Living in Albany, capital of New York state, Gallagher had been aware of the intrusion of the state into individuals’ lives, even as a boy. Impossible not to be aware of politics if you live in Albany! Not the politics of idealism but grub-politics, the politics of “deals.” There was no goal higher than “deals” and no motive higher than “self-interest.” Gallagher’s disgust reached its peak in 1948 with the sordid politicking that accompanied the Taft-Hartley law which the Republican-dominated U.S. Congress passed over Truman’s veto. And Dewey’s sneering campaign against Truman, to which Thaddeus contributed a good deal of money, not all of it a matter of public record.
He’d quarreled with Thaddeus, and moved away from Ardmoor Park. He would never be on comfortable terms with the old man again.
That Hazel Jones should consider herself unworthy of the Gallaghers, and of him! Preposterous.
To his shame he heard himself begging.
“Hazel, I could adopt Zack as my son, if we were married. Don’t you think that’s a good idea?”
Quickly Hazel kissed Gallagher saying yes, she supposed so.
Someday.
“Someday? Zack is growing up, the time is now. Not when he’s an adolescent who won’t give a damn about any father.”
Wanting to say won’t give a shit about any father. The anger in him was mounting, to desperation.
In the music room at the rear of the house Zack was playing piano. Must have struck a wrong note, the music broke off abruptly and after a brief pause began again.
Seeing that he was upset, Hazel took Gallagher’s hand that was so much larger and heavier than her own, lifted and pressed it against her cheek in one of Hazel Jones’s impulsive gestures that pierced her lover’s heart.
“Someday.”
For the Young Pianists’ Competition in Rochester, in May 1967, the boy was preparing Schubert’s “Impromptu No. 3.” At ten and a half, he would be the youngest performer on the program, which included pianists to the age of eighteen.
The next-youngest was a Chinese-American boy of twelve who was being trained at the Royal Conservatory of Music in Toronto, and who had recently placed second in an international competition for young pianists in that city.
Day following day and often into the late evening the child practiced. Such precise, cleanly struck notes, such rapidity of execution, you would not have thought the pianist was so young a child and if, like Gallagher, you were drawn to the doorway of the music room, the child’s intense unblinking eyes would remain fixed upon the keyboard (the piano was no longer the Baldwin upright but a Steinway baby grand Gallagher had bought from Zimmerman Brothers) and his small fingers striking the keys as if of their own volition for the piece must be memorized, not a note, not a pause, not a depression of the pedal left to chance.
Gallagher listened, entranced. No doubt about it, the boy played more beautifully than Gallagher had done at his age, and older. Gallagher would boast He’s inherited all I had to give him. Quite a talent, isn’t he!
By degrees Gallagher was becoming the child’s father. Strange that he did not much wonder who the child’s true father was.
In the doorway of the music room Gallagher lingered, uncertain. Waiting for the boy to break off practice at which point Gallagher would clap enthusiastically�“Bravo, Zack! Sounds terrific”�and the boy would blush with pleasure. But the practice continued, and continued, for if Zack made the smallest error he must return to the beginning and start again, until Gallagher at last lost patience and slipped away, unseen.
Didn’t I promise you, Ma? You would be proud.
“Zack” is his name. A name out of the Bible. For he is blessed of God, Ma. None of us would have guessed!
My son. Your grandson. His face will be known to you, when you see him. It’s a face you will recognize, Ma. The father is not in him, much.
His eyes, Ma! His eyes are beautiful, like yours.
Maybe they are Pa’s eyes, too. A little.
At the piano, I hear him and I know where he is. In all the world he is here, Ma. With us.
He is safe in this house.
I should not have left you, Ma. I stayed away so long.
Sometimes I think my soul was lost in those fields. Along the canal. I stayed away from you so long, Ma.
I am paying for that, Ma.
If you hear him, Ma, you will know. Why I had to live. I love you, Ma.
This is for you, Ma.
It is called “Impromptu No. Three” by Schubert.
24
So quickly it happened, he would replay it many times in his memory. Always he was invisible, helpless to intervene. If something had happened to his mother, helpless.
