Commoner the Vagabond

  Chapter 3

 

  For the next few weeks, James poured all his energies into practicing. Taking advantage of the fact that Anthony and Carey were both involved in after school sports, he often wasted no time getting home to hit the keys. Hours went by as he dove headfirst into the rhythms and notes of the music, ignoring the pangs of hunger rumbling in his stomach. He would look up surprised when Iris brought him milk or a sandwich. In his quest to learn all 48 preludes and fugues from the two books of the Well-Tempered Clavier, one Saturday he even passed on a family outing to the movies. He promised he’d start hanging out more once the series were learned and memorized. Leslie even became disturbed by James’s deep focus but was powerless to do anything about his current obsession.

  The SPU piano competition arrived so quickly it even took James by surprise. Still, he felt as ready as he ever could. Because the contest was not set up in different rounds like other competitions, every entrant had to shine from their first and only performance. Now, it was either do or die, or as Bach would have said, “Es ging hart auf hart.”

  Held in SPU’s McKinley Hall on a bright Saturday afternoon, the audience was filled with faculty, students, family members and the general public. There were three age categories – youths 10 and under, youths 11-17, and adults 18 and over. Each person from the second category, James’s group, was to perform a solo piece, or pieces, not totaling over 12 minutes in length. James chose the nearly eleven-minute-long Allegro from Beethoven’s Piano Sonata No. 15 in D and Chopin’s Etude Op. 25, No. 2 in F minor which usually clocked in at around 90 seconds.

  Sitting in the front row with the other entrants, he had an advantageous view of the stage. Unsurprisingly, even the pianists as young as six years old played like concert hall veterans. With great finesse and ebullient spirit, he watched as they flew through page after page of some of the most difficult pieces ever written. Those in his age group were even more polished as they veered toward an emotional maturity uncommon for performers their age. By the time it was James’s turn, he started feeling those familiar pangs of nervousness and anxiety. Lest it interfere with his performance, he was able to keep it all hidden.

  Attacking the piano with brave authority, he strutted through the passages of the Allegro, flinging notes and hammering away at the keyboard as if his life depended on it. The judges kept track as he bounced from staff to staff, executing the score with subtlety when needed and force when appropriate. When he was done, he plunged right into the Etude. His near flawless performance was caught by all. When he was done, he stood up to a rousing hand of applause.

  It was a nerve wracking day. Some children and their families left early thinking they didn’t stand a chance compared to those who already played. In some competitions, there would usually be five or six winners. As the SPU was more limited in scope, there would only be a gold, silver, and bronze medalist. Although they had planned on adding more categories, their financial situation prevented it.

  To pass the time, James went out into the hallway to take a break from the proceedings. Warmly lit, he briefly studied and admired each oil painting attached to the walls. Tiptoeing, he was able to read off the names of a few artists – Ghiberti, Botticelli and Caravaggio. The rest, unfortunately, would have to wait till he grew a few more inches. Moments later, his past friends from Woodland Park Presbyterian Church, Marion and Rose, exited from the auditorium.

  “Hello, James,” Marion greeted him.

  He turned around and smiled upon seeing his two buddies.

  “Hi,” he greeted them. “I didn’t know you two were here.”

  “We weren’t sure if you were here either,” Rose admitted, “but we figured this was too good a chance for you to pass up.”

  “You guessed right,” James nodded. “It’s a pretty fun experience.”

  “You sure played well,” Marion beamed.

  Rose nodded. “I agree.”

  “Do you think you’d have time to perform in our church again?” Marion asked.

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “I’m so busy with school.”

  “I understand,” she told him. “When I was your age I also played the piano. I had it in my mind to, first, be the best pianist in the Pacific Northwest, and then it was onwards through the world!”

  “Isn’t she a dreamer?” Rose asked rhetorically. “So full of life.”

  “Anyway,” Marion explained, “we have to go, but always remember this – if you ever need any help with anything just call us up at Woodland. We’re slowly expanding our community outreach and social service network.”

  “We want to help the less fortunate among us,” Rose added. “We’re small now but in

  time, it’ll get bigger.”

  “Okay,” James stated.

  At the end of the competition nearly two hours later, he learned his fate – he was the bronze medal winner in his category. Exuberant, he took to the stage with the other winners and posed for photographs. Iris, sitting in the audience next to Kirk and Leslie, was as thrilled as a homecoming queen in a parade. James, winning a medal in his first ever competition, was all smiles and fulfillment, too.

