Apparently, his father, who was president of one of the local banks, didn't believe in sending him to a private school. He had succeeded with a public school education and his son should do the same was the philosophy he preached to anyone who asked.
Most of us knew Chandler played piano. There were times when he played it at school, and the choral teacher and the band instructor both tried to get him to participate in their concerts, but he steadfastly refused, simply shaking his head with a smirk that suggested he thought their suggestion was ridiculous.
Naturally, the other boys mocked him, teased him, even tried to get him to fight, but he never did. If I could say anything on his behalf it was that he had remarkable self-control and the ability to more anyone and anything that displeased him.
He was not bad-looking, either. There were occasions when I stared at him and his eyes met mine, but he always made me feel guilty, made me feel as if I had stolen a look at a forbidden subject. I know I turned crimson and shifted my eyes away guiltily, and then chastised myself for being so interested, even for an instant. I wanted to hate him and despise him as much as all my friends did. But something kept me from doing that, something kept me stealing glances.
"Yes," Mr. Wenrow said. "Chandler Maxwell I've already discussed the possibility with him and he is willing, especially after I described your talent."
"Maybe he won't think I'm so talented once he hears me play," I said.
"Chandler respects my opinion on such matters, Honey. He wouldn't be working with me otherwise, believe me. He's a very opinionated and an
extraordinarily self-confident young man. Personally, I think he has musical genius."
I raised my eyebrows. I knew Chandler was a good student, but not within the top ten students in my class. He was in all of my classes-- including my language class, even though I suspected he didn't have any interest in taking Spanish. He always looked so bored, but took it because there was a language requirement. Whenever he was asked to pronounce or recite something, he did it so softly Mrs. Howard had to ask him to repeat it, and eventually would give up on him.
"I don't know," I said.
The idea was intriguing, but at the same time frightening. What if he made fun of me? I knew how sarcastic he could be. Most of the boys who jeered him didn't even understand his comebacks and how degrading and nasty they were. When that happened, I could see the self-satisfaction in his eyes. If he caught me looking at him. He tightened his lips and narrowed his eves with suspicion, as if he was afraid I might expose him.
"Well, would you like me to speak to your mother about it?" Ms. Wengrow asked. "Because of her background, she has a real appreciation for good music."
"I don't know," I repeated.
"Well, let me mention it and then you and your family can discuss it. I suppose there would be some consideration about getting you to my home and back."
"I have my license," I said quickly. "I've been driving since I was ten. actually. On the farm. I mean. I'm sure I could use my daddy's pickup.'
I realized I was solving problems
enthusiastically. I did want to do this.
"Fine. We'll talk about it in more detail next time I come," he said.
Before he left, he did talk to Mommy and Daddy. Grandad was present, but made no comments, unless we counted his grunt.
"It sounds like a good opportunity," Mommy told in later that night. "Mr. Wengrow's so excited about it, he says he won't charge for the added time. What do you think. Honey?"
"I guess I could try to see how it goes," I offered.
Daddy looked pleased and nodded.
They were both so nervous about my moods and emotions these days that anything that promised to bring me some pleasure was desirable,
"Then we'll tell him it's fine with us," Mommy said.
"I'll need the pickup. I think," I told Daddy. "I wouldn't want you to have to drive me."
"You can use the pickup, but you had better clean it up before you 'ire in it." Mommy said. "You don't want to walk into someone's home smelling like a farm girl.'
"What's wrong with that?" we heard Grandad call from the living room. He was listening through the walls.
"Nothing a good shampoo and bath won't cure," Mommy retorted. Daddy actually laughed loud enough for Grandad to hear.
It brought a smile to my face.
Uncle Peter wouldn't have laughed much louder. I thought. He's still with us.
4 The Lesson
Needless to say. I was very nervous the first night I drove over to Mr. Wengrow's house. I rushed through dinner, which brought me looks of
displeasure from Grandad Forman's piercing, reprimanding eyes, and then I went upstairs to my room and agonized over what I should wear.
Should it be one of my better dresses or skirts, or should I just wear what I wore to school? Was I making too much of all this? Would I be overdoing it, pumping up Chandler's already exaggerated ego? What if I dressed nicely but he pulled a complete switch and came in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. showing me how little he thought of the occasion? Wouldn't I feel the fool?
And then what about my hair? Should I have washed it? Was brushing it and spraying it enough? How much makeup should I put on? Just lipstick, or a little rouge? I kept smelling myself, terrified that I would bring the farm odors along with me. Chandler would surely say something unpleasant about that. I was positive I overdid my cologne.
Finally. I settled on just a little touch of lipstick, no rouge, and my dark blue skirt and light blue shortsleeve blouse. I put on a pair of sandals, took one last glimpse of myself in the mirror, and hurried
downstairs, not realizing until I was at the bottom that I had forgotten my violin.
Mumbling complaints about myself to myself. I hurried back upstairs to fetch it and then took a deep breath, calmed myself, and walked slowly down the stairs. Mommy came out to tell me to drive carefully.
"Come right home afterward. Honey," Daddy called from behind her.