Thinking I didn’t warn her. It was like I wasn’t there, no one saw me.
Out of nowhere the man appeared.
Out of nowhere staring at Hazel Jones as if he knew her.
Though in fact Zack had been seeing the man for perhaps ten, twenty seconds. Zack who never took notice of anyone had been seeing this man watching his mother from a distance of about thirty feet, as Hazel walked on the graveled path through the park, oblivious.
There was a repair truck parked in the roadway nearby. The man must have been a repairman of some sort, in soiled work clothes, work shoes. In cities (they lived always in cities now, and traveled only to cities) you learn not to see such individuals who are not likely to be individuals whom you know, or who know you.
Except this man was watching Hazel Jones, very intently.
This day! “Free time” for Zack. The day following a piano recital. For perhaps seventy-two hours his senses would be alert, aroused. He continued to hear music in his head yet the intensity of the music abated, and the need of his fingers to create it. His eyes felt new to him at such times, raw, exposed to hurt. They filled with moisture easily. His ears craved to hear, with a strange hunger: not music but ordinary sounds. Voices! Noises!
He felt like a creature that has pushed its way out of a smothering cocoon, unaware of the cocoon until now.
The man in work clothes was no age Zack could judge, maybe Gallagher’s age, or younger. He looked like one whom life has chewed up. He was perhaps six feet tall, yet there was a broken, caved-in look to his chest. His lower jaw jutted, his skin was coarse and mottled and flamey as if with burst boils. His head appeared subtly deformed like partly melted wax and strands of colorless hair lay like seaweed across his scalp. A ravaged-angry face like something scraped along pavement yet out of this face eyes shone strangely with yearning, wonderment.
It’s him.
Is it�him?
An afternoon in September 1968. They were spending the weekend in Buffalo, New York. They were guests of the Delaware Conservatory of Music. A party of six or seven persons, all adults with the exception of Zack, were walking in the direction of the Park Lane Hotel where the Joneses and Gallagher were staying. They had had lunch together at the Conservatory where, the previous evening, the young pianist had performed; he would not be twelve until November, but had been accepted as a scholarship student at the prestigious music school, and would play with the Conservatory Chamber Orchestra the following spring.
Hazel and Zack were walking more slowly than the others. By instinct wanting to be alone together. Ahead, Gallagher was talking animatedly with his new acquaintances. He had established himself as Zacharias Jones’s protector, manager. Vaguely it was implied that Gallagher was the boy’s stepfather and when Hazel Jones was called “Mrs. Gallagher” the misassumption was accepted in silence.
The remarkable young pianist Zacharias Jones was the subject of the adults’ conversation as he had been the subject of the luncheon but the young pianist himself was not much engaged. He, him, the boy he overheard, at a distance. Long he’d been adept at detaching himself from the attentions of others. In the roadside cafés where his hands had first discovered the piano keyboard he had begun knowing that it made little difference what others said, what others thought, there was only the music, finally. From Hazel J
ones he’d learned to be both here and not-here simultaneously; how to smile even as your mind has retreated elsewhere. Zack behaved rudely and impatiently, at times. He would be forgiven, for he was a gifted young pianist: you had to assume he was playing music in his head. Hazel too played a continuous music in her head, but no one could guess what that music was.
During the lunch in the Conservatory dining room Zack had glanced up at Hazel Jones, to see her watching him. She’d smiled, and winked so that no one else could see, and Zack had blushed, looking quickly away.
They had no need to speak. What was between them could not be uttered in words.
Make his debut. Zacharias Jones would make his debut in February 1969 with the Delaware Chamber Orchestra among whom there were few musicians younger than eighteen.
February 1969! At the luncheon, Hazel had laughed uneasily saying it seemed so far off, what if something happened to…
Others looked at Hazel so quizzically, Zack knew that his mother had misspoken.
Gallagher intervened. Showing his devil’s-point teeth in a smile remarking that February 1969 would be here quickly enough.
Zack would play a concerto, yet to be chosen. The orchestra conductor would be working closely with him of course.
