Wessingham Awaits (Book 1, Music) (2 page)

“Scientific American?” Dr. Bowyer repeated. “Mary, this has gone on long enough.” Incredulous of the account, predicating it on my mother’s denial of my retardation, he used the occasion to bolster his contention that she should assimilate me into polite society, not hide me from it. “Poppycock,” he said. “Let them think what they will. The longer we wait, the worse it will be. You can’t hide my daughter forever.” 

The Duchess, almost in tears, admitted, “This is true.”  She raised her eyebrows, appealing to me for mercy, and when my staid expression continued without incident, she murmured to herself, “Why me?” and wept in earnest.

3

Alas, it came to pass that I, along with the Duchess, would accompany my sister Helen for her weekly voice lesson at the Queen-Anne-style home of Dr. Louis DeWitt Talmage III, a former opera tenor, a current divorcee, who lived in Colonial Heights alongside a parakeet named Figaro and a shiny banister leading upstairs to his four poster bed.

He seemed to be a good man, this Dr. Talmage. Upon excavating his quintessence—staring into his eyes of forty or so years and interpreting the warmth in his voice, the sincerity of his wrinkles and stained teeth, the theater in his gestures, the value in his lustrous shoes and cut clothes, his lack of jewelry or anything cold and injurious, the affirmation in his walls of books and mounds of composition paper near blotters, powders, and quills and freshly cut tulips below framed choir photographs, and, above all, the wisdom in his music, in his piano pumping and plethora of stringed instruments—I found that he was of the same light as I, but probably too adult-like to be a dependable playmate.

“Please forgive her,” the Duchess apologized on my behalf. “I don’t know
why
she does that.” 

Dr. Talmage, however, seemed to welcome my admiration, and encouraged me to sit near the piano for the duration of the lesson. Whilst Helen was the one straightening her neck, loosening her jaw, singing scales and arpeggios, he addressed his remarks, with some exceptions, to all three of us, as if we were a class. This is why I came to depend on Dr. Talmage, because he spoke to me with such refinement, regardless of my supposed retardation. He gave Helen a peppermint wheel for singing so well, and me a lemon drop for listening “like a true professional.” 

In time, Helen progressed to singing actual music, songs such as “Buffalo Gals,” “Long, Long Ago,” and “Pretty Saro.”  I obtained charge of her songbooks after the Duchess discovered that I would rather look at them than stare people down on the trolley. Still, on occasion, I might fixate on an arbitrary stranger, some bright smile with potential, but after he proved to be indifferent toward me, and thus undependable, I once again became enchanted with the interlacing curves of the treble clef, the flagged circles that somehow corresponded to the very words Helen sang—words that not only sounded quaint to the ear, but amalgamated into a story.

I dearly loved “Grandfather’s Clock,” although Helen had difficulty singing its notes. Whilst she rarely made it through the song without botching it, I knew in my mind’s ear what it was supposed to sound like, and sang it to myself constantly without ever parting my lips or humming the faintest sound. I didn’t know if I could actually voice the notes, but I didn’t care, either. Music was more magical than even speech, something you shared with only a dependable playmate, not your brothers nor the Duchess and her tea friends nor the lovely Helen, not even Dr. Talmage.  No, I had to keep my distance from everyone just as a stray kitten must avoid loud strangers, though it be starving.

The social obligations of the Duchess changed, relegating Helen’s voice lesson to a later, almost unbecoming hour when the trolley took longer stops, allowing all the redolent, coatless, unshaved men with wooden buckets and dirty fingernails to board and depart. The Duchess pressed against me, but I found these men more fascinating than stratus formations.

“Lizzie,
please
stop staring.” We were late for Dr. Talmage’s house. Our lesson carried over, requiring the Duchess to wax polite and receive the next party in queue, ostensibly a father and son who were waiting to begin a violin lesson.  The boy—stoic and dumb, bedecked in cap, bow tie, vest, knickers, stockings, and boots—apparently loved the sparkling silver bow in my hair.

“Henry,” the gentleman said to the boy, “hand me your cap. What did I tell you about staring?” 

But the boy couldn’t help himself, and soon his gaze came around again, making me, of all people, uncomfortable. I pretended to study one of Helen’s song books, but every time I looked up, his eyes were in mine, which made me think that he could be even more retarded than I.

“Henry, I’m not going to tell you again.”  The poor lad attempted to analyze the palmettes of the Afghan rug, the stringless cello in the corner, but like a magnet, he inevitably found my shoe buckles dangling across from him, then the lace of my short stockings, the songbook in my lap, and finally my face. Truly he was hopeless, beyond the reach of reprimand. I had no choice but to smile. Finally, as if this were the signal he needed, he unpacked his violin and ignored me completely.

4

Subsequent lessons brought us closer.  He unfailingly sat on my dress, though neither of us dared to engage the other, preferring to watch “Old King Cole and His Fiddlers Three” dance on the back of my songbook. Over the course of several weeks, the Duchess volunteered to the gentleman that her husband was “Dr. Henry L. Bowyer, credentialed surgeon,” that her eldest daughter was a “coloratura soprano,” that her youngest daughter, “God bless her,” was one of “heaven’s silent angels. A
mute
, if you will. Forgive me, I don’t recall
your
name, sir.”

The gentleman reluctantly surrendered “Vernon Follensbee,” but rather than reveal his occupation or offer a card, he fondled his watch fob and said, “This is my nephew Henry. My sister’s child. He loves music.”

