Double Concerto - 9. Water Music

Rick set out across the water, enjoying the growing darkness. All the cares of the fading day were left behind. It had been a hot afternoon, but out on the water, it already felt cooler. Weary or not, he never seemed to tire of propelling the heavy wood and canvas craft over the surface of the lake. Canoeing somehow satisfied a part of him.

Perhaps it was the rhythmic quality of exercise, or maybe it was the chance to use combinations of muscles he didn't employ during his working hours. Whatever the reasons, Rick was happiest paddling his canoe. Often, like on that night, he pushed himself to go faster, move more quickly across the calm face of the lake.

As the sky turned from blue to indigo to black, he cut across the middle of the broad waters spread out ahead of him, oblivious to the danger posed by power boaters speeding along in the dark. They wouldn't see him until it was too late, but Rick didn't care. He could sense his location by instinct; experience told him precisely where he was.

Reach. Plunge, Pull. Turn. Reach. Plunge, Pull. Turn.

Arms and shoulders and torso all worked in perfect harmony as he knelt on the wooden ribs of the canoe. The single-minded effort to speed across the lake helped Rick work out the tensions and frustrations of the past day—the unexpected calls, the conversation with his irascible father, and collecting his neighbor's chickens back into their run—such things were enough to annoy any reasonable man.

And then there was the problem of the pianist from Cedarcrest. That pleasant baritone, and shy smile—the man had smiled at him—these haunted him for days since their momentary encounter at the Meadowview Inn. It was too quick, too fleeting an encounter to mean anything. He knew that. So why did it bother him so much?

Reach, Plunge, Pull, Turn. Reach. Plunge, Pull, Turn.

Water rippled and swooshed alongside, its gurgles a conversation between the lake and the green painted boat. This was a sound he enjoyed, like laughter or the sound of the loon.

Eventually, Rick felt tired enough to want to rest. His canoe glided out on the surface of Lower Lake. What was called Eagle Lake was really a collection of several connected bodies of water formed when the Great Northern Lumber Company threw a dam across the Little Eagle River to power milling and planing operations. Technically, the lakes in the chain were called Upper Eagle Lake, Lower Eagle Lake and Storm Lake. The town that sprang up on Lower Lake as a center of the burgeoning nineteenth century lumber industry took its name from the river as much as anything else.

He let out a deep breath and looked up at the stars.

It was so much easier to see them out here on the water. The lights of the town glowed brightly off to his left. On his right were the better-hidden windows of the summer houses that dotted the northern shore. Far off, he spied the green and red glow of lights on a motorboat crossing the lake. It wouldn't bother him.

Rick picked out the North Star, Ursa Minor, Ursa Major, and Cassiopeia. These were old friends, introduced to him by his mother so many years ago. He remembered lying on his back in a clearing on the south side of College Hill.

Even on the water, he could smell the wiry grass and forest, and that indefinable mother scent.

"That's the Big Dipper; follow the pointers to the North Star. That's the handle of the Little Dipper. Now follow the handle of the Big Dipper, and arc to Arcturus.” Rick could still hear her singsong way of remembering where to find the bright star.

With the enthusiasm of a child, he learned more. Rick knew Libra would be to the south, his left, over the town of Eagle Lake – but he couldn't see much more than its brightest star. Twisting around, he picked out the faint stars of Cepheus, Cassiopeia's dim husband, in the northeast.

Rick felt even if he could live to be a hundred, the clear summer sky would always make his heart beat a little faster. It was beautiful, and it connected him to that time when his family was still whole, and his heart carried no secrets.

He leaned back and scanned the heavens. A satellite made its steady way overhead to the southwest. The boat drifted, and Rick just tried to lose himself in the deep cosmos. It was easier than trying to figure out how to lead his life.

Rick's immediate problems distracted him from his reverie. If I can work Rita's project, she's going to lose interest. I'll be too damn busy. Dad will have a cow, but the money should be enough for him to get over his disappointment. It always has been. Or, I could quit. I could just take my tools and drive away someplace. No, that's stupid. How would I start over?