Feeling at that moment a sensation of alarm, the cold taste of panic. If he failed…
Afterward, Hazel Jones had touched his arm, lightly. They would allow the others to walk ahead through the park. It was a wan warm sepia-tinted autumn afternoon. Hazel paused to admire swans, both dazzling white and black, with red bills, paddling in the lagoon in surges of languid energy.
How the company of those others oppressed them! Almost, they could not breathe.
After the previous evening’s recital, Gallagher had hugged Zack and kissed the top of his head playfully saying he should be damned proud of himself. Zack had been pleased, but embarrassed. He was deeply in love with Gallagher yet shy and self-conscious in the man’s presence.
Pride puzzled Zack Jones! He had never understood what pride was.
Nor did Hazel seem to know. When she’d been a Christian girl she’d been taught that pride is a sin, pride goeth before a fall. Pride is dangerous, isn’t it?
“Pride is for other people, Zack. Not us.”
Zack was thinking of this when he saw the man in work clothes, at the edge of the roadway. The park was not very populated, traffic moved on the road slowly, intermittently. No one in view was dressed in work clothes except this individual who was staring at Hazel as if trying to decide if he knew her.
It was not unusual for strangers to stare at Hazel Jones in public but there was something different about this individual, Zack felt the danger.
Yet he said nothing to his mother.
Now the man had decided to approach Hazel, and was walking toward her with surprising swiftness. Suddenly you could see that he was a man who acts with his body. Though he looked unhealthy with his caved-in chest and boiled face yet he was not weak, and he was not indecisive. Like a wolf coming up swiftly and noiselessly behind a deer, that has not yet sensed its presence. The man made his way slantwise across a patch of grass in which please! do not walk on the grass was prominently displayed, and along the graveled path. Massive plane trees bordered the path and sun fell in coin-sized splotches on pedestrians as they passed beneath.
There was something of the deer to Hazel Jones in her high-heeled shoes and stylish straw hat, and there was something of the wolf, coarse-haired, ungainly, to the man in work clothes. Fascinating to Zack to see his mother through this stranger’s eyes: the scintillant chestnut-red hair, lacquered flash of red nails and red mouth. The perfect posture, high-held head. For luncheon in the elegant Conservatory dining room Hazel had worn a very pale beige linen suit with several strands of pearls and a wide-brimmed straw hat with a green velvet ribbon. Zack had noticed people looking at her, in admiration; but no one had stared rudely. After the Rochester Young Pianists’ Competition when Zack, the youngest performer, had received a special citation from the judges, photographs of the honored pianists and their parents were taken and one of the photographers had told Hazel, “You’re so beautiful with your hair and skin tone, you should certainly wear black.” And Hazel had laughed, disdainfully, “Black! Black is for mourning, and I’m not in mourning.”
Now the man in work clothes had caught up to Hazel and was speaking with her. Zack saw his mother turn to stare at him, startled.
“Ma’am? Excuse me?”
Blindly Hazel groped for Zack, who stood out of reach.
He saw the panic in her face. He saw her frightened eyes inside the Hazel Jones mask.
“Just I’m wondering if�if you know me? Like do I look like anybody you know, ma’am? My name is Gus Schwart.”
Quickly Hazel shook her head no. She would regain her composure, smiling her polite, wary smile.
Ahead, Gallagher and the others had not noticed. They continued on, in the direction of the hotel.
“Ma’am, I’m real sorry to bother you. But you look familiar to me. Used to live in Milburn? It’s a small town maybe a few hundred miles east of here, on the Erie Canal? I went to school there…”
Hazel stared at him so blankly, the man began to falter. His scabby face flushed red. He tried to smile, as an animal might smile showing yellowed, raggedy teeth.
Zack stood close by to protect his mother but the man took not the slightest interest in him.
Hazel was saying apologetically no she didn’t know him, she didn’t know Milburn.