When I stepped out of the house. I saw that Uncle Simon had washed the truck. He was just wiping off the windshield, and stepped away as I approached.
"I told your daddy I would do it," he said before I could ask or say a word.
"Thank you, Uncle Simon."
"I checked the air in the tires and the oil, too." he added. "Everything's fine."
"I'm only going about four miles, Uncle Simon," I said. smiling. "It's not more than a tenminute ride," I added.
"Most accidents happen close to home." he said. I realized everyone was nervous about everyone else since Uncle Peter's accident.
"I'll be careful," I promised, opening the truck door, putting in my violin, and turning back to him. He stood there, nodding.
"Thank you, Uncle Simon," I said again, and got on tiptoe to give him a quick kiss on his cheek. Even in the darkness. I could set his face bloom like one of his red roses. His eyes brightened.
I got into the truck, waved, and drove off, taking a hard bounce on the rise in the driveway Grandad never cared to have fixed because it reminded us that "life was full of bumps to avoid or tolerate."
Moments later, I was on the highway. My heart sped up with my anticipated arrival at Mr. Wengrow's. When I pulled into his driveway, I realized I would have to park next to Chandler's beautiful late-model black Mercedes. I pulled as far from it as I could.
Mr. Wengrow lived in a modest one-story Queen Anne, set back on close to an acre of land. He was a bachelor who had lived with his parents. His mother had passed away first and his father had died just last year. During the day he taught music at a private elementary school.
Mr. Wengrow greeted me in a dark brown sports jacket, an open shirt, and a pair of brown slacks and shoes. I was glad to see he wasn't dressed any more formally than usual.
There was a very small vestibule on entry with a mirror on the right. The frame of the mirror had hooks for jackets and beneath it was a small, dark oak table with a flower-patterned vase. It had nothing
in it. and I regretted not asking Uncle Simon for some flowers to bring.
"Right on time," he said smiling. "Chandler was a little early. He likes to spend more time warming up," he explained, raising his voice over the sound of the piano, which seemed to get louder.
He led me to the living room on the left. It had modest, colonial furnishings with a large dark brown oval rug. The grand piano was prominent, actually too large for the room, which was well-lit by a ceiling fixture and two standing lamps, as well as the small lamp on the piano. Mr. Wengrow had set up my music stand to the right, with its clipped light already on and waiting for my sheet music.
Chandler was dressed like he dressed for school, a tie and slacks. He didn't look up or stop playing when I entered. Both Mr. Wengrow and I watched him for a few moments and then Mr. Wengrow nodded toward my stand. I took my violin out of its case and stepped up. Chandler finally lifted his fingers from the keys and turned to me.
"I didn't know you were taking private lessons," he said.
I wanted to say, How would you Now? You never say two words to me at school, but instead. I nodded and said, "Mr. Wengrow just told me about you. too."
"Oh?" He looked at our teacher.
"Don't you two see each other at school?" he asked innocently. "I just assumed..."
I looked at Chandler.
"We see each other," he said, his eyes softening and becoming impish, I thought. "But we've never exchanged resumes," he added.
"Well, now you both know. Shall we begin?" Mr. Wengrow said. And started to outline what he hoped to accomplish.
Almost immediately I made one mistake after another, and sounded like a first-year student. I became even more flustered because of that and made more mistakes.
"Take your time," Mr. Wenuoiv kept saying.
Every time we had to stop. Chandler lifted his fingers off the keys but held them hovering there and stared ahead. He said nothing encouraging. Finally, he stood up.
"Why don't you work with her for a few minutes solo. Mr. Wenzrow? I have to make a phone call anyway," he added and, without waiting for a response, walked out of the room.
I felt like bursting into tears. "I'm sorry," I said.
"It's all right. Every time you do something different, you'll have some butterflies. With time and experience, you'll find ways to overcome it. I'm sure. Let's c,o back and do this one more time." he urged patiently.
After a while I did feel myself calm down. When Chandler returned, he glanced at me quickly but took his place at the piano and waited for Mr. Wengrow's instructions. We played on and I did better and better, so much better, in fact. that Chandler started to glance at me, his eyes revealing
appreciation.
"Good," Mr. Wengrow muttered. nodding. "Good. That's it. Good. Well. Chandler," he said stepping back when we ended. "was I right about Miss Forman or not?"
"You were very much right," Chandler said, glancing at me and then standing.
"Shall we say same time, same night next week?" Mr. Wengrow asked.
"It's fine with my schedule," Chandler said. "Honey?"
"What? Oh. yes," I said.
"Good night, Mr. Wengrow," Chandler said, and started out. I put my violin away quickly.
"You both have the makings of fine musicians, Honey," Mr. Wengrow said. "I have high hopes."
"Thank you," I said. I heard the front door open and close.
He has as much personality as a dead snail, I thought. I felt stupid now even worrying about what I wore, what I looked like. I almost wished I had smelled like a cow when I arrived. He needs something-sharp stinging his nostrils, I concluded. I never knew a boy could stir such rage in me without saying a word.
Mr. Wengrow followed me to the door to say good night. I thanked him and left, my head down as I walked.