And then Rick realized he was tired. It was time to turn the boat around and paddle back. He took his time. Now he was moving in the same direction as Cygnus along the Milky Way, toward Vega, the bright star in Lyra.

The stars were certain, and steady. And, like him, lonely, fixed as they were in their celestial paths. So many missed and ruined chances; Rick felt his stars must have been very cross with him.

There’d been that bearded construction worker at the Regional Hospital renovation. Compact, solid build, plenty of dark curly hair escaping from under his yellow hard hat. They’d met on the site at lunch one day. Rick swore to himself there’d been a connection, a spark. What had he done? When Rick suggested perhaps getting a beer after work, his new acquaintance looked strangely at Rick and declined. The guy avoided him for the remainder of the job.

Rick shook his head to clear away the memory, but others seeped in. What about his classmate in college? The one from Eau Claire? What had happened to him? They shared a dreary class in Wisconsin State Codes. Wiry, sandy-haired, shy, like himself, but somehow, the other boy had confidence Rick lacked, or so he thought.

It took most of the semester for Rick to work up the courage to approach him – just a friendly suggestion they study together for the exam – before fate caught up with him. They’d found a quiet spot in the Tech Library. Pretty soon, Rick and the other boy – Ryan, that was his name – were shoulder to shoulder, arm to arm, leg against leg at the table, poring over papers and scribbled notes.

A girl’s voice had interrupted: “Can I sit here, or are you two a couple?”

His study mate jumped as if a shock had been administered. “Um, I’m just about done here I guess.” Ryan stammered. The boy sprang to his feet, gathered his things, and disappeared.

Rick’s jaw worked, but no sound came out.

The new arrival plopped her books down. “Geez. Was it something I said?”

There were no more after-class meetings.

Bubbles gurgled under the canoe. He glanced a little further to the left. That way, just around a point of land, lay Cedarcrest.

Damn you, Willy Kohler. If it weren't for you, my whole life would be different. Why, oh why, couldn't I get you out of my head? That fucking summer ruined me, ruined everything. If only I could have gotten my head out of my ass and paid attention! Maybe Dad would still be here; maybe Mom…no, don't go there.

Rick bit his lip and dug his paddle into the water, as if the effort would put his unhappy youth behind him. The lodge and the enigmatic caramel skinned man who stayed there now were hidden by a low hummock full of spruces and birches. Just beyond those trees was the man who had taken up residence in his daydreams and night thoughts. The one who had sent him to Milwaukee.

The canoe drifted again. Rick twisted his paddle, and the canoe turned its nose toward the point.

Rick's brain shouted at him. What the hell are you doing? Are you some kind of creepy stalker or something?

He kept going. I'm just out for an evening paddle. Nothing wrong with that.

But his sneering inner voice came right back. And what happens when you get there? You gonna stand on the lawn and wait for him to call out to you from his balcony? Are you nuts?

The wooden paddle flashed in the starlight.

Come on, you've done obsession. You've done infatuation. Look where it landed you.

Reach, Plunge, Pull, Turn. Reach, Plunge, Pull, Turn.

And what if you get caught?

Rick rounded the rocky outcrop jutting into the lake and headed toward the long dock at Cedarcrest. He took care to keep the noise of his paddle quiet. His inner voice was deafening: This is absolutely crazy. Useless and crazy. It's getting late. You could be home in bed by now.

When he reached the old pier which jutted out into the lake off Cedarcrest, Rick backed water with barely a gurgle and let the boat glide in. With a sure reach, Rick grabbed hold of the weathered wooden decking. He hadn’t made a sound.

He hadn't expected the lodge to be a blaze of light. Upstairs windows showed soft lights through the curtains. Even at that distance, the whole downstairs living area was plainly visible through the wide row of open French doors which dominated the central part of the building. Screens kept out most of the insect world. At the south end of the house, to Rick's right, stood the piano, easy to spot through the plate glass. And seated there, facing into the living room, was the one whose face and form he'd wanted to see.

