph walked slower than slowly; you might say he waded up the street toward a pickup truck that always seemed to be parked in the shade of a tall fir tree, night and day, all seasons the same. It reminded him of the Bumbler; how it had served him, as poor at the wheel as he was; and how steadfastly this example sat in front of its house, ready to run, but never asked. Lucky wheels that no one wanted turned.

The Bumbler, exercising its associative powers, charmed him by returning Miss Spiky, her mullet, and her Billy Bear to his consciousness. He heard her voice—he always heard the singers, it seemed, since Mr. Hirk introduced him to them—she who was one of the good witches of Urichstown, and he fondly remembered—he always heard the high notes, it seemed like, since Mr. Hirk played them on his machine—her brazenly advertised attachment to a child’s toy. Hazel Hawkins—that was she. Maybe, just maybe, Billy Bear was a substitute for a child she had lost. He hadn’t thought of that. But should have. Funny, he felt genuine with her, precisely because she was also putting on a show. To his surprise, he laughed, then snatched it back, as if he’d let fall a naughty remark. How much astonishment could this hour entertain?

It must happen every day: men, women, boys being taken between officers to a judge; or men, women, soldiers, sent to their death, cameras catching them now that the police had, or victims of gunfire spewing from a speeding car, or simply the shower curtain that’s drawn upon a
rain of shame. He now knew what fear was: strings of feeling tied into a numbing knot.

Professor Skizzen labored past a piece of broken curb that always marked, for him, a point halfway to or from his classroom, night and day, all seasons the same; except that when he returned, on the other side of the street, it was a cluster of telephone poles weathered to a pale gray that gave his position away. The clump had a slight lean. The way they might have grown in their original woods. The professor felt he had worn this path and won its naming, now that it had become the last half mile of his academic life, and was otherwise unpleasant only in the worst snows and a few winds. A little sign might be enough: Fake’s Walk. The real difficulty was that after his arraignment he would still be alive. To have your name on something beside a shop, you had to be rich and probably dead. And even death would not prevent people such as President Palfrey from his calamities: the short path between Languages and the Science Building was called Snow Way.

Why should this crumble of concrete, returning itself to pebble-speckled sand, be an emblem for his colleagues at the college and always bring them to mind? What would they think? You guys remind me of a broken curb. True, run over and abused, dust to dust was that situation’s ultimate design. Joey’s youth, his energy, his need to succeed, had been a weight upon their collective weakness. For them, the department was serene if not strong because it was never tried or tested.

A few steps beyond Joseph, there were familiar views that never seemed to matter much: a postbox, faded to a sickly green, where he occasionally dropped a missive (that would be Miss Moss’s station); followed by a forsythia bush that leaned out over the sidewalk with no justification but its early blooms, yellower than a banana then, but always badly pruned; a pair of bay windows, like great gray-curtained eyes, came next; however, no one seemed to be alive inside, no one seemed to be in the yard, raking the leaves or otherwise meeting the seasons—the house of the No Ones, he thought of them—and no one came to the door on Halloween; then came the Leffingwell House whose huge columns held up a porch roof no bigger than a party hat, yet whose cumbersome façade actually seemed welcoming. This mansion was featured, despite an outrageous collision of styles, on those occasional tours of painted glass the ladies of the Garden Club organized, not only for the many religious motifs to be
seen in its windows, but also because of the dwelling’s exceptional size. Not last, but for continuous company, there was always the hush of the street beneath pair after pair of spanning elms. Skizzen inspected their diseased boughs with genuine sadness, and tried to accept the death of which their droop was a sign.

Professor Skizzen, good day to you, sir. The greeting sprang on him from ambush like a movie Indian. Didn’t mean to startle you, sir, just getting some air myself. It’s going to be a beautiful morning, I can tell. Musn’t waste it, eh? Off to work, are you? That case is full of musical knowledge, I imagine. Will it be lighter on the way home? I dare say it will. Skizzen got turned round. Ah, there, Mr. Leffingwell, isn’t it? You surprised me. Well, it’s my home we are facing. Leffingwell’s arm swept into a wave. I see you pass nearly every day. As regular as the post. Except Sundays, Skizzen said, desperately. He hardly recognized this man who seemed to know him well enough for casual jollity. Oh, I match your favor. I often go by your house on the way to town. Good for my health, you know. I’m sure the walk to school is good for yours. That corner garden gives every passerby a lovely sight, it is so open on that lot, not hidden away, and well tended, a credit to our little community. I imagine it’s your wife’s work. My mother’s, yes, Skizzen said as matter-of-factly as he dared. Be damned to you, he thought.

Ah … You are looking reasonably hearty, a bit pale today maybe. Full of vim and vinegar, I am, on such a morning. Thanks to God. I love it crisp as the crust of good bread, don’t you? I always ate my crusts, Skizzen, a beaten man, managed. Good boy, Mr. Leffingwell replied, good boy. Skizzen stood as if tranced, hearing her voice; recalling how thoroughly he did enjoy that voice once, until her shriek scared him with its accusation. How he liked their amiable banter among the books, the deep pleasure they both took in the slightest exchanges, the quiet that surrounded their conviviality, until their giggles rose like bubbles in a glass.