“I been sick, ma’am. I ain’t been well. But now I’m over it, and I…”
Hazel was tugging at Zack’s arm, they would make their escape. The man in work clothes swiped at his mouth, embarrassed. Yet he could not let them go, he followed them for a few yards, clumsy, stammering, “Just you look kind of�familiar, ma’am? Like somebody I used to know? My brother Herschel and me, and my sister Rebecca, we used to live in Milburn…I left in 1949.”
Tersely Hazel said over her shoulder, “Mister, I don’t think so. No.”
Mister was not a word Hazel Jones ordinarily used, not in this tone. There was something crude and dismissive in her speech, that was unlike Hazel Jones.
“Zack! Come on.”
Zack allowed himself to be pulled with Hazel, like a small child. He was stunned, unable to comprehend the encounter.
Not my father. Not that man.
His heart beat heavily, in disappointment.
Hazel pulled at Zack’s arm and he jerked it from her. She had no right to treat him as if he was five years old!
“Who was that man, Mom? He knew you.”
“No. He didn’t.”
“And you knew him. I saw that.”
“No.”
“You used to live in Milburn, Mom. You said so.”
Hazel spoke tight-lipped, not looking at him. “No. Chautauqua Falls. You were born in Chautauqua Falls.” She paused, panting. She seemed about to say more, but could not speak.
Zack would taunt his mother now. In the aftermath of the encounter in the park he felt strangely aroused, unsettled.
In the aftermath of the recital he was free to say, to do anything he wished.
He was furious at Hazel in her linen suit, pearls and wide-brimmed straw hat.
“You did know that man. Damn liar you did.”
He nudged Hazel. He wanted to hurt her. Why did she never raise her voice, why did she never shout at him? Why did she never cry?
“He was looking at you so hard. I saw that.”
Hazel maintained her dignity, gripping the rim of her straw hat as she crossed a roadway, hurriedly. Zack wanted to rush after her and pound her with his fists. He wanted to use his fists to hit, hit! Halfway he wanted to break his hands, that were so precious to the adults.
Gallagher and the others were waiting for Hazel and Zack, beneath the hotel portico. Gallagher stood with crossed arms, smiling. The visit to Buffalo had gone as well as he’d hoped. Gallagher would look f
or a new house, in the Delaware Park area which was the most exclusive residential area in the city; in Syracuse, he would put their present house on the market. If he hadn’t quite enough money for a spacious old house in Delaware Park, possibly he’d borrow from a Gallagher relative.
The look in Gallagher’s face when Hazel came to him: like a light switched on.
Zack was trailing behind Hazel hot-faced, sullen. He must say goodbye to the adults, shake their hands and behave sensibly. The attention of strangers was blinding, like stage lights. Except onstage you have no need to stare into the lights, you turn your attention onto the beautiful white-and-black keyboard stretching in front of you.
Zack would be returning to Buffalo, in less than a month. He would take piano instructions with the most revered member of the Delaware Conservatory, who had studied with the great German pianist Egon Petri when Petri had taught in California.
If he failed…
He had not failed, the previous evening. He’d played the Schubert “Impromptu” which Hazel so loved, and a newer piece with which he’d been less satisfied, a Chopin nocturne. The tempo of the nocturne seemed to him maddeningly slow, the pianist had felt exposed as if naked. Not music to hide inside!
Still, the audience had seemed to like him. The Conservatory faculty, including his new teacher, had seemed to like him. Waves of applause, a waterfall drowning out the hot beat of blood in his ears. Why! why! why! why! He was dazed at such times, scarcely knowing where he was. Like a swimmer who has nearly drowned, struggling desperately to save himself and in this way drawing the attention of admiring strangers who applaud. Gallagher had told him to be proud of himself, and Hazel who was less demonstrative than Gallagher in public had squeezed his hand, allowing him to know that she was very happy, he’d played so well.
“You see? I told you!”
And so, Zack had not been defeated. He had not failed, yet. And he would practice harder, ever harder. Predictions had been made of him, lavish predictions he must live out. He felt the bitter weight of such responsibility, he resented it. Overhearing Hans Zimmerman remarking to his brother Edgar My youngest pupil has the oldest eyes. Yet he was giddy with relief, he had been spared. This time.
The Gravedigger's Daughter Page 49
