CHAPTER
fifty-six
During the years of the Depression, no one had any money for tickets to the symphony. Our family, in particular, never could have afforded such an extravagance. Even if we could have, Dad wouldn’t have allowed it.
To him, music was a waste of time, not to mention money.
Every once in a while, though, a ragtag group of musicians would set up folding chairs and music stands in the park. They’d rest violins on their collarbones or cellos and basses between their knees. Then the most enchanting music emerged, beckoning everyone to come near, to listen.
Granted, they may not have been the best musicians in the world. It didn’t matter, though. They brought beauty to a dark time.
One day my sister dragged me to the park, her long legs moving faster than my short ones ever could have. Even at two years younger, she had already outgrown me. Still holding my hand, she pushed her way to the front of the crowd, not apologizing for shoving or stepping on toes.
I’d been ten or eleven by then. Old enough to be mortified by the way she acted.
She didn’t move an inch through the first few songs the tiny orchestra played, her hand still holding mine tight. Even when everyone else clapped, she stood still.
“Do you know Dvorak?” she called out to them after they finished a rousing foot stomper. “New World?”
I squinted at her. “How do you know that?”
“The radio,” she answered, dropping my hand.
One of the men—a cellist, I remembered, with a neatly groomed mustache—nodded and lifted his bow.
“Let me sing,” Clara said. “‘Goin’ Home.’”
He nodded again, and she stepped out from the crowd and turned to face us.
A few of the people behind me muttered, and I knew that I was blushing. Embarrassed, I thought about turning and running back home.
Instead, I stayed and watched my too-thin beanpole of a sister in her sun-faded housedress fidget, rubbing her thumbs across the tips of her fingers, her arms hanging stiff at her sides. I’d thought that if my father had seen her there, he would have put an arm around her, leading her away and telling her that she had no business doing such a thing.
I’d bitten at the inside of my mouth, steadying myself to be completely humiliated.
But as soon as the cellist played the first note of the song, I watched Clara’s shoulders relax, her fingers still, her face ease into beauty I couldn’t ever remembering seeing before.
She opened her mouth and sang.
The sweet ribbon of her voice hadn’t surprised me. I’d heard her sing more times than I could have counted. But it was the way her sound wove together with the cello. How the violin joined in after a few measures. The way the rest of the crowd stilled themselves so they could hear her.
By no means had my sister possessed the most beautiful voice I’d ever heard. But what she lacked in talent she made up for with passion.
Even at just nine years old, she knew enough to make her voice vibrate at the very end of a held-out note and to let it rise and fall in volume. Standing in the park, watching her, I knew that she felt every tone, every word, every rhythm.
When she’d finished, the crowd offered their applause generously, and Clara took her spot beside me once again. The musicians played two or three more songs before packing their instruments into ratty cases and carrying them away. The audience dispersed, and Clara and I stood alone, grass tickling my foot through the hole in my shoe.
“You sounded beautiful,” I forced myself to say through the lump of envy stuck in my throat.
“You think so?” she’d asked, once again taking my hand.
We walked around the perimeter of the park, not saying much of anything to each other.
The jealousy faded, and I allowed wonder to replace it.
My sister sang how I imagined an angel sounded like.
Sitting in the third row from the front, listening to Albert’s LaFontaine Symphony Orchestra debut, I couldn’t help but think of that magical moment of my little sister in the park.
Of course, they didn’t perform Dvorak that evening, and there were no vocalists in the performance. Still, I thought of Clara. How motionless she would have stayed throughout the movements, how she would have cried, unabashedly, the entire time.
And I thought of how she might have called out a request and taken the stage, gracing us all with a surprise song.
Giving us a gift we hadn’t even known to ask for.
After the performance, the Sweets stood in the lobby of the concert hall, waiting for Albert. Pop beamed from where he stood, leaning back against the wall and with cane in hand, making sure to let everyone who passed by know that his son was one of the cellists. Nick squirmed, pulling at his necktie, and Dick kept his nose in the program, reading the names of every orchestra member. Stan and Marvel were off to the side, chatting with someone who lived in their neighborhood.
As for me, I watched Hugo where he stood waiting for all of the musicians to exit the doors that led backstage. He held out his program to each of them and an ink pen I’d dug out of my handbag, asking them for their autographs. They all obliged, smiling down at him.
When Albie emerged, I nearly didn’t recognize him.
I’d known him for over twenty-five years but had never seen him stand so tall or walk with such an easy stride.
Oh, how that made me feel proud for him. All the way to my toes.
The moment Hugo saw him, he ran at him, arms wide. He gave him a hug with such force that I was surprised when Albert didn’t fall over backward. Still holding on to his cello case, Albert leaned over, putting his hand on Hugo’s back, patting it a few times.
“Did you like it?” Albie asked.
Hugo let him go and looked up at him, nodding so hard I worried that he’d give himself a sore neck.
“Maybe next time I’ll get you better seats.”
“But we were in the front,” Hugo said.
“Yes, well, the best seats are in the back.”
“But I liked where we sat.” Hugo tilted his head. “Can you sign my paper?”
“Of course I can.”
He took the program and the pen, resting it on the top of his hard case and signing with a flourish. When he lifted his head, he met my eyes and gave a shy smile.
I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I saw a little pride behind it.