  Iris framed his bronze medal and placed it over the mantle next to pictures of the family. James, now infected with the performing bug, learned about the upcoming Washington Music Educators Association State Solo and Ensemble Contest. Held every year in April, he just missed the cutoff date for applying. Undeterred, he pressed Leslie to enroll him in other contests. Buoyed by his enthusiasm, she looked into a few regional and international contests on his behalf. The expense of attending them, however, was beyond his means, forcing him to relegate his performances to local venues.

  The next performance he gave was in April at American Legion Park in Everett. Sponsored by Everett Music, it was a showcase of local talent from the Seattle area. Musicians from as far away as Bellingham or Tacoma were also invited to perform as long as they had some ties to the local area. James played the very challenging “Trois mouvements” or “Three Movements” from “Petrushka” by Stravinsky. Only recently added to his repertoire, he thought he’d give it a shot.

  It was his first outdoor recital. The audience sat on the lawn, some on blankets and others in vinyl recliners. A few simply milled about or walked by on their way to somewhere else. A handful of families even brought their dogs for the performances, as if Rover knew the difference between a sonata and a leg of lamb. Many of the artists were superb, many weren’t. Although James played well, his selection wasn’t truly accepted perhaps because the piece bordered on the obscure and contained no simple melodies anyone could hum along to. Bowing to scattered applause, he exited the stage and was met by Leslie in the rear of the band shell.

  “I’ll never play here again!” he shouted.

  “Why? They liked you.”

  “These people don’t know great art,” he lamented, throwing up his arms in defeat.

  Leslie bit the insides of her mouth. The little man before her was growing up too quickly.

  “You know,” she told him as they walked past event goers, “maybe you could stick to repertoire everybody knows. I mean, let’s face it, classical music is popular and familiar to us, but for everyone else, not so much.”

  James stopped a few yards away from the stage and listened to the performer onstage. A girl about 15 years old was at the piano playing Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata but she was struggling. She’d slow down at inappropriate times, hit wrong notes, create delays as she prepared to depress complex chords, etc.

  “Listen to this!” James whispered. “She can’t even play!”

  “Everyone starts somewhere,” Leslie explained. “I give her credit for even coming out on stage. That takes a lot of guts.”

  “She needs to practice more.”

  “I agree.”

  Leslie stared at her young charge. She’d never seen him so forceful, his behavior even bordering on arrogance.

  “Is ever
ything okay?” she inquired.

  “Yes,” he nodded.

  “I mean, if there’s anything on your mind, you can tell me.”

  “I’m okay,” he moaned.

  “How are things with your family?”

  “Better.”

  “Oh? I didn’t realize it was bad before.”

  “I’m not a part of them, you know that.”

  Yes, of course she knew, but she didn’t realize it pestered him as it wasn’t something they ever discussed.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

  “No,” he answered. “I’m tired. Can you take me home?”

  James gave no more performances that spring or summer and, in fact, simply laid low doing what other young boys did. He watched TV, read a few comic books, mainly those having scientific bits, and went on fishing expeditions with the family. At times, he felt a longing for the piano, but the bright sunlight, with its hypnotic pull, kept him steadfastly focused on outdoor activities.

  By the time James entered the 7th grade, he’d resumed practicing the piano again. With Leslie at his side, he strengthened his technique especially with arpeggios and chromatic scales. Leslie, half-expecting James’s angst from the past spring, was relieved when it failed to surface that fall. Thinking him ready for shows again, she planned several events for the winter.

  His first concert was as part of the Young Artists series at the Everett Town Hall in mid-November. He played Chopin’s “Piano Sonata No. 2 in B Flat Minor” to an enthusiastic audience. His foster family was in attendance and he posed for pictures with several of the other students. A few parents gushed that he had the makings of a professional and may even go on to perform in venues such as Carnegie Hall or Lincoln Center.

  In December, he again played at his middle school’s Christmas Pageant. The rules were changed that year. Instead of classical pieces, all students were to perform traditional Christmas tunes. James chose, for his performance, his own classically arranged version of ‘Oh Holy Night.’ It was accepted well and was followed later by his arrangement of ‘Do You Hear What I Hear.’ Since a harpsichord was on loan for the pageant, he performed the Bing Crosby piece on it and it was also well received.

