Jill Churchill - A Farewell to Yarns

Mike took his place at the back, and as he looked over the audience, Jane managed to catch his eyes. She waved, and he nodded slightly in acknowledgment.

After a few inevitable announcements—"A silver-blue Oldsmobile Cutlass by the front door has its lights on,”

“Last chance for ordering a Fruit-A-Month from the fund-raising committee,”

“Cookies and punch in the all-purpose room after the concert," the program commenced.

The youngest went first, and Jane let her mind drift. Virtually the only way to recognize what they were playing was by consulting the program, and Jane wasn't allowed to look at one. How many times over the years had she sat here waiting for Mike's turn, wondering how it must feel to be the parent of one of those beautiful young adults at the back—and now she was one. And she'd discovered that these kids were as neat as they looked. She knew the band kids were often considered the nerds—Mike and his friend had rented a copy of Revenge of the Nerds one night and laughed hysterically at the last scene when the main character asks everybody at the high school assembly to bravely step forward if they're a nerd and the entire band comes forward in a group.

Still, they were good kids. She'd come to believe that if somebody took a national survey of the incidence of teenage crime in general and compared it to the incidence of teenage crime among those who were in musical groups, there would be a clear difference. Maybe certain kids got into such things because they are basically law abiding, but she preferred to believe they became that way because of the nature of the group effort. Even more than in team sports, a favorable performance resulted only from each one doing his assigned part as well as possible without anyone trying to hog the spotlight. If only boys like the late and not-very-lamented Bobby Bryant could be in school bands, they might turn out very different.

The grade schoolers got their just applause, and the junior high groups began. The contrast was impressive. This truly sounded like music—not good music all the way through, but it had its moments. They did a credible "Jingle Bells," which brought smiles to everyone.

Finally it was the turn of the high schoolers. Jane didn't recognize the first two numbers. They were the sort of thing teachers like better than audiences—pieces that were technically challenging to the students and made the director look good in the eyes of his peers, but nothing to hum along with. The third number was a light classical piece that Jane recognized but couldn't have named. Chopin, she would have guessed. When they finished, there were a significant pause. What could the last piece be that Mike thought she'd like so well?

The violin section raised their bows, staring as if hypnotized at the director for a long moment and at his signal began the initial slow strains of the "1812 Overture." Her favorite piece of music in the world! Jane looked at Mike, who was gazing back at her from behind his tuba with a wide grin. Dear God, if she were not feeling sappy enough already, this would finish her off before it was over.

She listened, mesmerized by their expertise. A musical expert would undoubtedly have found plenty of flaws in the performance; Jane found none. It was magnificent. The cannons were done on the big drum by a boy who had practiced playing as Scottish marching drummers did, with a string from the drumstick around the wrist to allow for fancy, dramatic twirling between beats. By the time the bells started—a very small girl bent over the xylophone—Jane was openly weeping, and so were many other mothers in the audience. Even the parents who had no high schoolers were stunned by the performance.

When the last low note faded, there was a long, electric silence before the entire audience surged to its feet, applauding wildly. Mothers pulled Kleenexes out of purses and wiped their eyes; fathers clapped for all they were worth; little brothers hooted and cheered approval. A few parents spilled onto the floor and looked like they could hardly resist the impulse to run and hug their kids, who would shrivel and die of embarrassment if they did.

Jim Spelling put his arm around Jane and hugged her close. "God, I'm proud of him," he said, his gruff voice sounding a bit choked.

Jane wondered how a day that started out with a funeral could possibly have finished so wonderfully. How could ugly, mean things like murder happen in the very same world where high school orchestras played the "1812 Overture"?

Twenty-two

Jane got out of bed humming.

Y It was only eight o'clock, but she felt refreshed and wide awake, still in the afterglow of the band concert. She fixed a cup of coffee, fed the pets, and padded in slippered feet to the living room to have a quiet half hour of working on the afghan before she got the kids up for Sunday school. She became so engrossed in working on the last few rows that she lost track of the time. She wove the last loose thread into her creation, then spread it on the floor to admire it. What a shame she hadn't finished it earlier so she could enjoy it longer before having to sell it. It brightened not only the room, but also her spirits. Willard looked at the afghan and barked. She took it as a compliment.

“Do we get the morning off?" Mike asked, staggering in and sprawling bonelessly on the sofa. Max minced along the sofa back trying to determine what part of Mike's prone body he'd settle on.

“What do you—oh, quarter of ten! I don't suppose you'd go to the ten-thirty service with me, would you?"

“Nope. Do we have any orange juice?"

“Mike, in all your life have you ever known me to run out of orange juice? Toilet paper, yes. Butter, shampoo, light bulbs, cat food, clean sheets, yes. But never orange juice.”

Jane let the other kids sleep in, and she and Mike enjoyed a quiet morning together. Passing sections of the Sunday paper to each other and gorging themselves on sweet rolls, they didn't really talk much or about anything important, but Jane felt the time with him was probably more beneficial to both of them than a hectic race to church would have been.

Quality time vs. quantity. One of those trendy pop-psych phrases that sometimes meant a great truth and most often were used as a cop-out by parents who couldn't bother to make time for the kids. Like nature vs. nurture. That was the most recent one, Jane thought as she stacked up the rumpled newspapers and the glasses that the orange juice crud was drying on. It was an interesting concept. For years, if not generations, mothers had been made to feel every fault a child showed was truly their parents' failing. Recently the women's magazines had been running pieces on the opposite theory—that none of a child's problems were the parents' fault, that people are born being what they are, and nothing in their domestic environment can change that basic character.

The truth had to be somewhere in between, or different for different people. But there must be something to the nurture theory. How else could you account for somebody like Bobby Bryant being Phyllis's son? Nobody ever mistook Phyllis for an intellectual, but at the same time, there wasn't a mean or selfish bone in her body. Bobby's creepy character certainly couldn't be attributed to her genes. But that wasn't entirely fair to some unknown adoptive parents. They wanted him and, while Joan Crawford's daughter might dispute the point, most people didn't go out of their way to adopt children in order to mistreat them.

Then, too, it took two people to make a baby. Maybe it wasn't Phyllis's genes, but those of the boy she'd been married to so briefly. Jane wished now that she'd asked more about him. What sort of kid was he? Phyllis had called him "ambitious and smart" or some such thing. Of course, from her sweet, simple vantage point, practically anyone could qualify for those adjectives. But could he have been a boy of strong character to let himself get swept into playing house? Hadn't he even the wit to wonder if Phyllis might have been pregnant—or didn't he care?