Wallace's Voice



 

 

  The maestro brought the final note to an immediate end, grateful the torment of leading this high school so-called orchestra was finally over. Now at least he, himself, would be able to allow this ‘crowd’ of 75 to hear music. For they, these fortunate few, would hear the maestro’s own piano concerto performed in public for the first time. They would hear the maestro play. He wondered if these rural farm born innocents would be able to fully appreciate what they were about to be given. He doubted it, but at least they could serve as a litmus test.

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  It had begun when his small plane was forced to perform an emergency landing due to ice buildup on the wings. The maestro refused to be a ‘Buddy Holly’ in this remote area and insisted on the landing. A private field appeared in the distance and the pilot took advantage of it. After all, he could use a break from his self-sainted passenger. Certainly they could find accommodations somewhere for the night.

  The maestro introduced himself to the parka-clad driver of the pickup truck that came to investigate the landing. The parka responded with, “I’m Phil,” and offered to drive them to a small motel located in the county seat “… just a few miles down the road.” The pilot believed the ice would clear in the morning due to a reported break in the winter cold front and it would be safe to resume their trek. Phil finally queried, “A maestro is like a conductor, right? We got one at the high school.” It was all the maestro could do to restrain himself as he responded, “Yes, something like that.” Phil left the pair to check in at the motel with the assurance he would return in the morning and take them back to their plane.

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  “You gotta forget about Phil, if it ain’t country, it ain’t music to him. You really a maestro?”

  Assured that he was, the clerk excitedly said that there was a concert at the high school tonight by the local high school orchestra and it should be “Pretty good, as three high schools combined two years ago to cut costs so now they have enough students to actually have an orchestra. This will be their first performance.” The maestro looked at the woman for the first time. Dirty blond hair sat atop a face sculpted by hard work and years of sacrifice for her family. The tan slacks and printed blue cotton blouse were worn but clean. Her piercing green eyes displayed an undeclared strength that spoke of a life lived by the credo, “Always do what’s right, and you will never be wrong,” and just how hard that can be. The maestro respected her instantly. Her name was Ginny. “What else would it be?” mumbled the maestro.

  When asked if she had a child playing tonight, Ginny looked intently at the counter as if the decades old wood contained an answer. Finally she spoke, “No. But my youngest boy used to play the piano and he got the auditorium ready for tonight.” The maestro responded with the words, “You must be so proud,” in a tone he immediately knew had penetrated her armor when Ginny’s face flushed and her now vulnerable eyes filled with tears that had been hiding there all along.

  For the first time since achieving status the maestro wished he had just kept his pompous mouth shut, but the breech had been made. He couldn’t stop now though, his ego demanded the kill.

  She refused to wipe the solitary runaway tear as she told how her youngest boy, now 22, had always wanted to play the piano. “Me and my husband never had the money to buy one, so he played wherever we found one. He played in church from the time he could reach the pedals, he played in music stores until salesmen told him to quit-–usually not until fifteen or twenty minutes had passed. We never knew how he learned to play because he never had lessons. We just couldn’t afford them. But that boy could hear a piece of music and play it-–any piece of music.” Pausing to catch her breath and prepare herself for the memory, she spoke on in quiet solitude from a place only she was allowed to enter, “My husband was driving Aaron, my oldest, and Wallace, the youngest, to see a lady who said she might be interested in giving Wallace lessons for free. They had to travel some and my husband didn’t know the road. Nobody knows why he didn’t see the train. Only Wallace made it. His brain was hurt and he can’t talk now and he looks at the sky when you try to talk to him. Doctor says he won’t see thirty. And his hands are curled and his fingers stick together. All he can do now is hold a broom handle. He was 10. Aaron was 12. When the orchestra started up, the school hired Bill Fuller who grew up here to teach music and conduct. He knew how good my boy used to play and thought he might like to be around the music, so he pays him a few dollars to clean the auditorium and get the chairs ready. Well, somebody else unfolds em’ and he pushes them into place. The church donated the piano that Wallace used to play to the school. He still somehow manages to tell them how to tune it through little sounds he makes and turning his hands so they know when to stop tuning it. Somewhere inside he’s still playing.” She said no more. The pain wouldn’t permit further speech.

  The maestro knew he had won another victory in his never-ending quest to dominate those he encountered. But this was a hollow victory and did not serve the conscience that was rising from the depths he had long ago banished it to. He asked if she would negotiate a meeting between himself and this ‘conductor,’ Bill Fuller. She readily agreed and made the phone call. That simple act seemed to return a sense of self-worth to her and her armaments were quickly repairing.

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  Bill Fuller was exactly what the maestro expected to encounter--a slight man who took his duties far too seriously. He actually seemed to believe that a prodigy would someday be discovered in this tribute to an American era gone-by locale. But one thing about this man troubled the maestro. Fuller, though polite and genuinely pleased to meet him, did not appear to be in awe of the maestro or his accomplishments. For that reason alone, the maestro decided to accept the offer to conduct the finale’ which, of course (shrug), was the 1812 Overture. A very unoriginal choice but one sure to bring applause from this musically challenged community. Then the maestro noticed the 1885 Steinway Model B piano on the stage.

  His breath escaped him before his mind fully focused on just what an incredible instrument stood before him. Fuller invited him to ‘try it out.’ As he played a few measures of Strauss, the maestro could not believe the tone emanating from this masterpiece of craftsmanship. To find such a piece in this rural cataclysm was beyond any expectation, but to hear such melodic pitch perfection was absolutely incomprehensible. “Did you tune this?” The maestro had to know.

  “No. This is the voice of Wallace.” A small bent form appeared just off-stage staring intently at them both, yet staring nowhere. “That’s Wallace,” said Fuller. The image was gone, devoured by the shadows.

  The maestro coolly extended to Fuller his full generosity. He, the maestro, would play his newly completed piano concerto on this piano for the crowd in attendance at tonight’s performance. Inside his soul the maestro knew he wanted to play his finest work on this instrument and some high school music teacher would not deny his ego. Of course Fuller seemed pleased, yet still oddly unimpressed. But this was of little concern, as Fuller would be brought to his knees later when the maestro played. The game was now afoot.

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  Wat
ching Fuller conduct the orchestra the maestro could not stop wondering where Fuller had been educated. Clearly this was a man whose true ability was being lost on these denizens of nowhere. The emotion and comprehension Fuller fed into each score was of a caliber that the maestro himself would have considered taking Fuller on as an apprentice. But when Fuller introduced the maestro by his proper name, Richard Bernhardt, without bestowing the maestro title, any thought of offering such a prestigious position disappeared. He would certainly remind Fuller just who is the maestro later. For now, though, there was work to be done.

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  Throughout the finale’ the maestro could only wonder why Fuller was wasting his gift on such a tone deaf bunch as these children bludgeoning their instruments before him. Finally it was over. The time was at hand-–now it was just the Steinway and his love of the talent God had given him.

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