  Between schoolwork and his extracurricular activities, James had little time to do anything else. His interest in comic books was more than just a passing phase. He used to create his own superheroes complete with full color illustrations, but embarrassed by his own artistic skills, showed his creations to no one. The focus of his art was usually the same – John Arbor, hero from the constellation Orion. Wearing his signature purplish-blue suit, Arbor, when visiting earth or other planets, created Aurora Borealis-type light shows as a by-product of his unusual flight patterns. From his ever-vigilant perch he would seek out those who were being bullied and save them. From the school yards to the shopping malls, John Arbor, hero of the forlorn, forgotten and neglected, was James’s own savior of the universe.

  Leslie invited James to perform at a show she was producing at Two Spoons, a jazz club in downtown Seattle. Nestled in among the gleaming spires and financial fortresses, it could easily be overlooked by casual passersby. His foster parents objected at first since it was to be held at night but Bernard agreed to go along to keep a close watch on his foster son.

  The show went well. Leslie, as usual, played and sang to the best of her abilities. James accompanied her on two jazz standards – ‘Don’t Get Around Much Anymore’ and ‘Do Nothing Till You Hear From Me.’ Bernard, in rare form, hit the drinks pretty hard. With careless abandon, and perhaps inspired by the well-heeled crowd, he dipped heavily into the martinis. At one point, he even danced with a woman he’d met for the first time. James soaked it all in, fanning the fumes of lit cigarettes out of his face as often as possible. He did panic a little when Bernard disappeared for nearly 20 minutes then relaxed when he returned looking a bit worse for the wear.

  “Where did you go?” James asked as Bernard took his seat.

  His foster father put his index finger to his lips.

  “Shh,” he whispered, “don’t tell mama.”

  “I got scared!” James admitted.

  “Oh, come on. You’re a big boy.”

  Bernard looked at Leslie who was currently on stage performing with her jazz combo.

  “Your teacher’s good.”

  “I want to go home!” James demanded.

  Bernard checked his watch. “It’s ten thirty. How about we stay just one more half hour?”

  James looked away and crossed his arms. Bernard motioned for a server to come over.

  “Two orange juices, please,” he told him. The server nodded and left. “Are you drunk?” James asked Bernard.

  “It’s okay, James. This is normal adult behavior. You’ll see one day.”

  “I’m never going to drink!”

  “You should write that down somewhere, then you can look at it later and say, ‘how naïve.’”

  James shook his head and twiddled his thumbs.

  “Are you playing again tonight?” Bernard asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You were very good, James. You’re an impressive performer.” James took a deep breath.

  “Thanks, Bernard.”

  “No, I mean it. I know we don’t talk much because I work a lot of hours, but I just want you to know that I appreciate having you around. You’ve enriched everyone’s lives, and not just by your playing. I mean by everything. You’re a pleasure to have has a foster child. Anyone worth his salt would be proud to have you as their son.”

  “You mean that?”

  “Of course, I do. That’s money in the bank.”

  Bernard offered James his hand. James shook it with glee.

  “Are you feeling better now?” Bernard asked.

  James nodded. “I’m fine. Thanks for taking me in your home.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Leslie got busy that winter sponsoring recitals and shows for her music students. She put on a concert at the Everett Town Hall in November which went well. Students from neighboring schools performed as did James. His energetic take on Liszt’s “Mephisto Waltz” won the crowd over. At his middle school’s Christmas pageant, he played jazz versions of ‘Please Come Home for Christmas’ and ‘Home for the Holidays.’ In February and March, he accompanied Leslie again at the jazz club in Seattle and Tacoma. Never losing sight of his other schoolwork, he was able to keep up with his math, English and geography classes, earning grades of B's & A.

  One sunny April afternoon, Leslie was walking towards the backstage area at the Langus Riverfront Park in Everett where James was scheduled to perform. Several young artists and their parents traipsed to and fro while technicians worked out the kinks in the sound system. As she neared a tall screen, she could hear James talking behind it but not the gist of the conversation.

  “Are you ready?” she called out and she neared the lofty barrier.

  When she entered the sectioned-off area, she noticed that James was alone. In his hands were several pieces of sheet music.

  “Who were you talking to?” she asked.

  “No one,” he answered.

  “I just heard a full conversation.”

  “I wasn’t talking to anyone!” he yelled.

  Leslie, taken aback by his sudden outburst, froze in her tracks and stared at the youngster.

  “Sorry,” he apologized, bowing his head.

  “That’s okay, James,” she calmly stated. “Are you nervous?”

  “No. I’ll be fine.”