I’m glad to see you bring some culture to the college, Mr. Leffingwell said, as if to encourage Skizzen’s efforts. I’ve thought, for some years, that it was neglecting the arts, don’t you know, for those courses in fashionable social issues. Not enough emphasis on basics—religion, music, the higher things—these kids need some polish before their insertion into civilization, I’m sure you agree. Teach ’em how to play an instrument.
Read a map. Understand geography. Basics. I hear they’ve been running a distillery up there. It’s those fraternities. Evil influence. If we teach geography, Professor Skizzen said, it’s news to me.

Maybelle Leonard’s husband … he does … teach geography. Part-time, I think. A rather large man. Of overflowing disposition. You would have seen him had you visited his furniture store. He sits there and rocks to prove how reliable the recliners are. Doesn’t get up much, even for valued customers. But that’s neither here nor there. It’s somewhere, though, I suppose, Skizzen offered. I remember geography class. The Tigris and Euphrates Rivers. Right? Third grade, I think. Made an impression. We had to outline their course. The rivers, I mean. Locate Eden or something equally sacred God set down between them like an oasis. Not much doing there these days, I guess. Whatever God did. Skizzen’s doom looked suddenly better to him. He took a step toward the school. I sell shoes, Leffingwell blurted. I don’t think you’ve ever visited my shop. It used to be Schafley’s Styles. I think I hid there from someone I didn’t want to run into on the street, Skizzen said with a small smile of satisfaction. I’m enforcing improvements, Leffingwell said, continuing on his own train. Woodbine is ready for some daring designs, don’t you think? Schafley was a bit of a ’fraidy cat. Well, I won’t hold you up any longer. You must have a class to teach. Play marches for the kids, why don’t you. Ha. They’re no-nonsense. Brisk. Instills rigor in the mind and gives a thump to the boot.

Skizzen would soon see the tops of the taller buildings. He took time to flick some lint from his coat. He brushed a shoulder. He brushed another a bit more fiercely. It was as if he had never seen the coat, its shoulder, its collar, before. Not like a friend lost sight of, but familiar beyond recognition. So he sighed. It allowed him to cease flicking. They were just fixtures, too, these dear reassuring associates of habit and silence, who tracked his steps for him, and were normally smartly met like that robin to which he spoke kindly, the way he would to a comrade, or that neighbor whose name after years he still didn’t know but whose nightshirt was as familiar as the mail it appeared for, as he made his progress up this small-town hill where nothing changed much—night and day, all seasons the same—except the color of the leaves and the state of the lawns; past the fronts of houses whose drapes were always drawn as if darkness made every interior more visible; and
past porches where the daily paper usually came to rest or the gutter where one issue lodged after an errant toss, to dry in the sun then sog in the rain before drying in the sun again; or the persistent shadow of a holly tree, its red seed quarreled over by the birds, that now he addressed quite crossly as if the tree were she: no need to follow me anymore, to see if I’ll be safe, remember, Mother, when you first walked me to school in grade school days—oh yes, it was another street—yes, ma’am—below High, downhill, on the other side of town, where we had a cottage cut into small rooms like a quartered orange. The things that stayed were things that didn’t matter except they stayed, night and day, all seasons the same, and were peaceful to a fault and boded no ill but thought well enough of themselves to repeat their presences. Right now, Joey disliked everything that asserted its existence. He longed for only those pieces of the world’s furniture that weren’t flattered by attention or fearful of attack, just were, without guilt or accusation; that was what he wanted now; how he felt, seeming to slow his walk, yet increasing its speed. No need to tag along, Mom, my God, we’re almost there.

At least I have no father who will blame me. Buck up. He would approve me anyway, for acting bravely in support of his fears. Put yourself in Carfagno’s place, my boy, he’d say … on the day he went to the village doctor, whom you and Mort maintained was either a man half taught by a Guernsey, or a Guernsey half taught by a man, to be told he was dying of cerebral tumors. Remember what you said to yourself, and almost said to others: that they had to be the first ideas his head had held; remember that unkindness, and the pain of the doctor’s announcement, and how we all tried to buck him up by putting the doctor down: Oh get another opinion, go to someone in Columbus, what does a Woodbine doctor know? It is just a stubborn headache. Remember how much worse that was for him than anything that can happen to you today, even if you think you’d rather die, because I know you wouldn’t rather die. You would rather get off scot-free.

Now to cross the quad. Not too slow. Not too fast. Easy as whistling. But not whistling. Nice little breeze. It blew Joey to a halt. Joseph surveyed the scene. Professor Skizzen remembered to swing his briefcase slightly next his knee. One of them, they didn’t know which, shoved off. When he first stood at the edge of the green, its diagonal walk was clear
and clean; however, now there were three, approaching. Two students were already sitting in the grass. Where was the usual dew? Good morning, Professor. See: he was recognized; he was greeted; he was awarded a wide smile. He belonged. He was accepted. Now he was about to lose everything but recognition. He would become a figure of story if not of song.