James Van Pelt - The Radio Magician and Other Stories

“Good performance, Cougars. Leave your music on the stands for the section leaders to pick up, then you may go to dinner. Don’t forget, breathing practice before breakfast with your ensembles.”

Chatting, the kids headed toward the storage lockers to replace their instruments.

A clarinet player waved as she left the room. “Good night, Mr. Cowdrey.”

He nodded in her direction.

“’Night, sir,” said a percussionist. “See you in the morning. Good performance.”

The room cleared until Elise Morgan remained, jotting post-concert notes on her clipboard. Her straight black hair reached the bottom of her ears, and her glasses, missing one ear piece, sat crookedly on her nose. As always, dark smudges sagged under her eyes. She slept little. More often than not, late at night, she’d still be working on the music. “One of the French horns came in late again. I think it’s Thomas. He’s waiting until the trombones start, and it throws him a half beat off.”

“I didn’t notice.” Cowdrey sat beside her. The light metal chair creaked under his weight. Several chairs had broken in the last few months. Just two spares remained. He wondered what would happen when players had to stand for their performances. “The band sounded smooth tonight. Very confident.”

Elise nodded toward the window. “They’re tuning the room. Maybe they’re getting it ready for Friday’s concert.”

Cowdrey raised his eyebrows.

Elise pointed to the domed ceiling. “See there and there. New baffles. We’ve lost the echo-chamber effect you mentioned last week, and check out my flute.” She handed it to him. “At first, they just repadded them. Normal maintenance, but they’ve done other stuff too. It’s a better instrument.”

He held the flute, then tried a few fingerings. The keys sank smoothly. No stickiness, and the flute weighed heavy.

“Play a note,” she said.

He brought the instrument to his lip, but even before he blew, he knew it was extraordinary.

“During the sixth grade, after I won state solos the second time, my parents took me to the New York Philharmonic. I met their first chair, and he let me play his flute. Custom made. Insured for $50,000.” She took the instrument back from Cowdrey and rested it on her lap. “It wasn’t as good as this one is now. Maybe the Perfectionists are right.”

Cowdrey frowned. Misguided students with wacky theories about how they could get home shouldn’t be taken seriously.

“How’s that?” Cowdrey shook the irritation from his head. He thought he would check the lockers after he finished with Elise. Were the other instruments being upgraded too?

“Maybe what they want is a perfect performance, then they’ll let us go. Maybe Friday will be it.” She looked up at the nearest window. A brown smokey wave swirled behind it, cutting sight to no more than a yard or so beyond the glass.

Cowdrey felt fatherly. She sounded so wistful when she said, “they’ll let us go.” He almost reached out to touch her arm, to offer comfort, but he held himself still. No sense in sending mixed signals. “I don’t know why we’re here. No one knows. They shouldn’t get their hopes up. After all, what’s a perfect performance?”

“Any sunset is perfect. Any pebble is perfect.” She scuffed her bare foot on the immaculate floor. “Weeds are perfect, and so is a parking lot at the mall when the cars are gone and you can ride your bike in all directions without hitting anything.” She sighed. “And open meadows where the grass is never cut.”

Cowdrey nodded, not sure how to respond. She often reminisced about meadows.

Elise closed her eyes dreamily. “I found a pebble in my band jacket. Sometimes I hold it and think about playgrounds.”

“Really?”

She looked up at him, then dug into her pocket. On her open palm, a bit of shiny feldspar the size of a pencil eraser caught the ceiling light. As quick as it came out, it vanished back in her pocket. She made another note on her clipboard. “The Perfectionists are getting pretty fanatical. Others heard Thomas come in late.”

“The band will maintain discipline. If anyone has a problem, they’ll talk to me. That’s why I’m here.”

Elise looked uncomfortable. “Are you sure? With Ms. Rhodes gone…”

Cowdrey glanced away from her to the empty chairs and music stands. “Ms. Rhodes will be missed, but the band can continue without an assistant director.”

“I’m just saying… it’s a lot for a single adult to handle.”

He composed his face to meet her eyes. “The less we think of Ms. Rhodes, the better.”

Elise shrugged. “If you want it that way.”

“We have the section leaders. They have taken the responsibility.” He smiled. “Half the time I think the band doesn’t even need me. You all have become such strong musicians.”

She wrote a last comment on her clipboard, then slipped it under her arm. “Not strong enough. Nowhere near. Today is Monday. If we don’t clean things up by Friday, the Perfectionists could get scary.”

“It’s late.” Without the rest of the band in the room, his voice sounded too loud and harsh. Truly, he could hear a pin drop with these acoustics. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Elise.”

“Have you thought any more about the wedding?”

“No. We’re not discussing it.”

Her lips pursed, as if she wanted to say something, but she put her finger to the bridge of her glasses to hold them in place, then stood. “I’ll direct breathing practice for the woodwinds in the morning, if you’ll take the brass. At least I can help that much.”

Cowdrey nodded. In the beginning, after the first week’s chaos settled down, Ms. Rhodes had led the woodwinds through their exercises. Rhodes, a somber thirty-year-old who wore padded-shoulder jackets and seldom smiled, would meet Cowdrey outside the practice rooms. He’d hand her the routine he’d written up the night before. She’d study it briefly, then follow the players. In the last few months, she’d spoken about band-related issues, but nothing else. Conversation stopped. He didn’t know how to broach another subject. The last time he’d tried, he had said, “How are you holding up?” She’d looked about like a wild bird for a second, as if she heard something frightful, but her face smoothed over and she said, “To improve rhythms, hone intonation, and create dynamic phrasing, we must improve breathing. All music begins with a good breath.” Red circled her exhausted eyes.

Lockers lined the hallway outside the performance hall. A cornet rested in its shaped space in the first one. Cowdrey took it out. It, too, had been improved. No longer an inexpensive junior high band instrument, the keys sank with ease; the horn glowed under the hallway’s indirect lighting, the metal as warm as flesh beneath his fingers.

He returned the horn to its place before closing the door. Thoughtfully, he walked to the T-intersection. To his left, the student’s rooms, their doors shut. To his right, the practice rooms, the cafeteria, and his own room. He trailed his knuckle against the wall, but as he turned to enter he noticed Ms. Rhodes’s door across the hall was gone as if it had never existed in the unmarked wall. When did that happen? he thought.

As always, dinner and a water bottle waited in a box on his bed. For weeks after the band had arrived, the students had tried to catch the deliveries, but they never did. If students stayed in the room, the meals wouldn’t come, so if they wanted to eat, they had to leave to practice or to perform.

Passable bread. Something that looked like bologna in the middle, but it tasted more like cheese. He washed it down with a couple of swallows. Only the water from the bottles was potable. The stuff from the showers smelled like vinegar and tasted bitter. He wondered about the pets he’d kept as a child, a lizard and two hamsters. Did the food ever taste right to them? Had he ever fed them what they needed or wanted? He rested the sandwich on his lap. Later, he looked down. His fingers had sunk into the bread, and the edges had grown crispy. He glanced at his watch. An hour had passed. Room check! He walked the long hall past the kids’ doors. At first he’d insisted on making sure the right students went to the right rooms, as if they were on an overnight for weekend competition, as if they stayed at a Holiday Inn, but so often he woke kids who had already gone to sleep that now he just listened at each door. Were they quiet or crying? The first week there had been a lot of crying, and they had come close to not making it. Being a band saved them.