  “It’s your turn, then,” she informed him. “Break a leg.”

  “Thanks.”

  Minutes later, Leslie watched as James performed Beethoven’s “Piano Sonata No. 8 ‘Pathetique’.” As usual, he was spot on but she couldn’t help having the gnawing feeling that perhaps the stress of performing was becoming too much for him. Thoughts of possible anguish floated past her. A break, she realized, woul
d probably be in order.

  After the show, James talked about the upcoming Washington Music Educators Association late April contests. Leslie told him that maybe he should take off from practicing for a few months and enjoy life like other boys his age. He insisted that he was okay and was already planning to compete. Unable to discourage him, she sponsored his entry into the annual contests.

  The competition was held over two days with elimination rounds. Medals of gold, silver and bronze were distributed as well as certificates of entry. In the first round, James played Schumann’s ‘Abegg Variations,’ an Opus 1 work that was as mature as anything else the composer created. Then, successfully moving into the second round, he performed Mozart’s “Piano Sonata No. 11 in A ‘Alla Turca.’” After he played, he paced backstage for a few moments. Leslie told him to sit down and relax. James, though, was as nervous as a pig in a butcher shop. Leslie handed him a glass of water.

  “Drink this,” she told him. “It’ll calm you down.”

  “I am calm,” he responded, continuing his pacing.

  “Well, you’re making me nervous.”

  “Once I know,” he offered, rubbing his hands together, “I’ll feel better.”

  Just then, they heard an announcer thanking the audience for coming, and the students for participating in the day’s events. James stopped pacing as the winners’ names were called out. The bronze went to Lily Lee from Heatherwood Middle School for her unique classical arrangement of a few of Joplin’s piano rags. The silver medal was won by Lewis Chen from North Middle School for his compelling versions of some of Brahm’s “Hungarian Dances.” James was no longer held in suspense as he won the gold medal. Elated, he hugged Leslie and walked out to the stage. Bowing to the applause, he shook the presenter’s hands, accepted the medal, and produced a smile as wide as an ocean. Leslie stood in the wings and admired her protégé. It was his first gold medal but she couldn’t help thinking it came with a price.

  Later that spring, after James performed at a recital in Seattle’s Town Hall, he made an appearance on a KIRO-TV news program. Around 4:30 PM, he was interviewed briefly about winning the gold at the WMEA competition and his performances around town. Then he played Chopin’s ‘Minute Waltz.’ As usual, his performance was well received. It was even mentioned in the local newspapers the following day.

  His exposure on national television led to several more appearances that summer. He appeared in recitals at the Frye Art Museum, Cornish College of the Arts and the University of Washington where he joined the Seattle Youth Symphony Orchestra in a performance of Mozart’s “Piano Concerto No. 21 in C major.” There was initially some tension between James and the conductor. Mainly it centered on James’s insistence that the conductor needed to speed up his tempos in certain areas. The conductor thought James’s fortissimos were too loud and should be softer. Their tete à tete confrontations almost led to James being denied the privilege of performing, but after gentle counseling from Leslie, he learned to be more flexible and simply went along with the conductor’s direction.

  Apart from a few recitals that summer, James had no other shows. Tension around the Thornton household, unfortunately, started increasing. One night he got into a scrape with his foster brother Anthony about playing late. He was practicing on the Baldwin on the first floor when Anthony stormed furiously down the stairs.

  “Hey!” he yelled. “Do you know what time it is?”

  “Don’t shout!” James shot back. “I’m not deaf!”

  “It’s 11 o’clock and I’m trying to sleep!”

  James looked at the clock on the wall. “Sorry,” he apologized. “I didn’t know.”

  “Well, the world doesn’t revolve around you.”

  “I never said it did.”

  “You behave like it does.”

  Livid, James leaped off his bench and stomped over to Anthony who was standing at the foot of the stairs.

  “Do you want to fight me?” James asked, his hands already formed into fists.

  “You’re a wimp,” Anthony cursed him. “Ever since you got here you think we should bow to you like servants. Just because you had a hard life and play a little piano doesn’t mean we have to cater to you like a prince.”

  “I’m not asking for favors!”

  “Yeah?”

  Anthony threw his hands on his hips, his eyes like smoldering orbs of distaste.

  “You act like it,” he added.

  “Maybe I should just leave!” James warned. “You’d like that, right?”

  “Do whatever you want,” Anthony surmised, “just stop keeping people up late at night with your bang-banging on that stupid piano.”