Rick saw the pianist wore a red t-shirt; possibly a pair of shorts – it was hard to say.

The man leaned over the keyboard, and his dark hair fell forward. The brow was furrowed in concentration; the pianist raised his left arm, and began to play. A line of simple, classical notes flowed out onto the lawn and into the night air. Muted by distance, the tune rippled like the water he rode on; moving like waves across the lake. Rick did not know much about classical music—he had no idea what it was he was hearing. But he had the incredible, undeniable feeling the light was suddenly brighter on the lake; as if another moon was rising.

But how could all those notes be sounding at once? Rick squinted and watched carefully. Surely the right hand, cast, or no cast, must be playing at least some of the notes.

Rick rubbed his eyes; he shifted the canoe a few inches along the dock. He looked again. No, the right arm was motionless.

And then the music stopped, with just a little trill.

Rick blinked. What happened? Had he been discovered?

The face of the man at the keyboard showed only concentration. If he somehow sensed Rick's presence, it didn't show. Of course, there was no way Rick could be seen so far away in the dark.

A moment later, that talented left hand went to work again. This time, a slow, solemn tune marched out the door to his ears. A simple tune. But how was that single hand able to play so many harmonies? Rick watched with rapt attention. He saw the left hand and arm working over the keyboard, but still could not divine how it was done. And then another line of music was added – and the somber sonority seemed to fill the woods and stones around Cedarcrest, reaching Rick and impelling his finger to tap on the old wooden decking.

This had to be some form of magic.

The music swelled again, reaching a declaration almost impossible to ignore, and then it fell back, as if satisfied that a point had been made. That a thought had been expressed. And then, a climbing figure, another trill, and—silence.

Rick knelt in the canoe, his eyes wide. He felt as if he'd just heard the stars singing.

This wasn't someone from the musical charity benefits organized by Immanuel Lutheran, the big church downtown. Rick felt in awe he'd been privileged to hear such music. He'd gladly pay real money to hear this man in the red tee play a concert.

A moment later, the pianist started something new.

A single, dramatic minor chord; followed by another; and then another still. Each sonority was connected by a few spare notes to construct a slow, halting march, full of woe and pain and despair. If that weren't enough to make the heavens weep, it started over again, only deeper, and richer.

And how the hell does he do that with just one hand?

There was something in the music which took him back, away from that dock, away from that night, to another moment long past. His mother would have appreciated this; she could sing, and was a church choir member. He felt a tear form in his eye.

No, dammit, I will not cry.

The music sang on, variation after variation on the same sad theme, first delicate, then stern and implacable, later, still and resigned.

How like the bleak days in October and November of his sophomore year, the autumn after Willy Kohler. His mom felt poorly, but said very little about it. There was nothing to worry about. It was a passing thing. It would go away. It happened one afternoon: he returned from school to an empty house; it wasn't until dark there was a phone call from the hospital in Waukesha. What was she doing there?

Apparently, his mother had gone to see her doctor. In the course of the examination, her physician found something that alarmed him. He'd ordered her into an ambulance and the hour ride south to a hospital big enough to do more rapid and definitive tests. Even more frightening, his father forsook the shop and his work and drove down to the hospital, too. It was the old man who called.

"I don't think it's going to be anything serious, boy. But the doctor thought it should be checked out quickly."

"Is Mom okay?"

"She's napping in the examination room. You have your homework done? Cleaned up your supper dishes?"

"I haven't eaten yet."

"Oh, for heaven's sake, boy. You need me to spoon feed you? Figure something out."

The words had stung, but Rick had been waiting for his parents—he'd had no idea where they were.

Heinrich Senior was still talking. "You won’t be unsupervised for very long. Things are going to be fine, and we'll be home soon."

But Rick knew his father's voice well enough not to trust what he had heard. He stayed up, later and later, the tall grandfather clock in the hall ticking loud enough to fill the house with its sound. Rick had waited on their arrival. His father made his return in the very small hours of the following morning. Rick had fallen asleep on a chair in the living room; he woke as the door opened. Heinrich Senior walked in alone.