"Watch your step." I heard, and looked up quickly to see Chandler waiting at his car, leaning against it, his arms folded.
"You drove that truck?' he asked, nodding at it. "It didn't drive me," I replied.
He smiled and nodded.
"I know your farm. My father's bank carries the mortgage."
I knew his father was a bank president, of course. but I had no idea where Grandad Forman had his business affairs. I didn't reply. I went to the truck, opened the door, and put the violin on the seat.
"You are good," he said, stepping closer to me. "I trusted Mr. Wengrow not to waste my time, but he sometimes exaggerates to make the parents of his students feel good about their so-called prodigies."
"My parents don't think I'm a prodigy. Is that what yours think you are?" I shot back at him. "Is that why you play the piano?"
He shrugged.
"I don't know, Maybe. I play because it pleases me and seems to please people who hear me do it. Why do you play the violin?" he countered.
I thought a moment.
"An uncle of mine once said I don't play it."
"Huh?"
"He said. 'It plays you.'"
"It plays you?"
"Exactly," I said, getting into the truck and looking out the window at him. 'If you can find a way to understand that, you might find a way to understand yourself"
"Who says I don't understand myself?"
"No one. Who else can know if you do or not but you?" I started the engine. He drew closer.
"What are you, full of riddles?"
"Not any more or less than anyone else. I suppose. I enjoyed playing my violin with your accompaniment, Chandler. You don't play the piano. It plays you," I said, smiling, and put the truck in reverse.
I backed out of the driveway and took one last look at him. He was still standing there, watching me. I waved and then drove off. My heart thumping so hard, I thought I would have a rush of blood to my head and pass out.
He has beautiful eyes, I admitted to myself. He didn't turn them to me as much as I would have liked. but on the other hand, if he looked at me too much. I would probably have a harder time concentrating on my music. Still, it was nice to think of them now. It brought a smile to my face. and that smile remained there like a soft impression in newly fallen snow.
"You look like you had a good time," Daddy said when I entered the house. He and Mommy were in the kitchen. talking. Grandad had fallen asleep in his chair in front of the television set. He was snoring at a volume that was almost as loud as the program.
"What? Oh. Yes, it was very good. Daddy."
I'm glad," he said. "Maybe you really should think of a career in music."
"Maybe," I said, and went up to my room.
I sat at my vanity table and stared at my image in the mirror, wondering if I was at all attractive. Was my nose too small, my lips too thin, my eyes too close together?
I stood up and began to undress, gazing at myself as I stripped down to bare skin. I had a figure people called perky, cute. Would I ever be beautiful? It seemed to me that boys didn't take cute girls seriously enough, only the girls who were beautiful. I'd always look too young.
When I once voiced such a complaint. Mommy told me to just wait twenty years. I'd love being considered too young then; but who wanted to wait so long to be happy about herself? Not me. I wanted to be happy about myself now.
I realized I was standing nude in front of my mirror and judging my breasts, my curves, and my waist. Was this sinful? Would I be punished for my vanity? Grandad would certainly say so. I thought. and I almost expected to hear a boom of thunder and see the sizzle of God's displeasure light up my bedroom windows.
I heard the phone ring and a moment later Mommy called up to me. "There's a phone call for you. Honey."
"Me?" I scooped up my robe and hurriedly put it on as I went to the foot of the stairs. Mommy was standing at the bottom. 'Who is it?"
"Chandler Maxwell. He sounds so formal," Mommy shook her head and laughed. "He sounds more like one of your teachers than a classmate."
"Yes, he does," I said, laughing to myself. What could he want? I wondered. Did he get angry at me for teasing him?
Is he calling to tell me he won't attend another lesson?
We had one phone, situated in the hallway. Grandad didn't see any need for another and certainly didn't see a need for me to have my own phone, so there wasn't that much privacy for anyone who received a call-- not that I received very many.
"Hello," I said. Mommy walked back into the kitchen.
"I'm sorry to bother you so late."
"It's not that late."
"Yes, well, for many people it might be." he insisted.
"Well, what is it?"
"I have tickets to the production of Porgy and Bess at the convention center. It's light opera."
"I know what it is," I said.
"It probably won't be that good, but my father gets these tickets because of the bank. and I was wondering if you would like to come this coming Saturday night, I know that's giving you very short notice," he added before I could respond. "so I won't be upset if you can't go. I just thought you might enjoy the music. We have so little of it in our community and--"
"Yes," I said to stop him from going on and on.
"Yes?"
"Yes, I'd like to go. Thank you."
"Oh, well, good. I'll see you in school and give you more detail."
"That's fine. Thank you."
"Maybe..."
He hesitated. I waited a moment and then said. "Yes?"
"Maybe, if you're able to, you could. I mean. I could take you for something to eat first."
"Oh. Sure. I guess," I said.
"Fine. I'll give you more detail in school," he repeated. "Okay."
"Well, then, good night. See you very soon, I hope," he said.
"I'll see you in school tomorrow. Chandler." I reminded him, laughing to myself. I didn't think anyone could be more nervous and shy than I was. I now suspected that most of what people interpreted as his arrogance was just his shyness.