  James stared at his foster brother momentarily then turned, walked over to the couch, and laid down in it.

  “Are you sleeping down here tonight?” Anthony asked.

  “Why do you care?”

  “I don’t care,” he answered then turned, stormed up the stairs and went into his room.

  James looked at his hands, folded them between his legs and promptly fell asleep.

  The rest of the summer was basically touch-and-go between James and his foster family. No longer feeling like he was welcomed there, he asked Leslie to take him in. She told him she wished she could but she only had a one bedroom apartment so it wasn’t feasible. James kept as low a profile as humanly possible. Because he had limited engagements that summer, he spent as much time as he could in the library. Sometimes he’d just simply walk around Everett or neighboring Mill Creek and admire the flora scattered throughout the ever-growing areas. Relaxing at various parks and ponds, he often dreamed of what life would be like with a real family. The thought crossed his mind on a few occasions to unearth his real family but he didn’t know how to go about doing it. He eventually came to cling to the notion that since he was theoretically cast away from them, they didn’t want him around in the first place. He knew one thing – he was alone, and probably being alone is what he deserved. At least he had the freedom to explore nature and take with him a solace no amount of money could buy

  When he entered 8th grade that year, he prepared himself for semesters spent alone performing or practicing his instrument. A girl in one of his classes, Trudy Bowie, took a liking to him. On a few occasions, she brought him candy and even managed to wrangle a lesson or two from the reluctant youngster. He wasn’t exactly sure what she was driving at; he did feel she was in his way at times when he needed to practice.

  As the year wore on, and with no recitals scheduled, Trudy encouraged James to teach her piano basics. At first, he was reticent, but because of her constant prodding, eventually caved in. About once a week her mother would drop her off at the Thornton house. He taught her a few simple tunes on the piano there as well as on the piano in their middle school. His brothers teased him about his new girlfriend which he denied she was. In the beginning, he ignored the ribbing. Eventually, however, it became a distraction to the point where they would get into screaming matches about it. Trudy took it all in stride. She was the center of attention, something mostly unfamiliar to her in her lonely life, so it didn’t unsettle her. James threatened not to teach her anymore, but after she protested, he agreed to continue – but only on the school piano.

  As in the previous years, James performed at the middle school’s Christmas Pageant. Leslie pulled a few strings which allowed him to practice with the Seattle Youth Symphony and to eventually perform Chopin’s “Piano Concerto No. 1” with them at Benaroya Hall in downtown Seattle. In January, he had a recital at Seattle Town Hall and in February performed with Leslie at her jazz club. Iris, now working at an animal hospital and shelter, had little time to see James’s performances. Bernard also found little time to see James play, citing his increased workload at the Boeing plant.

  Evergreen Middle School put on a March Madness show where performers, wearing the strangest outfits, played. James wore tattered rags and a bandanna on his head and performed the thunderous first movemen
t of Liszt’s transcription of Beethoven’s “Symphony No. 5 in C minor.” When he was finished, he went backstage to change his clothes. His protégé, Trudy, went backstage to see him. There was no one else in the area. Looking to surprise him, she decided to sneak up on him. As she approached, she stopped cold when she saw him turn to his right, wave his arms and argue as if someone was standing there. She hid and watched as he removed clothes from a locker, waved his arms nonsensically in the air, then donned his attire. She’d never witnessed his curious and unusual behavior before so she approached him with some trepidation.

  “Hi, James,” she began.

  “Hi, Trudy,” he greeted her. “Are you playing today?”

  “No. I’m not ready. You played well, though.”

  “Thanks.”

  She bit her bottom lip and shuffled her feet nervously. She knew what she wanted to ask but just couldn’t find the best way to say it.

  “Um,” she finally said, “I saw you as I walked in. You looked like you were arguing with someone.”

  “How could that be?” he asked. “There’s no one here but us.”

  “I know, but I saw you. It looked like you were arguing.”

  “You’re being silly,” he scolded her. “I should know if I’m talking to somebody or not.”

  “Okay, James. I believe you.”

  “I’m going to Washington, D.C. next month.”

  “You are?”

  Trudy smiled then, just as quickly, stowed her grin away. “What are you doing there?” she asked.

  “I’m entering the 27th International Piano Competition.”

  “Really? That’s so far away.”

  “I know,” James agreed. “Miss Moniusko is sponsoring me. I can’t let her down. If I do well, I’ll get signed to different recitals all across the country. I’ll be performing non-stop in cities I’ve never even heard of. Isn’t that great?”

