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A Little Love Music
by
Harry Buschman
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"Did you graduate from Humboldt High,
Fred?" Jennifer held a buff colored envelope up to the light and tried to
read what was inside, then she sniffed it. I was in the middle of the
Yankee/Oriole box score.
"Fred, did you hear me?"
"Yes dear, I was just thinking."
"Thinking! Don't you remember what high
school you graduated from?"
"Of course, Humboldt High."
"You're not listening to me, Fred." She
passed the envelope to me and said,
"I think it's an invitation."
I opened it and looked at Jennifer in
amazement. "My God," I said, "My high
school's having a 25th reunion! Impossible." It gradually dawned on me that
I was 43 years old and the sweet and easy part of life was behind me -- the
graduating class of 1976 was having its 25th reunion.
"Why don't you go?" Jennifer said. "It'll
never come around again."
"You know me, Jennifer -- I'm not big on
reunions. It's way up in God-forsaken Troy anyway, 175 miles away -- another
world, another time." Then I looked at the chairwoman's signature -- Sharon
Olefant! I was stunned -- it must have showed because Jennifer sensed a change.
"Cat got your tongue, Fred?"
"It was a long time ago, Jenny ...." I'll
say it was. Sharon played the cello in the school symphony orchestra and I
played clarinet. Funny she would still call herself Olefant. Could it be she
never married .... or maybe she kept her maiden name for professional reasons
.... could that be possible? I mean, up there in Troy, New York -- what kind of
a profession could a woman have?
"You're waffling Fred," Jennifer said. "Why
don't you go, how much is it?"
"Sixty bucks a person. That's a lot of money, Jennifer."
"Go alone. I'll stay here with Kenny. Look, Fred -- if you don't go it'll eat on
you forever."
"It's on a Saturday -- June 14th. Kenny's
got a baseball game."
"The baseball game is in the morning, you
can be there for the ball game, then take off in the afternoon. When my 25th
rolls around you can bet your life I'm gonna go."
So it was set. I sent a check to Sharon
Olefant -- I thought about including a short note about the cello -- but I
thought I better not.
The next month dragged by slowly. I tried
to put the reunion out of my mind, when that didn't work I tried to think of the
rest of the graduating class of 1976 and what they might look like today. There
was Dodie Parker, I had a faint recollection of Dodie in his football uniform
looking somewhat like an undernourished turtle inside a shell too big for him. I
had a clear picture of Winnie Mason who sat up front in history -- Mrs. Mercer
would ask the class a question and Winnie would shout out the answer, then turn
around and grin triumphantly at the rest of us. Mrs. Mercer didn't care. So long
as her questions got answered, she was off the hook. Although I couldn't really
remember his face, I couldn't forget the strut and swagger of Manny Locatello. I
could see his licorice-black hair pushed far enough forward to bob
seductively between his eyes while he walked, as though it was some sort of a
tribal male fertility symbol.
I dug out my old yearbook and tried to
bring this crowd of 94 teenagers into focus, but it was beyond my powers of
extrapolation to imagine how they might look today. I honestly couldn't
recognize myself and it followed, therefore, that everyone at the reunion would
be a stranger to me, if they had gone the way of all flesh as I did. I could
imagine only one person aging gracefully .... perhaps even growing more
beautiful through the passing years -- and she, of course, was Sharon Olefant.
So long as she still played the cello, of
course.
I don't care who you are, how famous you've
come to be, or how old you are -- there's bound to be something private in your
past. Something you keep to yourself. It's usually something that happened
during the process of growing up ... an occasion you can't forget. It may be
something wonderful that you remember with warmth and pleasure or it may be
something so embarrassing or damning that it keeps coming back like a wave of
nausea. My experience with Sharon Olefant and her cello was both -- warming and
embarrassing. I never mentioned it to Jennifer. It's none of her business, I'm
sure she's got a secret or two -- I've seen that far away look in her eye from
time to time.