"How’s Mom?"

"I thought I told you to go to bed."

"I…I wanted to be here when you got back."

"Well, I guess you're here now. Your mother’s still in the hospital." The old man looked as if he'd turned grey in the space of a sentence.

"What's wrong?"

The older man winced. "Cancer. Cancer of the pancreas. That's what the tests seem to say it is. It's…It's not…" Heinrich Senior seemed to waver in the shadow cast by the single lamp. Then he steadied. "They're going to try surgery tomorrow morning. It's going to take some of the pain away."

"Will Mom be okay?"

For a moment, Rick saw his father – not the tough businessman and skilled professional the man projected to the world every day, but the scared, vulnerable man behind his mask.

"The doctors…they don't know. I hope so. There's some kind of chemotherapy they might try. We have to wait and see."

"Are we going down to the hospital, Dad?"

His father disappeared; the mask returned to its usual place. "No. We are not going to the hospital. You are going to school. I'll drive down after lunch. Maybe they'll be ready for her to come home in a day or so."

But she hadn't come home the next day, or the day after that. When Heinrich Senior finally took his son to see his mother at the hospital on the following Saturday, she was already much weaker, barely recognizable as the bustling, cheerful woman who kept her young men in line.

Heinrich Senior and Rick had walked into her room; she was sleeping. Rick was appalled at what he saw before him. His mother was already withering, sunken in on herself. An IV bag dripped something into a tube which ran into his mother's vein.

His father had reached over the metal bed railing and touched her arm. "Katherine. Katherine," he spoke with a softness Rick hadn't heard, ever, and which he would not hear again.

Her eyes fluttered open.

"Hello, Liebling,” Heinrich stroked her arm. "I've come back. How are you?"

"Okay. Hurts," she whispered.

"Look, I brought you another visitor." His father motioned him forward.

Rick stepped closer and let his mother focus on him. Pain and worry had taken root behind her eyes. "Hello, Mama. Sorry I haven't been here sooner."

She made an effort to smile. "Your father says…" Her eyes wandered a moment or two. "…says that you've been…working hard at school."

"Yes, ma'am."

"And you're…keeping the house clean… while I'm gone?"

"Yes, ma'am. No problem."

Her eyes met his again. "You're getting to be so big and handsome, Rick."

"Mom! I am not."

"You let me… be the judge." Her breathing was a little labored. "Give me a hug." His mother made an attempt to reach out her arms.

Rick froze. He did not want to hug her—he didn't want to touch anyone. But it was his mother. If he couldn’t do this, he'd never be able to. And she was so weak. The amount of muscle tone she'd lost already amazed him. With great care and deliberation, Rick had bent forward over her and let her arms come around his neck. Gravity pulled him close.

"Take care of your father," she had whispered in Rick's ear. "He needs…supervision." For a second, maybe two, she had held him there, and then released him. He stood; she closed her eyes and smiled.

The night stood still and quiet outside Cedarcrest, except for the odd insect or two. A tear leaked from the corner of his eye; he stopped to wipe it away. Rick remained in his canoe, pierced by the memories called forth by the piano teacher's music. He stirred himself; Rick could see the deep tan face still staring at the keyboard, and at the amazing left hand still resting there.

A moment later, a flash of motion caught his eye. A child, the little boy—Joey, that was his name—streaked into the living room from the left, pursued hotly by his dark-haired sister, Marta. They burst out of the French doors and out onto the lawn. Joey shrieked with laughter.

"You little creep! I'm going to kill you!" Marta shouted after him.

Their desperate chase zigzagged across the lawn in the darkness. It was time for Rick to get away.

Ducking low, Rick pushed off the dock. He glided out onto Lower Lake again. He was certain he had not been seen. There were no lights down by the dock, the shadows thrown by the house too deep. With as much stealth as he could muster, Rick hastened back towards the point. The Takács children's cries and laughter echoed behind.