  Trudy’s heart sank. She rubbed her head and tried her best to hide her disappointment.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Yes, there is. You look sad.”

  “I like you, James. Now it seems like you’re going away.”

  “I like you too,” he informed her.

  “You don’t understand. I really like you.”

  “Oh.” James bowed his head. He hadn’t realized what Trudy’s feelings were until then. All those years of practicing had blinded him from the truths his heart neglected.

  “I can’t stay here,” he intoned solemnly.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” he answered. “That’s just how I feel. Staying here, with my foster family, makes me feel trapped, like I’m in prison or in a cage. Somehow I just feel like I don’t belong.”

  “So, that’s it? You’ll just play the piano all over and forget about us?”

  “You’re taking this too hard, Trudy.”

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with you,” she started crying. “I thought we were friends.” “We are.”

  “No, we’re not! I was your friend but you were never mine.” She turned to leave.

  “Where are you going?” he asked.

  “I’m going home,” she answered.

  “Do you want more lessons?”

  “Not from you,” she answered then ran out of the dressing room.

  James rubbed his hands together then rubbed his face. He then turned to his right and waved off the non-existent person standing there.

  In April, James and Leslie flew to Washington D.C. for the international piano competition. They stayed at The Brookland Inn, a comfortably modest hotel not far from the venue, the Ward Recital Hall of the Catholic University of America. After registering at the event center, they went on a foot tour of the immediate area. They visited the various basilicas of the university, dined at a restaurant on Michigan Avenue, and took pictures at the Franciscan Monastery Garden not far from the hotel. James was beyond himself with glee. Free from his bothersome brothers, he practically fell in love with the capital city.

  “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could just stay here?” he told Leslie as they sat in shrub-sculptured Curley Court in the middle of the school campus.

  “It is nice, isn’t it?” she asked. “Very peaceful. Just look at all these buildings with their flying buttresses. Classic.”

  “Well, I don’t mean here in the university,” James countered. “I meant Washington D.C.”

  “What you really mean is you’re just trying to get away from home.”

  “That’s not my home!” he protested. “I don’t think I’m welcomed there.”

  “I know you’re unhappy in Everett, but you’re young. You just have to give things time.

  It’ll get better.”

  James scratched his head and stomped his feet.

  “Are you okay?” Leslie asked.

  James stopped moving around and sat as still as a stone.

  “Are you tired?” she asked. “Maybe we should go back to the hotel and rest.” James stood up from the bench. “I want to go and practice,” he requested.

  “Okay,” she said. “Let’s go to the venue and see about their practice rooms.”

  The two walked over to Ward Recital Hall, showed their registration ID’s, and inquired about a rehearsal room. They learned that there was a waiting list and had to sign up as there were only a few slots available. James went ahead and signed up then he and Leslie toured the hall. It was a magnificent center brimming with perfect acoustics and Renaissance decorations. Even the ceiling, with its elaborately stacked crown mouldings, was a work of art. They ran into a few competitors and wished each other luck. Later, after practicing the pieces he was scheduled to perform the next day, Leslie and James went back to the hotel and fell asleep.

  The next day, James sat with the other contestants, or semifinalists, because they’d passed the initial taped audition, at one side of the hall’s auditorium. As their names were called, each young entrant went to the stage and performed for approximately 20 minutes. All were excellent musicians. Bach, Mozart, Debussy, Ravel, Beethoven and Liszt came alive from the musical platform with pointed accuracy and sheer finesse. Each performer was excellent. This gave James much pause. He could feel his nerves starting to wiggle from anticipation. Sitting on his hands to hide his nervousness, he studied each artist carefully. Eventually, his name was called.

  Approaching the stage, he bowed to the judges, sat at the shiny bright piano and commenced playing. He began with Villa-Lobos’s charming five-minute piece, “Choros No. 1,” followed by Mendelssohn’s “Piano Sonata in E major.” He flew the suite in at a brisk 25 minutes, garnering much applause when he was finished. He then returned to his seat, waited for a few more entrants to perform, and sat patiently as the judges tallied their score. It didn’t take long before he learned that he won the Ann and Betty Schein Award for third prize. Taking to the stage for his award, Leslie applauded loudly. Later, they attended a winner’s luncheon. James posed with the others for pictures from the local press, exchanged phone numbers with a few entrants, and spoke with a representative from a fledgling classical music label.