Young Henry lowered his head and pondered Old King Cole’s merry old soul.

Thus, along the consummate-conversationalist continuum in the parlor, we had the exuberance of Dr. Talmage followed by the arrogance of the Duchess, the reticence of Mr. Follensbee, the diffidence of young Henry, and finally the brutal silence of Yours Truly. Helen wasn’t on the continuum, for no one really cares what you say when you’re such a darling.

Whilst the Duchess continued to pry clues from Follensbee, I determined that Old King Cole’s reign had come to an end, and opened the song book, turning to “Grandfather’s Clock,” hoping that Henry might be familiar with either it or the treble clef. He pulled the book between us and pointed to what I would later learn to be a “four-four” or “common” time signature. Tapping his left hand, he matched it with his right every fourth beat, like the cadence of an Indian TomTom. I mimicked him, bringing a smile to his face. Excited now, he flipped through the pages until he landed on “Amazing Grace” and pointed to the three-four time signature. Again, he tapped his left hand, but this time matched it with his right on every third beat. I repeated, indicating that I understood, whereby he started tapping his left again, as if it were a metronome, whilst, with his right, sequentially touching the notes on the paper as he sang them at a whisper.
Amazing grace—
It was my first epiphany. It was also the first time I had heard his voice—
how sweet the sound
of
his breath in my ear, of the notes on the page. 
That saved a wretch like me
.
I once was lost, but now
—I understood how people read music. More importantly, for the first time I actually wanted to sing out loud right then and there with Henry.
Was blind but now I see.
He wiped his nose with the back of his hand and was the very picture of dependability.

I said, “Thank you.” My voice and lips worked perfectly.

He said, “You’re welcome.”

It was my first conversation.

With the melody of “Grandfather’s Clock” firmly dedicated to memory, and with my new awareness of time signatures, the following day I practiced Henry’s method of measuring beats with my left whilst tapping the music with my right and gradually began to discern the values of black and transparent circles, those with flags, dots, and so forth. I practiced with other songs, too, and was successful with signatures whose bottom number was a four, but my understanding broke down completely with, say, a piece like “Three Blind Mice,” which had a six-eight time signature. I also could not make sense of the occasional crisscross and half-spade signs that attached themselves to notes every now and again. If I was going ask Henry these questions, then clearly my life was about to change. Being retarded, I did not have to account for my peculiarities, do as mother told, or talk to my brothers about fireworks, yet I also could not talk openly with Henry, which was unimaginable now—now that he was certain that I could think and speak, now that I had so much to say. 

5

I was prepared for Helen’s next lesson, having tapped out “Grandfather’s Clock” until I was sure I could impress Henry with my skills. As usual, upon his arrival, he absently dropped his violin case on the hardwood, prompting a life-threatening rebuke from Mr. Follensbee, whom he ignored, and then wedged himself in next to me on the couch, wrinkling my dress. I opened the songbook to “Grandfather’s Clock” and started tapping out four beats to the measure with my left, following the melody with my right, but before I gained momentum, the Duchess announced that Helen’s lesson had concluded.

“Hup hup, Henry,” Dr. Talmage added. “Your turn.”

I was horrified. What if Helen’s lesson was truncated next week, too? And the week after?

“Do it, Lizzie,” Henry said. “I bet you’re really good.” Quickly, I started tapping out the beats only to have Follensbee interrupt.

“Did you hear Dr. Talmage, young man? It’s your turn.” 

With his eyes centered in mine, Henry announced, “I don’t want to play the violin anymore.”

Follensbee gripped his arm and whispered threats into his ear. Henry tried to shake loose. “No! I want to sing with Lizzie!”

Touched by the whole ordeal, the Duchess offered, “Lizzie isn’t like you. She’s
different
. From everyone, in fact. Words don’t come to her mouth. She can’t sing
or
talk. I’m very sorry.”

Henry appealed to me, but I couldn’t move, much less speak.

“Lizzie’s retarded,” Helen summarized.

Dr. Talmage gave her a peppermint wheel, more, I think, to keep her quiet. He unpacked Henry’s violin, plucked a few strings, and handed it over.

“Hup, hup, boy. Time’s a wasting.” The Duchess bade farewells, and I turned away in shame just as I heard a loud crash. Appraising the offending sound, I found the remnants of Henry’s violin bobbing on its wires like a gruesome marionette. Obviously, he had dashed it over the wood stove. In disbelief, Dr. Talmage crumpled to his knees as if he himself had been dashed. Follensbee flared his nostrils, gripped his cane until his knuckles turned white, and shouted, “Boy, you’ve had it now!”

Henry evaded with ease, scampering to the far side of the piano, climbing under it, demanding, “I must sing with Lizzie!”

Hands on her hips, Helen reiterated, “Lizzie’s retarded!”

Follensbee managed to snatch Henry’s ankle and started reeling him in like a doomed fish.

I felt I had no choice: I cleared my throat, enjoined my hands, and resolved to save my dearest friend.

Lizzie
:

My grandfather's clock was too large for the shelf,

So it stood ninety years on the flooooor.

It was taller by half than the old man himself,

Though it weighed not a pennyweight mooooore.

It was bought on the morn on the day he was born,

And was always his treasure and pride.

But it stopped. Short. Never to go again

When the old . . . man . . . died.

Ninety years without slumbering.