A Little Love Music
By Harry Buschman
“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,”The 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?”
“$60 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 butt 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 went 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 the 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 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 a 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 wood wind 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 in 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 p.m. and made my
way towards Humboldt High, the way an old hound dog that’s lost its scent
and eyesight but remembers the hunting
fields of the past well enough to find them again. 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 Leggo blocks, that’s where the dinner would 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 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, 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?” At this point his eyes had 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 1975 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 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 arrived yet, 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. Ronnie. 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.
©Harry Buschman 1999
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