  After the luncheon, Leslie and James went for a leisurely stroll around the campus before heading back to the hotel. They perused the shelves of the Basilica of the National Shrine Bookstore, admiring the aged and fragile tomes still available for public consumption. Before they could touch any of the books, they had to wear white gloves provided to them by the staff. They then sat down at a red table and leafed through several books, including a huge 19th century 1500-page book called The Martyrs Mirror by Thieleman J. van Braght. Although it was nearly 150 years old, the book was still in relatively good shape. Leslie watched as James poured through it with great enthusiasm.

  “Where did you learn about this book?” she asked.

  “I’ve seen one like it before,” he answered. “I used to live in Woodland Park. A lady from the chu
rch had a book like this, a more diminutive one of course. She used to talk about it all the time.”

  “Geez, James,” Leslie remarked. “Talking to you is like talking to a professor sometimes.

  You’re so bright.”

  “Yeah,” he replied casually, continuing to peruse the tome.

  Leslie had always noticed that James rarely made eye contact with her or anyone. She’d usually see him pouring into his books, sheet music or the piano with an intensity bordering on solipsism, as if the outside world didn’t exist. Calmly, she reached over and touched his chin.

  “Look at me,” she requested.

  Reluctantly, her young charge stared at her. It’d been the first time she’d gazed into the big brown orbs that were his eyes.

  “You have beautiful peepers,” she reckoned. “You should look at people more.” “I do,” he stated as he cast his gaze downward.

  “What is that book about that has you so mesmerized?” she asked.

  “Sacrifices,” he promptly answered.

  “Doesn’t seem like it’s appropriate for children.”

  “It’s about the suffering Christian martyrs endured over the centuries,” James explained.

  Leslie winced. “A book like that would give me nightmares.”

  “Yeah,” James smiled. “It’s just nice to see the original. It’s so big.”

  “I think we should go back and rest. We have a long flight tomorrow.”

  The young prodigy begged to differ. “I don’t want to go back.”

  “James, we’ve been through this before. We can’t stay here in D.C. I’ve got my job and my family back home.”

  “I wish things could be different.”

  Leslie pointed to her head.

  “Take the memory of this place with you here, then you can visit anytime you wish.” James looked down. “I guess.”

  “Ready to go?” Leslie asked.

  “Can you buy me a copy of this book?”

  “Um, yeah. Let’s find out if they have them first.”

  Minutes later, the two walked back to their hotel. James, leafing through a portable version of the Martyrs Mirror, had to be guided intermittently by Leslie lest he fell off the sidewalk or slid down a ditch.

  “You have lots of time to read later,” she suggested. “You look like you might trip over something.”

  “Look at how long it is,” he noted. “It’s gonna take me forever.”

  “You plan to read the whole thing?”

  “Uh, huh. Did you know it took the author, Thieleman Braght, 30 years to write it?”

  “He must've been a real hit at the social club.”

  James closed the book and continued walking.

  “My eyes are getting tired.”

  “Don’t worry,” she reassured him. “We’ll be at the inn soon.”

  The next day, they were on an airplane back to Seattle. After all the passengers were given the ‘all clear’ to remove their seatbelts and roam around the cabin, James asked Leslie to bring down his new book from the overhead compartment. For the next few hours he immersed himself in the Martyrs Mirror, studying the graphic Dutch illustrations and trying to imagine what life must have been like back in the old days. The many reports of scourging, burnings, beheadings, crucifixions and stoning flashed through his head continuously, their nightmarish images blanketing his thoughts with wonder. Leslie, dozing off by his side, would occasionally glance at the book then turn away just as quickly when she saw an unnerving scene.

  “How can you read this?” she asked him.

  “It’s easy,” he replied. “I just look at it as factual reporting.”

  “Do you believe those things really happened?”

  “It seems possible,” he remarked. “Look what’s going on in the world today.”

  “How did such a young person like you get into the news anyway? You really should be out playing sports with your friends.”

  “I have no friends.”

  “Sure, you do. You’re just saying that. What about that little girl? What’s her name?”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

  “The one you used to teach.”

  James shrugged. Leslie then remembered her name and snapped her fingers. “Trudy Bowie,” she finally recalled. “You two are close.”

  “She hates me.”

  “No, she doesn’t.”

  “She said she’ll never take lessons from me ever again.”

  “She doesn’t mean that. Girls are impulsive, you know that.”

  “Are you impulsive?”