I kept the occasion well below the surface
of family life for two weeks prior to the reunion. I had my suit pressed and
bought a new pair of shiny black loafers with bright brass buckles. I got a
haircut, not on THE Saturday, but on the Saturday before -- people with fresh
haircuts look like shorn sheep to me. I was especially attentive to Jennifer and
Kenny -- took him to baseball practice twice, helped him with his homework once,
and even brought a bouquet of yellow jonquils home to Jennifer on THE Saturday.
"Look," she said, "Don't try and drive back
here at two in the morning, stay in a motel. They reserved some rooms, didn't
they?" She looked at me critically. "Lookin' pretty sharp, Fred -- you don't
look a day over 43."
"I'll probably start back after the dinner.
I won't stay for the speeches or the dance."
"Don't be silly, have a good time. See you
tomorrow."
At about the halfway mark to Troy I began
to wonder. At Saugherties I pulled over at a rest stop and considered looking
for a bed and breakfast then coming home in the morning with a made-up story,
but something made me push on -- I'd never forgive myself if I didn't. The cello
incident reappeared in the replay section of my mind. In exquisite detail I
could see Sharon Olefant in the string section of the Humboldt High Symphony
Orchestra. That's how it all began. It wasn't her beauty that attracted me, it
was the way she straddled her cello.
She was a long-legged girl with prominent
knees, and when she stood erect and bare-legged, they revealed the faces
of cherubs. At the cello, however, smoothly encased in black stockings, they
were the equal of Marlene Dietrich's. She had long black hair coarse and heavy,
like the mane of a Budweiser horse. She would throw her head back wildly; her
eyes, normally black as obsidian, would roll up until only the whites could be
seen and her lips would pull back to reveal her teeth, (white as the teeth of a
kitten) while the bow in her right hand caressed the gut of the cello, sometimes
gently, but often with strength and demand. Her left hand appeared to skitter up
and down the neck of the instrument without her knowledge, then it would pause
at times to quiver for an instant and lend a tremolo to a held note. I
envied her cello more than any boy of 18 can possibly endure. I was jealous of
it as I would have been if it had been Manny Locatello.
How I found myself playing the clarinet in
the Humboldt High Symphony Orchestra is another story. Mr. Timpano directed both
the orchestra and the marching band. You won't find a cello in a marching band,
or a violin for that matter -- only brass and drums, but Mr. Timpano learned
early in his career the only way he could be a success as a high school music
teacher was to compromise, particularly when very few of the boys in the band
could march and play an instrument at the same time. They could do one or the
other but not both. I was one of the few who could do both so he gave me one of
the left over clarinets from the orchestra. He gave Charlie Wilson a flute, and
Boomer Tyson an English horn.
This gave me a foothold in the woodwind
section of the orchestra, and during practice I had an unobstructed view
of the cellos -- I might have been a passable clarinetist otherwise, but the
sight of Sharon Olefant in her wild throes of ecstasy threw me off stride again
and again.
"Lingus! You have been sent here to ruin
me! You are to come in at bar 43 when I signal you." I was never ready for Mr.
Timpano, my mind was elsewhere and my eyes were riveted on Sharon Olefant.
"Watch me, Lingus! Why don't you ever watch
ME?!"
Mutterings would rumble throughout the
orchestra .... "Why the hell did they ever let him in here? Come on Lingus, suck
it up, will ya? This is the fifth friggin time we've done bar 43!" Meanwhile I
would look over at Sharon Olefant -- she would be lying back in her chair
cradling her cello between her knees and testing the tension of the gut in her
bow -- waiting to get underway again.
It wasn't easy getting close to Sharon --
she was a tough nut to crack and I had very little experience in those days. As
a matter of fact I haven't learned a lot since then; Jenny's the first one to
ever see things my way. Sharon and I shared a science class in which she showed
no interest whatsoever, and orchestra practice in which she was so absorbed she
hardly knew I was there -- except when I screwed up. With dogged perseverance I
managed to walk her home after practice. A cello in a hard leather case can
weigh forty-five to fifty pounds, and she lived nine blocks from the school, and
after a half dozen trips she loosened up enough to sit with me a few minutes on
her front porch while I got my breath. It led me to overplay my
hand.