  “Yeah, and it’s gotten me in trouble frequently, too.”

  James took a break from the book and looked out the window he was sitting next to. Miles of clouds dotted the landscape, their soft irregular shape like downy foam floating magically in the atmosphere.

  “I wish I could fly,” he mused. “I wish my home was in the clouds.” “You’d get lonely,” Leslie noted.

  “I’d be free. No bullies, nobody telling me what to do, no bosses…”

  “No friends, no excitement, no camaraderie,” Leslie added.

  James shrugged.

  “I wouldn’t care. As long as there’s nothing but peace, I’d be fine.”

  “I think tension is a part of life,” his teacher observed. “There’s growth in resistance. Nature finds a way to push forth constantly. This effort can be subtle and it can be cataclysmic but it never stops.”

  “So, people will always be fighting?”

  “Seems that way.”

  James looked at his book and reopened it to the last page he was on. There was an illustration of an old man lying on the ground being stoned by onlookers. James pointed at it.

  “Did you know that people were being slaughtered who were already 120 years old?”

  “Sad,” Leslie stated. “Aren’t you glad you live in these times?”

  “I am. Still, it all makes you wonder.”

  Leslie folded her arms and laid her head back.

  “I think I’m going to rest a while,” she admitted. “We still have a few hours to go.”

  “I’ll wake you when we get there,” James promised. “Don’t worry.”

  Minutes later, cradled in Morpheus’ arms, Leslie dreamt she was sitting at a piano surrounded by a world class orchestra. The venue, the MGM Grand ballroom, had welcomed her with open arms. As huge crystal chandeliers glittered above the audience, she played and sang more beautifully than she’d ever done in real life. Famous politicians, actors and musicians sat enrapt as they listened to her playing. Some were even singing along as she effortlessly traipsed through her own renditions of popular jazz standards.

  As she played, she started hearing whispers. Soon, they grew louder as to barge in on her performance. Stopping, she looked around at the audience and her orchestra to see who dared speak loudly as she played. Every person in the ballroom stared back at her with voluminous intensity. Then she awakened.

  Wiping her eyes, she looked at James. Wide awake, he was still combing through his newly acquired encyclopedia of historical horrors.

  “Were you talking just now?” she asked him.

  “Not me,” he answered.

  “Funny,” she mused, “I was asleep and I swear I heard your voice.”

  “Did you know,” James asked, “that the Roman emperors kept bulls, lions, bears and leopards in cages and they primarily fed on the convicted as punishment for their beliefs?”

  “Bulls don’t eat meat.”

  “So why were they released on the prisoners?”

  “I don’t know. Probably just gored them to death. James, that book is going to give you nightmares. You should put it away.”

  The youngster, sensing Leslie’s distaste for the tome, decided to edge her even further towards disgust.

  “Do you want to read about the women,” he smiled, “who were burned alive and reduced to ashes?”

  Leslie shook her head. “U
gh! That’s disgusting.”

  “Without trial,” James elucidated, “they were corralled and locked in the Castle Minerve in France which was eventually set on fire.”

  “That’s enough,” Leslie stated standing up.

  “Where are you going?” James asked looking at her.

  “Eye contact!” Leslie noticed, taken by surprise. “That’s good. Keep it up. Anyway, I’m going to the bathroom. I have to stretch my legs.”

  When she left, James continued reading his book, imbibing line after line with fascination. A stewardess approached with a tray and asked if he’d like something to eat or drink. He accepted a bag of peanuts and a container of apple juice.

  “That’s quite a big book you have there,” she commented.

  He showed her its cover. “Martyrs Mirror,” he stated.

  “Very nice,” she nodded then continued on.

  James, tired from reading, closed the book, ate and drank his snacks, and fell asleep.

  By the time they arrived at Sea-Tac Airport hours later, James had taken in quite a lot more of his ancient tome. He even continued reading it in the long taxi ride to his house, pausing every so often to bestow some gruesome fact onto his piano teacher. When they got to Everett, Leslie only met momentarily with his family as she had developed travel fatigue. Telling them everything went fine in D.C., she had the cab whisk her away to her own home. James related his experience to his foster brothers but they were only mildly interested, preferring to keep their eyes and ears glued to the movie playing on the TV in the living room. Throwing up his arms, he went straight upstairs to his room and sat on his bed with the Martyrs Mirror in his hands. Placing it on his pillow, he changed into his pajamas then jumped right into bed and promptly fell asleep.