"Do y'mind if I tell you somethin' Sharon?"
"What?"
"Well .... it's about you and your cello."
She didn't give me a ready answer, instead, she looked at me suspiciously and
placed one hand protectively on the cello's leather case.
"What about my cello?"
"When you play it, Sharon -- it's hard to
explain. You look like you're makin' love to it." She stood up quickly and
looked down at me. "I mean it's like -- you were alone in the room with it ....
and I can't help wishin' it was me, Sharon. You know what I mean?"
I guess she did, because she looked at me
as though I were something she had stepped in. "You're disgusting Lingus!
You're sick, you should be put away someplace!" She grabbed her precious
cello and pushed her way through the front door. She gave me a final cold stare
and shook her head -- "You nauseate me, Lingus!"
With that she kicked the front door shut
and snapped off the porch light -- leaving me standing the dark .... which is
basically where I've been for the last 25 years. That's what I meant when I said
there's bound to be something private in your past that you keep to yourself. We
never spoke to each other after that evening, and in my fantasy I've often
wondered what effect that confession might have done to her, did it stick in her
mind as it stuck in mine? Why was her name still Olefant? Questions, questions
....
I pulled into Troy about 4 pm and made my
way towards Humboldt High, the way an old hound dog that's lost its scent
and eyesight remembers the hunting fields of the past. It hadn't changed much.
There was a new wing running off to one side of it. It looked like it had been
put together with Lego blocks. That's where the dinner was supposed to be.
I guess I looked okay -- a little wrinkled
from the trip maybe, but on the whole pretty presentable. I combed my hair in
the rear view mirror and got out of the car, taking my jacket with me. I nodded
pleasantly to a couple walking behind me -- we seemed to be keeping our
identities to ourselves until we got inside. There, a woman in black was taking
our invitations and handing out name cards. "Lingus? Yes, is that Lingus with an
"L?" My it's good to see you again Mr. Lingus .... are you alone?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Well we'll just have to find somebody for
you to sit next to at dinner, won't we?" She raised her eyes, and her facial
expression .... though dulled by time and the inexorable law of gravity, was
familiar to me. I saw abandon there -- her eyes raised to mine, (though half
concealed behind thick glasses) revealed the shadow of a wildness I remembered
from the days of the Humboldt High Symphony Orchestra. She was wearing a corsage
of dried flowers that covered her name tag, so I asked hesitantly ....
"Are you Sharon Olefant?"
"Yes, Mr. Lingus. How nice of you to
remember."
I held my place in line, much to the
annoyance of the crowd behind me. "I seem to be alone Miss Olefant .... yours is
the only face I remember." I hoped she would jump in and say let's sit together,
but she shifted her attention to the people behind me -- she was, after all, a
woman with responsibilities and the fantasy of Fred Lingus was not nearly as
important as making sure each of us had his right name tag.
I found Dodie Parker and we went over old
times by the punch bowl. He hadn't put on an ounce, I remembered him, a pitiful
figure lost inside his football uniform like a turtle in a shell too big for
him. He was now a short man, wizened, with a bright red nose that he constantly
fingered as though it might suddenly disappear without warning. His eyes a
watery blue seemed full of tears and he dabbed them constantly with his
handkerchief. "This time of year .... the grass, you know?"
Winnie Mason, the whiz in history class was
now Winnie Morgan, the wife of a General Electric light bulb tester -- "I
haven't bought a light bulb in twenty years," she boasted. She now wears
glasses, the kind with a string attached to the earpieces and go around the back
of the neck. Her hair was tied tightly in back giving a serpentine slant to her
eyes. She hadn't brought her husband, "I have no one to sit with at dinner, Fred
-- are you alone?"
"Oh, I wish you asked me first, Winnie, but
I already promised Sharon Olefant." At the moment my hopes for a nostalgic
evening were at a low ebb and I considered making an unobtrusive exit and going
home. I looked at my watch -- it was close to nine o'clock. If I started now and
didn't stop I could be home by one in the morning, that wouldn't be too late --
except I hadn't thought of an excuse. Well, I could probably think one up on the
trip home.
I had another punch with Dodie Parker and
he introduced me to Manny Locatello -- of all people! I wouldn't have recognized
him if it hadn't been for Dodie.
"Remember Fred Lingus, Manny? Left town
after graduation. Where'd you say you were living, Fred?" By this point his eyes
were filled up, and together with his runny nose he went into a sneezing fit. I
didn't get to tell either of them where I lived and by the time Dodie pulled
himself together both of them had lost interest in me. Manny's youthful forelock
had disappeared along with most of the rest of his hair. He resembled an aging
rock star who has been given a free ticket to a benefit concert. He was the only
man in the room in a tuxedo. He sported an enameled pin in his lapel with the
General Electric insignia, not the kind of thing you'd expect to see on a
tuxedo. I glanced quickly at Dodie and noticed he was wearing one also. It
seemed as though the entire graduating class of 1976 was working for GE.
Dodie, with a final sniff, said, "Well,
I've gotta look up the wife, we'll be called in to dinner soon."
Manny picked up the cue, "Wait f'me, Dodie,
I gotta find Phyllis."
That left me alone by the punch bowl. I was
in a perfect position to take my leave -- no one would miss me. I could just
edge my way out the same way I came in -- get in my car and be home in a few
hours.
"Fred! You're not leaving are you? I've
saved myself for you." It was Sharon Olefant!
"Oh, there you are, Sharon. I thought you
forgot." Damn! I'd almost gotten away. I was a little rusty at this game, I
didn't know what my next move should be.
Sharon Olefant did. She took my arm in a
grip of iron, and like a guard leading a prisoner, she marched me into the
dining room. If I had the choice, I would have preferred to sit with the troops
but she steered me to the committee table, there she introduced me to the
Chairman -- who, although no food had yet been served, already had a napkin
tucked in his collar. Next to him was a bird-like woman with a puckered face who
obviously did not approve of the reunion at all.
"These are the Tuckersons," Sharon
explained, "Byron here sets up a reunion
every year." She said this without looking at him -- as though he were some sort
of alien species that must be explained, but not necessarily acknowledged.
The room was beginning to fill up and the
ambient noise grew to a level that made talking, (unless it was to your neighbor)
a bit of a problem. Sharon and I recognized this and we were able to talk to
each other almost as though we were alone.
"Fred Lingus. Well, what do you know? It's
been 25 years, Fred -- think of that. 25 years!"
"I know. A generation I guess. I live
downstate now you know."
"I know. I know. Indian Point, right? How
many?"
"How many what?"
She looked at me as though I were a
mindless child -- "Kids! Kids! -- What else is there?"
"Oh, er .... a boy. Kenny. He's twelve."
She sat back and squared her shoulders.
"I've had six. A girl and five boys." She looked at me and her eyes held that
same look of abandon, "It was more fun making them than having them -- how about
you?"
Thankfully, before I could answer, she
sighed and sadly admitted that her making days were over, that she and Felix,
(her husband) had 'racked up' as she put it, their last offspring two years ago.
"Besides," she added, "Felix is on the night shift at G.E. now."
Sharon Olefant was and I guess, still is a
rather remarkable woman, and I wondered whether her original passion for the
cello still burned within her. "Do you still play the cello?" I asked.
"The what?"
"Our last year in high school, remember? We
were in the orchestra -- I played clarinet, you played cello."
"That's right," she said. "I almost forgot
-- no -- I gave it up when I married Felix."
After all those years! I was right all
along -- and as I drove home, my headlights cutting through the night on the
dark Thruway, I was filled with inner peace. I thought to myself -- "What a
fortunate man Felix must have been, what music they must have made together."
I couldn't wait to get home.
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